From the VIP guest’s bed...

...to expecting his royal heir!

After a fleeting yet exhilarating affair with Sheikh Sariq, hotel concierge Daisy knows life can’t be ordinary again! She resigns herself to only ever reliving the pleasure in her memory. But then she makes a shocking discovery that will cause chaos for this duty-bound king...

Unable to forget their connection, Sariq is intrigued when Daisy declines his summons to his palace. Yet finding out she’s secretly pregnant demands dramatic action! She’s far from a suitable bride...but for their baby he’ll crown her. If Daisy will accept!

CLARE CONNELLY was raised in small-town Australia among a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Mills & Boon book in hand. Clare is married to her own real-life hero, and they live in a bungalow near the sea with their two children. She is frequently found staring into space—a surefire sign that she’s in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Mills & Boon novels continue to be her favourite ever books. Writing for Modern is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com or at her Facebook page.

Also by Clare Connelly

Bought for the Billionaire’s Revenge

Innocent in the Billionaire’s Bed

Her Wedding Night Surrender

Bound by the Billionaire’s Vows

Spaniard’s Baby of Revenge

Shock Heir for the King

Redemption of the Untamed Italian

Christmas Seductions miniseries

Bound by Their Christmas Baby

The Season to Sin

Crazy Rich Greek Weddings miniseries

The Greek’s Billion-Dollar Baby

Bride Behind the Billion-Dollar Veil

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Secret Kept from the King

Clare Connelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09815-1

THE SECRET KEPT FROM THE KING

© 2020 Clare Connelly

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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This book’s for you—a romance reader who, just like me, loves to be swept up in a passionate escapist story with a guaranteed happily-ever-after.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

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

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

WHEN HE CLOSED his eyes he saw only his father’s, so he tried not to close them much at all. Not because he didn’t want to see the Exalted Sheikh Kadir Al Antarah again; he did, more than anything. But seeing his eyes as they’d been at the end, so clouded by pain and unconscious of the world that swirled around him, so robbed of the strength and vibrancy that had been hallmarks of his life and rule, made Sariq’s chest compress in a way that robbed him of breath and had him gasping for air.

The King was dead. His father was dead. He was now completely alone in this world, and the inescapable reality he had been aware of all his life was wrapping around him like a cable.

He had been crowned. The job of steering the Royal Kingdom of Haleth fell to him. Just as he’d always known it would, just as he’d spent a lifetime preparing for.

‘Your Highness? Malik has asked me to remind you of the time.’

Sariq didn’t respond at first. He continued to stare out at the glittering vista of Manhattan. From this vantage point, it was easy to pick out the key buildings that were considered the most well-known landmarks of New York. The Empire State building shone like a beacon. The Chrysler with its art deco detailing, and, far in the distance, the spire of One World Trade Centre. And in another direction, not far from this hotel, if he followed a straight line, he’d reach the United Nations, where he’d be expected to make his first official speech since the death of Sheikh Kadir. In the morning, he’d address leaders and delegates from dozens of countries, aiming to assure them that his father’s death was not an end to the peace that had, finally, been established between the RKH and the west.

‘Emir?’

‘Yes.’ He spoke more harshly than he’d intended. He closed his eyes—and there was his father. He returned his attention to the view, his features locked in a grim mask. ‘Tell Malik I am aware of the hour.’

Still, the servant hovered. ‘Can I get you anything else, sir?’

Briefly, Sariq turned to face the servant. He was little more than a boy—sixteen or seventeen perhaps. He wore the same uniform Sariq had donned at that age, black with gold detailing. The insignia indicated he was an ensign. ‘What is your name?’

The boy’s eyes widened.

‘Kaleth.’

Sariq forced a smile to his face. It felt odd, heavy and wooden. ‘Thank you for your attention, Kaleth, but you may go now.’

Kaleth paused, as though he wished to say something further.

‘Tell Malik it was at my insistence.’

This seemed to appease the young officer because he nodded and bowed low. ‘Goodnight, sir.’

He turned back to the view without responding. It was after midnight and his day had been long. Starting with meetings in Washington and then the flight to New York, where he’d had dinner with his ambassador to America—also installed in this hotel while the major renovations to the embassy were completed. And all day long, he’d pushed his grief aside, knowing he needed to act strong and unaffected by the fact he’d buried his father a little over three weeks ago.

The man had been a behemoth. Strength personified. His absence left a gaping hole—not just for Sariq but for the country. It was one Sariq would endeavour to fill, but there would only ever be one King Kadir.

He moved towards the view, pushing one of the sliding glass doors open so he could step onto the large, private terrace, his eyes continuing to trace the skyline of New York. The background noise of horns beeping, sirens wailing and engines revving was a constant here, and somehow that made it fade into nothing. It was so loud it became a sort of white noise, and yet it made him long for the silence of the desert to the east of his palace, a place where he could erect a tent and be surrounded by silence, and the ancient sands of his kingdom. There was wisdom in those grains of sand: each and every one of them had stood sentinel to the people of his kingdom. Their wars, their famines, their pains, their hopes, their beliefs and, in the last forty years, their peace, their prosperity, their modernisation and acceptance onto the world’s stage.

It was his father’s legacy and Sariq would do all that he could to preserve it. No, not simply to preserve it: to improve it. To grow it, to strengthen it, to better his country’s standing and make peace so unequivocal that the trailing fingers of civil war could no longer touch a single soul of his country.

Sariq was not his father, but he was of him, he was cast from his soul, his bones and strength, and he had spent a lifetime watching, learning, and preparing for this.

In the morning, it would begin. He was ready.

Daisy stared at the flashing light with a small frown on her cupid’s bow lips, then consulted the clock on the wall. It was three in the morning, and the alarm for the Presidential suite was on. She reached for the phone, tucking it under her ear.

‘Concierge, how may I help you?’

It had only been a matter of hours since the delegation from the Royal Kingdom of Haleth had been installed in this five-star hotel’s most prestigious suite—as well as a whole floor of rooms for servants and security guards—but Daisy had already had multiple dealings with a man named Malik, who seemed to coordinate the life of the Sheikh. As the hotel’s VIP concierge, this was her job—she alone was responsible for taking care of every little thing the most prestigious guests wanted. Whether it was organising parties for after their concerts at Madison Square Garden, or, in the case of a Queen from a Scandinavian country, organising a small couture fashion parade in her suite so she could choose what to wear to the Met gala, Daisy prided herself on being able to cope with just about anything that was asked of her.

So when the phone rang, despite the hour, she was calm and prepared. Malik must need something and she would ensure he got it.

What she wasn’t prepared for was the timbre of the voice that came down the line, so deep and throaty, accented with spice and an exotic lilt that showed English was his second language. ‘I would like some persimmon tea.’

