The Desert King's Housekeeper Bride

And surely a dresser wouldn’t expect to see this.

But in that split second, before her eyes shuttered, she saw long, slender fingers, loosely holding his vast member. He was stroking the taut rigidness in slow sensual strokes that had Effie standing rigid, and for an appalling, shame-filled second she watched with morbid fascination, because quite simply it was the most beautiful, most erotic thing she had ever seen. She knew she should silently leave, should make a discreet exit, and that was what she attempted, but her own body didn’t seem to be working any more. The broom she had been holding so tightly dropped to the floor with a heavy thud as Effie let out a horrified breath.

‘I’m sorry…’ Covering her eyes as his snapped open, she tried to back off, tried to turn around, but her legs were like jelly. ‘Your Majesty, I am so very sorry…’

He was off the bed in a trice, but her hand over her eyes wasn’t going to stop her from hearing his rapid curse, nor the terrifying feel of him thundering across the room towards her.

‘Where’s Christobel?’

‘She couldn’t come, Your Highness…’

She was tempted to fall to her knees to beg forgiveness, but to be on eye level with that…All she could do was stand with her eyes covered and say over and over that she was sorry, so very, very sorry!

‘I should have called out—it was my fault for creeping up…’ She could hardly breathe, the desert heat nothing compared to her flaming face and she was drenched in sweat, just appalled. ‘I will go…’ she pleaded, her legs moving now. ‘You just carry on…’ She wanted to be calm, only she wasn’t, wanted to take away his embarrassment a touch…They would be here for days, after all.

‘Carry on?’ he demanded. ‘Carry on what?’

‘Pleasuring yourself.’ Effie cringed, then attempted a more sophisticated air; actually peeled off her hand from her eyes, relief drenching her as she saw he was at least now covered with one of the bed throws. ‘As you have every right to. I’ll go now!’

She turned, walked quickly, just desperate to get out of there, stunned when a hand grabbed her wrist, when Sheikh King Zakari Al’Farisi spun her around to face him—fury in his inky black eyes.

‘You think I was pleasuring myself?’ he shouted. ‘I am Sheikh King Zakari Al’Farisi—I do not have to pleasure myself.’

‘But…’ Effie frowned, stunned at his rage, as if only now was he embarrassed, only now was he aggrieved, her eyes widening in horror and realisation. When next he spoke that wide mouth she had once seen parted in pleasure was now twisted in contempt.

‘You,’ he roared, ‘were the one sent to pleasure me!”

CHAPTER TWO

SHE could never go out there again.

Never!

Face-down on her bed, writhing with humiliation, sobbing in utter shame and fear, Effie considered her options.

Wander out now into the desert and disappear for ever?

Or put on a smile and make dinner?

The desert seemed the gentler option.

How could she possibly face him now? Yet how could she not?

Was that what Stavroula had meant by on call day and night?

Nothing was too much trouble for the King?

And he was furious with her too! Her rabid apologies had only made things worse!

Her job was over, except she couldn’t even leave…Effie wept at the hopelessness of it all—even her womb was weeping in sympathy, proving the impossibility of her plight. For even if she were of that sort, even if she did know how to pleasure not just a man, but the King, it was her monthly time and she couldn’t.

And she was stuck here for days!

‘Here!’

For the second time in an hour she froze.

Face-down in the pillow, she froze at the deep sound of his voice, felt his imposing presence in the room. Only this time it was without anger, his voice utterly calm and even when next he spoke.

‘I have made you a drink…Take it…’

The King had made her a drink!

Stunned, she turned over and looked at the tiny jewelled cup he offered. She took it, lifting the cup to her lips and tasting the thick sweet syrupy coffee, taking comfort from its warmth. Though the sugary drink wasn’t exactly helping her to recover from her shock. If anything she was more stunned than ever that Sheikh King Zakari was not just in her room, but actually talking to her without anger, her confusion increasing when finally she dared to look and saw that there was almost a smile on his face.

‘Can I know your name?’

“Effie.’ She struggled to get up, to remember her place. ‘Your Highness, I cannot tell you how sorr—’

‘Enough!’ He halted her stammering repeat of an apology with one word and after a moment’s consideration he actually sat down on the bed beside her and just stared at her for the longest time.

