One stolen night with the sultan...

Virginal Gracie Jones longs for adventure—and one incredible evening in Rome, she finds it in the arms of charismatic Malik al Bahjat. But morning reveals he’s next in line to Alazar’s throne! Driven away by his royal family, Gracie discovers too late that their forbidden night left her pregnant...

When Malik learns the truth a decade later, he explodes back into Gracie’s life. He sweeps her from her small hometown to his splendid kingdom, where, kiss by scorching kiss, he’s intent on legitimizing his heir—and satisfying his cravings—by crowning Gracie his desert queen!

Alone in his private office, Malik stared unseeingly out at the domes, spires and flat roofs of Teruk’s old city. He had a son—a child he’d never, ever been aware of.

A shudder escaped him and he turned from the window. He could hardly believe his grandfather had kept something so monumental from him…even as he acknowledged that Asad’s actions, their innate coldness and cruelty, would never surprise him.

And what of Gracie? For a moment he allowed himself to picture her—the tumbling brown hair, the glinting golden gaze, the wide, ready smile. Then he closed his mind to her and all the what-ifs that had ended a decade ago. He could not think of Gracie that way now. He would not. No matter what Asad had done, she had wilfully kept his child from him. The only purpose or role in his life for her now was as the mother of his child...and as his convenient wife.

Seduced by a Sheikh

Two heirs to a desert kingdom need brides to secure their legacies!

Brothers Malik and Azim al Bahjat are the two princes of Alazar, wielding enormous power with iron control. They have no interest in love—but duty demands they take convenient wives, and these ruthless royals always get what they want!

Read Malik’s story in

The Secret Heir of Alazar

April 2017

&

Read Azim’s story in

The Forced Bride of Alazar

May 2017

Don’t miss this sensational new duet from Kate Hewitt!

The Secret Heir of Alazar

Kate Hewitt

www.millsandboon.co.uk

After spending three years as a die-hard New Yorker, KATE HEWITT now lives in a small village in the Lake District with her husband, their five children and a golden retriever. In addition to writing intensely emotional stories, she loves reading, baking and playing chess with her son—she has yet to win against him, but she continues to try. Learn more about Kate at kate-hewitt.com.

Books by Kate Hewitt

Mills & Boon Modern Romance

Moretti’s Marriage Command

Inherited by Ferranti

Beneath the Veil of Paradise

The Billionaire’s Legacy

A Di Sione for the Greek’s Pleasure

Secret Heirs of Billionaires

Demetriou Demands His Child

One Night With Consequences

Larenzo’s Christmas Baby

The Marakaios Brides

The Marakaios Marriage

The Marakaios Baby

Rivals to the Crown of Kadar

Captured by the Sheikh

Commanded by the Sheikh

The Diomedi Heirs

The Prince She Never Knew

A Queen for the Taking?

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

To my fabulous editor, Carly.

Thank you for all your support and input!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Seduced by a Sheikh

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SHE MESMERISED HIM. Malik al Bahjat, heir to the throne of Alazar, watched the girl from afar. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but that was part of her charm. Golden-brown hair tumbled down her back in a riot of artless, unstyled waves and curls. Her face was freckled, hazel eyes glinting with humour, with hope, with happiness—three things Malik didn’t think he’d ever truly experienced.

She sat on the arm of a sofa, long, golden legs tucked up, wearing cut-off denim shorts and a billowy white top, a pair of bright purple sneakers on her feet. Men were chatting with her, of course—they couldn’t keep their eyes off her. No one could. She vibrated with life, with the enjoyment of life, every curve of her lithe body vibrant and sinuous. She was so alive.

And Malik had felt like a walking automaton for years, programmed for nothing but onerous duty. He took one step into the room, towards her. He didn’t usually go to parties. He was in Rome to assist his grandfather in negotiating a new trade deal with the European Union. Alazar had forged strong links with Europe, links that could stabilise his country’s fraught economy as well as the entire region of the Arabian Peninsula.

These meetings were important, Malik knew that; Asad al Bahjat had certainly drilled that into him. Alazar’s peace and prosperity rested on meetings such as this one. Then out of the blue a friend from his military schooldays had contacted him, inviting him out, and, knowing how rare such opportunities were, Malik had agreed. One night. One evening where he could act as if he were like other men, as if he had control of his own future, were able to shape his own happiness. Surely he could have that. Surely, after so many years of unquestioning obedience, he deserved it.

He took a step further into the room. Another step towards her. Even though he was still several metres away, she turned, her golden gaze clashing and then tangling with his. It felt like slamming into a wall, leaving him breathless. He didn’t want to so much as blink in case he severed the connection.

She looked shocked, her gaze wide and surprised, her full pink lips slightly parted. She didn’t blink, either. Malik walked towards her.

He didn’t know what he was going to say; he had no chat-up lines. His experience with women was woefully limited, thanks to the security precautions that had been put in place for his own safety. He’d grown up in a palace, with every luxury to hand, but in virtual isolation, save for several rigid years at military school, which had presented their own challenges and difficulties. This was, he acknowledged in wry bemusement, the first real party he’d ever attended. Diplomatic receptions and charity benefits didn’t count.

‘Hello.’ His voice came in a husky rumble; he immediately cleared his throat.

Not a great start, but a smile bloomed across her face that warmed him like a golden ray of sunshine. ‘Hello.’ Her voice was low and musical.

They stared at each other for a long moment; Malik realised he was grinning. It appeared neither of them knew any chat-up lines.

She let out a soft gurgle of laughter, her eyes alight with humour and mischief. ‘Are you going to tell me your name, at least?’

‘Malik.’ He paused, his mind whirling, spinning with delight at simply being in her presence, basking in the glow of her undivided attention. ‘And yours?’

‘Grace. But most people call me Gracie. It started when I was a baby and somehow stuck. I tried being Grace for a while, but everyone acted like I was putting on airs. Apparently I’m not the sophisticated type, you know, like Grace Kelly?’ She made a rueful face, with laughing eyes. He was enchanted.

Gracie. He savoured the syllables in his mind, in knowing even this much about her. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Gracie. And I like your name just as it is.’

‘You have an accent.’ She cocked her head, her glinting gaze sweeping over him, affecting him in ways that surprised and unnerved him. She was just looking. But he could feel his libido stir, insistent, unforgotten despite years of being ruthlessly reined in. ‘But you’re not Italian?’ It was offered as a question.

‘No.’

‘What, then?’

‘I’m...’ He paused. Tonight he did not want to be an heir, a sultan-in-waiting. He’d been that, and nothing but that, since he was twelve years old.

Now that Azim is gone, you must put your childish pursuits aside. You must take his place and be a man.

‘I’m from Alazar.’

‘Alazar?’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘I’ve never heard of it. Is it in Europe?’

‘No, the Middle East. I suppose not many people have heard of it. It is a small place.’ And so he dismissed his country, his upbringing and his entire life with a shrug and in that moment he did not feel even a flicker of guilt. ‘And you, I am guessing, are American?’

Her eyes danced. ‘How did you know? Was it the awful Midwestern twang? I make myself cringe, so I can’t imagine how you feel.’

‘Your accent is charming.’

She let out a laugh, the sound as rich and full-bodied as the finest wine. ‘Now, that’s a first. I asked someone for directions this morning and they looked appalled.’

‘Then they were both rude and stupid.’ She laughed again, and he loved that he had amused her. The knowledge was heady, intoxicating. He didn’t need anything to drink, not when he was in her presence. ‘What are you doing in Rome?’