The RKH ambassador had been staying in the hotel for three months while the embassy was being renovated. They now had a permanent supply of delicacies from that country on hand, including persimmon tea.

‘Yes, sir. Would you like some balajari as well?’ she offered, the almond and lemon zest biscuits something the ambassador always took with his tea.

There was a slight pause. ‘Fine.’ The call was disconnected and Daisy inwardly bristled, though she showed no sign of that. Very few of the guests she’d hosted in the Presidential suite had exhibited particularly good manners. There were a few exceptions: an Australian actor who’d apologised every time he’d ‘disturbed’ her, a Scottish woman who’d won one of those television singing competitions and seemed unable to comprehend that she’d been jettisoned in the global superstar arena and seemed to want to be treated as normally as possible, and a Japanese artist who had wanted directions to the nearest Whole Foods so she could stock her own fridge.

Daisy called the order through to the kitchen then moved to the service elevator. There was a full-length mirror there—the hotel manager insisted that each staff member check their appearance before going out on the floor, and Daisy did so now, tucking a curl of her blonde hair back into its bun, pinching her cheeks to bring a bit of colour to them, and even though her shirt was tucked in, she pushed it in a little more firmly, straightening her pencil skirt and spinning to have a look over her shoulder at her behind.

Neat, professional, nondescript. Her job wasn’t to be noticed, it was to fly beneath the radar. She was a facilitator, and nothing more. A ghost of the hotel, there whenever she was required, but in an unseen kind of way.

By the time she reached the kitchen in the basement, the order was ready. She double-checked the tray herself, inspecting plates for fingerprints, the teapot for heat, then thanked the staff, carrying the tray on one hand as she pressed the call button for the lift.

The Presidential suite was on the top floor and only she and the hotel manager had a staff access card for it. She swiped it as she entered then moved the tray to both hands, holding it in front of her as the lift shot up towards the sky.

When she’d first started working here, two years ago, the elevator had made her tummy ache every time, but she was used to it now and barely batted an eyelid.

The doors pinged open into a small service corridor with a glossy white door on one end. In the presidential apartment, the door was concealed by wall panelling. She knocked discreetly and, despite the absence of a greeting, unlocked the door and pushed into the suite.

The lights were out but several lamps had been turned on, giving the apartment an almost eerie glow.

She loved these rooms, with their sumptuous décor, their stunning views, the promise of luxury and grandeur. Of course, she loved them most of all when they were empty, particularly of the more demanding and disrespectful guests who had a tendency to treat the delicate furniture as though it were cheap, plastic tat.

The coffee table in the middle of the sofas was low-set and a shining timber. She placed the tea tray down on it, then straightened to look around the room. At first, she didn’t see him. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkened room. But then, the silhouette of a man stood out, a void against the Manhattan skyline.

The Sheikh.

She’d caught a glimpse of him at a distance, earlier that day, and he was instantly recognisable now. It wasn’t just his frame, which was tall and broad, muscled in a way that spoke of fitness and strength. It was his long hair, dark, which he wore in a bun on top of his head. She was used to dealing with powerful, important people and yet that didn’t mean she was an automaton. In moments like this, a hint of anxiety always bristled through her. She ignored it, keeping her voice neutral when she addressed him.

‘Good evening, sir. I have your tea.’ A pause, in which he didn’t speak, nor did he turn to face her. ‘Would you like me to pour it for you?’

Another pause, a silence that stretched between them for several seconds. She waited with the appearance of impassivity, watching him, so she saw the moment he dipped his head forward in what she took to be a nod.

Her fingertips trembled betrayingly as she reached for the teapot, lifting it silently, pressing down on the lid to avoid any spills, filling the tea to near the top of the cup, then silently replacing the pot on the tray.

She took a step backward then, preparing to leave. Except he still didn’t move and something inside her sparked with curiosity. Not just curiosity: duty. He had asked for tea; her job was to provide him with it. She moved back to the coffee table, lifting the teacup and saucer, carrying them across the room towards him.

‘Here you are, sir,’ she murmured at his side. Now, finally, he did turn to look at her, and she had to grip the teacup and saucer more tightly to stop them from shaking. Her fingers felt as though they’d been filled with jelly. She’d seen him from a distance and she’d seen photographs of him, when she’d been preparing for his visit, but nothing really did justice to his magnificence. In person, he was so much more vital than any still image could convey. His features were harsh, symmetrical and almost jagged. A jaw that was square, cheekbones that appeared to have been slashed into his face at birth, a nose that had a bump halfway down its length, as if it had been broken at some point. His eyes were the darkest black, and his brows were thick and straight. His skin was a swarthy tan, and his chin was covered in stubble. Yes, up close he was quite mesmerising, so she forced herself to look away. Being mesmerised wasn’t part of her job description.

‘It’s supposed to help you sleep.’ His voice was unlike anything she’d ever known. If you could find a way to bottle it, you’d be a millionaire.

‘I’ve heard that.’ She nodded, crisply, already preparing to fade into the background, to disappear discreetly through the concealed doorway, feeling almost as though her disappearing now was essential to her sanity.

‘Have you tried it before?’

‘No.’ She swallowed; her throat felt quite dry. ‘But your ambassador favours it.’

‘It is very common in my country.’

His eyes roamed her face in a way that set her pulse firing. Escape was essential. ‘Do you need anything else?’

A small frown quirked at his lips. He looked back towards the view. ‘Malik would say I need to sleep.’

‘And you have the tea for that.’

‘Scotch might work better.’

‘Would you like me to organise some for you?’

He tilted his head to hers again. ‘It’s after three.’

His words made little sense.

‘It’s after three and you’re working.’

‘Oh, right. Yes. That’s my job.’

He lifted a brow. ‘To work through the night?’

‘To work when you need me,’ she said with a lift of her shoulders. Then, with a swift correction, ‘Or when any guest of the Presidential suite requires me. I’m assigned to this suite exclusively.’

‘And you have to do whatever I ask?’ he prompted.

A small smile lifted her lips. ‘Well, not quite.’ She couldn’t suppress the teasing quality from her voice. ‘I can’t cook and I don’t know any jokes, but when it comes to facilitating your requests, then yes, I do whatever is humanly possible to make them happen.’

‘And that’s your employment.’

‘Yes.’

He sipped the tea without taking his dark eyes off her. Ordinarily, she would have taken that opportunity to leave, but there was a contradiction within this man that had her saying, ‘I would have thought you’d be used to that degree of service.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because you travel with an entourage of forty men, all of whom it would appear exist to serve your every whim?’

Another sip of his tea. ‘Yes, this is their job. I am King, and in my country serving the royal family is a great honour.’