For an hour Zakari had heard her weeping.

As he had dressed, his initial anger had faded into wry amusement. Zakari didn’t do embarrassment—a flash of anger perhaps, for what she had thought she had found, but embarrassment—no.

He had heard her embarrassment, though.

And, once his anger and disappointment that Christobel had failed to arrive had faded, he had realised what had happened—and had also realised her fear.

And, given they had several days still to spend isolated in the desert, he had chosen, as he often did, to address the latest problem to arrive in his life directly.

‘I thought you were Christobel—she was due to arrive this afternoon and naturally when I saw her case come out of the helicopter…’

‘She left the palace this morning, Your Highness.’ Effie’s teeth were chattering; she was terrified of speaking directly with the King, yet she was grateful for the chance to explain herself. ‘I was chosen as a replacement at the last minute. There was no time for me to pack—I have to wear her things…’

Zakari glanced at her generous flesh, but didn’t comment.

‘I thought you were in the desert, that you wouldn’t return till sunset. I wanted to prepare your room for you.’ Effie gave a helpless shrug. ‘Stavroula did say that I am to be on call day and night, that nothing was to be too much trouble for you. She tried to make it clear to me what my duties would be and I was so eager in my acceptance, I truly didn’t understand…I don’t know about these things.’

‘Stavroula meant cleaning, preparing my meals—if I require a drink or conversation perhaps…’ Zakari explained. ‘What happened this afternoon—’ he dismissed the entire event with one flick of a manicured hand ‘—Christobel and I had our own private arrangement…’

‘Oh…’ Effie frowned, realising only now why the irresponsible, rather lazy Christobel held such an esteemed position!

‘So I’m not here for…I mean, you don’t expect me to…’

‘No.’ Zakari withered at the very thought, though he didn’t show it. He was used to reed-thin, groomed and skilled lovers—the thought of this plain, plump, blushing woman taking Christobel’s place made his response quite definite!

‘And you do need a housekeeper?’

He neither wanted nor needed a housekeeper, but as he stared down at her tear-streaked face something unfamiliar twisted inside him, the same twist that had responded to her cries, and the same twist that had sent a king to make a maid a drink.

‘Yes…’ He frowned at his own response—confused that he was actually placating her, when always, always it was the other way around. ‘I do need a housekeeper, but not tonight. Unpack your things and then rest. You will commence your duties tomorrow.’

He swept out then—leaving Effie blinking on the bed, reeling at the turn of events.

The shame, the appallingness of what had taken place, dimmed by sheer bemusement.

The King had made her a drink and had consoled her in her shame.

King Zakari had made the impossible suddenly better.

On shaky legs she stood, unclipping the suitcase as he had instructed, and pulled back the lid, her hands shaking, her face darkening red as she went through the contents. Her head was tight with sinful curiosity as Christobel and the King’s private arrangement revealed itself further.

Apart from one token maid’s outfit that would be way too tight on Effie, it was silk stockings that slid through her fingers, silver-foil-wrapped condoms that glistened in the make-up bag, suspender belts and sheer bras that wouldn’t cover a pimple, that over and over mocked Effie’s innocence. Lotions and potions that Christobel must use to weave her magic had Effie wide-eyed with shock, and, pulling out a flimsy robe and the spare uniform that were the only remotely decent objects, she quickly slammed the case closed and tried to forget what she’d seen. She’d wear the same clothes all week rather than touch Christobel’s stuff! Having washed out her own underwear and dress to wear in the morning, Effie slipped between the cool sheets. The flimsy robe and uniform lay draped over the chair, should Zakari call her, and Effie willed herself to relax, only she couldn’t. She turned off the small bedside lamp and willed the rest Zakari too had instructed to come to her, but for the first time she defied the King’s orders.

Switching the lamp back on, she retrieved the case. Her eyes narrowed in curiosity this time as slowly she went through the contents, rubbing lipsticks on the backs of her hands, spraying perfume in the air, then, removing the lid on one of the containers, Effie inhaled the sickly sweet smell of depilatory cream. Oh, she might be naive but she wasn’t stupid. Effie knew there were no fancy waxing clinics in Calista as there were on Aristo, that for Christobel to be groomed, she would have to take care of that herself.

