His sinful desert seduction...

Sheikh Ilyas al-Razim was born to be king. He won’t let anything stand in his way, especially not the waitress daring to think she can blackmail him! It’s his duty to protect his family’s honor—even if it means taking impossibly stunning Maggie Delaney as his hostage...

Beneath the starlit skies of Zayrinia’s desert, defiant Maggie convinces Ilyas she is innocent of his accusations. No longer his prisoner, Maggie is free to return home...yet now she’s held captive by their smoldering raw desire! Dare she surrender to the pleasure this desert prince promises?

Ilyas’s mouth moved with hers and the scent of him was enticing.

Maggie found that her hands had moved to his chest and then upwards, so that her arms linked around his neck as she accepted the sensual bliss of his tongue.

This was a kiss, Maggie thought. The caress of his tongue was welcomed by hers and the taste of them together was divine.

Maggie found herself aching to be held more fiercely, to know completely his embrace, and yet he kissed her as if they had all the time in the world.

They had all the time he required, Maggie thought suddenly, for she was, after all, his prisoner. And at that crude dawning realisation she pulled back.

Ilyas had anticipated that she would—the attraction between them was undeniable, and yet he had known she would fight it.

Her breath was ragged and her eyes blinked rapidly as he continued to hold her face. Their lips were moist and their chests were close to touching.

Maggie opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it, for she didn’t know what to say.

‘Please.’ She looked at him. ‘That was a mistake.’

‘It didn’t feel like one,’ Ilyas answered. ‘It still doesn’t.’

Ruthless Royal Sheikhs

Two royal brothers—

bound by duty, but driven by desire!

A born leader and a playboy prince…

But nothing is more important to Ilyas and

Hazin al-Razim than honouring their royal birthright!

Until their searing passion for two beautiful and fiery

women challenges everything they’ve ever known and

these Sheikhs won’t rest until they’ve claimed them!

Discover Ilyas and Maggie’s story

Captive for the Sheikh’s Pleasure

Available now from Mills & Boon Modern Romance!

And read Hazin and Flo’s story in

Christmas Bride for the Sheikh

Available now from Mills & Boon Medical Romance!

You won’t want to miss this scorching duet

from Carol Marinelli!

Captive for the Sheikh’s Pleasure

Carol Marinelli

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CAROL MARINELLI recently filled in a form asking for her job title. Thrilled to be able to put down her answer, she put ‘writer’. Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation and she put down the truth—‘writing’. The third question asked for her hobbies. Well, not wanting to look obsessed, she crossed her fingers and answered ‘swimming’—but, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights, I’m sure you can guess the real answer!

Books by Carol Marinelli

Mills & Boon Modern Romance

Billionaires & One-Night Heirs

The Innocent’s Secret Baby

Bound by the Sultan’s Baby

Sicilian’s Baby of Shame

One Night With Consequences

The Sheikh’s Baby Scandal

The Billionaire’s Legacy

Di Sione’s Innocent Conquest

Mills & Boon Medical Romance

Their Secret Royal Baby

Paddington Children’s Hospital

Their One Night Baby

The London Primary Hospital

Playboy on Her Christmas List

Visit the Author Profile page

at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Ruthless Royal Sheikhs

Title Page

About the Author

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

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘I WOULD NEVER have gone if you’d told me!’

Maggie Delaney was less than impressed as she made her way back to the hostel in Zayrinia with her roommate Suzanne.

Red-haired and with fair skin, Maggie had caught far too much of the Arabian sun but it wasn’t that which was concerning her now—the innocent boat trip Maggie had been expecting had been far from that! ‘It was practically an orgy.’

‘I didn’t know how it was going to turn out,’ Suzanne said. ‘I honestly thought that we’d be snorkelling. Oh, come on, Maggie, loosen up!’

Maggie had been told that rather too many times in her lifetime and especially over the past year.

She wasn’t particularly close to Suzanne. They had met a few months ago when they had been working at the same bar and had caught up by chance here in Zayrinia.

For Maggie it was the end of a year-long working holiday and it had been the most amazing year of her life. She had travelled across Europe and Asia and had saved just enough money to go a little off the beaten path on her return journey home. She had squeezed in a stopover in Zayrinia on the last leg of her journey but, even prior to landing, Maggie had promptly fallen in love with the place.

Looking out of the window as the plane had turned in its path she had watched the desert give way to a stunning city—glittering high-rise buildings contrasted with an ancient walled citadel. And then on the final approach they had flown over the glistening ocean and the harbour lined with luxurious yachts. At her first glimpse of Zayrinia, Maggie had found herself entranced.

Today was the anniversary of her mother’s death and so she had awoken feeling somewhat low. Then Suzanne had told her that she had a plus-one ticket on a boating trip out to the coral reef.

Maggie’s trepidation had started even before boarding.

Instead of a snorkelling boat, they had approached a seriously luxurious yacht but Suzanne had waved away her concerns when Maggie had voiced them.

‘My treat—’ Suzanne had smiled ‘—before you head back to London. Are you looking forward to going home?’

Maggie had thought for a moment and had been just about to answer when Suzanne had cut in, ‘Sorry, that was insensitive, given that you don’t have anyone waiting there for you.’

Suzanne’s insensitive apology had hurt more than the original comment, but Maggie simply hadn’t known how to respond. She had told Suzanne ages ago that she had been in and out of foster and care homes since she was seven and didn’t have any family.

‘Or do you have people waiting?’ Suzanne persisted. ‘Do you still see any of your foster families?’

‘No!’