Something tweaked in the back of her brain. A memory from a news article she’d read a couple of weeks ago. His father had died. Recently.

Compassion moved through her, and empathy, because she could vividly remember the pain of that loss. Five years ago, when her mother had died, she had felt as if she’d never be whole again. In time, day by day, she’d begun to feel more like herself, but it was still a work in progress. She felt her mother’s absence every day.

It was that understanding that had her saying something she would normally not have dared. ‘I’m sorry, about your father. Losing a parent is...we know it’s something we should expect, but I don’t think anything really prepares us for what life without them will be like.’

His eyes jolted to hers, widening in his face, so she immediately regretted her familiarity. He was a king, for goodness’ sake, and her job was to bring the tea!

Dipping her head forward, she found she couldn’t meet his eyes. ‘If that’s all, sir, goodnight.’ She didn’t wait for his answer; turning away from him, she strode to the concealed door. Her hand was on it when he spoke.

‘Wait.’

She paused, her heart slamming against her ribcage.

She didn’t turn around, though.

‘Come back here.’

Her pulse was like a torrent in her veins.

She turned to face him. He was watching her. Her heart rate accelerated to the point of, surely, danger.

‘Yes, sir?’

A frown etched itself across his face. ‘Sit.’ He gestured to the sofas. ‘Drink tea with me.’

A million reasons to say ‘no’ came to her. Not once in all the time she’d held this job had she come close to socialising with a guest. For one thing, it was completely forbidden in her contract.

This is a professional establishment. They are not our friends. They are guests at the most exclusive hotel in the world.

But that wasn’t the only reason she was resisting his invitation.

He was too much. Too charming, too handsome, too completely masculine, and if her first, epic failure of a marriage had taught her anything, it was that men who were too handsome for their own good were not to be trusted.

‘I insist.’ His words cut through her hesitations, because, ultimately, he was asking her to join him for tea and surely that was within her job description? What the guests wanted, the guests got—within reason.

‘I don’t see how that will help you sleep,’ she reminded him, gently.

His expression was like a whip cracking. ‘Are you refusing?’

Panic had her shaking her head.

Keep the guest happy, at all costs.

‘Of course not, sir.’ She was already walking through the room, towards the sofas. Only one cup had been on the tray—besides, she didn’t feel like persimmon tea. But she took a seat near the tray, her hands clasped neatly in her lap. And she waited for him to speak, her nerves stretching tighter and tighter with every silent beat that passed.

‘Good.’ His nod showed approval but it was hardly relaxing. The differences in their situations were apparent in every way. He was a king, his country renowned for its natural source of both oil and diamonds, making it hugely prosperous, with a chequered history of power-play as foreign forces sought to control both these natural resources for their own financial gain. Perhaps that explained the natural sense of power that exuded from every pore of his; he was a man born to rule a country that required a strong leader.

‘Would you like a tea?’

‘I think it would be rude to refuse,’ she said quietly, but he heard, if the quirk of his brow was anything to go by.

‘I have no interest in force-feeding you drinks native to my country. Would you prefer something else? Room service?’

The idea of anyone else seeing her sitting on the sofa talking to the Sheikh was impossible to contemplate.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re sitting there as though you’re half afraid I’m going to bite you.’

A small smile lifted Daisy’s mouth. ‘How should I be sitting, sir?’

He took the seat opposite, his own body language relaxed. His legs, long and muscled, were spread wide, and he lifted one arm along the back of the sofa. He looked so completely at home here, in this world of extreme luxury. That was hardly surprising, given he’d undoubtedly been raised in this kind of environment.

‘However you would usually sit,’ he prompted.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, the words quizzical rather than apologetic. ‘It’s just this has never happened before.’

‘No?’

‘My job is to provide for your every need without actually being noticed.’

At that, his eyes flared wider, speculation colouring his irises for a heart-racing moment. ‘I’m reasonably certain it would be impossible for you to escape anyone’s notice.’

Heat rose in her cheeks, colouring them a pale pink that perfectly offset the golden tan of her complexion. She wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she stayed quiet.

‘Have you worked here long?’

She compressed her lips then stopped when his eyes followed the gesture, tracing the outline of her mouth in a way that made her tummy flip and flop.

‘A few years.’ She didn’t add how hard that had been for her—to finally accept that her long-held dream of attending the Juilliard was beyond reach, once and for all.

‘And always in this capacity?’

‘I started in general concierge.’ She crossed her legs, relaxing back into the seat a little. ‘But about six months later, I was promoted to this position.’

‘And you enjoy it?’

Of their own accord, her eyes drifted to the view of New York and her fingers tapped her knee, as if playing across the keys of the beloved piano she’d been forced to sell. ‘I’m good at it.’ She didn’t catch the way his features shifted, respect moving over his face.

‘How old are you?’

She turned back to face him, wondering how long he intended to keep her sitting there, knowing that it was very much within her job description to humour him even when this felt like an utterly bizarre way to spend her time.

‘Twenty-four.’

‘And you’ve always lived in America?’

‘Yes.’ She bit down on her lower lip thoughtfully. ‘I’ve actually never even been overseas.’

His brows lifted. ‘That’s unusual, isn’t it?’

She laughed softly. ‘I don’t know. You tell me?’

‘It is.’

‘Then I guess I’m unusual. Guilty as charged.’

‘You don’t have any interest in travelling?’

‘Not having done something doesn’t necessarily equate to a lack of interest,’ she pointed out.

‘So it’s a lack of opportunity, then?’

He was rapier sharp, quickly able to read between the lines of anything she said.

‘Yes.’ Because there was no point in denying it.

‘You work too much?’

‘I work a lot,’ she confirmed, without elaborating. There was no need to tell this man that she had more debt to her name than she’d likely ever be able to clear. Briefly, anger simmered in her veins, the kind of anger she only ever felt when she thought about one person: her waste-of-space ex-husband Max and the trouble he’d got her into.

‘I thought you were guaranteed vacation time in the United States?’

Her smile was carefully constructed to dissuade further questioning along these lines, but, for good measure, she turned the tables on him. ‘And you, sir? You travel frequently, I presume?’

His eyes narrowed as he studied her, and she had the strangest feeling he was pulling her apart, little by little, until he could see all the pieces that made her whole.

She held her breath, wondering if he was going to let the matter drop, and was relieved when he did.

‘I do. Though never for long, and not lately.’ His own features showed a tightness that she instinctively understood spoke of a desire not to be pressed on that matter.

But despite that, she heard herself say gently, ‘Your father was ill for a while, before he died?’

The man’s face paled briefly. He stood up, walking towards the window, his back rigid, his body tense. Daisy swallowed a curse. What was she thinking, asking something so personal? His father had just died—not even a month ago. She had no business inviting him to open that wound—and for a virtual stranger.

