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‘But just so there can be no misunderstanding, I will reiterate them for you. I have no desire to marry—at least, not for many years. Why tie yourself to one woman when you can enjoy twenty?’ Zayed gave a fleeting smile as he remembered visiting his mistress in New York last week and the sight of her lying on rumpled satin sheets clad in nothing but a tight black basque, her milky thighs open and welcoming. He cleared his throat and willed the hardening in his groin to subside. ‘I accept that one day I will need to provide my kingdom with an heir and that is the moment when I shall take a bride—a pure young virgin from my own kingdom. A moment which will not come for many decades, for a man can procreate until he is sixty, seventy—in some cases, even eighty. And since I believe it is the modern way for young women to enjoy all the expertise of an older lover, it will be a highly satisfactory arrangement for both participants.’
Hassan nodded. ‘I understand your reasoning entirely, sire, and usually I would completely concur with your judgment. But this land is priceless. It is oil rich and of huge strategic significance. Think how much it could benefit your people if it were to be yours.’
Zayed felt indignation heat his blood. Didn’t he spend almost all his waking hours thinking about his people and how to do his best by them? Was he not the most successful of all the desert Sheikhs because of his dedication to his land and his determination to be a peacekeeper? And yet Hassan’s words were true. Dahabi Makaan would undoubtedly be a glittering jewel in the crown of his kingdom. Could he really turn his back on such a proposition? His mouth flattened. He remembered his dying grandfather croaking out a plea for him not to leave it too long to produce an heir, so that their bloodline could continue. And when Zayed had coolly remarked that he had no intention of marrying for many years, the old man’s face had crumpled. Had the wily old king decided that the only way to achieve his heart’s desire was to force the issue, by making marriage a condition of the inheritance?
Yet the thought of marriage made Zayed want to recoil. To turn away from its insidious tentacles, which could bind a man in so many ways. He loathed marriage for more reasons than a high libido which demanded variety. He loathed the institution of marriage with all its flaws and baseless promises and the very idea of finding a bride in order to inherit was something which repulsed every fibre of his being.
Unless...
His mind began to pick over the possibilities—because wouldn’t only a fool turn down the chance to be master of a region renowned for the black gold known as oil, as well as its prized position straddling four desert countries?
‘Perhaps there is a way in which the conditions of the will could be met,’ he said slowly, ‘and yet not tie me into all the tedium and inconvenience of a long-term marriage.’
‘You know of such a way, sire?’ questioned Hassan. ‘Pray, enlighten us, oh, knowledgeable one.’
‘If the marriage were not to be consummated,’ Zayed continued thoughtfully, ‘then it would not be legal and, as such, could quickly be dissolved. Is that not so?’
‘But, sire—’
‘No buts,’ said Zayed impatiently. ‘For the idea grows on me with every second which passes.’ Yet he could see the look of doubt on his aide’s face and knew very well what had caused it. Because Zayed was a man known for his virility. A man who needed the regular release of sex in order to sustain him—in the same way that a horse needed oats and exercise in order to live. He doubted there was a woman alive who could resist him in her bed and the idea that he could tolerate a sexless marriage was almost laughable. Yes, there were undeniably obstacles to such a chaste union but Zayed was a man who thrived on overcoming obstacles, and as he stared into Hassan’s perplexed face a brilliant idea began to form in his mind.
‘What if I were to choose a woman who does not tempt me in any way?’ he said slowly. ‘A drab woman who makes a mockery of all that is feminine. A woman who would turn a blind eye if I happened to stray. Surely that would provide the perfect solution?’
‘You know of such a woman, sire?’
Zayed’s mouth flattened into a hard line. Oh, yes. He knew of such a woman. An image swam into his mind as he thought about Jane Smith who, with her mousy hair and the colourless clothes which swamped her figure, fitted the bill perfectly. What was it that the English said about a woman on whom the gods had not gifted much in the way of looks? Plain Jane. Yes, indeed. Never had such a description been truer than of the uptight academic who was in charge of the archives of his embassy in London. For not only was she plain, she was also immune to his charms, some might even say disapproving—a fact he had registered a while back with something approaching incredulity. At first he’d thought she must be playing games with him. That she was using that well-known feminine ploy of affecting indifference towards a powerful man, in the hope that it would stir some interest in his groin and in his heart. As if any part of him could ever be stirred by Jane Smith! He had discovered her attitude to be real and not feigned when he’d overheard someone mentioning his name and, as he had silently rounded the corner of his London embassy, had seen her rolling her eyes. Insolent, foolish woman!
