Forbidden: The Sheikh's Virgin. Trish Morey
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picked up the receiver and listened. It wasn’t the blonde, and there would be no all-expenses-paid holiday to the Bahamas for his PA, but life was already one hell of a lot more interesting.
CHAPTER ONE
THE sun belted down on the tarmac of Qusay International Airport, the combination turning the air oppressive as Rafiq stepped from the Gulfstream V. He took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dazzling light, and even over the smell of avgas he breathed it in: the unmistakable scent of his homeland, the salt-tinged air fragrant with a thousand heady spices and dusted with the desert sands that swept so much of the island kingdom.
‘Rafiq!’
He smiled as his brother emerged, his robes stark white and cool-looking, from the first of two limousines waiting near the foot of the stairs. At their front, flags bearing the royal insignia fluttered, and four uniformed motorcyclists sat ready nearby, bringing home to him the reality of the bombshell his brother had dropped during his phone call. King Xavian had abdicated after learning that he was really the missing Prince Zafir of Calistan, which meant that his brother, Kareef, would soon be crowned King of Qusay.
Which made him, Rafiq, a prince.
A fleeting hint of bitterness infused his thoughts and senses—if he’d been a prince back then—but just as quickly he fought it down. That was history.
Ancient history.
There were far better things to celebrate now, even if the bad taste in his mouth would not disappear completely. He jogged down the stairs, ignoring the heat that seemed to suck the very oxygen from the air, and took his brother by the arm, pulling him close and slapping him on the back. ‘It is good to see you, big brother. Or should I call you Sire?’
Kareef waved his jest aside as he ushered his brother into the cool interior of the waiting limousine, the chauffer snicking the door softly closed behind them before sliding into the driver’s seat. ‘It’s good you could come at such short notice,’ Kareef acknowledged as the cavalcade pulled away.
‘You think I would miss your coronation?’
‘You almost missed Xavian’s wedding. How long were you here? Three hours? Four at most.’
‘It is true,’ Rafiq acceded, unable to deny it. Business had been more pressing a few weeks ago—new emporiums opening almost simultaneously in Auckland and Perth, his presence required everywhere at once—but he had managed to get here, only to have his snatched visit cut even shorter with news of a warehouse fire that had threatened some of his employees’ lives. ‘Although as it turns out he wasn’t Xavian our cousin after all. But there was no way I was not coming for your coronation. And if there is one thing I am sure of, Kareef, it’s that you are indeed my brother.’
Nobody could have doubted it. The brothers shared the same height and breadth of shoulder, and the same arresting dark good-looks. Those things would have been more than enough to guarantee the family connection, but it was their uncannily blue eyes, eyes that could be as warm as the clearest summer sky or as cold as glacial frost, that cemented the family connection and took it beyond doubt.
‘Speaking of brothers,’ he continued, ‘where is Tahir? Is our wayward brother to grace us with his presence this time?’
A frown marred Kareef’s noble brow. ‘I spoke with him…’ He paused, and seemed to take a moment to gather his thoughts before looking up and smiling broadly. ‘I spoke with him yesterday.’
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘It’s true. Though it wasn’t easy to track him down in Monte Carlo, he’s coming to the coronation.’
Rafiq raised a brow as he pushed himself further back into the supple leather upholstery. ‘All three of us, back here at the same time?’
‘It’s been too long,’ Kareef agreed.
The journey from the airport through the bustling city of Shafar, with its blend of the traditional low mud-brick buildings amongst modern glass skyscrapers, passed quickly as the brothers caught up on events since they had last seen each other, and soon the limousine was making its way through the massive iron gates that opened to the cobbled driveway leading to the palace. It never failed to impress. In the noonday sun, the palace glowed like the inside of a pearl shell—so massive, so bright, standing atop its headland, that travellers at sea must be able to see it from miles around, whether in the dazzling light of day or glowing brightly in the pearly light of the moon.
And as the car pulled to a halt under a shadowed portico, and a uniformed doorman swept close and saluted as he opened the door, the reality of recent events hit home once more. Now Rafiq wasn’t just entering the royal palace as a member of the extended family. Now he was royalty. A prince, no less.
How ironic, when he had built himself up to be king of the business he had created for himself—ruler over his own empire. For now he was one step away from being ruler of the country that had given him birth, the country he had turned his back on so many years ago.
How life could change so quickly.
And once again an unwelcome trace of bitterness sent him poisoned thoughts.
If he’d been brother to the King back then, would she have waited for him? If he’d been a prince, how might things have been different?
He shook his head to clear the unwanted thoughts. The savage heat was definitely getting to him if he was dwelling on things that could not be changed. He hadn’t been a prince back then and she had made her choice. End of story.
His brother left him then, putting a hand to Rafiq’s shoulder. ‘As I mentioned, there are matters I must attend to. Meanwhile Akmal will show you to your suite.’
His suite proved to be a collection of high-ceilinged, richly decorated rooms of immense proportions, the walls hung with gilt-framed mirrors and colourful tapestries of exploits otherwise long forgotten, the furnishings rich and opulent, the floor coverings silken and whisper-soft.
‘I trust you will be comfortable here, Your Highness,’ Akmal said, bowing as he retreated backwards out the door.
‘I’m sure I will,’ he said, knowing there was no way he couldn’t be, despite the obvious difference between the palace furnishings and the stark and streamlined way his own house in Sydney was decorated. His five-level beachside house was a testament to modern architecture and structural steel, the house clinging to the cliff overlooking Secret Cove, Sydney’s most exclusive seaside suburb.
And inside it was no less lean and Spartan, all polished timber floors and stainless steel, glass and granite.
Strange, he mused, how he’d become rich on people wanting to emulate the best the Middle East had to offer, when he’d chosen the complete opposite to decorate his own home.
‘And Akmal?’ he called, severing that line of thought before he could analyse it too deeply. ‘Before you go…’
The older man bowed again, simultaneously subservient and long-suffering in the one movement. ‘Yes, Your Highness?’
‘Can we drop the formalities? My name is Rafiq.’
The old adviser stiffened on an inhale, as if someone had suddenly shoved a rod up his spine. ‘But here in Qusay you are Your Highness, Your Highness.’
Rafiq nodded on a sigh. As nephews to the King, he and his brothers had grown up on the periphery of the crown, in line, and yet an entire family away, and while the possibility had always existed that something might happen to the heir they’d known as Xavian before he took the crown, nobody had really believed it. Their childhood had consequently been a world away from the strained atmosphere Xavian had grown up in, even with their own domineering father. They’d had duty drilled into them, but they’d had freedom too—a freedom that had allowed Rafiq to walk away from Qusay as a nineteen-year-old when there’d been nothing left for him here.
He’d