‘I’m so sorry.’ She stood, following him, bitterly regretting her big mouth. ‘I had no right to ask you that. I’m sorry.’ When he didn’t speak, she swallowed, and said quietly, ‘I’ll leave you in peace now, Your Highness.’

CHAPTER TWO

MANHATTAN WAS A vibrant hive of activity beyond the windows of his limousine. He kept his head back against the leather cushioning of his seat, his eyes focussed on nothing in particular.

‘That could not have gone better, Your Highness.’

Malik was right. The speech to the United Nations had been a success. As he was talking, he realised that he wasn’t the only one in the room who’d experienced anxiety about the importance of this. There was an air of tension, a fear that perhaps with the death of the great Kadir Al Antarah, they were to be plunged back into the days of war and violence that had marked too much of his country’s history.

But Sariq was progressive, and Sariq was persuasive. He spoke of Shajarah, the capital of RKH, that had been born from the sands of the desert, its ancient soul nestled amongst the steel and glass monoliths that spoke of a place of the future, a place of promise. He spoke of his country’s educational institutions which were free and world-class, of his belief that education was the best prevention for war and violence, that a literate and informed people were less likely to care for ancient wounds. He highlighted what the people of RKH had in common with the rest of the world and when he was finished, there was widespread applause.

Yes, the speech had been a success, but still there was a kernel of discontent within his gut. A feeling of dissatisfaction he couldn’t explain.

‘Your father would have been proud of you, sir.’

Malik was right about that too.

‘When we return to the hotel, have the concierge come to me,’ Sariq told Malik. He didn’t know her name. That was an oversight he would remedy.

‘Is there something you require?’

‘She will see to it.’

If Malik thought the request strange, he didn’t say anything. The limousine cut east across Manhattan, snagging in traffic near Bryant Park, so Sariq stared from his window at the happy scene there. The day had been warm and New Yorkers had taken to the park to feel the brief respite from the temperature offered by the lush surrounds. He watched as a child reached into the fountain and scooped some water out, splashing it at his older brother, and his chest panged with a sense of acceptance.

Children were as much a part of his future as ruling was. He was the last heir of the Al Antarah line of Kings, a line that had begun at the turn of the last millennia. When he returned to his kingdom and his people, he would focus more seriously on that. He knew the risks if he didn’t, the likelihood of civil war that would result from a dangerous fight for the throne of the country.

Marriage, children, these things would absolve him of that worry and would secure his country’s future for generations to come.

‘You wanted to see me, Your Highness?’ Her heart was in her throat. She’d barely slept since she’d left his apartment the night before, despite the fact she’d been rostered off during the day, while he was engaged on official business. That was how it worked when she had high-profile guests. She knew their schedules intimately so she could form her day around their movements, thus ensuring her availability when they were likely to need her.

He was not alone, and he was not as he’d been the night before—dressed simply in jeans and a shirt. Now, he wore a white robe, flowing and long, with gold embellishments on the sleeve, and on his head there was a traditional keffiyeh headdress, white and fastened in place with a gold cord. It was daunting and powerful and she found her mouth was completely dry as she regarded him with what she hoped was an impassive expression. That was hard to manage when her knees seemed to have a desire to knock together.

‘Yes. One moment.’

His advisors wore similar outfits, though less embellished. It was clear that his had a distinction of royal rank. She stood where she was as they continued speaking in their own language, the words beautiful and musical, the Sheikh’s voice discernible amongst all others. It was ten minutes before they began to disband, moving away from the Sheikh, each with a low bow of respect, which he acknowledged with a small nod sometimes, and other times not at all.

His fingers were long and tanned, and on one finger he wore a gold ring with a small, rounded face, like a Super Bowl ring, she thought out of nowhere and smiled at the idea of this man on the football field. He’d probably take to it like a duck to water, if his physique was anything to go by. Beneath those robes, she knew he had the build of a natural athlete.

Great.

Her mouth was dry all over again but this time he was sweeping towards her, his robes flowing behind him. She had only a few seconds to attempt to calm her racing pulse.

When he was a few feet away from her, he paused, so she was caught up in the masculinity of his fragrance, the exotic addictiveness of it—citrus and pine needles, spice and sunshine.

‘You were offended last night.’

His words were the last thing she’d expected. Heat bloomed in her cheeks.

‘I was too familiar, sir.’ She dropped her eyes to the view, unable to look at him, a thousand and one butterflies rampaging wildly inside her belly.

‘I invited you to be familiar,’ he reminded her so the butterflies gave way to a roller coaster.

‘Still...’ she lifted her shoulders, risking a glance at him then wishing she hadn’t when she discovered his eyes were piercing her own ‘...I shouldn’t have...’

‘He had been sick. It was unpleasant to witness. I wished, more than anything, that I could do something to alleviate his pain.’ A muscle jerked in his jaw and his eyes didn’t shift from hers. ‘I have been raised to believe in the full extent of my power, and yet I was impotent against the ravages of his disease. No doctor anywhere could save him, nor really help him.’ He didn’t move and yet somehow she felt closer to him, as though she’d swayed forward without realising it.

‘Your question last night is difficult for me to answer.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong.’

Her body was in overdrive, every single sense pulling through her, and she was aware, in the small part of her brain that was capable of rational thought, that this was a completely foreign territory to be in. He was a guest of the hotel—their boundaries were clearly established.

She had to find a way to get them back onto more familiar territory.

‘I work for the hotel,’ she said quietly. ‘Asking you personal questions isn’t within my job description, and it’s certainly not appropriate. It won’t happen again.’

He didn’t react to that. He stayed exactly where he was, completely still, like a sentinel, watching her, his eyes trained on her face in a way that made her pulse stutter.

‘I asked you to talk with me,’ he reminded her finally.

‘But I should have declined.’

‘Your job is to facilitate my needs, is it not?’

Her heart began to pound against her ribs. ‘Within reason.’

His smile showed a hint of something she couldn’t interpret. Cynicism? Mockery? Frustration?

‘Are you saying that if I ask you to come and sit with me again tonight, you’ll refuse?’

Her body was filled with lava, so hot she could barely breathe.

Her eyes were awash with uncertainty. ‘I’m not sure it’s appropriate.’

‘What are you afraid of?’

‘Honestly?’

He was watchful.

‘I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing. Of offending you. My job is to silently...’

‘Yes, yes, you have told me this. To escape notice. And I told you that’s not possible. I have already noticed you, Daisy. And having had the pleasure of speaking with you once, I would like to repeat that—with a less abrupt conclusion this time. Are you saying therefore that you won’t sit with me?’

Her chest felt as though it had been cracked open. ‘Um, yes, I am, I think.’ She dropped her eyes to the shining floor.

