CHAPTER SEVEN

      OPENING THE SHUTTERS, Anna shielded her eyes against the glare of the sun. Not the sun glinting off the towering glass edifices of Medira this time, or shimmering above the distant desert, but bouncing off the freshly fallen snow that blanketed the ground, weighing down the fir trees and covering the roofs of the town of Valduz that nestled in the valley in the distance.

      She was back at Valduz Castle, the only home she had ever known. Perched on a craggy outcrop at the foothills of the Pyrenees mountain range, the castle was like something out of a fairy tale, or a Dracula movie, depending on your point of view. Built in the fourteenth century, it was all stone walls, turrets and battlements, fully prepared for any marauding invaders. It was not, however, prepared for the twenty-first century. Cold, damp and in desperate need of repair, its occupants—including Anna, her father and the bare minimum of staff—only inhabited a very small portion of it, living in a kind of squalid grandeur: priceless antique furniture had been pushed aside to make room for buckets to catch the drips, steel joists propping up ceilings decorated with stunning fifteenth-century frescoes.

      But all this was about to change. Turning around, Anna surveyed her childhood bedroom in all its forlorn glory. Once she married Zahir, money would no longer be a problem for this impoverished nation. Valduz Castle would be restored, and limitless funds would be pumped into the Dorradian economy to improve its infrastructure, houses, hospitals and schools. Dorrada’s problems would soon be over. And hers would be just beginning.

      But she could feel no sense of achievement for her part in turning around Dorrada’s fortunes. Instead there was just a hollow dread where maybe pride should have sat—a deep sense of unease that she had sold her soul to the devil. Or at least as close to a devil as she had ever come across. And that very devil was right here, under the leaking roofs of this ancient castle.

      They had arrived in Dorrada the previous evening, her father greeting Zahir like an honoured guest, clearly having no concerns that his daughter was marrying the wrong brother. The two of them had retired immediately to her father’s study and that had been the last Anna had seen of them. Presumably the financial talks had been the top priority and had gone on long into the night. Anna was obviously of significantly less importance to either of them. Zahir, professional but detached, appeared to be treating this like just another business trip, all traces of the man who had been on the brink of ravishing her banished behind that formidable, impenetrable facade.

      Anna closed her eyes against the memory of that kiss—hot, wild, and so forceful it had felt as if he was branding her with his lips, claiming her in the most carnal way. It still did. The memory refused to leave her, still curling her toes, clenching her stomach and heating her very core.

      And Zahir had felt it too, no matter how much his subsequent demeanour might be trying to deny it. His arousal had been all too evident—electrifying, empowering. Trapped in his embrace, she had felt alive, confident, sexy. And ready. More than ready, in fact. Desperate for Zahir to take things further, to throw her to the floor and make love to her there and then, any way he wanted. To possess her, make her feel whole, complete, a real woman.

      But what had happened? Nothing, that was what. Having taken her to the point of no return, he had stopped, leaving her a quivering, gasping, flushed-faced mess, unable to do anything other than stare up at him as he bit out between gritted teeth that he was sorry. Sorry? Anna didn’t want sorry. It had taken every ounce of effort to come back from that, to hide the crushing disappointment and act as if she didn’t give a damn.

      But today was a new day. She was on her own home turf, the sun was shining and the stunning scenery outside was calling her. Pulling on jeans and a thick roll-neck sweater, she released the curtain of hair trapped down her back and quickly fashioned two loose plaits. Grabbing a woolly hat, she was good to go.

      The virgin snow crunched beneath her boots as she trudged around the wall of the castle, the white puff of her breath going before her. She didn’t know exactly where she was headed, except that she wanted to enjoy this moment alone, commit it to memory. She loved mornings like this, bright and still, unchanged down the centuries. But how many more would she experience? No doubt once she was married she would be expected to spend all her time in Nabatean, to swap the sparkling cold of the mountains for the sweltering heat of the desert, the stark loneliness of her life here for the scary unknown that was her future with Zahir.

      It was time to leave the child behind—Anna knew that. Time to grow up and do something meaningful with her life. And being born a princess meant making an advantageous marriage. She should have accepted the idea by now. After all, she’d had twenty-five years to get used to it. But even so, now it was actually happening, the thought of leaving everything she knew and marching off into the desert sun with this dark and mysterious stranger was completely terrifying.

      The lingering child in her made her bend down and scoop up a large handful of snow, compacting it into a hard ball and then smoothing it between her icy hands. Her eyes scanned the scene for a target. A robin eyed her nervously before swooping off to the branches of a nearby tree. An urn at the top of the crenulated wall that wound its way down the stone steps had no such escape, though, and, taking aim, Anna held the icy missile aloft and prepared to fire.

      ‘You’ll never get any power behind it like that.’ A strong, startlingly warm hand gripped her wrist, bringing her arm down by her side. ‘Throwing is all about the velocity. You need to stand with your feet apart and then turn at the waist, like this.’ The hands now spanned her midriff, twisting her body in readiness for the perfect aim. Anna tensed, staring at the snowball in her hand, frankly surprised to see it still there. The heat coursing through her body felt powerful enough to melt an iceberg. ‘Now bring back your arm, like this...’ he bent her elbow, holding her arm behind her ‘...and you are ready to go. Don’t forget to follow through.’

      The snowball arced above them before disappearing with a soft thud into a deep snowdrift.

      ‘Hmm...’ Turning to face her, Zahir quirked a thick brow. ‘I can see more practice is needed.’

      Anna stared back at him, drinking in the sight. He looked very foreign, exotic, in the bright, snowy whiteness of these surroundings. Wearing a long charcoal cashmere coat, the collar turned up, his skin appeared darker somehow, his close-cropped hair blacker, his broad body too warm—too hot, even—for these sub-zero temperatures. It was almost as if he could defy nature by appearing so unaffected by the cold. That you could remove the man from the desert, but not the desert from the man. Anna adjusted her hat, regretting her choice of headgear as she felt the silly bobble on top do a wobble. ‘It’s too late for me, I fear. After all, I won’t be here for much longer.’

      ‘Will you miss your country?’ The question came out of nowhere with its usual directness. But his eyes showed his seriousness as he waited for her answer.

      ‘Yes, of course.’ Anna bit down on her lip, determined that the bobble on her hat was the only thing that was going to wobble. She would be strong now. Show Zahir that she was a capable, independent woman. That she would be an asset to him, not a burden. ‘But I am looking forward to the challenges of a new life, with you. I am one hundred percent committed to making this union work, for the sake of both of our countries.’

      ‘That’s good to hear.’ Still his gaze raked across her like a heat-seeking missile. ‘And what about on a more personal level, Annalina? You and me. Are you one hundred percent committed to making that union work too?’

      ‘Yes, of course.’ Anna fought against the heat of his stare. What was he trying to do to her? She was struggling to put on a convincing performance