‘I’m travelling for the summer, before I start college back in Illinois.’ She wrinkled her nose again, her smile wry. ‘I’ve always wanted to see the world, something people back home don’t really understand.’

‘No?’

‘No, in fact I think most people back home think I’m crazy.’ She adopted a stronger version of her own American twang. ‘What do you want to go travelling around the world for, Gracie? It’s dangerous out there!’ She threw her head back so her hair, in all of its curls and waves, cascaded down her back in a golden-brown waterfall. ‘Yep. That’s me. Certifiable for wanting to see a little bit of the world.’

‘I do not think you are the crazy one.’

‘That makes two of us, then.’ She grinned. ‘So what are you doing in Rome?’

‘Business with my grandfather. I am afraid it is most dull.’ He did not want to talk about himself. ‘So where are you from in America?’

‘Addison Heights. I don’t even know why it’s called Heights,’ she added with another laugh. ‘There aren’t any. It’s as flat as a pancake. Wishful thinking, I suppose.’

‘You’re different from your friends,’ Malik surmised. It was an obvious statement; she was different from everyone. He’d never met someone who shone with such life. He wanted to stand next to her simply to absorb her excitement, her interest.

But no, he wanted more than that. He wanted to touch her silky skin, kiss those petal-pink lips. The realisation shocked him. Sexual desire had been something that had been necessarily shelved for most of his life; now, at twenty-two years old, he felt its overwhelming force.

‘Hey, Gracie.’ A young man in a wrinkled polo shirt with a pair of beer bottles clutched in one meaty hand shouldered his way towards them. Malik tensed, resenting the intrusion. He was gratified to see that Gracie looked as if she resented it as well, her lips pursing, eyes flashing.

The man gave Malik a wary sideways glance before attempting to edge him out, half standing in front of him, as he handed a beer to Gracie. ‘Got your drink.’

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, and took the bottle but not a sip.

Malik shifted his weight so his shoulder brushed the other man’s. The man flinched. At six-three, Malik topped the guy by a good five inches and was heavier and more muscular by several stone. He’d never had to use his size except in training situations, but he discovered he had no compunction about using it now. And neither did Gracie; her eyes glinted again with humour and she smiled, a smile that felt as if it was aimed for him alone, secretive and promising.

‘Actually,’ she told the man sweating next to Malik, ‘I’m not thirsty any more.’ She handed him the beer bottle as her gaze swerved to fasten on Malik’s. ‘What I’d really like is some fresh air.’

‘As would I,’ Malik returned smoothly. He held out his hand to Gracie, and she slid hers across his palm, causing a tingling, tightening sensation in his midsection.

‘Let’s go, then,’ Gracie said, her eyes sparkling, and Malik led her out of the crowded room.

* * *

What was she doing?

Gracie’s insides felt as if they were full of leaping, wriggling fish as she followed Malik outside the townhouse in Rome’s Trevi district. The June air was warm and balmy, the night full of sounds of city life: the distant buzz of a moped, the clink of glasses and laughter from a nearby café. They stood outside the townhouse, the air caressing their skin like velvet, the mood expectant and alive.

Malik turned to face her, still holding her hand. In the night she could only just make out his eyes, the colour of granite, the proud slashes of his cheekbones. He was the most physically arresting man she’d ever seen. From the second he’d walked through the door, she hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him. He was tall, commanding, his broad shoulders and muscled torso encased in a crisp white button-down shirt, his long, powerful legs in charcoal-grey trousers. Next to the motley assembly of college grads and twenty-somethings decked out in dirty jeans and T-shirts, he looked magnificent. Regal. And he’d singled her out for his attention.

A thrill rippled through her. It wasn’t like her to be so forward, so bold. She was Gracie Jones from Addison Heights, Illinois, population three thousand. She’d never had a boyfriend, had gone through high school without even being kissed. She hadn’t minded; she’d always been waiting for something better, for life to really begin.

Was this it?

‘Where do you want to go?’ Malik asked. His voice was a low growl that reverberated right through her.

‘I don’t know. I only arrived in Rome yesterday. I’m as newbie as they get.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Do you recommend anywhere?’

His faint smile felt like a promise. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know the city, either. I only arrived yesterday, as well.’

‘We’re both of us newbies, then.’ Although newbie didn’t seem the right word to describe this man. Powerful, assured, experienced were more apt. He was miles above her in every regard.

‘How did you end up at that party?’ Malik asked.

Gracie wrinkled her nose in a grimace. ‘I met that guy with the beers while I was sightseeing. He invited me along, and I thought I might as well go.’ She’d been both excited and nervous about diving into a strange and sudden social life, but this was better by far. ‘How about we go to a café?’ she suggested. ‘Get a proper drink?’

His eyes glinted with humour. ‘I thought you weren’t thirsty.’

‘I’m not,’ she agreed blithely. ‘But we need to go somewhere, don’t we?’ His gaze held hers and she felt a new heat bloom in her belly at the undisguised desire she saw there. Suddenly she was imagining all sorts of places they could go. All sorts of things they could do...

Which was ridiculous, considering the limits of her experience. And she barely knew this man. She wasn’t going to be that stupid, not on her first day in Europe. And yet Gracie couldn’t deny the attraction was there, amazingly on both sides, sparking between them. What would they do with it?

‘I suppose you’re right,’ Malik murmured. His fingers tightened on hers and he drew her down the pavement, towards a café near the Trevi Fountain, the Palazzo Poli providing a magnificent backdrop.

The pavement café was buzzing with people, but after Malik had a murmured word with the maître d’, they were led to a private table tucked in the back with an unobstructed view of the fountain.

Gracie sat down, revelling in the moment, from the fountain lit up from underneath the water, its surface shimmering with lights, to the magnificent palazzo to the even more magnificent man sitting across from her, his silvery-grey gaze fastened on her. She felt as if she had champagne bubbling through her veins, as if every nerve ending was tingling with anticipation.

What was it about this man that made her so excited, so eager? Admittedly he was far more handsome than anyone else she’d so much as said hello to, but it was more than that. She felt an understanding with him, an affinity that went beyond a basic attraction to a sexy and desirable man. Or was she simply caught up in the romance of it all? Two days ago she’d been picking at an overcooked hamburger at a family barbecue in dreary Addison Heights and now she was sitting in a café in Rome, swept away by a gorgeous stranger who had, if she’d heard correctly, just ordered a bottle of champagne.

‘I love champagne,’ she said impulsively. She’d had it only a couple of times, but it had always felt like a decadent treat.

‘Good. It seemed appropriate to celebrate.’

‘What are we celebrating?’

His gaze didn’t leave hers, the heat and intent in it undeniable. ‘Meeting.’

‘We’ve barely met,’ Gracie protested with a breathless laugh. Being the unswerving focus of his attention made her feel unsteady, overwhelmed, as if she could topple off the tightrope at any moment. She was nervous, but she was so alive. ‘All I know is your name.’

‘And where I live.’ Malik spread his hands. ‘But ask me anything you wish.’

‘Anything?’

His eyes blazed into hers. ‘Anything.’

Of course, she couldn’t think of anything then. Her mind was blank, spinning, her body responding to his, her insides coiled so tightly she felt as if she might snap or explode. She had no room to process anything else.

‘Um...’ She let out a self-conscious laugh as a blush swept over her. ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-two.’

Twenty-two? He seemed so much older, much wiser and more sophisticated, than she was. He possessed an innate authority, almost an arrogance that both attracted and fascinated her. Had he been born with it, or had he cultivated it? And what on earth did he see in her?