Because I enjoyed talking to you, too, she amended inwardly, fully aware that she was moving into a territory that was lined with danger.

‘But if you’re worried you offended me, let me assure you, I am not easily offended,’ he offered, and now he smiled, in a way that was like forcing sunshine into a darkened room. Her breath burned in her lungs.

‘Frankly, I’d be surprised if you were.’

‘Then you can bring me tea tonight. I have a dinner but Malik will send for you when it’s done.’

He had no idea what he was doing. The American woman was beautiful, but it had been a long time since Sariq had considered beauty to be a requirement in a woman he was interested in. Besides, he couldn’t be seriously interested in her. His duty was clear: to return to the RKH and marry, so that he could begin the process of shoring up his lineage. There were two women whom it would make sense to marry and he would need to choose one, and promptly.

Enjoying the companionship of his hotel’s concierge seemed pointless and futile, and yet he found himself turning his attention to his watch every few minutes throughout the state dinner, willing it to be over so he could call for a tray of tea and the woman with eyes the colour of the sky on a winter’s morning.

She had asked the kitchen to prepare tea for two, with no further explanation. And even though they had no way of knowing the Sheikh wasn’t entertaining in his suite, she felt a flush of guilt as she took the tray, as though surely everyone must know that she was about to cross an invisible line in the sand and socialise with a guest.

Calm down, she insisted to herself as the elevator sped towards the top of the building. It’s just tea and conversation, hardly a hanging offence. He was grieving and despite the fact he was surrounded by an entourage, she could easily imagine how lonely his position must be, how refreshing to meet someone who hadn’t been indoctrinated into the ways of worshipping at his feet by virtue of the fact that he ruled the land from which they heralded.

This was no different from the other unusual requests she had been asked to fulfil, it was just a lot harder to delegate. He wanted her. To talk to her. She couldn’t say why—she wasn’t particularly interesting, which filled her with anxiety at the job before her, but, for whatever reason, he had been insistent.

She knocked at the door then pushed it inwards. He was standing almost exactly where he’d been the night before, still wearing the robes he had been in earlier that day, though he’d removed the headpiece, so her heart rate trebled. Because he looked so impossibly handsome, so striking with his tanned skin and strong body encased in the crisp white and gold.

It brought out a hint of blond in his hair that she hadn’t noticed at first, just a little at the ends, which spoke of a tendency to spend time outdoors.

He walked towards her so she stood completely still, as though her legs were planted to the floor, and when his hands curved around the edges of the tray, it was impossible for them not to brush hers. A jolt of electricity burst through her, splitting her into a thousand pieces so she had to work hard not to visibly react.

‘I’m pleased you came.’

He stood there, watching her, for a beat too long and then took the tray, placing it on the coffee table.

‘The first reference to persimmon tea comes from one of our earliest texts. In the year forty-seven AD, a Bedouin tribe brought it as a gift to the people of the west of my country. Their skill with harvesting the fruit late in the season and drying them in such a way as to preserve the flavour made them popular with traders.’

He poured some into a cup and held it in front of him, waiting, a small smile on his lips that did funny things to her tummy.

She forced her legs to carry her across the room, a tight smile of her own crossing her expression as she took the teacup. ‘Thank you.’

He was watching her and so she took a small sip, her eyes widening at the flavour. ‘It’s so sweet. Like honey.’

He made a throaty noise of agreement. ‘Picked at the right time, persimmons are sweet. Dried slowly, that intensifies, until you get this.’

She took another sip, her insides warming to the flavour. It was like drinking happiness. Why had she resisted so long?

‘Are you going to have some?’

‘I don’t feel like sleeping tonight.’

Her stomach lurched and she chattered the cup against the saucer a little too loudly, shooting him a look that was half apology, half warning.

She had to keep this professional. It was imperative that she not forget who she was, who he was, and why her job mattered so much to her. She was lucky with this position. She earned a salary that was above and beyond what she could have hoped, by virtue of her untarnished ability to provide exemplary customer service. One wrong move and her reputation would suffer, so too would her job, potentially, and she couldn’t jeopardise that.

It helped to imagine her manager in the room, observing their conversation. If she pictured Henry watching, she could keep things professional and light, she could avoid the gravitational pull that seemed to be dragging on her.

‘You were at the United Nations today, sir?’

A quirk shifted his lips, but he nodded. ‘It was my first official speech as ruler of the RKH.’

‘How did it go?’

He gestured towards the sofa, inviting her to sit. She chose one side, crossing her legs primly and placing the cup and saucer on her knee, holding it with both hands.

He took the seat beside her, not opposite, so she was aware of his every movement, the shift of his body dragging on the cushions on the sofa, inadvertently pulling her towards him.

‘I was pleased with the reception.’

She sipped her tea, forcing herself to relax. ‘I can’t imagine having to do that,’ she confided with a small smile. After all, he wanted to talk to her—sitting there like a petrified automaton wasn’t particularly conversational. ‘I’m terrible at public speaking. I hate it. I feel everyone’s eyes burning me and just want to curl up in a ball for ever.’

‘It’s a skill you can learn.’

‘Perhaps. But fortunately for me, I don’t need to.’

Silence prickled at their sides.

She spoke to fill it. ‘I don’t feel like you would have needed to do much learning there.’

He frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Sorry, that wasn’t clear.’ She shook her head. ‘I just mean you were probably born with this innate ability to stand in front of a group of people and enthral them.’

She clamped her mouth shut, wishing she hadn’t come so close to admitting that she was a little bit enthralled by him.

He smiled though, in a way that relaxed her and warmed her. ‘I was born knowing my destiny. I was born to be Sheikh, ruler of my people, and, as such, never imagined what it would be like to...avoid notice.’ His eyes ran over her face speculatively, so even as she was relaxing, she was also vibrating in a way that was energising and demanding.

‘I don’t think you’d be very good at it.’

‘At being Sheikh?’

‘At avoiding notice.’

‘Nor are you, so this we have in common.’

Heat spread through her veins like wildfire.

‘I don’t think you see me clearly,’ she said after a moment.

‘No?’

‘I’m very good at not being seen.’

His laugh was husky. ‘It’s quite charming that you think so.’

She shook her head a little. ‘I don’t really understand...’

‘You are a beautiful young woman with hair the colour of desert sand and eyes like the sky. Even in this boxy uniform, you are very, very noticeable.’

She stared at him for several seconds, pleasure at war with uncertainty. Remember Max, she reminded herself. He’d noticed her. He’d praised her, flattered her, and she’d fallen for it so fast she hadn’t stopped to heed any of the warning signs. And look how that had turned out!

‘Thank you.’ It was stiff, an admonishment.

He laughed. ‘You are not good with compliments.’