Staring down at her own body, Effie could see the coarse hair on her legs, the thick curls that hid her womanhood, and for the first time she cared—cared that they were there. Wishing her body were smooth and soft and beautiful enough…Then cursed herself for even daring to think such things. Ramming the lid back on the container, she angrily turned off the light, refusing to think about it, except her mind wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t give her the quiet she craved.

She had entered a different world today, seen things she’d never thought she would. Effie screwed her eyes tightly closed and willed sleep to come, only it wasn’t the King or the desert that worried her…Her wildest dreams were a pale version to today’s events.

Here in the desert Zakari liked to prepare his own simple breakfast—

But this morning he was greeted with a feast.

He returned to the aroma of fresh fatir, a sweet pancake pastry Effie had prepared. Tiny bowls with ground almonds in argan oil and honey waited on the table for him, along with cheeses, sweet syrupy fruits and the usual strong, sweet treacle of coffee, but she had also made a refreshing mint tea.

‘This is good,’ Zakari said with unexpected enthusiasm as he took a bite of the fatir. He had the best chefs, was used only to excellent food being served to him, yet fatir, properly prepared, well, there was little better.

‘It’s my mother’s recipe.’ Effie smiled.

‘She is a good cook!’

‘She was.’ He watched her smile falter. ‘She died two years ago. She was once a palace maid at Aristo. She used to make it—’

‘They would not have fatir there,’ Zakari interrupted with a sneer. ‘There it is all French pastries, and croissants. At least here on Calista we have tradition still!’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Effie duly agreed, ‘but my mother worked there many years ago, before I was born.’

‘When King Christos was alive.’ Zakari smiled at the memory of a man he had never met, then graciously conceded the point to Effie. ‘They would have had fatir in the palace then. And argan…’ He dipped the pastry in the rare oil, and offered it to her. Shocked, Effie refused.

‘Sit,’ Zakari ordered. ‘For days I have spoken to no one. As a housekeeper here in the desert you can speak with me when I choose.’ He held out the pastry dripping with oil and she took it. ‘However,’ Zakari reminded, ‘when we return to the palace I will ignore you.’

‘Of course!’ Effie demurred, stunned when he smiled, and lost, just lost, by the effect of that coveted smile when aimed at her.

‘That was a joke,’ Zakari said. ‘If I see you, of course, I will greet you. So how is the argan?’ he asked, as Effie glowed at the thought of the King acknowledging her back at the palace!

‘It’s wonderful.’ She had eaten fatir before, but hers was always sweetened just with honey. The argan oil was a luxury, liquid gold, produced from trees that grew only in Southwest Morocco. It was a delicacy and it tasted divine.

‘It is good for energy,’ Zakari explained. ‘It is also considered…’ he hesitated when he saw a dull flush spread on her cheeks, realising that after yesterday’s goings-on an aphrodisiac perhaps wasn’t required at breakfast this morning ‘… to have many medicinal benefits,’ he offered instead, and as Effie watched that handsome, unscrupulous face again soften with a smile it was easy for her to smile too. ‘My mother too always insisted on fatir.’

‘Your real mother or Queen Anya?’

It was an innocent question, the easiness of their chatter, the informality he had engineered all serving to knock her off guard, but seeing his eyes narrow, the sudden rigidity of his features, Effie could have bitten off her tongue, inwardly cursing herself for forgetting Stavroula’s stern warning, because once again she was in trouble.

‘Your job is to listen!’ Zakari snapped. ‘Not to question.’

‘Of course, Your Highness…’ Effie stood, cheeks flaming, busying herself with clearing dishes away, rueing that she had mentioned a subject that was clearly out of bounds. But as she turned for the staff area Zakari’s words halted her.

‘My first mother.’ His voice was softer now, his eyes kinder, when finally Effie turned around. ‘My first mother insisted we eat fatir in the morning.’

Scared of saying the wrong thing again, Effie nodded.

‘I have enjoyed my breakfast this morning. Tomorrow, though,’ Zakari said, ‘I just want coffee. I like to live simply during my time here.’

