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‘Why?’ Jag had dealt with crowds and attention his whole life. He was so used to being scrutinised from afar he didn’t even give it a second thought. It was being scrutinised from up close that made him uncomfortable.
‘I think it stems from all the impromptu interviews from the child-protection services I had to undergo in the early years. Whenever I was under the spotlight there was always the chance that Chad would be taken away from me. I never wanted to let him down by not being good enough and as a result I really dislike surprises and I especially dislike being the centre of attention.’
Shocked that she would tell him something so deeply personal, Jag felt something grip tight in his chest. ‘I promise you that you won’t be the centre of attention.’ He reached out to stroke the side of her face and thought better of it. ‘Don’t forget, this is a political summit, not a day at Royal Ascot. That means I’ll be the one in demand.’ He kept his voice deliberately light, wanting to put her at ease and erase the vulnerability he saw in her expression. Vulnerability led to pain and the last thing he wanted was for her to suffer because of him. ‘Now, the first part of housekeeping...’ he reached into his pocket and pulled out a matte red box ‘...is for you to wear this.’ He opened the box and turned it towards her.
‘Oh, my God. It’s as big as an iceberg,’ she said, snatching her hands behind her back. ‘I can’t wear that.’
Jag smiled at her response. ‘It was the biggest one I could find. Give me your hand.’
‘No.’
Ignoring her small act of rebellion, he gently took hold of her left forearm and dragged her hand out from behind her back. ‘I hope it fits. I had to guess the size of your fingers. They’re so slender the jeweller thought I’d made a mistake.’
They both stared down at the intricately cut diamond glowing on her finger as if it had its own light source. ‘But of course you didn’t,’ she said huskily. ‘Are you sure it’s not loaded with some beacon so you always know where I am?’
‘Don’t give me any ideas, jamila.’
She blinked up at him. ‘You called me that before. What does it mean?’
‘Beautiful.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Yes, you are.’
Awareness throbbed between them and Jag fought with the need to drag her into his arms and ruin her pink lipstick.
‘Your Maj—’
‘Jag,’ he growled.
‘This is too much,’ she said thickly, keeping her eyes averted from his. ‘I hope it’s not real. I’ll be afraid someone will rob me.’
‘Nobody is going to rob you. Not in this crowd, but if it makes you feel any better my security detail will not let you out of their sights.’
‘Are you sure that’s not so I won’t run off with it myself?’
‘You won’t run off with it. If you did I’d catch you. And yes, it is real.’
She pressed her lips together, staring at the ring, and he had to curb another powerful need to soften the strain around her mouth with a kiss.
‘There are three other items of housekeeping to go through,’ he said briskly. ‘Protocol demands that you always walk two paces behind me, and you also cannot touch me.’ He noticed her tapered brows rise with astonishment, and he nodded. ‘Santarians do not go in for PDAs.’
‘Not ever?’
‘Sometimes with children. If the family is a tactile one.’
‘Wow, my parents would have been locked up, then. They were always hanging all over each other. And us. Chad and I definitely inherited their affectionate nature. Oh...’ She gave him a disconcerted look. ‘You probably didn’t want to hear that.’
No, he hadn’t. But more because he couldn’t stop thinking about how wild she’d been in his arms the night before. And of course he didn’t want to entertain the idea that Milena was having a relationship with Chad. She wouldn’t be strong enough to cope if it turned bad. ‘The third item is that I do not intend to spend the evening talking about your brother or my sister. It is a topic that is off the table from this moment on. Understood?’
‘Perfectly. And I agree. It wouldn’t look good if we started arguing in front of your guests.’
* * *
‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et messieurs, I give you Sheikh Jaeger al-Hadrid, our lord and King of Santara, and his intended, the future Queen of Santara, Miss Regan James.’
Regan gave a small gasp at the formal introduction. She stood two steps behind Jag, waiting for him to descend the grand staircase, craning her neck to see over his wide shoulders to the room below. What she could see took her breath away. The room looked like a golden cloud, the walls gilt-edged and inlaid with dark turquoise wallpaper. Ancient frescoes and golden bell-shaped chandeliers adorned the high ceilings, while circular tables, elegantly laid with silverware and crystal, filled the floor space. Beautifully dressed men and women, some in military garb and traditional robes, milled in small groups and stared up at them with eager, over-bright eyes. Some, mostly the women, were craning their own necks to get a look at her, and it made Regan shrink back just a little more in the shadows.