She bit down on her lip, their situation troubling her, pulling on her. ‘I should go.’

He reached a hand out, pressing it to her knee. Her skin glowed where he’d touched her, filling her with a scattering sensation of pins and needles. ‘No more compliments,’ he promised. ‘Tell me about yourself, Daisy Carrington.’

Her eyes flared wide. ‘How do you know my surname?’

‘I asked my chief of security.’

‘How...?’

‘All hotel staff are independently vetted by my agencies,’ he explained, as though that were no big deal.

Her lips parted. ‘Then I suspect you know more about me than I realised.’

‘It’s not comprehensive,’ he clarified. ‘Your name, date of birth, any links to criminal activity.’ He winked. ‘You were clear, by the way.’

Despite herself, she smiled. ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

‘May I call you Daisy?’

‘So long as you don’t expect me to call you anything other than Your Highness,’ she quipped.

‘Very well. So, Daisy? Before you started working here, what did you do?’

Her stomach clenched. Remembered pain was there, pushing against her. She thought of her marriage, her divorce, her acceptance to the Juilliard, and pushed them all away. ‘This and that.’ A tight smile, showing more than she realised.

‘Which tells me precisely nothing.’

‘I worked in hospitality.’

‘And it’s what you have always wanted to do?’

The question hurt. She didn’t talk about her music. It was too full of pain—pain remembering her father, and the way he’d sat beside her, moving her fingers over the keys until they learned the path themselves, the way she’d stopped playing the day he’d left. And then, when her mother was in her low patches, the way Daisy had begun to play again—it was the only thing she had responded to.

‘It’s what I gravitated to.’

‘Another answer that tells me nothing.’

Because she was trying to obfuscate but he was too clever for that. What was the harm in being honest with him? He had reserved this suite for four nights—this was his second. He would be gone soon and she’d never see him again.

‘I wanted to be a concert pianist, actually.’

He went very still, his eyes hooked to hers, waiting, watching. And she found the words spilling out of her even when she generally made a habit of not speaking them. After all, what good could come from reliving a fantasy lost?

‘My father was a jazz musician. He taught me to play almost from infancy. I would sit beside him and he would arrange my fingers, and when we weren’t playing, we would listen to music, so I was filled with its unique language, all the beats that mixed together to make a song, to tell a story and weave a narrative with their melody. I love all types of music, but classical is my favourite. I lose myself in Chopin and Mozart, so that I’m barely conscious of the passage of time.’

He stared at her, his surprise evident, and with little wonder. It was as though the words had burst from her, so full of passion and memory, so alive with her love and regrets.

‘Do you play?’

A beat passed, a silence, as he contemplated this. ‘No. My mother did, and very well.’ Another pause, and, though his expression didn’t shift, she had a feeling he was choosing his words with care. ‘After she died, my father had all the pianos removed from the palace. He couldn’t bear to hear them played. Music was not a big part of my upbringing.’

Her heart twisted in her chest. The pain of losing a mother was one she was familiar with. ‘How old were you?’

A tight smile. ‘Seven.’

The tightness in her chest increased. ‘I’m sorry.’

He nodded. ‘As am I. Her death was a grief from which my father never recovered.’

‘The flipside to a great love.’

‘Speaking from experience?’

Her denial was swift and visceral. ‘No.’

Though she’d been married, she could see now that she’d never loved Max. She’d felt grateful to him, glad to have someone in her life after her mother’s death.

‘My mom died five years ago, and not a day passes when I don’t think of her in some small way. At this time of year, when the sunflowers in the street are all in bloom, I ache to take photos for her. She loved that, you know. “Only in New York would you get sunflowers as street plantings.”’ Her smile was wistful.

‘How did she...?’

Daisy’s throat thickened unexpectedly. ‘A car accident.’ She didn’t elaborate—that her mother had been responsible. That she’d driven into a lamppost after drinking half a bottle of gin.

They sat in silence for several moments, but it was no longer a prickly, uncomfortable silence. On the contrary, Daisy felt an odd sense of peace wrap around her, a comfortable fog that made her want to stay exactly where she was.

It was the warning she needed, and she jolted herself out of her silent reflection, forcing herself to stand.

‘I really should go, sir. It’s late and I’m sure you have more important things to do than talk to me.’

As with the night before, he didn’t try to stop her. She ignored the kernel of disappointment and stalked to the door, pulling it inwards. But before leaving him, she turned back to regard him over her shoulder.

‘Goodnight, Your Highness. Sleep well.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘HE’S ASKING FOR YOU.’

Daisy had just walked in through the door of the hotel, and she shot a glance at her watch. It was after ten o’clock at night. The Sheikh was supposed to be at a party until midnight. She’d come in early to settle her nerves, and to mentally prepare her excuses in case he called for her to come and talk to him again.

Henry grimaced apologetically. ‘He seems more demanding than most.’

‘No, he’s not really.’

‘You sure? You could get Amy to take care of him. She’s already been up there a few times today.’

Daisy thought of the woman who’d been recruited to shadow Daisy, taking care of Daisy’s clients when Daisy couldn’t. Instinctively, she pushed the idea aside.

‘He’s a very important guest, Henry. It should be me. You should have called.’

‘I don’t want you getting burned out, love. You can’t work around the clock. We can’t afford to lose you.’

‘I’m fine.’ Her heart twisted in her chest. She’d been buzzing with a heady sense of anticipation all day, waiting to see him, wondering if he’d call for her, or if wisdom and sense would have prevailed so that he woke up and wondered why the heck he was bothering to spend so much time talking to a servant.

‘When did he call?’

‘An hour ago.’

Panic lurched through her. ‘Why didn’t you page me?’

‘He said to tell you to go up when you arrived. I knew you wouldn’t be long...’

‘Henry,’ she wailed, shaking her head. ‘What if it was something urgent?’

‘Then that Malik man would have made himself known.’ Henry exaggerated a shudder. ‘He has no problems demanding whatever the hell he wants, when he wants it.’

That was true. Up until recently, all the requests had come from Malik. ‘I’ll go up now.’

She reached for the buzzer, to order some persimmon tea, but the kitchen informed her the Presidential suite had already requested dinner. ‘It should only be another few minutes.’

‘I thought he was at a function.’

‘Dunno,’ came the unhelpful response, so Daisy frowned as she disconnected the call. Double-checking her appearance in the mirror, she wished her cheeks weren’t so pink, nor her eyes so shining with obvious pleasure. The truth was, she couldn’t wait to see him, and that was dangerous.

Because he was going home soon, and, even if he weren’t, he was just a client. A client who was developing a habit of asking for her in the evenings.

