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Gabe smiled. ‘Your Most Imperial Highness,’ he said. ‘I am most honoured to be invited to your palace.’
‘The honour is all mine,’ said the Sultan, stepping forward to shake him warmly by the hand. ‘How was London when you left?’
‘Rainy,’ said Gabe.
‘Of course it was.’ The two men exchanged a wry look.
Gabe had first met the Sultan at the marriage of one of his own employees. At the time, Sara Williams had been working as a ‘creative’ at his advertising agency before she’d ruffled a few feathers by bringing her rather complicated love-life into the office.
During that rather surreal wedding day in the nearby country of Dhi’ban, the Sultan had told Gabe that he knew of his formidable reputation and asked if he would help bring Qurhah into the twenty-first century by helping change its image. Initially, Gabe had been reluctant to accept such a potentially tricky commission, but it had provided a challenge, in a life where fresh challenges were rare.
And he had timed it to coincide with an anniversary which always filled him with guilt and regret.
‘You are comfortable at your hotel?’ asked the Sultan.
For a moment, Gabe felt erotic recall trickle down his spine. ‘It’s perfect,’ he said. ‘One of the most beautiful buildings I’ve ever stayed in.’
‘Thank you. But you will find our royal palace more beautiful still.’ The Sultan made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘Now come inside and let me show you a little Qurhahian hospitality.’
Gabe followed the monarch through the long corridors of the palace, made cool by the soft breeze which floated in from the central courtyard. Past bowing ranks of servants, they walked—overlooked by portraits of hawk-faced kings from ages gone by, all of whom bore a striking resemblance to his host.
It was more than a little dazzling but the room which they entered defied all expectation. Tall and as impressive as a cathedral, the high-ceilinged chamber was vaulted with the soft gleam of gold and the glitter of precious gems. People stood chatting and sipping their drinks, but the moment the Sultan entered everyone grew silent and bowed their heads in homage.
What must it be like to have that kind of power over people? wondered Gabe as he was introduced first to the Sultan’s emissary and then to a whole stream of officials—all of them men. Some of them—mainly the older generation—were clearly suspicious of a foreigner who had been brought in to tamper with the image of a country which had always fiercely prided itself on its national identity. But Gabe knew that change inevitably brought with it pain, and so he listened patiently to some of the reservations which were being voiced before the bell rang for dinner.
He accompanied Sultan into a vast dining room, where lavishly laid tables were decorated with fragrant roses coloured deep crimson. Inexplicably, he found his eyes flickering towards their dark petals and wondering why the sight of them unsettled him so. Like the blood on his sheets, he thought suddenly—and a whisper of apprehension iced his skin.
‘I have seated you next to the Ambassador of Maraban, who is one of the most influential men in the region,’ said the Sultan. ‘With my sister on the other side. Her English is excellent and she is eager to meet with you, for she meets few Westerners. Ah, here she comes now. Leila!’
But Gabe didn’t need to hear his host say her name to know the woman’s identity. He knew that from the moment she entered the banqueting hall. Even though her body was swathed in flowing silk and even though a matching veil of palest silver was covering half her face, there could be no mistaking her. No amount of camouflage could disguise that sexy sway of her body—or maybe it was because in some primeval and physical way, he still felt connected to her.
He could still smell her on his skin.
He could still taste her in his mouth.
He could still remember the exact moment when he had broken through her tightness and claimed her for his own.
Why the hell had she kept her identity hidden from him?
The Sultan was saying something, and Gabe had to force himself to listen and to pray that the sudden clamour of his senses would settle.
‘Leila.’ The hawk-faced leader smiled. ‘This is Gabe Steel—the advertising genius from London of whom you have heard me speak. Gabe, I’d like you to meet Princess Leila Scheherazade of Qurhah—my only sister.’
For a moment Gabe was so angry he could barely get a word out in response, but he quickly asserted the self-possession which was second nature to him. He had worked all his life in an industry which traded on illusion and knew only too well how to wear whichever mask the occasion demanded. And so he produced the slightly deferential smile he knew was expected of him on meeting the royal princess. He even inclined his head towards her, before catching a peep of a crystal-encrusted sandal which was poking out from beneath the folds of her gown. And the sight of those beautiful toes sent a surge of anger and lust shooting through him.