Yet Jane loved his country with a passion which was rare for a foreigner and she knew it better than many of its natives, which was why he hadn’t instantly dismissed her for gross insubordination. She adored every contour of its deserts, its palaces and its rich, sometimes bloody history. Zayed’s heart gave a savage wrench of pain. A pain which had never quite healed no matter how hard he had tried to turn his back on it. Might not it help that healing process if he accepted his grandfather’s bequest and acquired Dahabi Makaan? To close a door on the past and to look beyond, to the future?
‘Prepare my jet, Hassan,’ he said harshly. ‘And I will fly to England to take the wretched Jane Smith as my bride.’
CHAPTER ONE (#ub7f1d007-cce9-5ee7-ba56-04970b5f13e9)
THE DAY HAD started out badly for Jane and now it seemed it was going to get a whole lot worse. First there had been the phone call—one of the ominous and highly disturbing phone calls which had started arriving daily, leaving her feeling frustrated and scared. Then her train had broken down on her way into work, where she was greeted by complete panic by the time she arrived at the Kafalah Embassy. And the news which awaited her made her heart sink. Sheikh Zayed Al Zawba had decided to pay an unexpected flying visit—quite literally, since he was currently on board his private jet and expected within the next couple of hours. He was a proud and demanding man and the ambassador had been nervously barking out instructions left, right and centre while every female secretary had been grinning as they eagerly awaited the arrival of the desert king, because Zayed was also known for an arrogant charm and sex appeal which made women flock to him like moths to the light bulb. But Jane grimaced when she heard of his impending arrival. She banged her office door shut more loudly than was necessary because she didn’t think he was charming or sexy. She didn’t care that he was a wizard when it came to negotiating trade settlements, or building schools and hospitals in his homeland.
She hated him.
She hated the way his black eyes glittered whenever he talked to you as if he were in possession of some secret he wasn’t going to let you in on. She hated the way women reacted whenever he was around—fawning all over him as if he were some kind of god. A sex god, she’d once overheard someone whisper. She swallowed. Because wasn’t that what she hated most of all—the fact that she wasn’t immune to the undeniable allure of the desert Sheikh, even though he represented everything she most despised—with his legions of lovers and his callous disregard for the feelings of the opposite sex? And yes, she knew he’d had a pretty awful upbringing—but did that give him carte blanche to behave exactly as he liked? How long were you supposed to make allowances for the past?
Hanging up her jacket, she tucked the back of her blouse into her skirt and sat down at her desk. At least her office was hidden away in the shadowed basement of the Central London embassy, far away from the excitement of the gilded upstairs and all the preparations which were being made for Zayed’s arrival. With a bit of luck she could hide herself away down here and not even see him.
Automatically she switched on her computer and the screen immediately lit up with a beautiful screensaver of the famous palace of Kafalah but unusually, Jane saw nothing. For once the blue dome and gilded arches failed to register because all she could think about was the phone call she’d received first thing this morning and the now-familiar voice of the man making it. The message he gave was simple and didn’t vary but the tone of his voice was becoming increasingly hostile. She didn’t know how he’d got hold of her number—all she could think about was the growing note of threat each time she spoke to him. This morning he had got straight to the point.
‘Your sister owes a lot of money and somebody needs to pay. Is that somebody going to be you, sweetheart—because I’m getting kind of impatient?’
The line went dead and Jane could have bent her head down over her keyboard and wept—except she wasn’t the kind of person who ever allowed herself the luxury of tears. Crying was a waste of time and she wasn’t about to start now, because she was Jane the coper. Jane who everyone else turned to when they were in trouble. Jane who could always be relied upon when the chips were down and the world around was dissolving into chaos. Because years ago she’d stumbled upon a certain truth – that if there was a problem then it could be sorted, if only you looked hard enough to find a solution.
Pulling her mobile phone from her handbag, she clicked onto Cleo’s number but it went straight through to the answering service and she got the drawled message which was supposed to be funny—only right now it didn’t sound remotely funny.