‘You can’t go out to the desert without eating!’ Effie snapped her mouth closed, terrified she’d gone too far again, only breathing again when instead of scolding her he took another bite of the fatir she had so skilfully made and again compromised. ‘Coffee and fatir…’ he relented. ‘But that is to be all.’

The winds of yesterday had wreaked change.

As Zakari set off into the desert he surveyed the endlessly shifting landscape.

If lost, the rocks—the constants—would guide him, were guiding him now, Zakari reminded himself, even if he felt abandoned. His search for the missing half of the diamond had taken many twists and turns. Since Aegeus’s death, when he had discovered that the stone had been replaced with a fake, his search had been relentless, taking him to Egypt, to America and to London. Some small Aristan pieces of jewellery had turned up at the most exclusive of auctions, and Zakari had purchased them back anonymously, positive now that Aegeus had kept a lover whom he had showered with gifts—and, Zakari concluded, perhaps even the stone.

But who?

Every lead he had followed seemed to take him further from the truth, every jewel that turned up confused the picture more. There had been rumours she had been a maid, but that search had proved fruitless; rumours too of a mistress during the early years of Aegeus’s marriage, but if there had been, then Aegeus had been more than discreet.

At every turn, there was nothing

That was why he was here, why he had chosen to retreat to the desert. The craziness of the past few months, Aegeus’s death, his son Sebastian relinquishing his right to the throne, his own brothers’ weddings, his pursuit of the stone…Zakari had chosen to clear his head, to come to the rich land and humbly ask for its help.

He wandered, only aimlessly now.

Effie speaking of his mother, daring to speak of his mother, had kindled something…First a flicker of a memory of a time when life was uncomplicated, running through their palace, in another land, another time, the sound of laughter from his mother.

His real mother.

He had not been born to be King of Calista and for a while that had troubled his mind and no doubt the people of Calista too.

His mother had died while giving birth to her seventh child, Zafir. His father, Sheikh Ashraf Al’Farisi, the third son of the ruling family of the Sheikhdom of Hadiya, had, after a period of grieving, fallen in love with Queen Anya, the ruler of Calista.

Unable to have children herself, she had raised and loved Ashraf’s children as her own, and had groomed Zakari to one day be King. A day that still should not have happened, that should still be in the distance, except Ashraf and Anya had been killed in a helicopter crash and the weight of the grieving island had fallen onto his shoulders.

Now, five years on, and at thirty-seven years of age, he felt the weight of responsibility had never been greater, or so willingly carried.

Power was everything to Zakari.

Finding the jewel his sole mission now.

So why, Zakari demanded of himself, couldn’t he concentrate on doing just that?

The day was long. Zakari had disappeared after breakfast and Effie had set about cleaning, happy to be busy so that she didn’t have to think about the events of yesterday!

There was a lot to be done.

He might make his own food and drinks but he didn’t wash a plate or cup. Clothes and towels littered the carpeted floors, and Effie set about picking up and washing and cleaning, indulging in a teeny fantasy of doing such a good job, of being so unobtrusive, yet so breathtakingly efficient, that Zakari might, on return to the palace, select her to replace Christobel as his personal housekeeper—for housekeeping duties only, though, Effie amended, her face suddenly on fire!

Only late in the day did she summon the nerve to prepare his sleeping area, her blush returning as she entered his room.

She set about sweeping the floor and dusting the dark ornate furniture, before finally pulling the endless pillows and cushions from his vast bed and changing the silk sheets. No matter how she tried not to think about it—in fact, the more she tried not to think about it—over and over she did. She just couldn’t banish that image of King Zakari from her mind.

Effie knew her place and, unlike many, there wasn’t a resentful bone in her body. Her mother had raised her to adore the royals. They had been generous to her, Lydia had explained. Her hard work at the palace when she was younger had been rewarded by a generous package when she had left, and with wise investment it had meant they had a home and a moderate income despite Lydia never working.

Effie had never questioned it.

Just as she didn’t question why some should have everything, while others had nothing. She felt privileged to work in the palace. Even if she only got to clean the fineries, still she could gaze upon them. Even if she only polished the silver and jewels, still she got to hold them in her hands.

It could never be hers.

She accepted that.

Just as the man she had glimpsed in naked, sensual beauty could never, would never, lavish his attention on her.