‘How old are you?’ he asked, and she smiled in semi-apology.

‘Nineteen.’

‘And you said you are going to college?’

‘Yes, in September, to study special needs education.’ She’d be heading to Illinois State like everyone else she knew, but at least she was going to live a little first.

Ink-black eyebrows snapped together as he frowned at her. ‘Special needs? I am not familiar with this term.’

‘Children with learning difficulties and disabilities,’ Gracie clarified. ‘My little brother, Jonathan, has Down’s syndrome and he benefitted so much from good teachers and support. I want to be able to provide the same for other children.’

‘That is admirable, to serve for your family’s sake,’ Malik said quietly. ‘I feel the same.’

‘Do you?’ A dart of pleasure, as well as something deeper, went through her. ‘What...what do you do?’ The question felt awkward; she knew basically nothing about him. She didn’t even know exactly where Alazar was. The Middle East, he’d said.

‘I assist my grandfather,’ Malik answered. He sounded as if he was choosing his words with care. ‘With his various duties and responsibilities. He is...a man of some significance in Alazar.’

‘Oh.’ Perhaps that explained Malik’s dignified bearing. What was his grandfather? Gracie wondered. A diplomat? A businessman? A sheikh?

A giggle nearly slipped out at that thought; she felt as if she’d fallen down a rabbit hole into an alternative universe of romance and adventure.

And champagne, for the waiter was bearing down on them with a dusty, expensive-looking bottle and there was no opportunity to ask questions as he popped the cork with a flourish and then poured them two frothing glasses.

‘What shall we toast to?’ Malik asked as he handed Gracie her glass.

Her mind emptied yet again. ‘To the future,’ she finally suggested, and then added recklessly, ‘To our future.’

Malik’s mouth curved, and with his gaze not leaving hers, he raised the glass to his lips. ‘To our future,’ he repeated softly, and drank.

Gracie followed suit, the bubbles zinging through her, tickling her nose and throat and making her want to laugh. The whole situation made her want to laugh—it was so incredible, so unbelievable. Then all laughter died as Malik lowered his glass and said in a low growl of a voice that pulsed with intent, ‘Do you feel what I do?’

Gracie’s heart bumped in her chest like a suitcase down a flight of stairs and her hand was unsteady as she returned her glass to the table, barely touched. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I think I do.’ Even if it was crazy.

Malik laughed softly. ‘I wonder if I am being fanciful. I do not even know you.’

‘No...’

‘And yet we have this chemistry.’

‘A connection.’

Malik stared at her for a moment and Gracie tensed. Had she presumed...? ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘A connection.’

* * *

Malik had barely touched the champagne, but he felt awash in it, every sense awakened and buzzing with life. When had he last felt this excited, this energised, this hopeful?

The answer, Malik knew, was never. And yet...

His gut tightened with apprehension. He knew that what he was experiencing with Gracie was temporary, only for a night, if that. His life was not his own to control or decide; it hadn’t been since he was twelve, taken from the schoolroom, from his books and model airplanes and the simple life as the second, the spare, thought to be unnecessary. His grandfather’s face had been hard, his voice harsh, as he’d explained. Azim is gone. You are heir now. Malik had barely been able to grasp his grandfather’s meaning, and yet in that one moment his life had completely changed. He’d gone from being a shy, bookish boy who had been left to his own devices to becoming the future Sultan, in the limelight, under the lash, closed off from all the things he’d enjoyed, deprived of the people he’d loved.

But after ten years of resolute duty, surely he could have one evening. One woman.

He leaned forward, needing to touch her, to feel her. Her skin was soft under his hand. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Heat flared in her eyes. ‘And go where?’

‘Anywhere.’ He didn’t care; he just wanted to be with her.

‘We could throw a coin in the Trevi Fountain.’ She shrugged, her hair cascading over her shoulders, her eyes alight as her generous mouth curved in a smile that invited him to share in her joy and exuberance. ‘Let’s live a little.’

Which was exactly what Malik wanted to do—all he could do. Live—a little.

‘All right,’ he said, and rose from the table. He paid for their champagne before heading out into the night, Gracie’s hand encased in his. He didn’t want to let her go until he had to.

The plaza was full of people and music, and yet it felt as if they were in their own world as they walked by the fountain shimmering with lights.

‘Do you know the tradition?’ Gracie asked, her eyes full of mischief, and Malik shook his head.

‘You’re meant to stand with your back to the fountain and throw a coin from your right hand over your left shoulder.’ She mimed doing so, her arm reaching over her head in a graceful arc, and Malik enjoyed watching her.

‘And then what happens?’

She turned around, smiling at him impishly. ‘Then you’re meant to return to Rome. But there’s another tradition...’ She stopped, biting her lip.

Intrigued, Malik arched an eyebrow. ‘Another?’

‘That you throw three coins in the fountain,’ she explained, her voice low. Her face had turned fiery and she couldn’t meet his eye.

‘Three? What for?’

‘One to return to Rome, two for a new romance and three for marriage.’ She laughed, the sound a little forced. ‘Silly, isn’t it?’

Deliberately Malik reached into his pocket. Gracie watched him with wide eyes as he turned so his back was to the fountain and then threw a coin over his head. It landed with a distant splash. Malik threw in another coin. Gracie sucked in a breath.

His heart began to thud as he turned back to face her; she was staring at him, waiting. And so Malik did what he’d been wanting to do all evening. What he’d been needing to do.

He drew her into his arms and kissed her.

CHAPTER TWO

THE TOUCH OF his lips on hers was like a jolt of electricity to her soul. Her whole body flooded with both awareness and need. Her lips parted and his strong hands gripped her shoulders as his tongue touched hers before sweeping into her mouth. Gracie sagged against him, overwhelmed.

Malik broke the kiss, his breathing harsh and ragged as he gazed down at her. From somewhere, Gracie found a wobbly smile. ‘That was my first kiss.’

Malik’s eyes widened, and then he gave a wry smile. ‘Mine, too.’

‘What?’ Shocked, she pushed herself upright, one hand clutching the edge of the fountain for support. ‘How is that possible?’

‘How is it not?’

‘But you’re so... I mean...’ She gestured vaguely to his impressive, muscled body. ‘You must have had...’ She trailed off, too surprised and embarrassed to put it into words.

‘I have lived a sheltered life,’ Malik stated quietly. ‘Out of necessity.’ He released a long, low breath. ‘Tonight is the first time I’ve had so much as a taste of freedom.’

‘But why...?’

Malik shrugged. ‘There are reasons.’

Clearly nothing he wanted to talk about tonight. Gracie was desperately curious, but Malik’s shuttered expression kept her from asking any more questions. ‘If this is your first night of freedom,’ she said recklessly, ‘then let’s make the most of it. It’s mine, too, in a way.’

‘How so?’

Now she was the one to shrug. ‘My life has been pretty sheltered, too, living in a small town in Midwestern America. I’m the second youngest of six children, and it was always crazy and wonderful at home, but it meant we didn’t have the money for holidays or travel or even eating out. And in any case my parents have always been happy to live and die in Addison Heights. The state fair is the height of sophistication for them. I don’t mind, not really, but I’ve been waiting for adventure my whole life.’

And meeting Malik felt like the greatest adventure of all. She wanted him to kiss her again, right here by the fountain, with all of Rome before them.

Malik must have seen the wish in her eyes for his gaze dropped to her mouth, and as her lips parted, he lowered his head.

