Postcards From Paris: Bound by His Desert Diamond / Amorous Liaisons / The Secret to Marrying Marchesi

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‘So what? Life doesn’t always have to run to a schedule.’ She passed more flowers back to the minders, enjoying herself now, especially the sight of these burly men wreathed in blooms. ‘You need to loosen up a bit, accept that this is the way things are done here.’

But Zahir showed no signs of loosening up. Instead he continued to move her forward by the sheer wall of his presence, so close behind her that his barely repressed ire bound them together. Anna turned her head, hissing the words past her smile: ‘You might at least try and look as if you’re happy.’

‘This isn’t about being happy.’ No, of course it wasn’t. How foolish of Anna to forget for a moment. ‘Schedules are there for a reason. And impromptu walkabouts provide the ideal chance for a terrorist to strike.’

‘This is Dorrada, Zahir.’ Still she persisted. ‘We don’t have any terrorists.’

They had reached the car now, Zahir having to duck his head to get in to this ancient vehicle that had once been her father’s pride and joy. He seemed far too big for it, caged in by it, as the doors closed behind them, muffling the cheers of the crowd.

‘May I remind you that you are now married to me, Annalina? To Prince Zahir of Nabatean?’ He turned to face her, his eyes as black as stone. ‘And we do. From now on, you will treat security with the respect it deserves. Otherwise, you may not live to regret it.’

* * *

Zahir’s eyes strayed across the crowded ballroom yet again, searching out Annalina. She wasn’t difficult to find. Still wearing her wedding dress, she was by far the most beautiful woman in the room without exception, moving amongst the guests with practised ease, charming them with her grace and beauty, occasionally taking to the floor to be whisked around by some daring young buck or crusty old dignitary.

Zahir didn’t dance. Never had he seen the need. But tonight he found himself wishing that he did, that he could have parted the crowd on the dance floor, firmly tapped on the shoulder whichever interloper it was at the time and removed Annalina from his clutches. Other men touching his bride did not sit well with him. More than that, it spread a hot tide of possessiveness through him, the like of which he had never known before. It was something he knew he had to keep in check.

At least until tonight, when he would have Annalina in his bed. Then she would be all his, in every sense of the word. It was that thought that had got him through today: the long-drawn-out ceremony, the tedious wedding breakfast and now this irksome ball that it appeared would never come to an end. His tolerance and patience had been severely tested, neither being qualities that he had in abundance. But the day was finally drawing to a close, the waiting nearly over. And as the time approached when at last they would be together, alone, so the thrum of awareness increased, spreading through him, until it was no longer a thrum but a thudding, pounding urge that held his body taut, rang in his ears.

From across the other side of the room Annalina looked up, meeting his gaze, a gaze which he knew he had held for too long, that was in danger of betraying him with its intensity. She angled her head, something approaching a smile playing across her lips, her eyes deliberately holding his, refusing to look away.

God, she was beautiful. A fresh wave of lust washed over him, tightening the fit of his tailored trousers. She might be all demure decorum now but tonight he would have those restrained lips screaming his name in pleasure, those searching eyes screwed shut against the delirium of his touch, his heated thrust. Bringing her to orgasm that night in the log cabin had been the single most erotic experience of his life. But the experience had ended badly—seeing him consumed with rage, fighting to maintain his composure, dangerously close to losing it. This was what Annalina did to him. She stirred up emotions that were totally uncalled for. Awoke the warrior in him when the situation called for restraint and respect—not pumping testosterone and raging hormones.

As the supreme leader of the army of Nabatean, Zahir had seen some terrible things, had done some terrible things, that still had the power to haunt him when he closed his eyes against the night. But that was war, the most brutal savagery imaginable, man turning on his fellow man. It had been a hideous, necessary evil but he was vindicated by the fact that Nabatean was now a successful, independent country, free from the oppression and tyranny of its war-mongering neighbour. Many would say that Zahir should be extremely proud of his achievements. That he had accomplished what no man had ever thought possible. But, despite his pride in his country, Zahir would never be able to accept praise for his victory, let alone celebrate it. Not when his parents had paid for his success with their lives.

He had learned his lesson in the most painful way possible. Never again would he allow himself the luxury of such gratification, no matter for how brief a period of time. Self-indulgent pleasure was to be avoided at all costs. He just needed to remember that when he was around Annalina.