Maggie’s response was swift and a touch harsh. She was well aware that she came across as rather brusque at times. It was something she had been trying to work on during her year away. But opening up to others didn’t come easily at all and Suzanne had touched on a very raw nerve. At the age of twelve, Maggie had been promised the world; for a few short months she had believed she was a part of a family. It had happened once before.

A year after her mother had died a young couple had taken her in, but their marriage had broken up and she had gone back to care. For a while she had received birthday and Christmas cards but they had petered out. It had hurt, of course, though nothing compared to what had happened a few years later when another family had taken her in. Maggie had expected nothing by then, but Diane, her foster mother, had insisted on giving Maggie the world before coldly taking it back.

It was something Maggie did her level best not to think about; she hadn’t even told her best friend, Flo, what had happened that awful day.

‘I have friends,’ Maggie said, trying not to sound too defensive and trying not to let Suzanne hear her hurt.

‘Of course you do,’ Suzanne said. ‘It’s not the same, though, is it?’

Maggie didn’t answer.

Suzanne often left her feeling rather sideswiped. Maggie was trying to be more trusting and open with people, but it didn’t come easily. She was very aware that she was a touch cynical and always kept her guard up. She’d had to in some of the places she had lived.

Still, she tried.

And so, rather than explain the hurt the remark had caused, and rather than question just where Suzanne had got the invitation from, Maggie boarded.

As the yacht set off, it became increasingly clear to Maggie that they weren’t on a trip out to the coral reef. Instead, it was a very exclusive party and it would seem that they were there to pretty up the numbers!

But, other than jumping overboard, there was little she could do.

And so, wearing nothing more than a bikini and sarong, Maggie felt underdressed and over-exposed. She tried to grin and bear it at first but was all too aware of the roaming eyes drifting over her body. It made her feel supremely uncomfortable, as well as irritated, as Suzanne constantly told her to relax.

Maggie declined the free-flowing champagne that was floating around but, sick of water and needing something sweet in the fierce sun, she asked for a mocktail.

It was spicy and laced with cinnamon and tasted utterly delectable, until it was halfway down and Maggie suddenly felt dizzy and ill.

Perhaps they had got her order wrong—though Maggie doubted it—but was grateful when Suzanne steered her away from the blazing sun and led her to a cabin to lie down.

* * *

‘You were gone for ages,’ Suzanne said as the hostel came into sight. ‘Come on, spill, what did you and the sexy prince get up to?’

Maggie halted mid-stride. ‘Nothing,’ she responded. ‘How was I supposed to know it was the royal cabin?’

‘And how was I?’ Suzanne calmly answered. ‘Maggie, it was an honest mistake.’

Maggie shrugged and did her best to let it go. She seemed to have to do that an awful lot around Suzanne, though. But again she said nothing, telling herself that it really had been a simple mix-up and thankfully no harm had been done. In fact, it had been nice to hide for a couple of hours in the cool of the cabin, though it had been a touch awkward at first when the prince had come in to find her lying on his bed!

Suzanne assumed more had happened.

It hadn’t.

Nothing like that ever did!

Maggie sometimes wondered if she had been born missing a fuse, for not even the sight of a sexy prince with just a towel around his hips could ignite her.

It had been a touch awkward at first; she’d apologised, of course, and they’d ended up talking.

There had been nothing more to it than that.

As they walked into the hostel, all Maggie wanted was to have a shower, some supper and answer a few emails. Paul, her boss at the café where she had worked before heading off on her trip, was short staffed and had asked her to let him know when she would be home and whether she wanted her old job back.

She also wanted to send a long email to her friend Flo who would, no doubt, laugh her head off at the thought of Maggie alone in a bedroom with a sexy prince and nothing other than conversation taking place!

After that she just wanted to read in peace.

Perhaps peace was a slightly tall order given that she was in a four-bed dorm at the hostel, but Suzanne was doing the star-gazing tour tonight and the two other women had checked out this morning.

Hopefully nobody else had checked in!

‘Maggie!’

She heard her name being called from Reception and Maggie headed over to the desk as Suzanne made her way to the dorm.

Tazia, the receptionist, gave Maggie an apologetic smile as she approached. ‘We have just heard that tomorrow’s star-gazing trip has had to be cancelled as there is a simoom predicted.’

‘Simoom?’

‘A large sandstorm. I’ve got a refund here for you.’

‘Oh, no.’ Maggie sighed because she had been really looking forward to it.

‘I am sorry,’ Tazia said as she handed over the cash. ‘The earliest I can book is Monday but even that would depend on the storm clearing in time.’

Maggie shook her head. Her flight was on Monday morning, so that was no good. ‘How about tonight?’ Maggie asked, even though she was incredibly tired.

‘It’s fully booked. I tried a couple of other operators but given the unpredictability of the weather most aren’t taking any tourists out tonight.’

It was such a disappointment and Maggie could have kicked herself for not booking the trip for tonight when she’d had a chance. Though she knew the real reason why she’d avoided this evening’s excursion—Suzanne had booked a ticket and, in truth, Maggie had wanted to take this trip alone.

‘Thanks anyway,’ Maggie said. ‘If there are any cancellations, can you let me know?’

‘I wouldn’t count on it.’ Tazia shook her head. ‘You are tenth on the list.’

It simply wasn’t meant to be.

Maggie went into the dorm to collect her toiletry bag before heading for the shower.

‘What did Tazia want?’ Suzanne asked.

‘The trip to the desert tomorrow has been cancelled.’ Maggie sighed. ‘I’m going to take a shower.’

‘While you do, is it okay if I borrow your phone? I just want to send a text to Glen.’