‘Gracie...’ he began, the single word a growling plea. And then he was kissing her and she clutched at the front of his shirt as she drowned in his kiss, everything inside her spinning and straining for more.

Someone nearby let out a wolf whistle and a raucous laugh. Malik tore his mouth from hers. ‘Not here...’ he muttered, and Gracie’s heart bumped again.

‘Then where?’

Malik stared at her, his expression fixed as he lifted his hand to stroke her cheek with one finger. ‘Would you come back to my hotel room? I have a suite at the Hassler, very near here.’

Her heart was now bumping its way up her throat. She knew what he was asking. It thrilled and terrified her in equal measure. This had all happened so fast.

And yet it felt so right.

It seemed like a cliché, the star-struck traveller falling for a handsome man in a foreign and romantic city. If she’d told her family or friends at home, they’d be either amazed or appalled. Sceptical, too, as they always had been of her crazy dreams.

Travelling, Gracie? But why? Everything you could ever want is right here.

Her parents hadn’t left Illinois in over a decade. As for Jenna, her best friend from high school, she wanted only to go to Illinois State and marry her high-school sweetheart. No one had really got Gracie’s desire to see more of the world, to live large and to the full.

‘Gracie?’ Malik stroked her cheek again, making her shiver. ‘You don’t have to. We can stay here.’

‘No, I want to.’ She gave him a bemused smile. ‘But you remember you were my first kiss, right? I’m not exactly experienced in this type of thing. I don’t know...’

‘Nor am I,’ Malik reminded her. ‘I just want to spend time with you. We don’t have to do anything.’

But when Malik kissed her, she wanted to do all sorts of things. Over and over again.

‘Okay,’ Gracie whispered, and he led her from the fountain.

* * *

Malik’s hand nearly shook as he swiped the key card to his hotel suite. He couldn’t wait to have Gracie in his arms again. Thank God his grandfather liked his privacy and insisted on them having separate suites. Thank God Malik hadn’t encountered anyone but a few sleepy security guards in the hotel foyer. The last thing he wanted right now was his grandfather’s icy rage or disapproval.

Gracie stepped into the suite, her eyes wide with admiration. ‘This is a lot better than the youth hostel where I’m staying.’

‘But now you are here, and this suite is for us to enjoy. So let’s enjoy it.’ He flipped on some music from the sound system discreetly hidden in a panelled cabinet. The low, sonorous notes of a solo saxophone drifted through the room. Gracie smiled, but he saw the hesitation in her eyes.

With a trembling laugh Gracie swayed a bit to the music. Malik smiled but did not join in the dance. Yet another part of his education that had been neglected. Gracie shrugged as she stopped swaying.

‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ she admitted, and Malik laughed softly.

‘I don’t, either.’

‘Don’t you?’ She shook her head slowly. ‘It seems hard to imagine. You’re so...’ she laughed and spread her hands ‘...fit.’

‘Thank you,’ Malik said dryly. He’d never really considered his looks either way, except for how he bore himself in public, with the regal dignity required of the next Sultan of Alazar. Yes, if he was honest, he’d noticed a few admiring glances from women, quickly veiled, when he’d been out in public, but they hadn’t affected him the way that Gracie’s artless confession did. He cared what she thought. What she felt.

And the warmth he saw now in her eyes made him reach for her. She came willingly, breathlessly, her soft, slender body colliding with the hard planes of his chest and thighs and making him ache.

He didn’t kiss her, not yet; he wanted simply to savour the feel of her against him, her head tilted upwards and her smile telling him everything he needed to know.

And then, despite his uncertainty, his lack of expertise, the barricades that had been thrown up in every area of his life to keep him safe, he knew exactly what to do. He knew what he wanted to do, and he did it, stroking her face and hair, brushing the tips of his fingers feather-light across the ridge of her nose, the arches of her eyebrows. She exhaled a single, shaky breath.

‘I feel like a plateful of jelly.’

‘I feel like I am on fire,’ he answered, and trailed his finger from the curve of her cheek to the enticing hollow of her throat. Gracie bit her lip, nearly making him groan. He rested his fingertip in the hollow of her throat for another moment before sliding it to the delectable, shadowy vee between her breasts. She let out a soft gasp, and he glanced up to gauge her response.

‘Is this...?’

She nodded, her eyes huge, her teeth sunk into her bottom lip. ‘Yes.’

He’d barely begun touching her, and yet already his body ached and throbbed. He could feel the intensity of her response in the way she shuddered, her body taut and straining.

He skimmed his fingers down her front and then slid his hand around her waist, his palm moulding to the dip and curve of her body, fingers spreading and seeking.

Gracie let out a shaky laugh. ‘This is so...’

‘I know.’

She rested her head against his shoulder, her hair falling across his chest. ‘I’m shaking.’

‘Are you afraid?’

‘No. I just...feel so much.’

‘As do I.’ He put his arms around her, and they swayed to the music, her breasts brushing his chest, everything in him aching. If he could have held this moment for ever, he would have. It was breathtakingly perfect.

Except being in such close proximity to Gracie made him long for her all the more; he pulled her even closer, their hips bumping, and a soft sigh escaped her. The music ended on a long, lonely note, and Gracie tilted her head up to look at him.

One glance at her heart-shaped face, her lips slightly parted, and Malik had to kiss her again.

Her mouth opened beneath his and one hand clutched at his shirt. He felt as if he could kiss her for ever; he didn’t want to do anything else, just lose himself in her lips, in her softness.

Then her hand tightened on his chest and a little moan escaped her, and he realised he wanted so much more than kisses. And so did Gracie.

She pulled away from him a little, her expression dazed, her lips swollen. ‘Malik...’

Even though it half killed him to say it, he made himself mutter, ‘If you want to stop...’

‘Stop? No.’ A small, tremulous smile played about her mouth and she shook her head. ‘I was thinking the opposite.’

Relief poured through him, along with a tingling, electric anticipation.

‘Thank God,’ he said, and, taking her hand, he led her further into the suite, and into the bedroom.

In the dim lighting of the bedroom Gracie looked innocent and pure, her eyes wide as she waited for his lead. And despite his own inexperience, Malik knew what to do. What he wanted to do.

He pulled her towards him, his mouth finding hers, his tongue plundering its softness. He skimmed his hands under her shirt, the pleasure of her silky bare skin so intense he sucked in a hard breath. Her breasts were small and perfect, and he cupped them, drawing his thumbs over their peaks. Gracie shuddered.

Suddenly his clothes felt cumbersome. In one fluid movement he pulled his shirt off and Gracie’s mouth dropped open slightly.

‘Wow,’ she breathed, and then laughed softly, self-conscious.

‘Can I...?’ He gestured to her billowy T-shirt and she pulled it off. Her skin was golden and lightly freckled and Malik ached to explore every inch. Without breaking his gaze, Gracie reached behind and unsnapped her bra, dropping it to the floor. Her breasts were high and proud and perfect. Malik reached out and stroked one with his finger, felt the tremor of Gracie’s response.

In answer she placed a hand on his chest, and he felt as if he’d been branded. He pulled her towards him, groaning at the sweet collision of their bodies, and devoured her in a kiss. They moved towards the bed, bodies and mouth intertwining, and Malik lost himself to the most exquisite experience he’d ever known.

* * *

I just had sex with a stranger.

Gracie tested the words out in her mind, but they didn’t feel right. Malik wasn’t a stranger, and what they’d had wasn’t simply sex. It had been the most intimate and powerful and frankly amazing thing she’d ever done or felt. And she wanted to do it again rather soon.