‘Hi, this is Cleo. Leave a message and I might call you back. But then again, I might not.’
Jane took a deep breath and tried to keep calm even though her heart was crashing against her ribcage in a way which was making breathing difficult. ‘Cleo, this is Jane and I need to speak to you. Like now. Could you either pick up if you’re listening, or call me back as soon as you get this?’
But Cleo didn’t pick up and, as she cut the connection, Jane didn’t hold out much hope that her sister would call back. Cleo was a law unto herself and lately that law seemed to have no boundaries. As non-identical twins they shared the same birthday—but that was just about all they shared. Jane loved the safety and stimulation of books while Cleo liked dancing the night away. Jane dressed for comfort—Cleo for show. Cleo was beautiful and Jane was not.
But Cleo’s lifestyle couldn’t possibly be financed by the money she earned only erratically, though her spending hadn’t taken that into account. Why else would some bailiff-type person have got hold of Jane’s number and started making all kinds of threats if her twin didn’t pay back some of her mounting debts? She decided to phone her after work, maybe even go and see her—and she would stand over her sister until she made an appointment to see her bank manager and sorted out this whole sorry mess.
With an effort, Jane pushed Cleo’s troubles out of her mind as she began to focus on what needed to be done and soon her mind was clear of debt and menace and a world she didn’t want to be part of. That was one of the many things she loved about her work as an academic, specialising in the desert kingdom of Kafalah. You could spirit yourself away into a land rich with culture and history. You could lose yourself in the past. What better way to spend your days than by cataloguing books, or overseeing exhibitions of the fabulous artwork which had emerged from that beautiful country? How much more satisfying than a modern world with which she seemed to have no real connection.
She was completely lost in the translation of an ancient Kafalahian love poem and struggling to find an appropriate word for a decidedly erotic act, when she heard the door open. Making a minor click of irritation beneath her breath, she didn’t even bother lifting her head.
‘Not now,’ she said. ‘Come back later.’
There was a moment of complete silence before a silky male voice spoke.
‘In my country I would not tolerate such a response to the arrival of the Sheikh,’ he said. ‘Do you consider yourself so special and different that you should ignore him, Jane Smith?’
The realisation of just who was speaking broke into her deliberations like ice water being tipped over her head and Jane looked up in horror to see that Zayed Al Zawba had entered her office and was shutting the door behind him, enclosing the two of them together in a too-small space. She knew she ought to rise to her feet and bow her head, because even though she wasn’t one of his subjects his royal status demanded she show some kind of deference even if secretly she objected to it. But her body was refusing to obey the dictates of her mind—maybe because the sight of him was short-circuiting the common sense which usually came to her as easily as breathing. Her mouth dried as his powerful body dominated every atom of space in the room and she cursed him for the way he looked. For the way he made her feel. As if she were clutching onto the edge of a cliff by her fingertips as the unsteady ground beneath began to slip away from her frantic grip.
He was wearing robes. Of course he was. She knew of some visiting sheikhs who adapted their appearance for their time in England by wearing cosmopolitan suits—usually handmade in Italy. But not Zayed. Zayed didn’t try to blend in to his environment. He liked to stand out and he managed it effortlessly. Flowing cream silk hinted at the hard and sinewy body beneath and his only compromise was leaving his dark head bare.
Her eyes travelled reluctantly to his face. His cruel and beautiful face. Jane had studied generations of Al Zawba men during her time as an academic. She had seen their distinctive features staring down from ancient paintings and illustrations and their flashing black eyes, burnished copper skin and hawk-like nose were all too familiar to her. But nothing could prepare you for seeing all that proud and haughty lineage in the flesh and every time she had encountered Zayed, his impact on her had never lessened—if anything it had only increased. Maybe that wasn’t so surprising given his physical magnificence, which she would have been a fool to deny.
But she didn’t like the way he made her feel any more than she liked him. It was highly inconvenient that he had only to look at her and her breasts started aching and all she could do was pray that her cheeks didn’t display the heated blood which was suddenly pumping furiously around her system. She just needed to maintain her cool—the way she did with every other person she came in contact with. To politely enquire why he had arrived in her office so unexpectedly—only not so politely that he might feel he could start making a habit of it. And then, hopefully, to get rid of him as quickly as possible.
