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That left brow arched again. ‘You just got here.’
‘And as I said, Your Highness, I thought I was being taken to see my father and not...’
‘Not?’
‘Bundled here for...whatever reason you’ve had me brought here. I’m assuming you’re going to tell me?’
‘In due course.’
Her response stuck in her throat as he strode past her. The mingled trail of incense, aftershave and man that sneaked into her senses momentarily distracted her. Esme found herself turning after him, her feet magnetically taking a step in his direction.
‘Come and sit down,’ Zaid Al-Ameen said.
The invitation was low and even, but another layer of apprehension dragged over her skin. She glanced at the closed doors through which she’d walked a few minutes ago.
‘Just for the hell of it, if I said no, that I want to leave, will you let me?’
‘You may leave if you wish to. But not until we’ve had a conversation. Sit down, Miss Scott.’ There was no mistaking the command this time, or the inference that she wouldn’t be allowed to leave until he was ready to let her go.
Esme gripped her purse tighter, her fingers screaming with the pressure on the leather. Pulse tripping over itself, she followed him to the sitting area and perched on the nearest seat.
Almost on cue, the doors opened and his private secretary appeared, bearing a large, beautifully carved tray of refreshments.
He set it down, executed another bow, then waited with his hands clasped respectfully in front of him.
Zaid Al-Ameen sat down in the adjacent seat and looked at her. ‘Do you prefer tea or coffee?’ he asked.
About to refuse because she didn’t think she could get anything down her throat, she paused, keenly aware of the two sets of eyes watching her.
‘Tea, please, thank you. Your Highness,’ she hastily added after a sharp look from Fawzi.
His master cast her a sardonic look before nodding to Fawzi, who moved forward and prepared the tea with smooth efficiency.
Bemused, Esme accepted the beverage, almost afraid to handle the exquisite bone china. She refused the delicious-looking exotic treats Fawzi offered her, then waited as Sultan Al-Ameen’s coffee was prepared and handed to him.
Fawzi bowed again and left the room.
Silence reigned as Esme took another sip, and attempted to drag her gaze from the slim, elegant fingers gripping his coffee cup. After taking a large sip, he set the cup back on the saucer and swung his penetrative gaze to her.
‘Contrary to what you wish me to think, you know exactly why you’re here.’
The muscles in her belly quivered, but she fought to keep her voice even. ‘My television interview in the park?’
‘Precisely,’ he intoned.
Sensing the beginning of a tremble in her hand, she gripped her cup harder. ‘I thought Ja’ahr advocated free speech among its citizens?’
‘Free speech is one thing, Miss Scott. Skirting the inner edges of slander is another matter entirely.’
The quivering in her belly escalated. ‘Slander?’
‘Yes. Disrespecting the royal throne is a criminal offence here in Ja’ahr. One that is currently punishable by a prison sentence.’
‘Currently?’
‘Until that law, like a few others, is amended, yes. Perhaps that is what you wish? To be tossed in prison so you can keep your father company?’ Zaid Al-Ameen enquired in a clipped tone.
‘Of course it isn’t. I only wanted... I was frustrated. And worried for my father.’