But did he? Inexplicably shy considering all the things they’d done, Gracie glanced over at Malik. He lay on his back, his bronzed skin gleaming from their recent exertions, a faint smile on his proud and beautiful face.

Sensing her glance, he turned towards her. ‘Are you... Are you all right? You’re not... I didn’t hurt you?’

Gracie felt a sloppy grin spread over her face. The initial twinge of pain had been replaced by a deeper pleasure than she’d ever known. ‘I’ve never been better.’

Malik’s widening smile made her insides leap and writhe with joy. ‘I can say the same.’ He reached for her again, and Gracie went all too willingly, her body curving deliciously into his, desire and anticipation swirling in her veins like liquid gold, when the sound of the door to the suite being thrown open with force made them both freeze.

‘What the...?’ Malik began under his breath, but before he could say anything more, a man appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. Gracie registered a stern, autocratic face, a tall, gaunt body swathed in a traditional linen thobe. She shrank beneath the sheets, one hand reaching for Malik, but to her shock he pulled away from her.

‘So,’ the man said in a cold voice. ‘I leave you to your own devices for a single night and this is what happens.’ He raked Gracie with a scathing glare. ‘You bring some tramp back to your room.’

Malik rolled from the bed in one swift movement, yanking on his trousers before Gracie could even blink. ‘Let us discuss this in a civilised manner in the other room.’ He didn’t even look at Gracie as he bit out, ‘You should dress.’

Gracie watched as Malik stalked from the room, preceded by the older man. Her brain felt frozen, her whole body numb. After a few stunned seconds where she simply lay there, the sheet still drawn up protectively over her naked body, she finally forced herself into gear and rose from the bed.

Her whole body shook as she found her clothes and pulled them on, raking her fingers through her tangled hair. A glance in the mirror of the en-suite bathroom showed how wretched she looked—pale face, huge, shocked eyes, hair like a bird’s nest. She could hear low, terse voices from the next room, but she had no idea what Malik was saying. Was he defending her? Explaining to this stranger, whoever he was, that he and Gracie had a connection? Somehow Gracie feared he wasn’t. Since the awful moment that man had come in, Malik had seemed like a different person. A hard, cold stranger.

A few minutes later Malik opened the door and Gracie took an instinctive step backwards at the terribly impassive look on his face.

‘You should go.’

That was it? Gracie blinked, opened her mouth and closed it again. ‘Malik...’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice flat and his tone not apologetic at all. ‘This was a...memorable evening. But that’s all.’ He folded his arms, biceps rippling, drawing Gracie’s gaze even now. ‘You knew that.’ Had she? What about all their talk about a connection? ‘I’ll call you a cab.’

A sudden, rolling wave of fury crashed over her. Did he think he was being generous? ‘No, thanks,’ she choked out. She stuffed her feet into her sneakers, not bothering with the laces. All her focus was on keeping from bursting into tears. She wouldn’t give Malik the satisfaction, and she could certainly do without the humiliation. But now she had to do the hideous walk of shame, holding her head high as she walked past both Malik and the older man, whose malevolent glare could have singed her hair.

‘Don’t think,’ the stranger said, his voice cold and clear, ‘that you will gain a penny from selling your story to the tabloids.’

Gracie turned, her mouth dropping open. ‘What...?’

‘This is not necessary, Grandfather,’ Malik cut across her. He was glaring at the other man; Gracie might as well have not existed.

‘You are still innocent, Malik,’ the man snapped. ‘Women like this—’

‘Why would I sell my story?’ Gracie gasped out, before he could insult her further. ‘Who are you?’

The man drew himself up. ‘I am Asad al Bahjat, the Sultan of Alazar, descended from a thousand years of princes and kings. And you,’ he said, his eyes narrowing to nasty slits, ‘are nothing but a cheap whore.’

Gracie reeled back at the insult. She looked at Malik, but his expression was unreadable. He said nothing, didn’t defend her in any way. Choking on a cry she didn’t want to give Malik the satisfaction of hearing, Gracie turned and fled.

* * *

‘You did not need to be quite so harsh.’

Malik gave his grandfather Asad a level look as the door slammed behind Gracie. The ensuing silence felt like the aftermath of a storm, the emotional wreckage all around them. The emptiness inside him he would not contemplate.

‘You do not know what she could have been capable of,’ Asad said.

‘She did not even know I was heir to the sultanate,’ Malik returned. ‘She wouldn’t have realised there was a story to sell.’ Not that he thought Gracie would do such a thing, but he knew he could not afford the naïve sentimentality of such a belief. Not with the weight of the kingdom on his shoulders, the expectation of his role. Dallying with a stranger in a strange city, where anyone could have seen them, had been stupid. Stupid yet wonderful.

And now it was over, as he’d known it would be.

‘She would have found out,’ Asad scoffed.

‘In your arrogance you revealed something that was best kept hidden.’

‘Do not think to challenge me,’ Asad began, but Malik cut him off.

‘And do not think to control me. I am not a boy any longer, subject to your cruel whims. I will be Sultan one day, and one day soon, I have no doubt.’ He raked his grandfather with a single look before turning away, furious with both Asad and himself, with the circumstances that had led to this moment. He had always known it would only be a night, but he hadn’t wanted it to end like this. And yet how else could it have ended? He had no future with Gracie Jones, American nobody. He hadn’t even wanted one.

‘Is this what a night with a woman has given you?’ Asad scorned. ‘A little boyish bravado? You probably think something stupid, like you love her.’

Malik’s mouth tightened into a hard line. ‘Of course not.’ He had no interest in the illusion of love. It had made his father weak, turned him into a hollow wreck of a man, a failure. He would never choose the same for himself.

‘You did take precautions, I hope?’ Asad asked in a sneer.

Malik swung around to stare at him, his jaw bunched, a muscle flickering in his temple. Asad made a sound of disgust. ‘How unbelievably stupid. How like your father, putting sentiment and romance above basic practical concerns.’

‘I am not like my father,’ Malik snapped. ‘In any regard.’

Azim shook his head. ‘If only Azim had lived. We would never be in such a state as this...’

It was a lament Malik had heard often over the last decade, and one he had no patience for now. If only Azim had lived, the older brother, the true heir. Over the years Asad had built up Azim into a hero, the fourteen-year-old boy stolen from his youth who would have been the perfect heir, the rightful Sultan, unlike Malik, who was there in proxy, an unwanted second choice, too like his father, according to Asad. Soft. Weak.

Asad had done his best to mould Malik, sending him to military school, beating duty into him whenever he could. Malik had learned the lessons all too well, but he refused to be cowed now. Not this time. Not ever again. Perhaps that would be the legacy of his one night with Gracie.

‘Alas, he did not live,’ Malik said coldly. ‘And there is little we can do to change matters at present, unless you have powers I am unaware of.’

‘And if she’s pregnant?’ Asad demanded. ‘Have you considered that?’

Malik clenched his jaw, hating that his grandfather had caught him out. If Gracie was pregnant... Why had he not considered such a possibility? They’d both been so inexperienced, so overwhelmed by passion.

‘The possibility of her pregnancy is extremely unlikely,’ Malik said with more conviction than he actually felt. ‘But if she is, I am sure she will attempt to be in touch and I will handle the matter then.’

‘How?’ Asad demanded. ‘By parading your bastard child in front of the press? By polluting a thousand years’ lineage of princes and kings with some American half-blood brat?’

‘That is enough,’ Malik snapped. He took a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘I will do what I feel is best.’