Suzanne’s phone had got wet and so for the last few days she had been using Maggie’s.

‘Sure,’ Maggie agreed.

The shower was far from luxurious but after a year spent in hostels Maggie was more than used to it.

The water was cool and refreshing and so Maggie stayed under for a while, rinsing off the copious amounts of sun lotion she had applied to her pale skin. Then she massaged conditioner into her long red curls while trying to let go of the hurt that Suzanne’s thoughtless words had caused.

‘It’s not the same, though, is it?’

It had been a throwaway comment, yet it still buzzed around in her head and so, rather than think of old hurts, Maggie turned her mind to all that had happened today.

Or rather all that hadn’t!

She was terribly aware that she was light years behind her peers in the sexual department.

It wasn’t through lack of opportunity. In the café where she worked at home there were endless clients who tried to flirt or outright asked her out. Occasionally Maggie went along, but it was always the same outcome—a few awkward kisses were the sum total of her dating repertoire.

Still, even if there hadn’t been so much as a flicker of attraction, Hazin had been interesting to talk to. For all his good looks and privilege, he had seemed refreshingly down to earth. Usually when she told anyone that she had no family they would offer awkward sympathy. Hazin had grinned and told her she was the lucky one, then had proceeded to tell her about his parents and the cold way in which he and his older brother, Ilyas, had been raised.

‘Are you close to your brother?’ Maggie had asked.

‘Who? Ilyas?’ Hazin grinned. ‘No one could get close to him.’

Yes, it had been interesting indeed, and now Maggie could not wait to email Flo and bring her up to date. She turned off the taps and reached around the curtain for her towel and change of clothes.

For Maggie there was no question of drying off in the open dressing area. She had lived in too many places and with too many strangers to trust others and so always emerged from the shower fully dressed.

Thankfully, the copious amounts of sun lotion she had applied through the day seemed to have done the trick because as she dried off it would seem only her shoulders were a touch pink. The rest of her was as white and freckled as ever.

Maggie was incapable of getting a tan and had long since given up trying. In fact, she looked as if she’d come from an English winter rather than a sun-soaked Middle Eastern summer.

She pulled on some pale yoga pants and a long-sleeved top; though the days were hot, the desert nights were cold. Maggie was just thinking about what to have for supper when she returned to the dorm and saw that Suzanne was packing.

‘Getting ready for tonight?’ Maggie asked.

‘No,’ Suzanne said. ‘There’s been a bit of a change of plan. I’m checking out and meeting up with Glen in Dubai.’

‘Oh,’ Maggie said. ‘Tonight?’

‘I’m to collect the ticket at the airport.’

‘Wow! Well, I guess this is goodbye, then.’

Suzanne nodded and smiled. ‘It’s been nice spending time with you.’

‘It has,’ Maggie said politely. There was no offer to keep in touch, from either of them.

Maggie didn’t find goodbyes hard in the least—her childhood had guaranteed that she was very used to them.

To this day, she could still recall coming home from her new school and racing through the door of her new home to see her new puppy, only to be greeted by her social worker and told it was time to return to ways of old.

Maggie could never forget Diane’s cold blue eyes flick away when Maggie had asked to see the puppy.

‘Can I say goodbye to Patch?’ she had asked.

‘Patch isn’t here,’ the social worker had said.

He must have been too much trouble too.

Maggie hadn’t cried as her bags had been loaded into the social worker’s car and she certainly hadn’t cried when she’d walked out of that house.

Even back in a new care home she had not cried that night in bed.

Tears didn’t help. If they did, her mother would still be alive.

Yes, she was very used to goodbyes and, in truth, this particular one with Suzanne came as a bit of a relief. Maggie was happy with her own company and she found Suzanne a bit pushy.

‘Hey,’ Suzanne suddenly said, and opened up her travel wallet. ‘You could use this.’

Maggie looked down at the coveted ticket for the star-gazing trip tonight and a smile lit her face. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Well, I shan’t be using it. I was going to hand it back in at the desk and get a refund...’

‘Don’t!’ Maggie yelped, and handed over the cash that Tazia had just given her. ‘I’m way down the cancellation list.’

‘You’ll have to use my name, then. I booked the Star Package, with a camel ride included.’ She gave Maggie a smile. ‘You’d better get a move on, the bus leaves at eight.’

There was just time for Maggie to tie back her hair and pack a small overnight bag as Suzanne pulled on her backpack.

‘Well, I’m off,’ Suzanne said.

‘Safe travels.’

‘You too! And don’t forget,’ Suzanne said as she headed out of the door, ‘for tonight you’re Suzanne.’

CHAPTER TWO

CROWN PRINCE SHEIKH ILYAS OF ZAYRINIA had been born to be king.

And that was all.

His parents had had no real desire to be parents, neither had they taken delight in their baby.

They’d delivered for their country the necessary heir and then moved on to produce the spare.

Ilyas had barely seen them, unless for official duties, and had been raised in a distant area of the stunning, sprawling palace. He’d been fed and groomed by royal nannies and immersed in the teachings by elders.

It had been a busy little life and one utterly devoid of affection.

When Ilyas was four, Prince Hazin of Zayrinia had been born, thus pushing the uncle his father loathed down to third in the line of succession. Only when, two months later, Ilyas had stood on the royal balcony beside his parents had he come to realise that the tiny infant his mother held in her arms was, in fact, his brother. He’d kept craning his head to have a peek but had been sternly told to look ahead.

‘Can I see him?’ Ilyas had asked his mother, the queen, as they’d moved from the balcony and back into the palace.

