Demanding His Desert Queen. Annie West
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So he was to be the outsider who united the unsuccessful parties? The Assaran Council had a high opinion of his capabilities, if they believed him able to walk in, calm any fractious rivals and make a success of the role.
Once Karim would have been pleased at such proof of respect from a neighbouring government. He must have impressed them in his years helping his father rule Za’daq, trying to persuade the old man into modernisation.
But that had been then. This was now.
He couldn’t accept the offer. Even if the Assarans did want him on merit rather than because of a royal pedigree. He’d built a new life. A life that hadn’t been laid out for him because of his supposed lineage.
For thirty years he’d followed a narrow, straight path, putting work first, shouldering responsibility for others. He had been dutiful and decent, a hardworking, honourable prince.
Till his life had crumpled like tissue paper in an iron fist.
For a moment an image swam before him of wide brown eyes. Of a cupid’s bow mouth. Of smashed hopes.
His breath hissed between his teeth as he banished the memory.
Karim was responsible for no one now but himself. That was exactly the way he wanted it. He knew the burden of being royal. He had no intention of putting on that yoke again.
‘Please pass my compliments and thanks to your Royal Council. I’m deeply honoured that they should consider me for such a noble position.’ He paused, watching his guest stiffen. ‘However, my answer is still no.’
Safiyah stood in front of the mirror in her suite and tried to still the panic rising from her belly to her throat. She wiped her hands down her thighs, hating that they trembled.
It didn’t matter what she wore. Yet she’d tried on every outfit she’d brought to Switzerland, finding fault with each one till all that had been left was this. A western-style dress, beautiful, in a heavy fabric that looked almost black. Until she moved. Then the light caught it and it glowed like deep crimson fire.
She bit her lip, suppressing a bitter laugh. Black and crimson. The colours of mourning and sacrifice. How apt. She’d done her share of both.
Safiyah shook her head, refusing to wallow in self-pity. She was far luckier than most. She had her health, a comfortable home and more money than she needed. Above all she had Tarek.
Life had taught her to set her shoulders and keep going, no matter what problems she encountered. To make the best of things and focus on others, not herself.
That was why she was here. To save someone precious.
To save a whole nation if her fears were right.
She swung away, but stopped before the balcony and the spectacular view of lake and mountains. This was her first trip out of the Middle East and she felt like a country bumpkin, gawping at everything. Well, not everything. She knew about luxury, about limousines and discreet security guards. But those mountains! And the green that was so incredibly green! She’d seen photos, of course, but this was different. Even the air through the open window tasted unique, ripe with moisture and growing things.
In other circumstances she’d put on jeans and flat shoes and find a way to slip out of the hotel, away from the bodyguards. She’d stroll through the public gardens, take her time staring into the glittering shop windows, then go to the lake and sit there, soaking up the scenery.
But circumstances weren’t different. Circumstances were difficult. Possibly dangerous, if the fears that kept her awake at night proved right and Hassan Shakroun took the throne.
Not surprising that her heart knocked against her ribs like a hammer on stone. Too much hung on this visit. Failure wasn’t an option.
Safiyah’s hand rose to her breastbone, her fingers touching the base of her throat as if to ease the riotous beat of her heart and the acid searing the back of her mouth.
It’s fine to be nervous. That will keep you grounded so you don’t get distracted by anything else.
Anything else being him—the man she’d travelled here to see. Even so, she’d hoped against hope it wouldn’t be necessary. That things would be sorted without her involvement. She’d been appalled to learn nothing had been agreed. That she had to see him after all.
Just thinking of him made her insides clutch as if someone had wrapped a rope around her middle and yanked it mercilessly. Her blood pumped so fast it rushed in her ears.
That’s good. The adrenalin will keep you alert. Give you courage.
Safiyah took a deep breath and smoothed her hands once more down her skirt. They were clammy, and her knees shook. But her dress covered her knees, and there’d be no handshake, so no one would know how nervous she was.
No matter what happened, she vowed one thing. She would not reveal weakness to this man.
Not after what he’d done to her before.
Ignoring the cold fingers dancing down her spine, Safiyah swung around and headed for the door.
‘Her Highness, the Sheikha of Assara.’
The butler announced her in a slow, impressive tone that helped steady her jittering nerves.
This she could do. For years she’d compartmentalised, leaving the real her—Safiyah—behind and donning the persona expected of a queen, gracious and unruffled.
She lifted her chin, pinned on a calm expression that hid her inner turmoil and stepped into the suite’s vast sitting room.
A few steps in and she paused, blinking against the light pouring in from the wall of windows. The butler bowed again and left, closing the door behind him with a quiet snick. It was only then that she made out a tall figure, motionless in the shadow just past the windows.
Even looking into the light, even unable to make out his features against the glare, she’d have known him. That rangy height, the sense of leashed energy. That indefinable shimmer in the air.
Her pulse quickened and her ribcage squeezed her labouring lungs. Fortunately she was old enough and experienced enough to know that this was her body’s response to the pressure of her situation. It had nothing to do with feelings she’d once harboured.
‘This is…unexpected, Your Highness.’ His voice was whiplash-sharp as he used her title.
Good. She didn’t want him trying his charm on her. Once bitten, twice shy. The thought steadied her nerves and stiffened her knees.
‘Is it, Karim?’
Deliberately she used his first name. He might prefer to pretend they were strangers but she refused to rewrite the past to soothe his conscience. If he thought to intimidate, he’d discover she wouldn’t yield meekly to a mere hint of displeasure. She’d had years to toughen up since they’d last met.
‘I’d assumed, as the hotel owner, you’d be informed of royal guests.’
She stepped further into the room, onto a thick-pile carpet that would have taken a team of master weavers years to produce.
‘Ah, but I’m here to conduct important business, not entertain passing acquaintances.’
As if she and her business were by definition unimportant. As if they had been mere acquaintances.
Safiyah had never been more grateful for those hard-learned lessons in self-control as his words ripped through to the small, vulnerable spot deep inside. To the tiny part of her that was still Safiyah, the eager innocent who’d once believed in destiny and happy endings.
Pain