Not that his feelings for her were all about pleasure, far from it. Annalina stirred up extremes of emotions that were as threatening as they were mystifying.

For a slightly built young woman, weighing, he would estimate, little more than eight stone, this was extremely perplexing. Even if she’d been a trained assassin, armed to the teeth, he knew he would have no trouble overpowering her, throwing her to the ground, dispatching her if necessary. But she wasn’t a trained assassin and she wasn’t armed, at least, not with a recognisable weapon. She was no threat. So why did his body insist that she was, firing the blood through his veins as if he had stepped into an ambush, had a blade at his throat?

Because Annalina’s weapons were of a different kind. Ice-blue eyes that flashed with a mystery all of their own. Plump lips, pert breasts, hair that tumbled over her shoulders...curves that begged to be stroked. These were her weapons. And Zahir was beginning to realise that they were more lethal than any he had come across before. They consumed his mind, invaded his consciousness, provoking feelings of anger, lust and a desperate need that had only increased in the weeks they had been apart. And there was another emotion, one he had never experienced before. Jealousy. The thought of Annalina with another man, past or present, innocent or not, gripped him hard enough to paralyse his whole body. It frightened him with its force, weakened him with its power.

Forcing himself to relax, he leant against a pillar festooned with winter foliage, flexing his fingers, half-closing his eyes. Eyes that still followed Annalina as she started talking to another guest—that narrowed further when he saw the man taking her hand in his, raising it to his lips, holding it there longer than was strictly necessary. He sucked in a breath. Control yourself, Zahir. And find enough patience for another hour. When they finally did come together, it would be all the sweeter for the wait.

He was glad now that they hadn’t had sex that night in the cabin. At the time it had only been blind rage that had stopped him. But now he knew the timing hadn’t been right. He had wanted her—God how he had wanted her! But deep down had he felt uneasy about despoiling such an exquisite creature? Felt unworthy, even? Now Annalina was his bride, his wife. Now he could legitimately claim her. And any unusually sensitive worries he might have had, any hesitancy about his rights or his responsibilities, had long since vanished in a sea of carnal craving.

Shouldering himself away from the pillar, he decided to go outside in search of some fresh air. He needed to cool himself down.

It was a beautiful night, crisp and clear, with a full moon shining on the virgin snow. Zahir paused to take in the view, the town of Valduz spread out in the valley below twinkling prettily, the mountains all around them soaring into the night sky. He set off around the side of the castle, his footprints sinking deep into the crunchy snow, breathing in deeply to relish the cold air that scoured his lungs. But then he stopped, his senses on high alert. Someone else was out here. He could hear the huff of their breath, a sort of shuffling noise, a mumbled voice.

Zahir moved stealthily forward, tracking the sound like the trained killer that he was. Now he could make out the shape of man leaning against the wall of the castle, see the glow of a cigarette burn more brightly as he took a deep drag before flicking it away into the snow. He watched as the figure raised a bottle to his lips—whisky, if Zahir had to guess—glugging from it greedily then wiping the back of his hand across his mouth before staggering a couple of steps sideways, then back again. The mumbling was him talking to himself. There was no one else was around. He was clearly very drunk.

Zahir stepped out of the shadows.

‘I think you’ve had enough of this.’ Removing the bottle from the man’s grasp, Zahir flung it behind him.

‘Hey!’ Lunging forward, the man peered at him with glassy-eyed aggression. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Zahir silently positioned himself in front of this creature, squaring his chest, towering over him. He wasn’t looking for a fight, but neither was he going to let this guy drink himself into oblivion. Not here, at his wedding party.

‘You have no right to...’ Squinting up at Zahir, the man suddenly stopped. ‘Well, look who it is. The mighty desert Prince.’ A sneer twisted his thin lips. ‘What brings you out here? Trying to escape already?’

Zahir’s fists balled by his sides. This individual was seriously asking for a punch.

‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’ Pushing himself unsteadily off the wall, he straightened up, holding Zahir’s gaze, emboldened by the alcohol or stupidity, or both. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Prince Henrik of Ebsberg.’ He extended a limp arm. ‘Delighted to meet you.’

Blood roared in Zahir’s ears, raging through his body, turning his muscles to stone. So this was the revolting individual who had once been engaged to Annalina. His fists by his sides flexed, then balled again, his nails digging into his palms.

