The Sultan's Harem Bride

by Annie West

  He shrugged casually, the movement drawing attention to those wide, straight shoulders. ‘Your arrival just as Samira is being hounded by the press is too coincidental.’ He paused. ‘I’ve allowed you to remain for my grandmother’s sake, but I can’t be completely easy with your explanation.’

  ‘You don’t have much time for the press, do you?’

  ‘My caution comes from experience.’ His voice was steely.

  Jacqui remembered the reports about his lovers and his jet-setting lifestyle before he’d inherited the throne. Even now he captured headlines wherever he went. The combination of stunning looks and extreme wealth guaranteed it. Then there were older reports she’d skimmed about his parents’ volatile relationship. They’d provided perfect fodder for sensationalist media outlets with gossip about break-ups, lovers and jealous rages.

  ‘I’m a journalist, not a paparazza!’

  ‘So you tell me.’

  Jacqui pursed her lips, thinking. He’d given her support...so far. But he could change his mind at any stage. Only one thing would convince him—the truth.

  A shudder ripped through her and she hunched forward, her arms automatically crossing, holding tight, as if that could keep the pain at bay.

  She could keep her secrets and hope he didn’t change his mind about letting her stay. Or tell him what he wanted to know. Tell him what she’d not told a soul.

  His patient silence, the sense of a listening presence in the anonymous darkness, won out. Or maybe she was just tired of hugging the truth to herself.

  ‘Everything I told you is true.’

  ‘But there’s more.’

  Yes, damn him. There was more. She sucked in a sustaining breath.

  ‘I can’t do that job any more. I’ve tried and...’ She shook her head. ‘I just can’t.’ Jacqui heard the wobble in her voice and bit her lip. ‘I tried being in the field again and I just...shut down. I couldn’t function. Even being in the newsroom, working at that end, with the bustle and the people and the pressure, it was too much.’ She blinked and lifted her head to stare up at the clear, bright moon. She remembered staring at a moon like that from her lonely hospital bed that first night, when she still couldn’t believe the horror she’d witnessed.

  ‘Ever since the bombing, since Imran died, I haven’t been able to work.’

  ‘Post-traumatic stress?’

  She lifted her shoulders in a tight movement. ‘Trouble sleeping, trouble handling more than one task at a time.’ It almost killed her to admit that. She’d been so proud of her professional skills. ‘Trouble with loud noises and too many people.’ On bad nights she couldn’t even face darkness, fearing sleep and the nightmares it might bring. And beyond all that was guilt that she’d led Imran to his death. She’d been responsible.

  ‘Tonight was the first night I’ve been able to stand being in a crowd of people without searching for suspicious packages or jumping at shadows.’

  She told herself that was progress, but in some ways tonight had only made it all worse. For she’d spent the evening in conversation with such fascinating people, people she’d normally pursue for an interview. She’d had an idea for a report on current regional trade negotiations, but the thought of following it through had made her queasy. She’d been second-guessing herself, wondering if the idea was as good as she believed or if her judgement was flawed.

  Forcing herself to face him, she laid herself bare, ignoring the shrieks of her ragged pride.

  ‘I need this project. Once I realised I couldn’t go back I had nothing. No job, no hope for the future. Until your grandmother and I corresponded again after...Imran.’ Jacqui swallowed over the obstruction in her throat and forced herself to continue. ‘She was so enthusiastic, I realised the project was too big for the article I’d planned. It needed a book. So here I am.’

  Jacqui didn’t add that her work defined her. Relationships had never succeeded for her. She’d never belonged anywhere as she had in journalism. Burying herself in reporting, building a life around her professional goals was all she had.

  Moonlight silvered the strong lines of his face as he surveyed her.

  Did he believe her or still think this was a conspiracy to uncover dirt on his sister? Had she bared her secret shame for nothing? Was he going to kick her out?

  ‘Thank you for sharing the truth.’ His voice was rich and slightly rough, like crushed velvet rubbing on bare skin. ‘I suspect you haven’t shared that with many.’

