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CHAPTER ONE
CROWNPRINCEKAMALZOKAN, the soon-to-be-crowned King of the Zokari tribal lands, stood in the paddock at Narabia’s famed annual horse-racing pageant and scowled as he recalled the meeting the day before with Uttram Aziz, the head of his tribal elders.
The minarets of his neighbour Sheikh Zane Ali Nawari Khan’s lavish Golden Palace glittered like jewels in the morning sunshine behind the high stone walls surrounding the stable yards and race arena as flags of every nation fluttered in the breeze and a string of thoroughbred Arabian horses gathered at the starting line. But Kamal could appreciate none of it.
Damn Uttram Aziz. Damn his attempts to defy me at every turn. And, most of all, damn his latest attempt to stop me from claiming my throne.
Adrenaline pumped through Kamal’s system as the anger and resentment which had been burning under his breastbone since yesterday’s meeting refused to release its stranglehold on his throat.
‘It is the law, Kamal. You would know this already if you had a more cultured past. You must be married before the crowning ceremony next month or you will forfeit the throne.’
Born an outcast boy, he had fought his way from nothing to become Zokar’s youngest army colonel, and now—after amassing a fortune by having invested in the country’s fledging mineral industry—he was on the verge of becoming its king. The previous Sheikh had died without heirs two months ago and had named Kamal as his successor.
Kamal had no doubt the Sheikh’s decision had been based on expediency. Zokar needed inward investment and Kamal was a successful businessman who had also proved himself a leader of men. Kamal had hesitated at first but, once he had decided to take the throne, Aziz and his followers had attempted to thwart him at every turn. And this latest ultimatum had only frustrated him more. How did they come up with this stuff?
Kamal could not have felt more out of place if he had tried, forced to attend Khan’s lavish annual event in search of a damned bride. And not just any bride. A royal bride whom, Aziz had stated, would make up for Kamal’s lack of breeding and sophistication...
He swallowed, all but choking on his fury. He didn’t need breeding, or sophistication, to be a strong ruler and a good king. He was smart, ambitious and determined to obtain the investment Zokar needed to bring its infrastructure into the twenty-first century. He had already invested a small fortune of his own money to that end. But the more conservative elements of the country’s ruling elite—represented by Aziz and his acolytes—insisted on putting barriers in his way. Every time Kamal scaled one, there would be another, and he was sick of it.
He glanced up at the royal box where Khan and his brother Prince Raif of the Kholadi people and their families stood with the other local rulers. Kamal shuddered, having escaped from the official greeting ceremony earlier with some excuse about joining his men in the stable yards—where he felt a great deal more comfortable—to watch the main race.
He had respect for Khan. He knew the man had worked hard to develop his kingdom after his father’s harsh rule—and Khan had been quick to offer his support when Kamal had been named as successor to the Zokari throne. It was an endorsement Kamal was embarrassed to admit he had needed to smooth his path with the rest of Zokar’s tribal elders. Luckily, neither Khan nor his brother Raif had recognised Kamal from their previous meeting fifteen years ago.
But Kamal still remembered the sickening humiliation of that day as if it were yesterday—when he had been a malnourished boy serving the royal party and Khan and his entourage had arrived for a state visit. Kamal had lingered, gathering the dishes as slowly as he could, fascinated by the pride in the powerful sheikh’s voice as Khan had introduced his heir—his five-year-old daughter, Crown Princess Kaliah—to the Zokari Elders.
Unfortunately, Kamal had been so intent on eavesdropping on the conversation he hadn’t spotted the pillow strewn across his path. He had tripped and dropped the dishes. The crash of breaking porcelain had made every eye turn on him.
Shame washed over him again at the memory of the striking blue of Princess Kaliah Khan’s eyes as they had glowed with pity for him. He’d begun gathering the broken pieces, his pride burning, when his employer, Hamid, had appeared, apologising profusely for Kamal’s clumsiness, and had proceeded to beat him with his belt.
The vicious swipe had stung like the devil—because the wounds from Kamal’s previous beating had yet to fully heal—but not nearly as much as his pride when he’d heard the golden child’s impassioned plea to her father. ‘Daddy, you must stop that man. He shouldn’t hit that poor serving boy, it’s not right.’
Poor serving boy?
Khan had intervened, of course, and Hamid had been reprimanded for his behaviour. But the memory of that long-ago encounter still stung. Which was precisely why Kamal had not wanted to come to this event. Being in Khan’s debt was bad enough, but the humiliation if he recognised him would be far worse.
At least the Crown Princess was not present in the royal box. The last thing he needed right now was to meet that spoilt, entitled child again—even if she would now be twenty or thereabouts—and risk her recognising him. Although that seemed unlikely. He was six-foot-four now, and twenty-nine years old, even if he felt a great deal older in life experience.
The cool evening air whipped at his skin and the crowd noise increased as the horses took their places behind the starting rope. He swallowed, the fury finally releasing its stranglehold. The rage and pain he had been subjected to as a child had stood him in good stead to ensure he never gave up, and never gave in, before he got what he wanted. Which was why he would scale this latest hurdle and return to Zokar with a willing bride in time to claim the throne once and for all.
His lips twisted in a bitter smile. Hell, he might even consider Kaliah Khan for the position, if she had learned some humility in the intervening years...although he suspected that was doubtful, given her reputation in the region as a wild child.
‘Prince Kamal, the Race of Kings is about to start. His Divine Majesty and his wife Queen Catherine would like to welcome you to the royal box with the other heads of state.’
Kamal turned to find one of Khan’s many advisers wearing a helpful smile on his weathered face.
‘I shall watch the race from here,’ he said, knowing he would need more time to prepare for the ordeal of having to socialise at the event scheduled for after the race. Khan and his wife had been welcoming earlier, and surprisingly easy going, but Kamal wasn’t a man who knew how to make small talk. Nor did he wish to learn.
The adviser bowed. ‘Of course, whatever you wish, Your Highness.’
Kamal turned as the man disappeared back into the crowd, just as a series of shouts came from the paddock. He frowned as a new horse and rider broke into the arena, galloping towards the starting line. The horse was smaller than most of the others, a mare, not a gelding. Kamal couldn’t help staring, not just at the horse—whose midnight coat gleamed in the spotlights—but at the rider, who was tall for a jockey but impossibly slender. The way he held himself was spellbinding, so graceful and perfectly attuned with the magnificent horse.
The gun sounded as the new arrival was still racing to join the starting line. The field leapt forward en masse while the trailing horse accelerated as if it had been fired from the gun. The jockey’s head was bent low over the powerful beast, his body as one with the animal as its legs ate up the ground.
The crowd went wild, the late horse providing added drama as it flew towards the rest of the field. Kamal’s throat clogged as excitement powered through his veins. He had never been much into horse racing—leisure activities were not a part of his life—but even he could admire the poetry of the horse’s motion and feel the swell of exhilaration as the horse and rider shot round the first turn without breaking stride, hugging the fence to gain ground on the field.
On the back straight, the horse powered into the lead. But, as the field raced back towards them, the mystery jockey’s cap snapped off. Long dark hair fanned out, and Kamal noticed the way the rider’s silks flattened in the wind over small, firm breasts.
A woman. What the hell?