She took the service elevator to the top floor, so the doors whooshed inwards and she knocked once. Before she could step inside, the door was pulled inwards and Sariq stood on the other side. He was wearing more familiar clothes this time—a pair of dark jeans and a white tee shirt with a vee at the neck that revealed a hint of curls at his throat.

Damn it, out of nowhere she found herself wondering how far down his hair went, imagining him without his shirt, and that made it almost impossible to keep a veneer of professionalism on her face.

‘Thank you for coming.’

‘It’s my job,’ she reminded him.

He didn’t move, but his eyes glowed with something that could have been amusement and could have been cynicism. If it was the latter, she didn’t have to wonder at why: it was pretty obvious that her being there had very little to do with her professional obligations.

‘I thought you had something on tonight.’

‘It didn’t last as long as the schedule had allowed,’ he said simply, drawing the door open without stepping far enough aside, so in order to enter the suite, she had to brush past him, and the second their bodies connected she felt a rush of awareness that was impossible to ignore. Instinctively, her face lifted to his and she saw the raw speculation there; the same interest that flooded her veins was rushing through his. Her knees shuddered and heat pooled between her legs, making thought, speech and movement almost impossible.

He stood so close, their bodies were touching. Just lightly, but enough, and even when Daisy knew she should move, or say something, she couldn’t. She could only stare at him. His face was like thunder, but his eyes were all flame. She could feel the war being raged within him, a battle to control his desire, and she didn’t want him to. This was madness. It was sheer, uncontrollable madness—and she had a billion reasons to resist. Max was the main one—her experience with him had warned her off tempestuous affairs for life. But she’d married Max, she’d pledged to love him and trust him, to spend the rest of her life with him. That had been her mistake. The Sheikh was only in New York for two more nights, including this one.

But he was a guest in the hotel! A seriously important guest, and she couldn’t afford to have anything go wrong. She swallowed, taking a step backwards, except she forgot there was a piece of furniture there and her hip jabbed into it, shunting her sideways, so she might have fallen if he hadn’t pushed a hand out, confidently, easily righting her. Her eyes were alarmed as they lifted to his and stuck there like glue, and when he took a step towards her, she couldn’t look away.

Her heart was hammering against her ribs so hard and fast that she was surprised he couldn’t see its frantic movements against her breasts. If she pushed up onto the tips of her toes, if she lifted her face, oh, God, she wanted to kiss him. The realisation was like fire, even when she knew it should have doused her desire, that it should have dragged her back to reality and put a halt to this foolishness.

But was it so foolish? Daisy had played it safe for so long and, suddenly, she was sick of it. Sick of playing it safe, of being careful with whom she trusted. It was as though she second-guessed her instincts so often that they’d grown blunt.

‘Your Highness...’ She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say, only that they were standing so close, staring at one another, sensual heat heavy in the air around them, and she wanted to act on it. She wanted him.

But he frowned, his eyes darkening, even as he dropped his head closer. ‘I asked you here to show you something.’

Neither of them moved.

‘What is it?’

He lifted a hand, as though he couldn’t resist, pressing his thumb and forefinger to her chin so he could hold her face where it was, lifted towards him. The contact was so personal, it felt as though they’d crossed a line they couldn’t uncross. They could no longer pretend this wasn’t happening. They were acknowledging the pull that ran between them.

‘I wasn’t going to do this.’

‘Do what?’

With his body in the door frame, he dropped his head by a matter of degrees, so there was ample time for her to move, to say something, to stop this. She didn’t. She stayed where she was, her face held in his fingers, her body swaying a little closer to his so her breasts brushed his chest and, through the fine fabric of his shirt and her blouse, she was sure he must feel the hardening of her nipples, the way they strained against her lace bra.

‘I swore I wouldn’t.’ And then, his mouth claimed hers, his kiss fierce, filled with all the passion of having fought this, of having felt desire and resisted it for as long as he was able.

It was a kiss born of need and it surged inside her, his lips pushing hers apart, his tongue driving into her mouth, his other hand lifting and pushing into her hair, his fingers cradling her head, holding her against him so he could plunder her mouth, tasting her, his body so big and broad compared to hers that she felt utterly enveloped by him, swallowed by his strength and power, her senses subsumed completely by this.

It was a kiss of oblivion, so consuming that she didn’t hear the dinging of the lift doors. She was lost completely in this moment but he wasn’t. He broke the kiss swiftly, his body in the door frame concealing her. ‘Go to my room.’ His eyes held a warning that she heeded even when nothing made sense and her body could scarcely move. She’d been in the suite enough times to know where the master bedroom was. She ran there, pushing the door shut except for an inch, so she could peer out.

She saw members of the kitchen team walk into the apartment, each pausing to bow for the Sheikh, before moving to the table and setting it. Sariq’s eyes chased hers, down the corridor, so she moved away from the door, pressing her back against a wall and closing her eyes, needing her heart to slow down, her breathing to return to normal. She lifted her fingers to her lips; they were sensitive to the touch.

She was grateful beyond belief for his quick thinking. If it had been up to her, she would have stayed where she was, and someone from the staff would have seen her and rumours would have been flying. His quick response had saved her from that embarrassment. What would Henry say? Mortified, she fanned her face and tucked her shirt in more tightly—it had become loose at her waist, and she paced the room as she waited. It didn’t take long. A few minutes and then she heard the click of a door, the turning of a lock, and they were alone once more.

She pulled the door to his bedroom open, moving into the lounge area to find him uncorking a bottle of wine and pouring two glasses. His eyes, when they met hers, were loaded with speculation.

‘I ordered us dinner.’

Her eyes moved to the table. Surprise usurped whatever she’d been feeling a moment ago. ‘You did? Why?’

His smile was without humour. ‘Because we have to eat.’

She sighed heavily. ‘I don’t have to eat with you, though, Your Highness.’

‘I can taste your kiss in my mouth,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you called me something else?’

His words were so evocative but she shook her head. ‘You’re my client. That should never have happened...’

He paced across the room, handing her the wine glass. She took it without taking a drink. He stayed close to her, his body’s contact intimate and loaded with promise. ‘It shouldn’t,’ he agreed, after a moment. ‘But it did, and I think we both know it will happen again. And again. So let’s stop pretending we don’t want this.’

Her eyes flared wide. Need punctured sense almost completely—but not quite. ‘I can’t afford to lose my job.’

She felt his naked speculation. ‘Do you think I’m going to jeopardise that?’

‘Socialising with clients is strictly forbidden. It’s actually in my contract. And what we just did goes way beyond socialising.’

‘I have my own reasons for requiring discretion,’ he said firmly. ‘Whatever happens between us, no one will know.’

Whatever happens between us. The words glowed with promise. Her insides quivered.

‘Nothing can happen.’

‘Why not?’