‘Ha.’ With a dismissive laugh, Henrik withdrew his hand, folding his arms over his chest. ‘So my name’s familiar to you, then.’ He put his head on one side, the sneer still curving his lips. ‘You may not want to shake my hand, old chap, but perhaps you will accept my heartfelt commiserations instead. You have my deepest sympathies.’

A growl erupted from somewhere deep inside Zahir as he adjusted his stance, planting his feet further apart. ‘And just what do you mean by that?’

‘Oh, dear.’ With a giggle, Henrik moved his hand to his mouth. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know. This is so much worse than I thought.’

‘Don’t know what?’ Zahir ground out the question, more as a diversionary tactic to stop his hands from travelling to this man’s throat rather than because he wanted an answer.

‘About your new bride. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Princess Annalina is not only as pure as the driven snow, she’s as frozen as it.’ Misinterpreting Zahir’s thunderous silence, Henrik warmed to his theme. ‘Yes, it’s true. Beneath that pretty exterior there lies nothing but a block of ice.’

‘Hold your tongue.’ Zahir bent down, his face just inches away from his prey. ‘You will not speak of my wife in such a way. Not if you know what’s good for you.’

‘Why not?’ Henrik blithely carried on. ‘I’m only telling you the truth. Annalina is the original ice maiden. You will get no satisfaction from her. Take it from me. I should know. I’ve been there.’

Unbidden, Zahir’s hands flew to Henrik’s throat, grasping a handful of shirt and lifting his feet clean off the ground. The fury that engulfed him was so strong he could taste it, feel it rising up his throat, burning behind his eyes. The thought that this man had even touched Annalina was enough for Zahir to wish upon him the most slow and painful death. But to brag about it. To speak of her in that hideously insulting manner... Death would be too good for him.

He looked down at Henrik, now squirming in his grasp. Then, taking a deep breath, he let him go, watching as he fell to his knees before scrabbling to stand upright again.

‘Tut, tut.’ Brushing the snow from his hands, Henrik staggered a couple of steps away. ‘It’s not my fault that you’ve married a dud, Zahani. You should have taken a leaf out of my book and had the sense to try her out first. I had a lucky escape. But you, my friend, have been duped.’

‘Why, you little...’ Raging fury had all but closed Zahir’s throat, grinding his words to a low snarl. ‘Get out of my sight while you can still walk.’

‘Very well. But it won’t change anything. The fact is, pretty Annalina is frigid. If it’s any consolation, I had no idea either—not until she was in my bed, until she was under me, until it came to the actual point of—’

Crack. Zahir’s fist connected with Henrik’s nose, making a noise like the fall of a branch in the forest. With this vilest of creatures now splayed at his feet, his first thought was of satisfaction, that he had finally silenced his revolting words. But rampant fury was still pumping through his body, the temptation to finish what he had started holding him taut, tensing his muscles, grinding his jaw. He looked down at Henrik, who was whimpering pathetically, blood pouring from his nose.

‘Get up.’ He realised he wasn’t done with him yet. He wanted him on his feet again, wanted him to fight back, to give him the opportunity to have another swipe at him. But Henrik only moaned. ‘I said, get up.’ Bending down, Zahir lifted him by the scruff of the neck again, holding him before him like a rag doll. ‘Now put your fists up. Fight like a man.’

‘Please, no.’ Henrik raised a hand, but only to touch his damaged nose, recoiling in horror when it came away covered in blood. ‘Let me go. I don’t want to fight.’

‘I bet you don’t.’ Zahir set him down again, watching Henrik’s knees buckle in the struggle to keep him upright. ‘Call yourself a man, Prince Henrik of Ebsberg?’ He spat out the name with utter revulsion. ‘You are nothing more than a pathetic piece of scum, a vile and despicable low life. And if I ever hear you so much as utter Princess Annalina’s name, let alone defile her character as you have just done, you will not live to tell the tale. Is that understood?’

Henrik nodded and Zahir turned away, taking several steps, inhaling deeply as he did so, trying to purge himself of this man. He was ten or twelve feet away when Henrik called after him.

‘So it’s true what they say about you.’

Zahir froze, then slowly turned around.

‘You really are an animal. The Beast of Nabatean.’ His words slurred into one another. ‘You do know that’s what they call you, don’t you?’ He started to giggle idiotically. ‘Despite your marriage, Europe will never accept you. So you see, you and Annalina, it’s all been for nothing. Beauty and the Beast—you deserve each other.’

