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CHAPTER ONE
‘I’M not marrying her for her looks, Adil. I’m marrying her for the myriad reasons she will make a good Queen of Al-Omar. If I’d wanted nothing but looks I could have married my last mistress. The last thing I need is the distraction of a beautiful woman.’
Princess Samia Binte Rashad al Abbas sat rigid with shock outside the Sultan of Al-Omar’s private office in his London home. He hadn’t been informed that she was there yet as he’d been on this call. His secretary, who had left momentarily, had inadvertently left his door slightly ajar—subjecting Samia to the deep rumble of the Sultan’s voice and his even more cataclysmic words.
The drawling voice came again, tinged with something deeply cynical. ‘That she may well appear, but certain people have always speculated that when the time came to take my bride I’d choose conservatively, and I’d hate to let the bookies down.’
Samia’s cheeks burned. She could well imagine what the voice on the other end of the phone had said, something to the effect of her being boring.
Even if she hadn’t heard this explicit conversation Samia already knew what the Sultan of Al-Omar planned to discuss with her. He wanted her hand in marriage. She hadn’t slept a wink and had come here today half hoping that it would all be a terrible mistake. To hear him lay out in such bald terms that he was clearly in favour of this plan was shocking. And not only that but he evidently considered it to be a done deal!
She’d only met him once before, about eight years previously, when she’d gone to one of his legendary annual birthday parties in B’harani, the capital of Al-Omar, with her brother. Kaden had taken her before she’d gone on to England to finish her studies, in a bid to try and help her overcome her chronic shyness. Samia had been at that awfully awkward age where her limbs had had a mind of their own, her hair had been a ball of frizz and she’d still been wearing the thick bifocals that had plagued her life since she was small.
After an excruciatingly embarrassing moment in which she’d knocked over a small antique table laden with drinks, and the crowd of glittering and beautiful people had turned to look at her, she’d fled for sanctuary, finding it in a dimly lit room which had turned out to be a library.
Samia ruthlessly clamped down on that even more disturbing memory just as the Sultan’s voice rose to an audible level again.
‘Adil, I appreciate that as my lawyer you want to ensure I’m making the right choice, but I can assure you that she ticks all the boxes—I’m not so shallow that I can’t make a marriage like this work. The stability and reputation of my country comes first, and I need a wife who will enhance that.’
Mortification twisted Samia’s insides. He was referring to the fact that she was a world apart from his usual women. She didn’t need to overhear this conversation to know that. Samia didn’t want to marry this man, and she certainly wasn’t going to sit there and wait for humiliation to walk up and slap her in the face.
Sultan Sadiq Ibn Kamal Hussein put down the phone, every muscle tensed. Claustrophobia and an unwelcome sense of powerlessness drove him up out of his leather chair and to the window, where he looked out onto a busy square right in the exclusive heart of London.
Delaying the moment of inevitability a little longer, Sadiq swung back to his desk where a sheaf of photos was laid out. Princess Samia of Burquat. She was from a small independent emirate which lay on his northern borders, on the Persian Gulf. She had three younger half-sisters, and her older brother had become the ruling Emir on the death of their father some twelve years before.
Sadiq frowned minutely. He too had been crowned young, so he knew what the yoke of responsibility was like. How heavy it could be. Even so, he wasn’t such a fool to consider that he and the Emir could be friends, just like that. But if the Princess agreed to this marriage—and why wouldn’t she?—then they would be brothers—in-law.
He sighed. The photos showed indistinct images of an average sized and slim-looking woman. She’d lost the puppy fat he vaguely remembered from when he’d met her at one of his parties. None of the pictures had captured her fully. The best ones were from last summer, when she’d returned from a sailing trip with two friends. But even in the press photos she was sandwiched between two other much prettier, taller girls, and a baseball cap was all but hiding her from view.
The most important consideration here was that none of the photos came from the tabloids. Princess Samia was not part of the Royal Arabian party set. She was discreet, and had carved out a quiet, respectable career as an archivist in London’s National Library after completing her degree. For that reason, and many others, she was perfect. He didn’t want a wife who would bring with her a dubious past life, or any whiff of scandal. He’d courted enough press attention himself over who he was dating or not dating. And to that end he’d had Samia thoroughly investigated, making sure there were no skeletons lurking in any closet.