‘You do realise how this kind of publicity could affect our country?’ Asad demanded in a low voice. At that moment he looked every inch his seventy-six years, uncertainty and genuine fear flickering in his faded eyes. ‘Our trade agreements, our relationships with the Bedouin tribes...everything is built on the bedrock of a stable monarchy. Alazar is a traditional country. They cannot have a sultan who acts like a Western playboy. If you do anything to make people doubt or wonder...’

Malik nodded, a terse assent of all his grandfather had both said and implied. He knew his duty, and he would fulfil it. He would not shame either himself or his country by chasing after a slip of a woman, even if she had possessed more life and given him more joy than he’d ever known. ‘I will not, Grandfather,’ he said quietly. ‘I will never.’

* * *

Rome had lost its magic. Back at the youth hostel where she’d left her bags what felt a lifetime ago, Gracie showered and changed. She shouldered her backpack and paid for her accommodation before heading out into the sultry, suffocating heat of a summer’s day. What had been beautiful and wondrous a day before now looked dirty and crowded.

A moped sped by her in a gust of diesel and someone pushed her shoulder hard. Gracie stumbled back a few steps before righting herself. Taking a deep breath, she hefted her backpack more securely on her shoulders and started walking towards the Termini rail station.

By mid-afternoon she was in Venice and had secured a place in a new hostel. She wandered along the Grand Canal, wanting to be captivated by the magic of the beautiful, crumbling city with its many canals of blue-green water and yet utterly unable to. Inside she felt both leaden and numb, filled with the memory of how Malik had pushed her away from him, told her to leave, his expression so cold, almost contemptuous...

There had been no connection. He probably used that line on every eager woman he saw. And as for his confession that it had been his first kiss? Laughable. She should have seen through that immediately. He’d kissed her with far too much expertise and assurance to be as inexperienced as she was. He’d known how to touch her from the first.

Added to all that, he was the heir to a kingdom. A man of some significance, he’d called his grandfather. As if. Clearly he’d been doing nothing but amusing himself with an American bumpkin. She was so stupid. Stupid and naïve.

Gracie trudged through another few weeks of travelling, but the joy and sense of adventure she’d had when she’d started out had left her completely. All she wanted to do was hightail it home, to a place where people knew and loved her. But then the thought of all the triumphant I-told-you-sos from friends and family who hadn’t seen the point of her going at all was enough to stiffen her resolve. She would get over Malik al Bahjat, heir to the throne of Alazar. It wasn’t as if her heart had been destroyed. Just her pride, she assured herself, along with her innocence.

Then, in a tiny village in Germany, with rain sleeting down over the Black Forest, she threw up her breakfast. She rested her head on the edge of the toilet, her stomach still heaving, the noisy sounds of the hostel echoing around her. Cold sweat prickled on her scalp and she closed her eyes. The last thing she needed was the stomach flu while backpacking through Europe.

Then she threw up the next morning, and the morning after that, and her breasts started feeling tender, fatigue crashing over her at every opportunity. It took another week for Gracie to realise the appalling, obvious truth: she was pregnant.

CHAPTER THREE

Ten years later

‘I’M SORRY, YOUR HIGHNESS.’

Malik looked up as the doctor entered the examining room and he narrowed his eyes. ‘Pardon?’

‘The results of the test were conclusive.’ The doctor, a dour-faced man who had been medical consultant to generations of royalty, lowered his head. ‘You are infertile.’

Malik’s expression did not change as the words reverberated through the emptiness inside him. ‘Infertile,’ he repeated tonelessly. The doctor looked up.

‘You had a sustained high fever while you were out in the desert. It is a situation that can unfortunately, in rare cases, cause infertility.’ He lowered his head again, as if waiting for Malik to pass sentence.

But there was no sentence for him, only for Malik. A life sentence, or lack of one. He was the only heir to the sultanate of Alazar, and he had no heir to succeed him. No way of getting an heir in the future. His engagement to Johara Behwar, a young woman of virtue and suitably elevated background, had just become a pointless sham. And the stability of his country, a country that had teetered on the edge of civil war for the last ten years, was once again in jeopardy.

Underneath all those political concerns was a deeper, more personal sense of loss that he could not bring himself to probe. Malik turned away from the man to compose himself and gather his thoughts. ‘You are quite sure?’ he asked after a moment, the words clipped and terse.

‘Quite sure, Your Highness.’

Briefly Malik closed his eyes. He’d spent two weeks with the Bedouin in the bleak and arid deserts of Alazar’s interior, trying to unify and encourage his people, and keep the peace that had threatened to topple into chaos and destruction. He had succeeded, but the cost had been high. Too high.

In truth he barely remembered the fever that had stolen his future from him. He’d been delirious, kept in a rough tent and administered to by a Bedouin Hakim, whose knowledge of local herbs and natural medicine had not been enough to lower the fever. Eventually the Bedouin had moved him to a nearby settlement where his grandfather had arranged transport to a medical facility in Teruk. By then he’d had the fever for four days. Long enough, it seemed, to render him infertile.

For a second, no more, Malik allowed himself to experience the grief of knowing he would have no children. No heirs. No children to follow him, no hearts and minds to shape.

The second passed and Malik steeled himself. He had no space in either his life or heart for such useless sentiment. He hadn’t for a long, long time. Love was weakness, and he could not afford to be weak.

‘Thank you for telling me,’ he said with a nod of dismissal. The doctor left, and Malik strode from the room. He would have to tell his grandfather.

He found Asad in one of the smaller throne rooms, dealing with some paperwork. For a moment Malik stood in the doorway, noting the many wrinkles in the old man’s weathered face, the way his hands shook a little as he handled some papers. Asad was eighty-six years old and he showed every year in his body and on his face.

Over the last ten years Malik had assumed more and more responsibility for the running of Alazar; Asad had been unable to cope with the travel and diplomacy that the country’s wavering instability had required. Malik had spent much of the last decade on horseback or in a helicopter, travelling through arid deserts and unforgiving mountains, living in rough conditions and negotiating with people who had the power to cause major civil disruption. Slowly but surely he was dragging Alazar into the twenty-first century while still attempting to respect the old ways and traditions. His marriage to Johara, along with his future heirs, would have cemented his power and the security of the sultanate as well as the whole of the Arabian Peninsula.

But now? How would the traditional Bedouin who controlled much of the country’s desert and mountain regions react to an infertile sultan, the line of succession passed to some distant relative who had no training or reputation? His stomach cramped just thinking about it.

‘Well?’ Asad demanded as Malik came into the room. ‘What did the doctor say? You have not been adversely affected by the fever?’

Malik took a deep breath, steeling himself for a conversation he had no desire to have. ‘As it happens, I have been affected.’ He shoved his hands into the pockets of his Western-style trousers; unlike his grandfather, Malik saw the necessity of adopting Western ways and bringing Alazar into step with the rest of the world. He kept his voice even as he clarified, ‘I’m infertile.’

Asad’s mouth worked for a moment, shock making his eyes bulge. ‘Infertile? But how...?’

Malik stared at his grandfather’s pale face and felt nothing. But then he hadn’t felt anything in years. He’d been completely focused on his country and his duty; he’d had to be. There had been no room for entertainment or pleasure or relationships. He hadn’t wanted them. ‘Apparently a prolonged high fever can cause infertility.’ He shrugged, the movement negligent, as if it were of little consequence even though they both knew it was not. ‘The how does not matter so much, does it?’