Awkwardly she rose to her feet, aware of those flashing black eyes whipping over her as briefly she bowed her head.
‘Forgive me, Your Serene Highness,’ she said. ‘I was not expecting you to walk in unannounced.’
Zayed raised his eyebrows. Was that censure he heard in her soft English voice? ‘Should I perhaps have made an appointment first?’ he questioned sarcastically. ‘Checked up to see whether or not you had time to fit me into your busy schedule?’
The answering gesture of her hand as it encompassed the book-cluttered room was expansive but he noticed that her smile was thin.
‘I would have tidied up first, if I had known that Your Royal Highness was going to grace my office with his presence.’
It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest that she might have tidied up her own person as well as her office, but he recognised that such honesty would do little to further his cause. ‘The untidy state of your office is of no consequence to me at the moment,’ he said impatiently. ‘It is you I have come to see.’
‘Oh?’
She was looking at him with question in her eyes—in a way which somehow managed to be deeply insubordinate, though he couldn’t quite work out why. He wasn’t used to women staring at him like that—as if they would prefer he was anywhere other than here. He was used to adoration and submission—and from women far more beautiful than the one standing in front of him. He had intended to walk in here and tell her that he needed a wife—and quickly—but Jane Smith’s faintly hostile expression was making him reconsider as suddenly the unthinkable occurred to him.
What if she refused?
Zayed’s mind raced. Refusal was something he would not countenance but perhaps he might have to employ a little good old-fashioned diplomacy along the way. And yet wasn’t it slightly ironic that he should have to go creeping around to ask for a favour from a woman like her?
His lips curved as he noticed she wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up and that her brown hair was scraped tightly back into a bun more befitting a woman of fifty than one in her twenties. An ugly blouse was tucked into an equally ugly skirt which fell in an unflattering length to just below her knees and, as always, it was impossible to see what kind of body lay beneath her drab clothes. She was undoubtedly the most unattractive female he had ever set eyes on and thus the perfect candidate for what he had in mind. Could he ever imagine being sexually attracted to a woman like Jane Smith? Not in a million years.
‘I have a proposition to put to you,’ he said.
Her eyes became hooded as she looked at him warily. ‘What kind of proposition?’
Zayed could barely restrain his click of displeasure. How insolent she was! Did she not realise that his power was all-encompassing? Why wasn’t she nodding her head in instant agreement—eager to please him in whatever it was he demanded? The loud clicking of a clock on the wall penetrated his thoughts as he became aware of the street view from the basement window. It suddenly occurred to him that laying out his terms for her brief tenure as his Sheikha might be better done elsewhere—not here in this cluttered office with embassy staff nervously patrolling the corridor outside, waiting for his next command or perhaps listening, with their ears pressed close to the door.
Injecting his tone with a deliberate silkiness, Zayed gave a rare smile, aware of its powerful impact on members of the opposite sex. ‘It might be easier to explain over dinner.’
‘Dinner?’
‘You know?’ His patience was wearing thin. ‘The meal you eat between lunch and breakfast.’
‘You want to have dinner?’ She frowned. ‘With me?’
Now was not the time to tell her that no, he didn’t, not really. That the shared meal would be nothing more than something to be endured while he told her what he had planned for her. But why ruin what was undoubtedly going to be the night of a lifetime for her? Why not dazzle her as women so loved to be dazzled?
‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I do.’
She screwed up her face. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘But you will, Jane. You will. All will be explained in due course. So.’ Lifting his arm so that the fine material of his robe revealed one hair-roughened wrist, he glanced down at the heavy gold timepiece which his father had once worn. ‘You had better leave now.’
She stared at him blankly. ‘You mean, leave work?’
‘Of course.’
‘But I’ve only just got here. And I’m deep into research about a sixteenth century Kafalahian love poem which has just come to light.’ She brightened up at this point. ‘It was actually written by one of your ancestors to the most favoured member of his harem.’
He was beginning to get irritated now. Didn’t she realise the great honour which was being afforded to her? Did she think he asked out women like her every night of the week—and that he would tolerate being turned down so that she could read a poem? ‘You are having dinner with the leader of the country for whom you work—not grabbing a sandwich in a nearby café!’ he bit out. ‘And doubtless you will wish to prepare yourself. For not only is this an honour for a member of my staff, it is also supposed to be a treat.’