  None. But she refused to tell him that.

  Jacqui was an intensely private person, having learned to rely only on herself from the day her parents had split. It had been difficult, discovering at ten that neither of your parents loved you enough to want you full time. That you came a poor second to their new families. That you didn’t belong except as an unpaid babysitter. But it had made her strong. She gave thanks now for that strength.

  ‘I realise it was difficult for you.’

  She nodded, her throat still closed.

  ‘I’ll continue to monitor your progress’ He paused and she felt his scrutiny like a touch. ‘But you’ve put my mind at rest for now.’

  For now? What hoops did she have to jump through to win this man’s approval?

  Jacqui felt wrung out. She wasn’t sure she had the stamina to go another round with the Sultan, no matter how desperate she was.

  Abruptly he stood. ‘Come, it’s late. I’ve kept you from your bed.’

  In the gloom he extended his arm and for an insane moment Jacqui thought he meant to accompany her to bed. A jagged slash of heat scorched her, resolving into an eddying pool of liquid warmth deep in her abdomen.

  ‘In my country a handshake is a sign of trust.’

  Reluctant despite the unlooked-for compliment, Jacqui reached out and took his hand. It was just as she remembered, firm, warm and strong.

  Instead of the expected handshake he pulled her to her feet till they stood toe-to-toe, close enough for her to feel his breath on her forehead. The heat in her belly flared and sparked and a new kind of tension stirred.

  There it was again, that searing stare that spoke of things far more intimate than news stories or remembered anguish. Breathlessly Jacqui told herself it was a trick of the moonlight that made his eyes glitter.

  Yet instinct made her pull free of his hold. Not because of what she thought she saw there but because of the answering hunger growing inside, banishing the last glacial chill of memory.

  She’d never known such an overwhelming response to a man. It made her want to run and hide.

  ‘Good night.’ She kept her head up, resisting the impulse to rub away the imprint of his touch. It was too unsettling but she knew better than to reveal that.

  ‘Come, I’ll see you to your door.’

  ‘There’s no need to go out of your way.’ Her voice sounded scratchy and breathless and she cursed this sudden rush of hormones.

  ‘It’s not out of my way at all. Haven’t you realised yet that you’re staying in my private wing?’

  Even in the darkness his slow smile packed a punch that made her reel.

  ‘So if you need me in the night I’m not far away.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ASIM STARED ACROSS his desk at the woman before him, her head bent over her laptop.

  Afternoon sun caught amber and russet tints in the hair she’d scraped back from her face. Idly he imagined it loose like it had been that first night, catching the light in a nimbus of gold and autumn hues.

  He frowned. Blonde or brunette, or even tawny chestnut, no woman distracted him from his purpose.

  His purpose was to protect Samira, no matter how tempted he was to believe Jacqueline Fletcher’s tale of desperation. Yet hearing her voice catch as she’d told him why she’d begun this work, watching the moonlight sil
ver a face pinched with pain, he’d wanted to comfort her.

  Instinct told him her pain was real. But years of experience warned him never to trust a reporter. For too long they’d fed like jackals on his family. If he made a mistake trusting her when he shouldn’t it would be Samira who’d suffer. The thought tightened every sinew.

  Besides, Jacqueline Fletcher wasn’t what she seemed. Her clothes were so drab and unfeminine it was suspicious, as if she aimed to deflect his attention but took the camouflage too far.

  He’d seen her pearly skin, the flash of vivid amber eyes, the russet of pubic hair and the rose pink of her full-body blush. And he wasn’t forgetting any time soon.

  Heat doused him as she looked up. He felt wrong-footed, as if caught ogling an innocent. An innocent whom his cousin had trusted.

  ‘Here’s the reference I wanted.’ Her head tilted to one side as if she tried to read his expression and Asim stiffened as guilt eddied.

