Monarch of the Sands. Sharon Kendrick
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Wouldn’t it risk starting those stupid fantasies again—the ones she used to get whenever he strode into the house? The ones which had always ended with Zahid scooping her up in his arms and starting to kiss her before telling her that he couldn’t live without her. ‘Would you like to come in?’ she finished weakly.
No, he’d driven down from London to stand on her doorstep like a salesman! ‘Thanks,’ he said drily, and walked into the hallway—a place which was at once both alien and familiar to him. A large and faintly shabby English home with a big, green garden. Yet hadn’t this been the one place outside his homeland where he had always been able to kick back and relax? A place where nobody watched him or where there were no indiscreet gossips or the threat of someone talking to the press. Because being the sheikh’s nephew meant that you were always watched; always listened to.
Over the years, his father used to bring him here—to talk to the man who had changed the course of his country’s history. Francesca’s brilliant and eccentric geologist father. It had been his unexpected discovery of oil which had lifted Khayarzah out of the crippling debts caused by decades of warfare—and changed its whole future.
As Francesca shut the door behind him Zahid found his gaze lingering for longer than usual on her unexpectedly blue eyes, remembering seeing her soon after she’d been born. What a mewling little creature she’d been—with her bright red face screaming out from amid a swathe of white blankets. He’d have been, what—thirteen at the time?
He remembered the way she used to waddle up to him as a chubby-faced toddler—unbelievably cute—and the way she’d demand to be carried by him just before she first started school. And hadn’t he done as she’d asked? Allowed her to twist him round her little finger in a way which no woman had ever done before, nor since.
He remembered, too, the cold air of neglect and despair which settled on the house when her mother left, pronouncing herself bored with her older, scientist husband. She’d run off with someone richer. Someone who had shown her the finer things in life. The first of the many wealthy lovers who would ultimately dump her before she died in a car crash, a tragedy sullied by the shame of knowing that the car was being driven by a prominent and very married politician.
But Francesca and her father had rallied. They’d formed a tight little unit. The little girl had grown up surrounded by scientists and left largely to her own devices. Consequently, she hadn’t gone through the coy teenage years—or the stage of showing off her body with minuscule clothes. In fact, up until this precise moment you would barely have noticed she was a woman at all.
He remembered teaching her how to play cards when she’d been unhappy at school. And actually letting her beat him! He was deeply and instinctively competitive, and it was the only time in his life that he hadn’t insisted on winning. It had been worth it just to see the little smile which had briefly illuminated her troubled features.
A voice broke into his thoughts and he realised she was speaking to him. ‘Did you say something?’ he questioned, shaking his head a little because it was unlike him to be sentimental.
‘I was asking what had brought you here, to Surrey.’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘Or were you just passing?’
For a moment he didn’t answer. What had brought him here today? The realisation that he hadn’t seen her in nearly five years and the faint guilt which had accompanied that thought? He knew that she was alone in the world now—and though he’d always intended to keep an eye on her, life just somehow kept getting in the way. And ever since the unexpected crown had been placed on his head just eighteen months ago the restrictions imposed by his new role had piled down thick and fast.
‘I have business in London, so I thought I’d do a detour,’ he said. ‘To see how you are. Realising that it is quite some time since I last saw you—and that I really ought to do something about it.’
He was looking at her in such an odd and piercing way that Frankie could feel colour stealing into her cheeks.
‘Would you … would you like a drink?’ she asked, knowing that he rarely accepted any kind of sustenance. She used to wonder if it was because he always had to be careful about someone trying to poison him until her father explained that royals always liked to keep a certain amount of distance about them, no matter where they were.
‘Yes, I would.’
‘You would?’
He knitted his eyebrows together. ‘Didn’t you just offer me a drink—or have I started hearing things? And if you offer something, then it’s usually expected you’ll provide it. Tea, please. Mint—if you have it.’
Nervously, she nodded, wishing that he’d disappear for a moment, leaving her to compose herself. So she could slip her engagement ring off until after he’d gone—thus postponing the inevitable questions she had no desire to answer even though she wasn’t quite sure why that was. ‘Would you … would you like to wait in the sitting room?’
Zahid frowned. What the hell was the matter with her today? He began to wonder if her dramatic physical transformation was responsible for her odd and rather secretive attitude? ‘No. I’ll come into the kitchen and talk to you while you’re making it—that’s what I usually do.’
‘Yes.’ But usually she didn’t feel this odd and prickling kind of awareness fizzing in the air around them. As if something had changed between them and nobody had bothered to warn her about it. ‘Come with me,’ she said.
Zahid followed her along the chilly corridor, carefully trying to avert his eyes from the rhythmic sway of her bottom and wondering why she was being so edgy. And why she was walking in a way which seemed …
They’d reached the kitchen when he worked out just what the anomaly was and he frowned. ‘Is there something the matter with your hand, Francesca?’
She turned round, her heart thudding guiltily against her breast. ‘My hand?’
‘The one which seems to be glued to your left thigh.’
Was it rude to stand in front of a sheikh with your hand rammed deeply into your pocket? She supposed that it was. And she couldn’t exactly potter one-handedly around this vast kitchen making tea, with his clever black eyes watching her, could she? Reluctantly, she withdrew her fingers, aware of the scratch of the stone against the denim and the dazzle of the gem as it emerged into the light.
The feeling of wonderment she’d been experiencing just minutes before his arrival now evaporated into one of acute embarrassment. Stupidly, she found her cheeks colouring as she lifted her eyes to meet his—but finding nothing other than cold curiosity in his gaze.
‘Why, Francesca,’ he said, with a note in his voice she’d never heard before. ‘I don’t believe it. You’re engaged to be married.’
BLACK eyes burned into her with a question blazing at their depths and for a moment Frankie felt oddly weak beneath their fierce scrutiny.
‘You’re getting married?’ Zahid queried silkily.
Frankie nodded, her throat parchment-dry, wondering why she was feeling so damned nervous when she should have been feeling proud. ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Just—yesterday.’
‘Let me see. Oh, please don’t be coy about it.’ His black eyes gleamed with some dark emotion she didn’t recognise. ‘Come on, Francesca—I thought that all women loved showing off their engagement rings?’
Reluctantly, Frankie extended her hand and as he took it in his she felt the prickle of awareness as the sheikh’s warm flesh touched hers. Hadn’t there been years and years when she’d dreamt of Zahid holding her hand like this? And yet the exquisite irony was that at last it was happening