But his mother had shaken her head. ‘Hazin has to go to the nursery,’ she’d informed Ilyas as she’d handed over her baby to the wet nurse for feeding. ‘And you have your afternoon lessons to attend, although King Ahmed wishes to speak with you first.’

Ilyas had known, from the use of his father’s title, that it would not be a fatherly chat.

It never was.

He’d been led to his father, who had been speaking with Mahmoud, his vizier.

‘Well done, Your Highness,’ Mahmoud had said, for it had been a very large crowd that had gathered outside the palace to greet the new prince. The king, though, had been less than impressed with Ilyas’s behaviour out on the balcony.

‘Don’t fidget so much in future,’ his father had told him.

‘I just wanted to see what my brother looks like.’

‘He’s just a baby.’ The king had shrugged. ‘Now, remember, in future always look ahead no matter what else goes on around you.’

For the most part, the brothers had been segregated. Ilyas had been considered too far ahead in his studies to be held back. Hazin, who was nothing more than a substitute, had eventually been schooled overseas in England.

It was Ilyas who had been born to be king.

For his first two decades he had absorbed the teachings and wisdom from his elders and everyone had assumed that Ilyas agreed with them, for he performed all his duties well.

His parents believed that the strict discipline of his upbringing had worked well, but this was not filial obedience. What they failed to understand was that it was Ilyas himself who was disciplined—he had chosen to abide by their rules.

For now.

When Ilyas had turned twenty-two, tragedy had struck the palace. His father and adviser had decided that a royal wedding would raise the spirits of the country and that it was time for Ilyas to marry. They had called a meeting to inform him of their decision.

But Ilyas had shaken his head.

‘It is not necessary for me to marry yet.’

King Ahmed had frowned at his son’s response, assuming that Ilyas had misunderstood him, for the king had been used to his demands being met.

But Ilyas had held firm on the subject of marriage.

Ilyas had indeed taken his father’s advice to look ahead. He’d had plans for the future, many of them, in fact, but there was no one he could risk sharing those plans with.

No one.

Marriage was not something he’d wanted to consider, at least for a couple of decades, and so again he’d declined his father’s suggestion. The king had grown more insistent.

‘A wedding, followed by an heir, would be pleasing for our people,’ he’d told his elder son, assuming that was that and they could move on to the next matter, but Ilyas would not be swayed.

‘The people need to grieve in their own time,’ Ilyas had said. ‘I shall marry when the time is right, not when you decide.’ He’d glanced over at Mahmoud, whose face had paled as Ilyas had delivered this challenge to the absolute authority of the king.

‘I said that I would like you to marry,’ the king had bellowed, the command inherent in his tone.

‘Marriage is a lifetime commitment and one I am not yet willing to make. For now, the harem shall suffice.’ He’d looked over at Mahmoud again and moved on the meeting. ‘Next item.’

* * *

Ilyas was stern yet fair, level rather than cold, and the people of Zayrinia adored him and silently longed for the day he was king.

As the king’s health had declined, Ilyas’s power had subtly risen, though not enough for his liking. But on this particular Friday, as Mahmoud stated that a fresh crisis threatened the palace, it was Ilyas who took control.

‘It is already being dealt with,’ Ilyas informed his father calmly, though the amber in his hazel eyes flashed with irritation. Why the hell had Mahmoud raised his younger brother’s latest indiscretions in front of the king?

‘But what sort of party was it?’ the king asked.

‘It was just a gathering,’ Ilyas smoothly answered. ‘You yourself said that you wanted Hazin to come home more often.’

‘Yes, but to attend to royal duties,’ the king said, and then looked at his aide and asked again, ‘What sort of party was held on his yacht?’

Ilyas could very well guess the type of debauched gathering that had taken place.

His brother was famous for them.

Almost.

The palace had their work cut out concealing the scandals that Hazin left in his wake and the king had recently decided that enough was enough. King Ahmed al-Razim was more than prepared to disinherit his youngest and strip him of privilege and title.

Most would say Hazin deserved it.

Ilyas was not swayed by others, though.

Not even by his father, the king.

‘I discussed it with Hazin before he left,’ Ilyas informed his father. ‘He assured me that it was just a day out with friends before he headed back to London.’

‘And did you remind him that if there is one more whisper of scandal the London apartment will be off limits to him?’ King Ahmed checked. ‘Did you tell him that his accounts shall be severed and there shall be no more access to the royal jets and yachts?’

‘Yes, I told him,’ Ilyas responded.

‘Perhaps if he has to work for a living he might spend his money more wisely.’

‘Hazin is wealthy in his own right,’ Ilyas reminded his father.

‘Few could be wealthy enough to support his habits,’ the king hissed. ‘It had better be dealt with, Ilyas.’ He strode out of the office and, once the doors parted and closed behind him, a worried Mahmoud spoke.

‘Your father needs to know that the palace is being blackmailed in order to keep Hazin’s secrets. If this gets out it will be a disaster,’ Mahmoud insisted. ‘Hazin has been given enough rope—there have been too many last chances.’

‘I said that I shall deal with it,’ Ilyas warned.

‘King Ahmed needs to know! These people need to be paid off. I have been his senior advisor for almost half a century—’

‘It must be almost time for retirement, then,’ Ilyas cut in, and he watched as Mahmoud puffed in indignation. ‘The palace must not give in to threats.’ He gave a dismissive shrug. ‘I don’t believe there even is a sex tape.’

‘I am not so sure,’ Mahmoud said and, now that the king was gone, he admitted to more. ‘Unless the payment is made by midday on Monday they will release the footage. The woman has made contact again.’

