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‘And that includes any emotional support offered to you? What kind of life is that?’

‘One that grants me a high percentage of not being surprised by the unexpected. I much prefer to see things coming than not.’

She shook her head, unable to come up with an appropriate response. Another handful of seconds passed, then he lifted his hand in a subtle, graceful command.

The doors slid back. Just like in the early hours of this morning, he alighted first, then turned to take her hand.

She attempted to guard herself against the pulse of erotic static she suspected would strike again when she touched him. But it was no use. The moment her palm brushed his, tiny volts of electricity shot over her skin. The short, sharp breath she sucked in was echoed by a more masculine sound from him.

Esme wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or terrified that Zaid was just as affected as she was. Since Bryan she’d taken pains to avoid any form of emotional entanglement. The cost of her single mistake had been too much to ever risk letting her guard down. Nevertheless, the notion that she wasn’t in this alone, that she wasn’t imagining this powerful chemistry between them, was slightly easier to bear. Besides, from what he’d said only minutes ago, Zaid had no intention of letting any of this...disquieting reaction affect him. So her panic was unnecessary.

Satisfied with that conclusion, she stepped out beside him, even risked a glance at the dominant, patrician features of the King. To find his own gaze fixed on her with an intensity that made the hairs rise on her nape.

‘Had we the time, I would be curious to know what machinations were being hatched behind that exquisite face,’ he murmured.

Any response from her was forestalled by the swift arrival of a tall, lean man. He barely spared her a glance, his brisk bow and effusive greeting reserved for his Sultan.

But after a minute Zaid turned to her, no trace of the jittery sensation that still fizzed beneath her skin visible on his face. He was back to being the imperial overlord of his desert kingdom. ‘This is the warden of the prison. He has arranged for you to see your father, while I attend to other matters.’

They sailed through three security checkpoints and arrived at a surprisingly well-appointed reception hall.

‘Your father will be brought to you presently, Miss Scott,’ the warden stiffly informed her, gesturing to one of the seats.

‘Thank you,’ she replied, then, as if drawn by a magnet, her gaze darted back to Zaid. He was clearly issuing instructions in Arabic to two of his bodyguards. She watched, stunned, as they approached and flanked her. Zaid’s eyes met hers for an instant, then he turned and left the room with the warden.

The notion that she was under guard should have disturbed her. Except, again, the notion that Zaid was ensuring her safety assumed paramount proportions in her mind.

Or he’s making sure you won’t attempt to do anything else to embarrass him.

She was mulling that over when the doors opened.

Esme’s heart jumped into her throat.

Despite the wheelchair he sat in, he was still restrained, the chains binding his hands connected to his ankles over the cuffs of his dark grey jumpsuit. But that wasn’t the most shocking aspect of the prisoner rolling forward towards her.

The Jeffrey Scott she’d walked away from eight years ago had been the quintessential English gentleman, impeccable from the carefully groomed hair, slightly greying the temples, right down to the Oxford wingtip shoes he’d favoured.

The man in front of her was painfully thin, with severely dishevelled, shocking white hair and a full, unkempt beard. His skin was sallow, his cheeks and forehead grazed with signs of the fight he’d been involved in.

He saw her shock and gave a wry smile as the grim-faced guard applied the brakes to the wheelchair and retreated to a watchful distance.

They stared at each other for a long minute before he indicated his chains and gave a bitter laugh. ‘I know I look a dreadful sight. Not like you, though.’

And just like that the faint tendrils of guilt that had always dwelled beneath the surface of her relationship with her father threatened to resurface.

Before Esme had come along, her parents had lived a high-octane lifestyle financed through fraud. Then Abigail Scott had got pregnant and decided to settle down. Her father had managed enforced domesticity for a few years, but had eventually succumbed to his old ways. Their disagreements and unhappiness had finally culminated in her mother walking out when Esme was fourteen. Abigail had moved to the Australian outback and was killed in a horse-riding accident barely a year later.

For months after her mother had left, she’d watched her father grapple with what to do with her. The ultimatum of boarding school with holidays spent with him or foster care had been delivered with the clear expect

ation that she would choose the latter option. He was all she had left in the world, for better or worse. It was why Esme had chosen to spend her holidays with him, even though she’d disapproved of his lifestyle. Better that than foster care.

It wasn’t until it was too late that she’d realised just how unlovable she was to the man who should have loved and cared for her during her childhood. Perhaps being cast adrift in the foster care system would have been preferable.

She pushed the pain back now and returned her father’s gaze as he continued, ‘You look very well, Esmeralda. Even better than you did on TV.’

‘You saw the broadcast?’

He smiled, eyes the same shade as hers twinkling wickedly. ‘Only about a dozen times, until the warden banned it. Thanks for giving them hell.’

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