The space between them was closed in an instant, even though Henrik was backing away as fast as his collapsing legs would let him.

Zahir’s fist connected with Henrik’s face again—this time it was his jaw. And, when he fell to the snow again, this time there was no getting up.

CHAPTER TEN (#ucb4e9976-f9e7-524b-8e95-29af4088a413)

CLOSING THE DOOR, Anna leant back against it and looked around. The room was empty. She was the first to arrive. Swallowing down the jittery disappointment, she drew in a deep breath. It was fine. She would have time to prepare herself before Zahir came to her. And when he did she would be ready. They would make love and everything would be wonderful. This was the night that finally, please God, she would lose not only her virginity but the terrible stigma that had haunted her for so long.

The room assigned to the newlyweds had been dressed for the occasion. Rugs were scattered over the polished wooden floor, heavy curtains pulled against the freezing night, an enormous tapestry adorning one stone wall. A fire roared in the grate and that, along with the guttering candles in the iron chandelier overhead, provided the only light.

Anna moved over to the bed. Centuries old, the oak construction was raised off the floor by a stepped platform, with four columns to support the heavy square-panelled canopy. Drapes were tied back to reveal the sumptuous bedding, piles of pillows and embroidered silk throws. She sat on the edge, sinking down into the soft mattress, then ran her fingers over the coverlet, her eyes immediately drawn to the wedding ring on her finger. So it was true—she really had married her dashing Arabian prince. There was her evidence.

Being reunited with Zahir today, seeing him again in all his gorgeously taut, olive-skinned flesh, had been both wonderful and agonising. Because it had confirmed what she already knew in her heart. That Zahir was like a drug to her, a dangerous addiction that had invaded her cells to the point where she found she craved him, ached for him. But, just like an addiction, she knew she had to face up to it in order to be able to control it.

Because giving in to her weakness, letting it take over, control her, would be her undoing. Over the years she had learnt how protect herself, to hide her emotional vulnerability. She had had to. Because there had been precious little love in her life since her mother had died. She didn’t blame her father for his coldness. It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t love her the way she wanted him to. It was hers. And when she’d tried to please him—agreeing to marry Henrik, for example—she’d ended up just making things worse. The broken engagement, the dreadful shame, the crippling humiliation only served to compound her feelings of lack of self-worth. She feared she wasn’t capable of being loved, in any sense of the word. And for that reason she had to protect her own heart. She had to be very, very careful.

She thought back over the day she and Zahir had just shared, their wedding day. She had been so aware of his presence—every second of every hour—that it had felt almost like a physical pain. Standing rigidly beside her during the ceremony, silently consuming his meal next to her at the wedding breakfast or scowling across at her during the ball, her skin had prickled from the sense of him, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, her nerve endings tingling.

But then towards the end of the evening something had happened, something telling—thrilling. Their eyes had met across the ballroom and they had shared a look, an understanding. Zahir’s gaze had scorched a path between them, his hooded, mesmerising eyes spelling out exactly what was on his mind. Hunger and desire. It had been a look of such unconscious seduction, such inevitability, that it had weakened her knees, caught the breath in her throat. Zahir wanted her. She was sure of that. And she wanted him too, more than she could ever have imagined wanting any man, ever. That didn’t mean she could let down her guard—in fact now she would need to protect herself more than ever. But it did mean that the time was right. They were both ready.

So when Zahir had turned and left the ballroom Anna had prepared to leave too. Heart thumping, she had made her excuses to her guests, hurrying her goodbyes in her rush to follow him, to be with him. Because tonight was the night that Zahir would make love to her. And this time she was determined that everything would be all right.

Now she smoothed her hands over the folds of her wedding dress. All day long she had had visions of Zahir undressing her, his fingers impatiently tugging at the fiddly buttons, pulling the fine lace over her shoulders, watching the dress fall to the ground.

Well, maybe she would save him the bother. Standing up, she twisted behind her and undid the top buttons as best she could then wriggled out of the dress and placed it carefully over the back of a chair. Next she pulled out the clips that held up her hair, undoing the braids and threading her fingers through to release them until her hair tumbled over her shoulders. She looked down at herself. At the white lace bra and panties, the white silk stockings that revealed several inches of bare skin at the top of her thighs. Goosebumps skittered over her. Away from the fire, the room felt cold. But inside Anna already burned for Zahir’s touch, her body clenching at the thought of it. She wanted him so badly.