‘I suppose not.’ Asad was silent and Malik wondered what the old man was thinking. Where did they go from here? Azim was dead; Malik was the only heir. If he had no son, the sultanate would go to a cousin in Europe who had spent very little time in Alazar. Someone who could not be trusted to maintain the country’s stability. Someone who had not been working towards ruling since he was a boy, who had not, out of necessity, cut off pleasure and leisure and love as Malik had.

Asad sat back in his chair, his face drawn into a frown, his gaze distant. ‘This presents a problem,’ he murmured, almost to himself.

Malik let out a harsh laugh. ‘Thank you, Grandfather, for stating the obvious.’

Asad looked up, his narrowed eyes gleaming with familiar malice. ‘As it happens, there is a solution.’

Malik stared at him evenly. ‘Which is?’ He could not imagine any solution. He could not magic a child out of nowhere, much as he might want to, and he did not think his grandfather would try to put him aside for some unknown relative. Not after ten years of tireless work and effort.

Asad took a slow, steadying breath. ‘You have a son.’

Malik stared at him blankly. ‘What on earth are you talking about? I would know if I had a child.’

‘Would you?’ Asad asked shrewdly, his gaze both knowing and sly. Malik didn’t even blink. Yes, he would know. He’d had a mere handful of one-night stands over the last ten years, matters of physical expediency rather than lasting pleasure, and he’d always been careful with birth control. There had been only that one time...

Malik stilled, suspicion icing in his veins, disbelief coursing through him. ‘What are you saying?’ he asked, a command rather than a question, each word savagely bitten off and flung out.

‘The girl in Rome.’ Asad pressed his lips together. ‘She was pregnant.’

The girl. Gracie. He hadn’t let himself think of her at all in the last ten years, not even for a single, bittersweet second. At first it had been a form of extreme mental self-discipline, bordering on torture, not to allow himself so much as a thought, a tempting fragment of memory to tease his senses and awaken the old, restless ache. After a while the pain had lessened and she’d been like a ghost, sometimes haunting his dreams but never his waking thoughts. She belonged in his past, with the naïve, hopeful boy he’d been then. She had no place in his present, and certainly none in his future. Until now.

‘Pregnant,’ he repeated, his tone silkily dangerous. His hands clenched into fists at his sides and he forced himself to relax. ‘She came to you, I presume, with the information? Looking for me?’ He could picture it.

‘She sent an email to a government address and it was brought to my attention. I met with her in Prague.’

‘For what purpose?’ Rage choked him, made it hard to speak or even breathe. ‘You didn’t think to tell me any of this?’

‘You didn’t need to know.’

‘I should have been the one to decide that.’

Asad shrugged, unrepentant. ‘You know now.’

Malik forced himself to breathe evenly. He knew from far too much experience that arguing with his grandfather served no purpose. There were other ways to best the old man. ‘So what happened in Prague? You sent her away, I presume?’

‘I bought her off. Fifty thousand dollars.’ Asad’s mouth twisted in contempt. ‘She took it readily enough.’

‘Did she?’ Malik could not assess how he felt about that. He had not thought about Gracie in so long he didn’t know how he felt about any of it. She’d been pregnant. And she’d had no compunction about not letting him know.

‘She cashed the cheque the next day,’ Asad continued. ‘And she had the child. A son. I checked.’

Malik turned away to hide the betraying emotion he was sure would be on his face. A son. He could not even fathom it. Gracie had been raising his son for ten years. ‘How could you keep this from me?’ he demanded in a low, raw voice.

‘Don’t be a fool. Of course I had to keep it from you. The publicity would have damaged your reputation as well as the stability of the kingdom. The boy is a bastard, his blood is tainted.’

‘He’s mine—’ The words rose up in him, a raw, primal howl of possession that shocked him with its ferocity. He’d never felt anything like it before.

‘He is your heir,’ Asad agreed coolly, cutting him off. ‘Now. And for that reason you must secure his future and bring him back to Alazar. Let us hope he has not been too weakened by his lax upbringing. There is time to shape him yet.’

‘And what of his mother?’ Malik demanded.

Asad’s mouth twisted. ‘What about her?’

‘She might not agree.’

‘She will have to. In any case your heir cannot be a bastard. You will have to marry the woman.’ Asad spoke with distaste, even as Malik felt a pulse of—what? He could not identify the emotion. Excitement, perhaps. Desire. Even after all these years. He pushed the feeling away. He had no time for it now. Any marriage he contracted would be one of expediency, not emotion. He would not be controlled by feelings the way his father had, to his shame and destruction.

‘The people might not accept an American bride and heir,’ Malik observed.

‘Then you will have to put her away somewhere remote.’ Asad flicked his fingers in a dismissive gesture. ‘Keep her in purdah in one of our distant palaces. Whatever the cost, you must do your duty.’

‘You do not need to remind me,’ Malik answered, ‘or tell me what to do.’ He straightened, giving Asad a long, level look. ‘I will make my own choices,’ he said, and walked out of the room.

Alone in his private office Malik stared unseeingly out at the domes, spires and flat roofs of Teruk’s old city. He had a son, a child he’d never, ever been aware of.

A shudder escaped him, and he turned from the window. He could hardly believe his grandfather had kept something so monumental from him, even as he acknowledged Asad’s actions, their innate coldness and cruelty, would never surprise him.

And what of Gracie? For a moment he allowed himself to picture her, the tumbling brown hair, the glinting golden-green gaze, the wide, ready smile. Then he closed his mind to her and all the what-ifs that had ended a decade ago. He could not think of Gracie that way now. He would not. No matter what Asad had done, she had wilfully kept his child from him. The only purpose or role in his life now for her was as the mother of his child...and as his convenient wife.

* * *

‘What’s the capital of Mongolia?’

Gracie wrinkled her nose as she considered the answer and then came up with nothing. ‘Sorry, Sam, I have no idea,’ she told him cheerfully. ‘But I’m sure you’ll tell me.’

‘Ulaanbaatar,’ he said triumphantly, and Gracie suppressed a smile. Her son had an insatiable knowledge for facts and was constantly begging her to quiz him. When she ran out of questions to ask, he started quizzing her and left her both amazed and humbled by his knowledge.

‘Teeth and bed,’ she said now, and with a dramatic sigh Sam rose from the table in their small kitchen. For the last ten years Gracie had been living in the converted apartment over her parents’ garage. A tiny kitchen, living room, and two bedrooms and a bathroom were all it comprised, but it was homey and hers and she was grateful to her parents for giving her the opportunity.

Ten years ago, when she’d told them she was pregnant, and by a near stranger at that, they’d been shocked and, yes, disappointed. But they’d rallied around her and Sam, and she’d never once regretted her choice. If she occasionally wished for some way to flee the sometimes stifling confines of her life—well, that was normal, wasn’t it? Everyone longed for adventure once in a while. It didn’t mean she wanted out.

And there was no out, because she needed her part-time job as a classroom assistant at the elementary school, just as she needed her parents’ support, even if it came with the occasional sigh or frown, and the knowledge that out of six children she was known as ‘the Jones screw-up’. The girl who’d gone to Europe and come back pregnant—a warning to any other dreamy teens who might hope for adventure the way she had.

While Sam got ready for bed, making a ton of noise as he did so, Gracie tidied the kitchen, humming under her breath. From the window over the sink she could see the white clapboard house she’d always called home, with its bowed front porch, American flag, and neat flower beds of begonias and geraniums.

Her parents had been incredibly thoughtful about giving Gracie her own space, but the reality was she was living in her parents’ backyard. It wasn’t exactly where you wanted to be when you were staring down the barrel of thirty years old.