‘A treat?’ she echoed doubtfully.
‘Indeed. I don’t imagine you frequent the capital’s high spots every night of the week.’
‘I’m not really a “high spot” sort of person,’ she said stubbornly.
‘No. I can tell.’ Fleetingly, Zayed thought her reaction might be almost amusing if it weren’t so insulting. But she would soon learn to be grateful. ‘I will send a car for you shortly before eight. Make sure you’re ready.’
She opened her mouth as if she was about to say something else but maybe something in his eyes stopped her for she nodded, even though her expression made her look as if she’d been asked to do some sort of penance. In fact, he was almost certain that she’d just stifled a resigned kind of sigh.
‘Very well, Your Royal Highness,’ she said stiffly. ‘I will be ready just before eight.’
CHAPTER TWO (#ub7f1d007-cce9-5ee7-ba56-04970b5f13e9)
HER MOBILE PHONE clamped tightly to her ear, Jane paced up and down in her small sitting room as she willed her sister to answer. She had been trying in vain to get hold of her all day—ever since she’d been forced to leave work early in order to prepare herself for a dinner date she didn’t want with the arrogant Sheikh. An arrangement which was still puzzling her as she couldn’t work out why he should want to spend time with her, since she was confident that the work she did for him and his country was of the highest possible standard. And especially since he made no attempt to hide the fact that he found her company about as appealing as she found his.
But an evening with Zayed was far less worrying than the two calls she hadn’t dared pick up, from the same number as the man with the threatening voice who’d called this morning. Suddenly Jane’s safe and contained world felt as if it were spinning out of control.
‘Hello?’ The connection clicked and a cautious female voice came onto the line. ‘Is that you, Jane?’
Cleo! At last. ‘Who else did you think it would be?’ Jane questioned, drawing in a grateful breath as she heard her sister’s sexy voice. ‘What’s going on? Why have I been getting threatening phone calls on your behalf from some man who says you owe money?’
There was a pause. A disturbingly long pause from her normally garrulous sister. For a moment she thought the connection had been lost before a single word split the silence.
‘Hell.’
Something in the delivery of that word sent a shiver of apprehension quivering down Jane’s spine. ‘Cleo? Are you going to start telling me what’s going on?’
Cleo began to speak, a little hesitantly at first—and then it all came out in a babble which seemed perilously close to tears. And Jane felt she could have written the script herself, because it was all so predictable. Her dizzy, impractical twin sister, whose big dreams had always been way too big, had decided to start living those dreams. Inspired by too much time spent monitoring the lives of minor celebrities on social media, her out-of-control spending had ended in a pile of debts which looked now like mountains.
‘Can’t you go and speak to your bank manager?’ said Jane, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘And pay the money back in instalments?’
There was a hollow kind of laugh in response. ‘It’s gone beyond that. If I’d borrowed from the bank in the first place, maybe. But I didn’t. I borrowed from a man down the pub. Turned out he’s a loan shark.’
‘Oh, Cleo? Why?’
There was a pause. ‘Because he was willing to lend to me—why else? I’m not like you, Jane. I don’t think everything through to within an inch of its life. I don’t spend my life wading through dusty textbooks and wearing thrift shop clothes and letting life pass me by. So I...’ Cleo’s voice faltered. ‘I decided I wanted to see the world. I went on a fancy cruise and bought myself a wardrobe to match and I...’
‘You pretended to be someone you weren’t,’ said Jane slowly, because this was a familiar pattern going right back to their childhood. Gorgeous Cleo who wanted to be a famous model—only she wasn’t quite tall enough or thin enough. Cleo who had been the apple of their mother’s eye. Who had been so devastated when Mum died that everyone had gone out of their way to cushion her from the tearing pain of her emotions. Maybe they had tried too hard, Jane conceded now. Made too many allowances. Bailed her out one time too many. Accepted with a resigned shrug when Cleo dropped out of yet another course and just gone ahead and enrolled her on another—as if they were all waiting for some magic solution to fix her life for her. It had become even worse after their father had died and Jane had been left feeling like the responsible one, the one who needed to take care of Cleo. But that was the story of her life, wasn’t it? Everyone leaned on Jane. Good old reliable Jane.