Yet there was this unfamiliar thrill in the pit of her stomach as she recalled what she had witnessed. She bit on her lip as she dragged off the sheet. The flurry of the silk had his masculine scent lingering in the air, and, just for a moment, for a tiny daring, fleeting moment…Effie wished.

For the first time ever, she wished it could be that the treasure she had surveyed might be hers for even a little while. Burying her face in the sheets he had graced, she inhaled him to her very soul.

Wished she were as slim and as beautiful as Christobel.

Wished the King had been waiting for her.

Wished she didn’t disappoint.

Still, she wasn’t being paid to dream, so Effie got on with her work, and over the next couple of days an easy routine developed between them.

Zakari rose at sunrise as Effie prepared breakfast. He usually ate in silence in the morning. Occasionally he might ask if she’d slept well, or murmur a brief thank you, but generally he was sullen, pensive and silent. In fact, for Effie it was almost a relief, really, when he wandered off to the desert, to return after sunset.

Only it was a different Zakari that returned.

He would bathe and change, then eat the meal she had prepared alone. Afterwards, when he sat on the low cushions and drank his coffee as Effie cleared away his meal, he would start talking to her.

Mindful of Stavroula’s harsh warning and the mistakes she had already made, Effie tried to hold on to her tongue, but Sheikh King Zakari Al’Farisi was such engaging company in the evenings that it was all too easy to unbend, to talk about her family, to chatter and linger for a little while longer. Her reward—that unscrupulous face broke into his heart-stopping smile when she offered a silly joke, and, most surprisingly of all, he didn’t silence her when occasionally she bantered with him.

Sheikh King Zakari despised the Aristan royals, yet Effie adored them, and refused to bend to his thinking.

‘The Aristan royals looked after my mother well,’ Effie said stoutly one night as she stacked some plates. ‘I’m saving up my money to go to Aristo for Prince Alex’s coronation in January.’

There would be no coronation for Prince Alex in January if he found the jewel, Zakari thought darkly. Not that Effie would know about such things. The only thing the two royal families did agree on was that the fact the jewel was missing must remain a fiercely guarded secret.

‘You really think that Alex will make a good king?’ Zakari poured scorn on her words. ‘His brother Sebastian was the one raised to be king, yet he denounced the throne to marry a woman who wasn’t suitable.’

‘But that’s lovely,’ Effie insisted.

‘That is weak!’ Zakari dismissed her sentiment. ‘The people of Aristo are worried by this behaviour. They know that Alex and his new wife do not really want to take the role and all that it will entail.’

‘Well, I’m not worried.’

‘You live in Calista,’ Zakari pointed out, ‘so you have no need to be. Their turmoil does not affect you—you have a strong king.’

‘I do!’ Effie flushed. ‘I have a wonderful king, who I am proud to serve, but I still care about Aristo and I think, under Queen Tia’s guidance, that Prince Alex will make a wonderful king!’

Effie remained adamant, and Zakari could only admire her loyalty as instead of backing down she gave him a brief smile, and wished him goodnight before heading out to the staff area.

She had made a good point too, Zakari reflected, lying back on the cushions and closing his eyes for a moment. His body was exhausted from his long day, but his mind was still alert. Queen Tia was, as far as he was concerned, Aristo’s only saving grace. An elegant, dignified woman, she had stood loyal and demure by Aegeus’s side and had poured herself into her children and charities and had, Zakari reluctantly admitted, raised her children well. Zakari had always admired Prince Sebastian, at least until he had turned his back on his people for a woman.

Effie was interesting to talk to, though, and with the night stretching ahead of him Zakari considered calling her back. He actually missed her when she retired, missed those sparkling, lively blue eyes, and the way she blushed just a little when she laughed, but he stopped himself. Maybe it was cabin fever that was causing it, but Zakari was starting to realise that he spoke too much when she was around. Under her steady gaze, it was all too easy to forget the rules, to forget the discretion, the distance that was usually carved into every shred of his DNA.

So, instead of calling her, he retired too, not to his luxurious bed, but outside, preparing a fire, then stretching out beneath the stars and listening to the call of the desert, remembering Effie’s place, because he could never, ever forget his.