His marriage would not be like his parents’. It would not be driven by mad, jealous rage and resemble a battlefield. He would not sink the country into a vortex of chaos as his father had done, because he’d been too distracted by a wife who’d resented every moment of being married to a man she didn’t want to be married to. His father had famously pursued his mother, and it was common knowledge that in his obsession to have the renowned beauty reputed to be in love with another he’d paid her family a phenomenal dowry for her. His mother’s constant sadness had driven Sadiq far away for most of his life.
He needed a quiet, stable wife who would complement him, give him heirs, and let him concentrate on running his country. And, above all, a wife who wouldn’t engage his emotions. And from what he’d seen of Princess Samia she would be absolutely perfect.
With a sense of fatalism in his bones he swept all the photos into a pile and put them under a folder. He had no choice but to go forward. His best friends—the ruling Sheikh and his brother from a small independent sheikhdom within his borders—had recently settled down, and if he remained single
for much longer he would begin to look directionless and unstable.
He couldn’t avoid his destiny. It was time to meet his future wife. He buzzed his secretary. ‘Noor, you can send Princess Samia in.’
There was no immediate answer, and a dart of irritation went through Sadiq. He was used to being obeyed the instant he made a request. Stifling that irritation because he knew it stemmed from something much deeper—the prospect of the demise of his freedom—he strode towards his door. The Princess should be here by now, and he couldn’t avoid the inevitable any longer.
CHAPTER TWO
SAMIA’S hand was on the doorknob when she heard movement behind her and a voice.
‘You’re leaving so soon?’
It was low and deep, with the merest hint of a seductive accent, and she cursed herself for not leaving a split second earlier. But she’d dithered, her innately good manners telling her that she couldn’t just walk out on the Sultan. And now it was too late.
Her back was stiff with tension as she slowly turned around, steeling herself against the inevitable impact of seeing one of the most celebrated bachelors in the world up close. She worked among dusty books and artefacts! She couldn’t be more removed from the kind of life he led. There was no way he would want to marry her once he’d met her.
Every coherent thought fled her mind, though, when her eyes came to rest on the man standing just feet away. He filled the doorway to his office with his tall, broad-shouldered physique. His complexion was as dark as any man from the desert, but he had the most unusual blue eyes, piercing and seemingly boring right through Samia. Dressed in a dark suit which hugged his frame, he was six feet four of lean muscle—beautiful enough to take anyone’s breath away. This was a man in his virile prime, ruler of a country of unimaginable wealth. Samia felt slightly light-headed for a moment.
He stood back and gestured with a hand into his office. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Please, won’t you come in?’
Samia had no choice but to make her feet move in that direction. Her heart beat crazily as she passed him in the wide doorway and an evocative and intensely masculine scent teased her nostrils. She made straight for a chair positioned by the huge desk and turned around to see the Sultan pull the door shut behind him, eyes unnervingly intent on her.
He strolled into the room and barely leashed energy vibrated from every molecule of the man. Sensual elegance became something much more earthy and sexual as he came closer to Samia, and a disturbing heat coiled low in her belly.
His visage was stern at first, but then a wickedly sexy smile tugged at his mouth, sending her pulse haywire. Her thoughts scrambled.
‘Was it something I said?’
Samia looked at him blankly.
‘You were about to leave?’ he elaborated.
Samia coloured hotly. ‘No … of course not.’ Liar. She went even hotter. ‘I’m sorry … I just …’
She hated to admit it but he intimidated her. She might live a quiet existence and dislike drawing attention to herself—it was a safe persona she’d adopted—but she wasn’t a complete shadow. Yet here she seemed to be turning into one.
Sadiq dismissed her stumbling words with one hand. He took pity on her obvious discomfort, but he was still reacting to the jolt running through him at hearing her voice. It was low and husky, and completely at odds with her rather mousy appearance. As mousy as the photos had predicted, he decided with a quick look up and down. In that trouser suit and a buttoned up shirt which did nothing for her figure, it was imposible to make out if she had a figure.
And yet … Sadiq’s keen male intuition warned him not to make too hasty a judgement—just as a disconcerting tingle of awareness skittered across his spine. He stuck his hands into his pockets.
Samia could feel her cheeks heat up, and had a compelling desire to look down and see where his trousers would be pulled tight across his crotch. But she resolutely kept looking upwards. She tried to do the exercise she’d been taught to deal with her blushing—which was to consciously try to blush, and in doing so negate the reflexive action. But it was futile. The dreaded heat rose anyway, and worse than usual.
He just looked at her. Samia valiantly ignored the heat suffusing her face, knowing well that she’d be bright pink by now, and hitched up her chin. She nearly died a small death when he broke the tension and put out a hand.
‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’