Ilyas read through the messages that had been coming through to the private server for the past week, but the demands were more specific now—stating the sum of money required and where and when it was to be deposited to prevent the release of the tape.

‘She is bold,’ Mahmoud said.

Ilyas did not agree with the advisor’s findings.

‘No,’ he said, again reading the message. ‘If this Suzanne believes that she can bribe me she is a fool.’

He examined the attached photos and knew at first glance that they had been taken aboard his brother’s yacht.

A stunning redhead with green eyes and delicate-looking pale skin had been photographed in a willow-green bikini.

There was another photo, grainy as if it had been taken from afar and zoomed in, that showed her lying on a bed as Hazin walked into what Ilyas knew to be the royal cabin.

The message warned that the more explicit footage taken inside the cabin would be shocking, but Ilyas wasn’t buying it.

‘If they had more they would already have sent it.’

‘They have more,’ Mahmoud said as Ilyas moved to the next photo.

It was a full frontal of his younger brother in a less than regal pose.

Hazin was completely naked, though, in fairness, Ilyas could see he was just rinsing off, presumably after a swim.

‘This is nothing that our long-suffering public has not already seen. There are more full-frontal naked pictures of Hazin circulating on the Internet than I care to count. It’s nothing.’

Well, hardly nothing—Hazin took after his brother in that department and this particular image made no secret of that fact.

There was another issue, though.

‘This was taken in Zayrinian waters.’ Mahmoud pointed out exactly what Ilyas was thinking. ‘You can even see the palace in the distance. The king promised his people that there would be no more scandal from Hazin.’

It was his father who was the fool, then.

Hazin and Ilyas might be similar in certain departments but were completely different in nature. Ilyas simply didn’t deal in emotion and so rarely encountered it that, if he did, it held little sway on his decisions. He was always focused and supremely composed while his brother, on the other hand, ran wild. Hazin was a loose cannon who chose to live the life of a playboy, yet, Ilyas was certain, after the warning he had served his brother prior to his visit, he would not have brought this behaviour home on this occasion.

Right now, Hazin was aboard the royal jet and heading back to London, oblivious to the latest development in the unfolding scandal.

‘Sit tight,’ Ilyas told Mahmoud. ‘If there is any further contact I am to be informed. Not my father,’ he added.

He could see Mahmoud’s silent struggle as to whether or not he should brief the king.

Over and over Ilyas had warned Hazin to be mindful of long-range lenses but these images looked like they had been taken from a phone.

Probably not a professional, then.

But, no, he would not be swayed.

Ilyas again flicked through the photos. Despite his blasé response to Mahmoud, the naked image alone could prove extremely damaging. The people more easily dismissed Hazin’s transgressions while overseas, but, Ilyas knew, they would not be so forgiving if Hazin brought scandal home.

Then he looked at the woman, uncertain if she was this Suzanne woman or just the lure used to tempt Hazin.

He could actually see how his brother might have been taken in.

She was stunning.

Her long, wavy red hair was swept back by the wind and her body was not the manufactured kind that so often attended parties such as this.

She was incredibly pale with a dusting of freckles on her arms and thighs. Her body was slender and her curves subtle and very feminine, while in the picture her lips were full and parted in a smile.

Yet it did not reach her eyes and Ilyas was certain the smile she wore was a false one.

Yes, she was the smiling assassin indeed.

‘Do nothing without my instruction,’ Ilyas reiterated. ‘And contact me if necessary.’

‘I am going to the hammam.’

‘Your Highness.’ Mahmoud nodded and bowed as Ilyas departed.

The palace was beyond exquisite.

The huge, sprawling, ivory marble construction appeared, from an external vantage, to be set on a long red canyon on the edge of the Persian Gulf. It looked down on the bustling city while the westerly wing overlooked the endless desert.

The palace was a true masterpiece and had been built around a natural oasis that existed to this day. It was vast and contained within it many residences, as well as formal function areas and spaces for worship.

It held more secrets, though, for it was not just set on the cliff—it had actually been carved from within.

The tunnels beneath were all lined with ancient drawings and detailed mosaics. Ilyas descended first the carved marble steps, which soon gave way to steps carved into the bedrock.

Here the air was cooler. Ilyas walked through his private tunnel, the path lit by huge pillar candles. With the sound of cascading water in the distance he hoped the gnawing of concern in his gut would soon melt away.

The hammam was divine, and certain areas were accessible from several routes but few were allowed to venture where Ilyas did now.

It was a world few knew existed.

A natural cave waterfall was the centrepiece and the constant torrent provided a stunning audio-visual backdrop. There were several pools and smaller waterfalls that ran into larger cave pools beneath the hammam. When the light struck right, the entrance to one of the cave pools glowed a deep red from un-mined rubies. By day, occasional shafts of sunlight beamed in and created a natural cathedral; by night it was the stars and moon that showered the waters with their light. It was a royal retreat indeed.

Ilyas stripped out of his robe and dropped into a deep plunge pool, fully immersing himself. But as he rose to the surface his tension refused to relent.

Despite his calm reaction in front of Mahmoud, Ilyas was deeply concerned.

Ilyas knew he appeared as cold and indifferent as his father but he had not been chipped from the same block of ice.

He did not want Hazin to be disinherited, yet he knew that day was approaching. Despite his best efforts, nothing seemed to be able to divert the train wreck in motion.

There was nothing he could do except remain vigilant, but for now Ilyas did his best to relax.

Rarely did he have an entire weekend to do with as he pleased.