Closing her eyes, she pressed the phone against her ear. ‘How much do you owe, Cleo? And I don’t want rough estimates designed to shield me from the truth. How much exactly?’
The sum her sister mentioned made Jane feel quite sick and for a minute she actually thought her knees might give way. ‘You’re kidding?’ she questioned hoarsely.
‘I wish I was. Oh, Jane, what am I going to do?’
It was an all too familiar cry and what could Jane do but respond to it, as she had responded so many times before? Tightly, she gripped her phone. ‘You’re going to sit tight and wait for me to get back to you.’
‘But you haven’t got that kind of money.’
‘No. I haven’t.’ Jane swallowed as an image of Zayed’s face swam before her eyes—all flashing black eyes and cruel, mocking lips. ‘But I know somebody who does.’
Slowly, she put the phone down. Did she dare ask the impossibly wealthy Sheikh for some kind of loan to help tide her sister over? A loan which she could pay back over the next however many years? She was so lost in thought that she didn’t realise the time until she heard the clock chime out seven times and realised that Zayed’s car would be here in less than an hour.
Dashing into the shower, she sluiced tepid water over her fleshy body realising that she’d been so worried about her sister that she’d barely stopped to wonder just why Zayed had been so insistent about taking her out for dinner. No doubt she would find out soon enough. Opening up her wardrobe, she cast an uninterested eye over its contents but clothes had never been important to her and, anyway, she doubted the arch-seducer Sheikh would notice what someone like her was wearing. She gave a faint shudder of distaste as she thought about the Kafalahian ruler’s reputation with women, before pulling on a warm sweater and thick tights to go with her tweed skirt—because the autumn evening had a decided nip to the air.
There was a knock at the door and Jane didn’t miss the chauffeur’s look of astonishment when she opened it, though—to the man’s credit—he instantly tried to disguise it with a polite smile, especially when she greeted him in fluent Kafalahian. Looking glaringly out of place, the royal limousine was parked outside the small house owned by a college friend of hers, which had been divided into two apartments—the top one of which Jane rented. Still. At least her friend was working abroad and not around to witness the bizarre spectacle of a Kafalahian flag on the bonnet of the car, flapping in the light breeze.
It felt weird to have the driver open the door for her and for her to slide somewhat awkwardly onto the soft leather seat, because she’d never travelled in one of the royal cars before. There was a small fridge in situ, along with a glittering row of crystal glasses—as well as a TV screen much bigger than the one in her apartment. Jane stared out of the window at the darkening evening, wondering just what she was going to do about Cleo. Maybe she could ask Zayed for some sort of pay-rise. She bit her lip. It would have to be a fairly hefty pay-rise and she would need to have it immediately in order to bail her sister out.
‘We’re here, miss.’
The driver’s voice broke into her troubled thoughts and Jane blinked. The journey had been so smooth that she hadn’t even noticed the car gliding to a halt and suddenly the door was being opened again—this time by a uniformed porter, who was ushering her into an exclusive members’ club, discreetly positioned in a wide street not far from Leicester Square Tube station. A mighty door clanged shut behind her as she stepped into an interior of pure opulence and grandeur—a cavernous hall lined with dark oak panelling and more paintings on the walls than you’d see in one of the nearby national art galleries. As Jane followed the porter inside, she became aware of several older women decked in dazzling jewels, who were peering at her as if she were a curiosity, with no right to be there.
In truth, she did feel more than a little out of place because even she, with her practically zero experience of social occasions, could tell that she’d woefully misjudged the occasion. There was nothing wrong with her knee-length tweed skirt or sweater, but they looked ridiculously understated in this grand and formal setting. And then another door was being flung open and there was Zayed, standing beside a carved marble fireplace, in which scented logs smouldered and crackled. He was wearing a flowing thawb in palest gold, which emphasised the burnished gleam of his skin and the raven blackness of his thick hair. Jane felt an unwelcome punch to her heart and the flicker of something warmer, low in her belly, as she met his flashing black eyes—though he did nothing to disguise the contemptuous curve of his lips as he stared at her.
‘Is this some kind of joke?’ he demanded.
She honestly didn’t know what he was talking about—and she was still so preoccupied with Cleo’s worries that she couldn’t work it out. ‘A joke, Your Royal Highness? I don’t understand.’
‘Really?’