On impulse she pulled back the covers and got into bed, squirming into the sheets. Would it please Zahir to come across her like this—still in her underwear? She had no idea. She had no sexual experiences to draw on. All she knew was that, lying here semi-naked like this, she felt as sexy as hell, and that had to be a good place to start. Her hand strayed to her panties, to the soft mound of hair beneath. Tentatively her fingers slipped under the skimpy fabric, finding their way to her intimate folds. She was damp, already very aroused. Slowly, slowly, she started to gently rub herself, prepare herself for Zahir, for what was to come. Letting out a sigh, she rested her head back against the pillow and closed her eyes.

A sudden noise snapped them open again—the wail of an ambulance siren. Pushing herself up to sitting, Anna rubbed her eyes. She hoped a guest hadn’t been taken ill. What time was it? And where was Zahir? She noticed that the fire was burning low in the grate—she must have fallen asleep. Checking her watch, she realised that nearly an hour had passed since she had come to the bridal suite. More than enough time for Zahir to have joined her.

A terrible fear gripped her heart. Pulling back the covers, she tugged a throw off the bed and wrapped it around her, her body already starting to shake. She moved over to the fireplace, bending to pick up a log and throw it onto the glowing embers, watching the shower of sparks. Then, settling into a low chair, she drew up her knees and pulled the throw around her, her mind racing in all directions.

Maybe he had been waylaid. Perhaps one of the guests, one of the many foreign dignitaries that he had been conversing with all day, had suggested they talked business before he retired to bed.

Maybe he hadn’t been able to find the right room. Maybe he was wandering around the castle right now, opening doors, calling her name. Although it was pushing it to think that a man who could navigate the vastness of the desert by the stars alone would have trouble finding his way to the marital bed.

Or maybe he had been taken ill. The ambulance she had heard just now might be coming to whisk him to hospital because he’d been struck down with some mystery ailment. But that seemed equally unlikely. It was impossible to believe that Zahir Zahani had ever had a day’s sickness in his life.

Which only left one more possibility—the most painful one of all. He wasn’t coming. She must have misinterpreted the look he had given her in the ballroom—or, worse, she had imagined it completely. Like a starving dog, she had gobbled up the scrap being thrown to her, convinced that it was the start of a feast, that her hunger would finally be satisfied. But she had been wrong. And now, like a useless cur, she had been abandoned.

As she stared into the flames that were starting to leap into life, she felt the tears blocking her throat. Now the real reason Zahir wasn’t here was all too obvious.

He didn’t want her. Now he knew the truth, that she was frigid, incapable of ever being able to satisfy him, he had no use for her. Somehow this time, without even having got Zahir to her bed, she had managed to fail yet again.

* * *

Zahir stared at the man sprawled at his feet. Anger was still coursing through him, clenching his fists and his teeth, holding every muscle rigid in his body.

Bending down, he grabbed hold of Henrik’s shoulder and roughly turned him over, hearing him moan as he did so. Blood stained the snow where his face had been, seeping into the icy imprint. His face was a mess with blood flowing from his nose and mouth, his lip split and swelling. Judging from the angle of his jaw, it was definitely dislocated.

Zahir let out a long, slow breath, releasing the last of his rage into the darkness of the night. The Beast of Nabatean. So that was how he was known in the West. And now he had just lived up to his name.

Well, so be it. He didn’t give a damn. If European society wanted to look over their monocles, hide behind their simpering manners and call him a beast, then he would accept the title. Accept it with pride, in fact. For it was his strength, his fearlessness—and, yes, at times the brutality of his decisions—that had won his country their independence. He would value that over their delicate Western sensibilities a thousand times.

But Annalina...that was a different matter. Was that how she thought of him? Like some sort of beast or barbarian that fate had cruelly delivered to her door? To her bed? The thought struck him like a savage blow. Certainly he had done nothing to dispel the myth. He had never shown her the slightest care or consideration. Because he didn’t know how. He was a military man, comfortable only with logic and detachment, proud of his nerves of steel. He could cope with any situation, no matter how horrific. Hadn’t he demonstrated that with the way he had handled the slaughter of his parents? A situation that would have tested the strongest man. That had ripped his brother apart, both mentally and physically. But he had taken charge, dealt with the carnage the only way he knew how. By banishing his emotions, refusing to give in to any weakness and concentrating on finding the perpetrators. Then trying to minimise the repercussions for all concerned. He had never even let himself grieve. He couldn’t afford to.