  Instantly the shimmer of brightness in her eyes dulled and doubt jabbed him. Could she be such a good actress?

  ‘Go on.’

  She paused but didn’t look away. Asim felt admiration stir. So often he merely had to hint at disapproval to find others giving way. Clearly his frown had no such impact on Ms Fletcher.

  ‘It’s a reference to diaries kept by...’ she looked down to check her facts ‘...your great-great-aunt Zeinab.’

  ‘And you found this where?’ It was the first Asim had heard of royal diaries.

  ‘There was a paper in the royal collection your grandmother thought would interest me. She arranged for your chief archivist to show me and it mentioned the diaries.’

  ‘Tell me more.’ This research project expanded before his eyes. First interviews with his grandmother, then visits to abandoned parts of the palace accompanied by various building experts, then meetings with an ever-expanding group of his grandmother’s old friends. Now the royal archives. When would it stop?

  So much for his hope he’d soon see the back of Jacqueline Fletcher.

  ‘It mentioned arrangements to teach the ladies in the harem geometry, astronomy and poetry.’

  Asim nodded. ‘All are traditionally important to my people. Astronomy and geometry aid navigation in the desert and poetry is prized among all the arts.’

  Again that tilt of her head. ‘Yet the women of the palace weren’t likely to navigate alone across the dunes.’

  Asim shrugged. ‘You think one should learn only the immediately practical? What about broadening the mind?’

  ‘I agree.’ Her gaze dipped. ‘It just surprised me that your ancestors felt the same way, especially when it came to educating women.’

  He repressed anger. Wasn’t this the sort of too easy assumption many outsiders made? ‘Despite the stories you’ve heard, many of my predecessors were enlightened. They sought beautiful, clever women as their consorts, women whose company they could enjoy. Educated women who could share their lives as well as their beds.’

  ‘Which is why I’d like to access Zeinab’s diaries. They will be invaluable—’

  ‘No.’ A journalist prying into intimate family details? Even after generations the diaries could reveal material better kept private.

  ‘But if I could—’

  ‘It seems to me you have plenty of sources already.’

  He supressed a smile as her eyes flashed. No longer drab despite her dowdy clothes, Jacqueline Fletcher looked vibrantly alive with her flushed cheeks and pouting lips.

  ‘The diaries will give a new perspective to the project, adding depth and texture.’

  ‘I take your point, Ms Fletcher, but I prefer to keep such private material private.’

  She met his gaze, her brow pleated.

  Enough. Asim glanced at his watch. It was time for his next meeting. He pushed back his chair.

  She stood, planting her palm on the desk and leaning forward. As if he were an equal, not an absolute ruler who’d already granted her great favour.

  ‘Your Highness.’ The way she said his title was anything but obsequious. ‘Don’t you see? This could be a chance to provide an insight into a woman who was both educated and well regarded. The diaries could provide material to refute the sort of assumption I just made.’

  Asim paused. She had a point, damn it. If this book was to be written, better it be done properly.

  ‘I’ll consider the matter and discuss it with the head archivist.’

  She shook her head, leaning in till the faint sweetness of her skin reached his nostrils. ‘I talked to him and he...’ she paused ‘...didn’t see it as a priority.’

  ‘Didn’t he?’ Asim could imagine it. The head of that department was a dry old stick who wouldn’t have taken kindly to Jacqueline Fletcher’s enthusiasm.

  ‘No. But if you were to take a personal interest...’

  Asim huffed out a laugh at her persistence, her sheer front. She didn’t take no for an answer, no matter how demure she pretended to be. Sooner or later something would catch her interest and she’d light up in enthusiasm or outrage.

  She was never dull.

  ‘Very well.’ He made a quick decision. ‘I’ll look at these diaries and, if appropriate, you will be allowed access under supervision.’ His raised hand silenced her thanks. ‘I understand that while you speak our language you can’t read it fluently, so a staff member will translate any relevant sections.’ A carefully picked curator who would protect the royal interests.