Usually there were several engagements to attend and often he travelled overseas, both forging new relationships and attempting to repair the disastrous ones his father’s rule had created.

Summoning one of the masseuses, Ilyas walked over to the large marble stone at the centre of the area and lay on his stomach as his skin was rubbed with salt.

Soon he would get up and rinse off under the waterfall. He looked out to the desert from his privileged vantage point—few even knew it existed, for there was an uninterrupted view of desert sands and sky.

Later he would make his selection from the harem.

His father still regularly pushed him to select a bride but Ilyas consistently refused.

And who could blame him!

Along one of the tunnels he could hear the distant sounds of laughter from the harem and there was a velvet rope above him that at any moment he could pull. As he lay there, with his head on his forearm and sex on his mind, Ilyas thought of the woman in the photo that Mahmoud had handed him earlier.

Deft hands were working the small of his back but it was not the skill of the masseuse that had Ilyas shift his position on the cold marble stone.

It was the thought of the woman and her blaze of red hair and pale freckled skin that had him hardening.

‘Your Highness.’ The sound of Mahmoud’s voice was not in the least welcome. ‘I apologise for disturbing you.’

Unless Hazin’s plane had crashed or his father had passed, Mahmoud had no business disturbing Ilyas in the hammam. ‘What now?’ he asked angrily.

‘The woman in the photo, the one...’

‘What about her?’ Ilyas snapped. He certainly did not need a refresher course on the woman to whom Mahmoud referred, for she was currently on more than his mind.

‘I have just found out that she is still in the country. Apparently she is booked on a tour tonight.’

‘Then you were right the first time,’ Ilyas growled. ‘She is a fool.’ For no one with any sense would remain in the country having served such an explicit threat.

‘We have traced her phone and it would seem that she is attending the star-gazing trip.’

‘There shall be few stars tonight since there is a simoom expected.’ It was not due here until tomorrow but the red of the sky was foreboding. ‘There should be no tourists out in the desert tonight.’

‘The tour went ahead. She is out there, Your Highness,’ Mahmoud said, and gestured to the desert.

Ilyas knew that some of the tour operators ignored warnings. It was an ongoing issue but not one that concerned him now.

‘I am sure she is calling our bluff but we have a team investigating.’ Ilyas dismissed him but then he wavered. His father had made it exceptionally clear that Hazin was on his final warning.

If there was the slightest truth behind this threat, the results for Hazin would be dire indeed.

‘Bring this Suzanne to me.’

‘Here?’ Mahmoud was aghast. ‘If the king gets wind—’

‘Not here,’ Ilyas interrupted. ‘Have her taken to the desert abode. I shall speak with her there.’

‘You could well find yourself stranded.’

Ilyas was more than used to the tricks of the desert and always enjoyed his time there. He drew on it for strength and wisdom, and the thought of being stranded didn’t trouble him in the least.

‘Perhaps this Suzanne should have considered that before firing off her threats.’

Ilyas flicked his hand to tell Mahmoud to get to work and carry out his orders and then he went to reach for the rope above to select his concubine. His hand halted midway as he changed his mind and instead rose from the table and walked over to the running water, where he rinsed off.

He would deal with this impossible woman first, and then he would select from the harem.

CHAPTER THREE

MAGGIE DIDN’T WANT to admit it.

Even to herself.

But, after all the effort to get here, the much-awaited star-gazing trip wasn’t all she had hoped it would be.

Unlike everything else she had experienced here in Zayrinia, the trip to the desert had proved more than a little touristy.

In truth, the journey deep into the desert had taken less than an hour and that allowed for all the time it had taken to mount and dismount from their camels.

‘At the wishes of the Bedouins,’ one of the guides explained, ‘we are forbidden from going any further.’

A couple complained rather loudly but the guide explained that there was nothing that could be done.

Yet.

‘We have put in several formal requests for the law to be changed,’ he said. ‘The final decision rests with the king.’

Having lined up and been served dinner, the group had sat on rugs by a huge fire and watched belly dancers as the sun had started to set.

But as the sun dimmed, so too did the hopes of a night of stargazing. The sky was overcast and the visibility was low due to the gathering sandstorm in the east.

It was still rather spectacular, though.

The sand and dust carried by the wind turned the tiny new moon pale crimson and Maggie watched, awestruck, as it drifted behind and then peeked out of the huge rolling clouds.

The tales around the campfire were interesting too, and the guide used his hands as he told expressive tales.

‘Beneath the palace there is a river where, to this day, the water runs red. It marks the spot where a young prince was denied marriage to his lover and died of a broken heart.’ Maggie was wide-eyed.

‘Since then,’ the guide told them, ‘the crown prince does not court. Love is for lesser mortals. A king must think only with his head.’

‘Does the water really run red?’ asked a woman to the side of Maggie, but the guide had moved on to another tale.

‘The palace is built on the ruins of what once was a harem,’ he explained. ‘The concubines feasted and rested until summoned by a bell. There were many wild and decadent times but it was considered far safer than allowing a virile prince loose in the land with his heart. It is said that the winds that are heard at night are, in fact, the sounds of debauchery carrying across time...’

And the winds were starting to gather.

The campfire tales were halted and the guides gathered in a confab. Maggie guessed they were deciding if the trip should simply be cancelled. But then the annoying couple loudly pointed out that in the event of adverse weather conditions a full refund would be given.

The tour would go ahead!

People were soon being guided to their designated sleeping areas but Maggie continued to stand by the fire. Beyond it was a huge canyon and atop that the outline of the palace. She thought of days long gone and the stories of long-dead royals who were given everything except for love.