‘I told you, my job...’ but she wasn’t even convincing herself.

‘And I told you, no one will find out. Do you have a boyfriend?’

‘No.’ How long had it been since she’d been with a man? That was easy. Max. He was her only lover. He’d been her first, and when they’d divorced three years ago, she thought he’d be her last.

‘I think you want me.’ His words held a challenge. He took her wine glass from her, sipping from it and then placing it on the table to his left. His eyes glowed with the same challenge as he lifted his fingers to the top button of her blouse.

‘I am going to undo these buttons very slowly, giving you plenty of time to ask me to stop. If you say the word, then it’s over. You can go away again.’ He did as he’d promised, his fingers working deftly to undo the first button, so she felt a brush of air against her skin. Then the next, exposing the top of her lace bra. The next revealed the midsection of the bra and, with the next button, the shirt gaped enough to reveal it completely. At the last button, his fingers slowed.

‘You haven’t asked me to stop.’

Her eyes were awash with feelings. ‘I know that.’

‘I want to make love to you.’

‘I know that too.’

He turned towards the table. ‘Are you hungry?’

She shook her head.

‘You don’t want anything to eat?’

Another shift of her head to indicate ‘no’.

‘What do you want, Daisy?’

The final button was separated, so her shirt fell apart completely.

She opened her mouth, but found it hard to frame any words.

‘Do you want to know what I want?’ he murmured, dropping his head to whisper the words against the sensitive flesh at the base of her throat.

‘I think I can guess.’ And despite the heavy pulsing of emotion that was filling the room, she smiled, because it was easy to smile in that moment.

He smiled back, but it was dredged from deep within him, so it cut across his face, his lips like a blade.

His grief was palpable. It had been since the first moment they’d met and it was there now, tormenting him, so that this physical act of sensuality took on a new imperative. She understood the power sex held, the power to obliterate grief and pain, even if only for a moment.

Wasn’t it her own grief that had made her so vulnerable to Max? He’d promised respite from her sadness and she’d ignored all the warning signs to grab that respite. Was Sariq doing the same thing now?

Should she be putting a halt to this to save him from regret?

His fingers were on the straps of her bra, easing them down her arms so tiny goose bumps danced where his fingertips touched, and his eyes were on her breasts as he pushed aside the scrap of lace, so she felt a burning heat in her chest and a tingling in her nipples, an ache that begged him to touch her, to feel the weight of her breasts in his palms, to touch her nipples, to kiss them.

Her back swayed forward, the invitation silent but imperative, and he understood, lifting his hands to her hips first, bracing her waist as he drew his touch upwards, along her sides until his thumbs swept beneath her breasts and she tipped her head back a little on a plea, biting down on her lip to stop what she knew would be incoherent babbling, the kind of babbling brought on by a form of madness.

‘I need you to tell me you want this.’ He drew his kiss from her lips to her throat, flicking the pulse point there, dragging his stubbled jaw across her sensitive flesh. She pushed her body forward, her hips moving from side to side, her hands pushing his shirt up so her fingertips could run over his chest. God, his chiselled, firm chest. Her nails drew along the ridges of each muscular bump, running higher so her hands curved over his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his flesh and the beating of his heart against her forearm.

‘Daisy?’ It was a groan and a plea. His body was tense. He was waiting for her to say that she wanted this and something inside her trembled, because it was such a mark of respect and decency. It wasn’t that she hadn’t expected it from Sariq, it was that she hadn’t known to expect it from anybody. Max had been... She didn’t want to think about Max in that moment. He’d already taken so much from her, she wasn’t going to give him this moment too. It was hers, hers and Sariq’s.

‘I want this.’ The words blurted out of her. And then, more gently, but the same bone-melting urgency. ‘I want you.’ She couldn’t resist adding, with an impish smile: ‘Your Highness.’

He lifted a brow, his lips quirking in a smile that was impulsive and so sexy. But he swallowed and the smile disappeared, his expression serious once more. ‘I have to go back to the RKH as scheduled. I cannot offer more than this.’

Another sign of respect. Her heart felt all warm and gooey and her voice was husky. ‘I know that.’ She showed her acceptance by pushing up and kissing him, by wrapping her arms around his waist, holding him close to her body so she could feel the force of his urgent need through their clothing. ‘Take me to bed, sir.’

‘Take me to bed, sir.’

He didn’t need to be asked again. He lifted her up, cradling her against his chest as he carried her through the suite and into the master bedroom. He didn’t pause to turn on a light, though he would love to have revelled in her beauty, staring at her as he pleasured her: there’d be time for that. Having abandoned himself to this, he intended to enjoy her all night. He knew this would be the last time he acted on impulses such as this, the last time he allowed himself to be simply a man and not a king. Soon he would announce his engagement and he would be faithful to the bride of his choosing.

Until then though, there was this, and he was going to enjoy it. He disposed of her clothes quickly, no longer able to pace himself; he needed to feel every inch of her beneath him. Her legs were smooth and slender. He ran his palms over her flesh as he stripped her of the uniform she wore, acknowledging to himself he’d wanted to do exactly that from the first moment he’d seen her. His own clothes followed next so he stood above her naked. The room was dark but he could make out her silhouette against the bed, her blonde hair shimmering gold in the darkness. He brought the full weight of his body down on hers, his arousal pressing between her legs so, for the briefest moment, he fantasised about taking her like that. No protection, no preamble, just white-hot possession.

She arched her back and lifted her legs around his waist, drawing him towards her, as though she wanted that too. He kissed her, hard, his tongue doing to her mouth what his body wished it could do in that moment, and she met his kiss with every stroke, pushing her body up onto her elbows, wanting more of him, needing him in the way he needed her. Her feet at his back were insistent, pushing him towards her, so he let just his tip press to her sex, her hot, wet body welcoming him in a way he knew he had to control. He swore in his own language, pulling away from her with effort, his breathing ragged.

‘Wait.’ He stood up and her cry was an animalistic sound of disbelief, her need reaching out and wrapping around him. ‘One moment,’ he reassured her, moving to the adjoining bathroom and pulling a condom out of a travel bag. He didn’t make a habit of this—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept with a woman he’d just met—but he was always prepared, regardless.

Striding back into the room, he pushed the rubber over his length as he went, inviting no further delay to this. Her eyes were difficult to make out in this darkness but he thought he saw a hint of apology in the light thrown from the bathroom.

‘I forgot,’ she explained, reaching for him.

‘I almost did too.’

‘Thank you. For remembering.’

He kissed her more gently, reassuringly, parting her thighs with his palm and locking himself against her, as he had been before. She lifted her hips and this time, he didn’t hold himself back. He drove his cock into her, his hands digging into her hips to hold her steady as he took control of her body and made her, completely, his.

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