Still, Gracie reminded herself as she wiped the table and turned on the dishwasher, she was better off than some. She had a job she enjoyed, a home for her and her son, a few friends who she went out with on occasion. If life felt a little quiet, a little dull, well, so be it. Plenty of people felt the same.

She’d just put Sam to bed when a gentle knock sounded at the front. ‘Gracie?’ Jonathan called.

‘Hey, Jonathan.’ Gracie opened the door to see her brother standing on the top step of the outside staircase, a worried frown on his usually smiling face. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘There’s someone here to see you.’

‘There is?’ Gracie didn’t get too many visitors at home. Since her apartment was so small, not to mention so close to her parents’ house, she tended to meet her couple of girlfriends in town. ‘Do you know who it is?’ she asked. Everyone pretty much knew everyone in Addison Heights.

Jonathan shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen him before. But he’s kind of scary-looking.’

‘A scary-looking man is here to see me?’ Gracie didn’t know whether to be amused or alarmed. She supposed Keith at the service station was a little bit scary-looking. He’d asked her out last week and she’d firmly rebuffed him. She wasn’t interested in dating, and certainly not Keith, not with Sam to consider. She didn’t think the mechanic would actually come to her house, though.

‘Well, I’d better go see who it is,’ she said lightly, and rested a reassuring hand on her brother’s shoulder. At twenty-seven, Jonathan lived at home and worked part-time bagging groceries at a local supermarket. He also spent several afternoons at a care facility for adults with disabilities, and, while he was more than content with his life, change or uncertainty made him nervous. And the last thing Gracie wanted was for Jonathan to be nervous.

They walked across the yard just as dusk was beginning to fall and the crickets started their incessant chorus. It was early June and already hot, although the twilight brought some needed cool. Gracie came around the corner of the house and then skidded to a complete halt when she saw the man who stood, or really loomed, on her parents’ front porch.

Malik.

He looked incongruous amidst the begonias and white weathered wood in his dark suit, expensively cut and tailored. Utterly forbidding. His face was unsmiling and severe.

He turned to look at her, and for a single second the whole world felt suspended, transformed. Gracie felt as if she’d catapulted back in time a decade; she could almost hear the buzz of a moped, the tinkle of water as they stood by the Trevi Fountain and Malik threw a penny over his shoulder...

Then she landed back in reality with a thud so hard it left her breathless. No, they weren’t in Rome, caught up in an impossible, ridiculous one-night romance that hadn’t been real anyway. They were in Addison Heights, and it was ten years on, and everything had changed, even if for a few seconds she’d felt as if it hadn’t.

But why was he here?

‘Malik...’ she whispered, and found she couldn’t say anything else.

‘You know him, Gracie?’ Jonathan asked. He was looking at Malik with unabashed curiosity. Yes, she acknowledged distantly, Malik was kind of scary-looking now.

Malik’s gaze snapped to focus on Jonathan. ‘This is your brother. Jonathan.’

His voice was the same, a gravelly husk, and it reached right inside Gracie and squeezed. And then came an even more painful realisation: he remembered. How...? Why?

‘Yes,’ she managed, her voice barely a breath. ‘Malik, what...what on earth are you doing here?’ It felt strange to say his name, and she saw the answering awareness flare in his own eyes. Memories tumbled through her, painful and sweet and shockingly fierce. Laughter and kisses, dancing in starlight, holding hands... Gracie took a deep breath. ‘I never expected to see you again.’

‘So you hoped.’

She blinked at the cold remark. What...? And then she realised. He knew about Sam. Of course he did. And she had no idea how she felt about that.

Jonathan tugged on her sleeve. ‘What’s going on, Gracie?’

‘This is just...just an old friend, Jonathan. We, ah, need to talk in private.’ Gracie tried to smile at her brother, but her face felt funny and stiff. If Malik was here because of Sam...what did he want?

She watched as her brother eyed them uncertainly before climbing the weathered steps of the front porch and disappearing inside.

Gracie looked back at Malik, her eyes memorising and remembering him at the same time. Those long, powerful legs. The broad shoulders. The silvery, intense gaze, the kind smile... Except he wasn’t smiling now. He hadn’t smiled since she’d seen him here. His face was as inscrutable and unyielding as a statue’s, beautiful and so very cold.

‘We can’t talk out here,’ she said.

‘Is there somewhere private?’

As reluctant as she was to invite him into her tiny home, Gracie couldn’t see any other option. She couldn’t leave Sam alone for too long. ‘I live around the corner,’ she said. ‘We can talk there.’

Malik inclined his head in a terse nod and Gracie turned to head back to her apartment. Malik followed, pausing only when she reached the front of the garage.

‘You live in a garage?’

‘Above it. There are stairs around the back.’ She led him to the outside staircase that ran along the wall. Her hands were shaking so much she fumbled with the knob before it swung open and she breathed a sigh of relief.

Malik stepped into her cosy kitchen, his tall, broad form making the small space seem even tinier. He looked so out of place amidst the colourful riot of houseplants, the cheerful yellow walls. Gracie retreated to the sink, its edge pressing into her back. She had no idea what to say, to think, to feel. Malik...here. It felt impossible, ridiculous. Exciting, too, which annoyed her. There was nothing to feel excited about, even if seeing Malik again made her remember so much. Want so much, even if it was foolish. He pushed you away, she reminded herself. He told you to go.

Malik folded his arms, the movement seeming one of forbidding judgement. ‘You should have told me.’

‘About what, exactly?’ She folded her arms and met him with as challenging a look as she could muster. She wouldn’t be cowed by this cold, haughty attitude. ‘Maybe you should have told me you were a sultan.’

‘Heir to the throne,’ he dismissed, and she let out a laugh that sounded a little too high and wild.

‘Oh, okay, then.’

Malik arched an eyebrow in an eloquent gesture of silent incredulity. He was so different than she remembered. Yes, he was just as devastatingly attractive, but he was colder now. Sharper, too, and more hidden. Remote and unreachable, without the warmth and friendliness, the tenderness that she’d once revelled in. Except that had all been an act, she reminded herself. This was the real Malik. He’d shown his true colours when he’d kicked her out of his bed.

‘Don’t play me for a fool a second time, Grace. You know what I’m talking about. My son.’

The Grace hurt. She was Gracie. He knew that. And as for his son... Sam was hers.

‘I never played you for a fool,’ Gracie replied. Her voice thankfully came out cool, if not as cold as his. ‘If anyone was tricked, it was me.’

‘With fifty thousand dollars in your pocket?’

Colour and heat flared in her face. So he knew about the cheque Asad had thrust at her. He must have learned everything, no doubt from Asad. But why? His grandfather hadn’t wanted Gracie, cheap tramp that he’d thought her, in Malik’s life. Why tell Malik now? Or had he discovered it on his own? And why did she now feel guilty for taking that money?

When Asad had found her in Prague just hours after she’d sent a desperate email to an anonymous government address, she’d been both shocked and afraid. He’d bundled her into his blacked-out sedan and told her point-blank to get rid of the baby. When, horrified, she’d refused, he’d handed her the cheque with the stipulation that she never contact anyone in Alazar again.

Gracie had been so overwhelmed, so frightened, that she’d signed the paper he’d waved in front of her nose and taken the cheque. And yes, she’d cashed it. She’d considered it eighteen years of child maintenance payments. And she’d needed that money, for both her and Sam’s independence. It had enabled her to stay at home with him until he’d started school.

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