But the war was over now, and the military training that had held him in such good stead no longer applied. Now he found he didn’t know how to behave. Now he was left wondering who the hell he was.

He looked down at his battered victim again. Beneath the anger he could feel another emotion pushing through—disgust. And not just for the man at his feet, although that was a palpable force. But disgust at himself too. Raising his hand, he saw the blood that stained his knuckles, knuckles that were swelling from the force of his punch.

He could have walked away. He should have walked away. But he couldn’t do it, could he? He couldn’t control himself. He was deserving of his title. A beast.

What he didn’t deserve was the beautiful young woman he had married today. Who was expecting him in her bed tonight. Who no doubt was bracing herself, preparing to accept the fate that he had spelt out that night in the cabin. Not because she wanted to, but because she had no alternative other than to do as she was told. Zahir wanted her so badly, he had tried to justify his arrogant, dictatorial behaviour by telling himself it was her duty, not least because she was now his wife. But this wasn’t about duty, no matter how much he tried to dress it up. It was about his carnal cravings. And there was no way he would allow himself to indulge them tonight. He had another man’s blood on his hands. How could he even consider using these same hands to touch Annalina, to claim her for himself? He couldn’t. It would be an insult to her beauty and to her innocence. Denying himself that pleasure would be his penance.

Henrik groaned again. He needed medical attention—that much was obvious. Pulling his mobile phone out of his pocket, Zahir called for an ambulance, ending the conversation before the operator could ask him any more questions. They knew enough to come and patch him up, restore his pretty-boy good looks.

Throwing his victim one last look of revulsion, he turned away. Then, jamming his hands down into his pockets, he hunched his shoulders against the cold and began to walk. He didn’t know where to and he didn’t know how far. All he did know was that he had to get away from here, from this creature, from the castle, and from the desperate temptation to slide into bed next to the luscious body of his new bride.

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ucb4e9976-f9e7-524b-8e95-29af4088a413)

A SMALL RECEPTION party had lined up to welcome Prince Zahir and his new wife when they arrived back at Medira Palace. As Zahir swept them through the massive doors, Anna forced herself to smile at everyone, especially when she saw Lana and Layla, standing on tiptoes trying to get a better look at them. They looked so excited it made her want to cry.

Little more than twenty-four hours had passed since their marriage ceremony, since they had stood side by side in the chapel in Dorrada and made their vows. But it had been long enough to spell out just what sort of a marriage it would be. Hollow and empty and desperately lonely. Long enough to firmly dash any hopes she might have foolishly fostered that they could ever be a real couple, come together as husband and wife, as lovers.

It was also a marriage where she was going to have to be constantly on her guard, hide her true feelings from Zahir. Because to show him even a glimmer of what was in her heart would be emotional suicide. She could hardly bring herself to examine the insanity of her own feelings, let alone expose them to the cold and cruel claws of her husband.

Her wedding night had been miserably sad, plagued by fitful dreams and long periods of wakefulness in a bed that had seemed increasingly empty as the hours of darkness had dragged by. Forcing herself to go down to breakfast this morning had taken all the will power she possessed but she’d known she had to face Zahir sometime. Somehow she had to cover up her broken heart. But as it turned out she’d been met, not by her husband, but with a note presented on a silver salver and written in Zahir’s bold hand, stating that she was to meet him at the airport in two hours’ time. That they would be flying back to Nabatean without delay. And that was it. No explanation as to where he had been all night, where he was now. No apology or excuses of any kind.

Because, as far as Zahir was concerned, she didn’t deserve any explanations. She was now his property—by dint of their marriage, he had effectively bought her, no matter how it had been dressed up with fancy ceremonies and profuse congratulations. Now she belonged to him, in the same way as a herd of camel or an Arabian stallion. Except she was of considerably less use. If she couldn’t satisfy him in bed, couldn’t give him an heir, then, other than the connection with Europe that came with her position, what purpose did she actually serve?

No doubt Zahir was wondering the same thing. No doubt that was the reason he hadn’t come to her bed last night and the reason he had totally ignored her on the flight to Nabatean, preferring the company of his laptop instead. The reason why his mood was as black as thunder as he briskly moved past the reception party and headed straight down the maze of corridors that lead to his private quarters.