Even without stars, Zayrinia, Maggie decided, was beautiful beyond words.

‘Suzanne!’

Maggie only turned when the name was called for a third time and only because of the impatient tone, but then she realised the summons was aimed at her.

Ah, yes, for tonight, she was Suzanne.

The organiser waved her over and gestured to the area that would be Maggie’s home until sunrise.

It was a small, tented area, with a simple mattress where she could either lie and continue to view the night sky or, as was strongly suggested, she could pull the canopy over.

Maggie nodded and thanked him. Refusing to give in just yet, she kept the canopy open, and kicking off her shoes bedded down for what remained of the night.

There appeared not a single star in the sky.

To her left, the couple who had argued about everything were now complaining about the hard mattress and there was a man snoring to her right.

Of all the many highlights of her year, Zayrinia had become her favourite. She had instantly felt somehow drawn to the land.

That in itself was rare for Maggie.

She had learnt not to get attached to people, let alone locations, yet there was something about Zayrinia that entranced her.

It really did, Maggie thought as she gazed up at the dark, heavy sky.

While there wasn’t a star to be seen, the clouds billowed and raced so swiftly it was as if the sky had been placed on fast forward, and soon the sounds of her fellow tourists were drowned out by the cries of the wind whistling through distant canyons.

It really had been the most amazing year. One that Maggie would never have embarked on had it not been for her mother.

It wasn’t the lack of stars that had tears pool in her eyes, or the knowledge that her trip was drawing to a close.

The threat of tears was reserved for the very reason she was here.

Maggie missed her mother so much.

Erin Delaney had fallen pregnant when she was just seventeen and Maggie had never known her father.

Even though she had been a single, teenage mum, Erin had given her daughter a very happy childhood.

Still now, when Maggie felt alone or scared, thoughts of innocent, happy times would come to mind.

Maggie lay there remembering a time they had come from the baker’s and had got caught in the rain. They had ducked under the awnings of a shop that had, though Maggie hadn’t really understood then, been a travel agent.

‘You need to see the world, Maggie,’ her mother had said as they’d looked at a huge map in the window.

‘I like it here.’

‘I know you do, but there’s a whole world outside London. I was going to go travelling and see it for myself...’

‘But you had me instead.’

‘You’re the best mistake I ever made!’ Erin smiled. ‘But seriously, Maggie, you make sure you see the world. I’m saving up hard and next year we’re going to Paris.’

They hadn’t got there, though.

After a short, hard-fought battle with cancer, Erin had passed away. She’d had little money but she had left a small sum for Maggie to inherit when she turned twenty-one and it had been accompanied by a letter. In it Erin had told her daughter that she had been and still was deeply loved. Erin had said that she hoped Maggie would consider spreading her wings and taking in this wonderful world in a way that she had not.

The money had been enough to cover the airfare, but it had taken Maggie two years to save up enough to take the trip.

She had taken the train first to Paris and from there Maggie had travelled through Europe before heading to America and then Asia and Australia and home via the Middle East.

And now on the final leg of her journey, Zayrinia had won her heart.

On Monday she would be on her way back to London and a week after that she would be back working at the café.

Maggie fought to keep her eyes open, for she wanted to savour every last moment. But the day had started early and an awful lot of it had been spent in the sun. Maggie’s eyes were soon closing.

At first she thought the rustle of the tent was just the wind but then Maggie felt a hand on her shoulder. For a brief second she thought it must be the guide telling her to wake up, but then the hand gripped her tighter, roughly, and even before Maggie thought to scream, she felt a hand clamp over her mouth.

It all happened so quickly—one moment Maggie was sleeping, the next she was being dragged under the canvas and through the sand.

She fought and kicked but there was more than one person and the wind was her enemy now, for it drowned the sounds of the struggle she made. She smelt body odour and felt the rough fabric of their clothes against her cheeks. But their grip on her arms and thighs only tightened as she twisted to free herself.

All to no avail.

It took less than a minute to be bundled into a vehicle and Maggie fought each second of it even as she was driven away.

‘What do you want?’ she asked as the hand was removed from her mouth, but there was no answer.

The vehicle came to a halt and she was dragged out. Maggie thought she had already tasted fear, but that was nothing compared to how the sand stung as it whipped at her cheeks and the wind took her breath away as she cried out at the lights from a helicopter.

‘Yalla! Yalla!’ a man urged loudly, and Maggie knew they were being told to hurry.

‘Please...’ she begged, not just because she was being kidnapped, but because surely it was way too windy to fly. Nothing she said or did made a difference; Maggie knew she was outnumbered and knew somehow that it was better to save her energy than to fight.

And still she refused to cry.

Careful what you wish for!

Just a few hours ago, Maggie had silently bemoaned the fact she was not deeper in the desert, and now she watched as it spread like a never-ending ocean beneath them.

It was not the first time Maggie had been wrenched from her bed.

Memories were stirring and she tried to stuff them down, but as they grew stronger she gave in, for there was strange comfort to be had in remembering those days.

As she looked through childhood memories with adult eyes, she found she could make sense of things. Time had given her perspective; what had happened to her made far more sense now than it ever had when she had been living through it.

The memories came thick and fast now. The drenching light and her bedroom full of strangers had, in fact, been the first responders when her mother had taken a serious turn for the worse.

Erin had called for an ambulance and, Maggie realised now, she must have told them she had a child sleeping in the flat.

It had felt like an invasion at the time—being lifted from her bed and carried to an ambulance.