  The radiance of her smile sent a trickle of heat through him and his mouth firmed.

  Jacqueline Fletcher was convincing as an honest, dedicated writer rather than a conniving, duplicitous opportunist. But Asim wasn’t completely sure yet.

  The only thing he could be sure of was that his attraction to her was a complication he could do without.

  * * *

  If you need me in the night I’m not far away.

  It had been days since the Sultan had said that but the words taunted Jacqui as she slid through the water.

  Surely he hadn’t intended it to sound so...intimate. As if he expected her to invite him into her bed. Yet the sizzle of electricity between them was real. Even she could recognise desire.

  Unless the sizzle was only her body’s response to a potently masculine and charismatic man, not his response to her. Her mind and her body had let her down these past months. Had she imagined the sultry interest in his hooded eyes, projecting her own breathless awareness onto him?

  Had he really brought her to his apartments in case she suffered night terrors? She spluttered, swallowing water.

  She’d been so busy branding Sultan Asim high-handed, she’d disregarded the soft spot he’d shown for his grandmother and his protectiveness to his sister. He wasn’t just an arrogant potentate. He knew how to care.

  Could that caring extend to her? It seemed unlikely. Yet the alternative, that he desired her, was impossible.

  Jacqui had no illusions about her sex appeal. She’d been a gawky tomboy, always playing sport with the boys. Puberty came late and no one noticed since her body had steadfastly refused to grow curves like other girls’. She’d simply stayed one of the boys. Not the sort of woman to attract a man like Sultan Asim with his renowned eye for beauty.

  She remembered her few attempts in her teens to discover the secret of looking feminine. Her mum had pretended she was still a little girl and her stepmother, when forced to, had bought the same T-shirts and jeans for Jacqui as for her sons. She’d viewed Jacqui’s occasional efforts to dress up as selfish attention seeking.

  So Jacqui had taught herself with the help of hand-me-down magazines. The results had been spectacularly awful. There’d been no one to warn her that the pink frilly dress she’d spent all her savings on and the vibrant hot-pink lipstick made her look like a clown. Or a transves
tite, as one of the little cats in her class had exclaimed.

  By the time she was working Jacqui had learned the best she could achieve was neat professionalism and to avoid bright colours and clingy fabrics. Better to blend in than draw attention to her shortcomings.

  A slamming door made her turn, treading water.

  Late afternoon light slanted across the courtyard as a tall figure strode to the pool. Jacqui’s eyes bulged and she almost forgot how to stay afloat until instinct shook her lax limbs into movement.

  She’d thought him imposing fully dressed. But the Sultan of Jazeer had a body that looked even better without clothes. Almost without clothes. White swim shorts rode low on his hips, revealing acres of burnished skin.

  Hot needles of excitement pricked Jacqui’s flesh as she watched his easy, athletic lope. Those shoulders were even wider than she’d imagined, his body lean but well built. The dusting of dark hair across his chest emphasised the bunch of muscles as he moved.

  She exhaled, trying to slow her racing pulse as she tracked the line of dark hair that arrowed down, plunging beneath his shorts.

  Belatedly her brain engaged as she realised where she was staring. And that he watched her.

  Jacqui struck out for the far edge of the pool, splashing in her haste.

  She had sex on the brain, and it was the fault of Lady Rania and her friends. What had begun a few days ago as a small reference group of old ladies had grown with daughters, granddaughters and friends who saw their afternoon gatherings as an excuse for socialising. When Jacqui had asked about preparation for marriage in the harem, soon they’d been swapping stories that made her blush.

  The art of pleasing a man sexually had been an essential part of a harem education. The trouble was now Jacqui’s head was full of images of her trying those techniques on the Sultan’s taut, powerful body!

  Obviously she’d been cooped up here too long. She was having some weird harem fantasy.

  At last she neared the edge and reached out, only to find him standing there, hands on hips, watching. Shock made her suck in a breath that turned out to be water and sent her under.