She had held her mother’s hand throughout the journey and told her she loved her over and over. At the hospital she had been led to a small room to wait and it had been there she had been told that her mother was dead.

That was fear, Maggie told herself as she stared out into the dark night.

She could deal with this.

And there had to be a logical explanation.

She remembered being driven through the night some time after her mother had died.

Again, she had been awoken, seemingly in the middle of the night.

Now, though, she recalled arriving at yet another new temporary accommodation. A couple had been eating their dinner. It had been the middle of winter and dark, but perhaps not the middle of the night as she had thought then.

There had been a more logical explanation then and there had to be one now.

Maggie simply could not fathom what it was.

‘What do you want from me?’ she asked one of the men, but either he did not understand or simply chose not to answer.

The helicopter was circling and she could feel them hover and then be lifted by a gust of wind. She could see the tension on the features of the men as the pilot fought to land them in the storm.

There was a complex beneath, the white of a large tent with a collection of smaller ones dotted around the main one, like surf on the ocean. And the sand moved in waves beneath them, not unlike the sea itself. Finally they landed and Maggie breathed a sigh of relief.

She was hauled from the helicopter and a large hand pushed her head down as she was dragged through the sands.

The air was cold, the sand stung her cheeks, and then she was pushed, or did she simply stumble?

Maggie pulled herself up to her knees, anticipating being hauled back to her feet and determined to do it herself.

It took a moment to fathom she was now alone.

The sound of the chopper combined with the shrieking wind was deafening and she put her hands over her ears, battling with too many thoughts and sensations to attempt to think clearly.

The flashing lights were lifting, the helicopter was taking off again, and Maggie covered her eyes as she realised she had been left there alone in the shifting sand.

The sharp grains blasted her cheeks and stung her eyes as she tried to gauge her surroundings. Squinting, she could just make out the white of a tent in the distance.

It was huge.

Bigger than the circus tent she had been to as a child.

And in the midst of terror, as so often happened, a happier memory flashed to mind—sitting with her mother, eating a sticky treat, laughing and laughing...

She hadn’t known then just how precious that time was; it had seemed so natural to be content then. Now, though, she was a fighter and, if Maggie wanted to survive, then there was little choice but to make her way to the tent for protection.

Or perhaps not?

Briefly she turned from the tent and considered simply walking away and forcing them to come and get her.

Whoever they were.

Two steps into her journey away from the tent she gave up on the idea. There was no way she could last out here on her own.

The winds shrieked around her as Maggie reluctantly headed towards the tent, for it was like walking through molasses.

She reached the entrance and pulled a heavy drape aside, dreading what she might find—more henchmen? More captives? Her imagination was working overtime, but not for a second had she considered that she might step into luxurious beauty.

The inside of the tent was softly lit and the sound of screeching winds was mercifully muted as the drape closed behind her. She caught strains of music and the scent of incense, and felt an irresistible pull to follow the length of the corridor ahead.

Thick carpet had replaced the sand and was soft on her bare feet; the walls were lined with a stream of tiny bells that made a soft tinkling sound as she ran her hands along them.

No one came to find her.

She walked further and came to an entrance covered by a veil of sheer fabric and she thought she must be at the centre.

Still, nothing made sense, for she had never seen such beauty before in her life. The floor was spread with rugs and was scattered with cushions. Gorgeous tapestries hung on the walls and light from many lamps danced along them. In the centre was an enclosed fire with a flue that led to the high roof of the tent. The only indication of the stark weather conditions outside was the gentle billowing of the roof as she looked up.

Maggie walked over to a low table that was laden with fruits and delicacies. There were ornate jugs that were filled to the brim and beside them were jewelled goblets, but though thirsty she did not take her fill.

‘Help yourself.’

A deep voice jolted her. Maggie did not move and neither did she look around. The voice was so rich that it seemed to come from all sides and she was not certain of its direction.

‘No, thank you,’ Maggie said, and was both surprised and pleased that her voice did not waver.

‘Turn around,’ he told her. ‘Or do you not have the courage to repeat your demands to my face?’

‘Demands?’ Now she spun and immediately wished she hadn’t, for Maggie had been braced to face a monster. Instead, what she saw was a man more beautiful than any she had ever seen.

And Maggie did not want him to be.

Absolutely she did not want that to be her first thought as she faced her captor.

And she knew that this man was her captor.

Not the henchmen who had dragged her sleeping from her bed and brought her here; she knew now that they had followed his orders.

Maggie was certain that he gave orders, for it was crystal clear to her that he was a leader.

He was taller than most and wore dark layered robes; on his head was a black kafeyah tied with a braided rope. His clothes were immaculate, as if not so much as a grain of sand would dare to sully him.

Though unshaven, he was far from dishevelled; in fact, he was impeccably groomed. His face was chiselled, and though his eyes were an intense hazel, it was his mouth that drew her eyes.

‘I assume you know why you are here?’ he said and his English surprised her—or rather the clipped, well-schooled accent did.

She looked from his mouth to his eyes that flashed irritation at her lack of response, but she stared back without blinking.

Maggie refused to show fear.

And she refused to answer him.

She would say nothing until it was clear why she was here, Maggie had decided.

‘Did you really think that there would be no repercussions, Suzanne?’

And then she reversed her decision not to speak.

Of course it might be far safer to say nothing, but there was one thing this man just had to understand because Maggie was finally starting to—it really was all a mix-up. Perhaps a less than simple mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. Here was the rational explanation she had been searching for earlier.

And once he knew that, she would be free.

So she cleared her throat and stated her case.

‘I’m not Suzanne.’

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