by Annie West
‘We don’t have enough quite yet to prove it in a court of law, but we know Qadri’s partner in the flesh trade was Hassan Shakroun.’
‘I see...’ The surprising thing was that Karim wasn’t surprised. Not that he’d guessed Shakroun was a criminal. He’d just thought him deeply unpleasant and far too fixated on his own prestige and power. ‘How sure are you?’
‘I’m sure. The evidence is clear. But it will take time till the police are ready to press charges. Since Qadri’s death Shakroun has taken over some of his criminal enterprises. They’re trying to get an iron-clad case against him on a number of fronts. It’s tough getting evidence, because Shakroun gets others to do his dirty work and witnesses are thin on the ground. A couple of people who stirred up trouble for him met with unfortunate “accidents”.’
Karim felt an icy prickle across his rapidly cooling flesh. He grabbed a sweatshirt and pulled it one-handed over his head, then shoved his arms through the sleeves.
‘That’s one of the reasons the Council is searching for someone else to become Sheikh.’
Now it made so much more sense. Did Safiyah know?
Immediately he dragged his thoughts back. Safiyah wasn’t the issue. He refused to be swayed by her. Yet the thought of her with her small child in the Assaran palace and Shakroun moving in made his stomach curdle.
‘It’s also why they’re eager for an outsider,’ Ashraf added. ‘If they choose from within the country Shakroun is the obvious choice. He’s from an influential family, and on the face of it would make a better leader than the other contenders. But with you they’d get someone they know and respect, who has a track record of ruling during those years when our father was ill.’
Karim let the words wash over him, ignoring Ashraf’s reference to the man who’d raised him as his father. His thoughts were already moving on.
‘How many know about this?’
‘Very few. It’s too early to accuse him publicly—not until the evidence is watertight. But if he becomes Sheikh...’
Karim could imagine. A criminal thug with almost absolute power. It didn’t bear thinking about.
He ploughed his hand through his damp hair. ‘It’s still a matter for the Assarans.’
‘And they want you, Karim.’
Karim’s mouth flattened. His nostrils flared as he dragged in a deep breath. ‘I’ve got a life here.’
He watched the stream of rain down the windows and another chill encompassed him. It didn’t matter how long he spent in Europe and North America. He still missed the wide open skies of his homeland. The brilliant, harsh sun, and even the arid heartland where only the hardiest survived.
‘I’ve got a business to run,’ he added.
Ashraf didn’t respond.
‘I’m a private citizen now. I’ve had my fill of being royal. From the moment I could walk I was moulded into a prince, crammed full of lessons on public responsibility and politics. Now I’m living for myself.’
Not that he expected sympathy.
Finally his brother spoke. ‘So you’re telling me you’ll just turn your back on the situation? Because you’re having such a good time answering to no one but yourself?’ He didn’t hide his scepticism.
‘Damn it, Ashraf! Do I look like a hero?’
His brother’s voice held no laughter when he answered. ‘I always thought so, bro.’
Karim flinched, feeling the twelve-month age difference between them like a weight on his shoulders. Some hero! He hadn’t been able to protect his own brother.
Karim had been a serious, responsible child, his world hemmed in by constant demands that he learn, achieve, excel, work harder and longer. Even so, he’d devoted himself to finding ingenious ways to keep the old Sheikh’s attention off his younger brother. When he hadn’t succeeded—when the old man had focused his hate on the boy he’d believed a bastard—Ashraf had been bullied and beaten. Karim hadn’t been able to protect him all the time.
Ashraf had never blamed him for not looking after him better, but the twist of guilt in Karim’s belly was something he’d always carry.
‘You don’t have to be a hero to become Sheikh,’ Ashraf continued, as if he hadn’t just shaken Karim to the core. ‘Shakroun would have no qualms about taking the throne and there’s nothing heroic about him. He’d enjoy the perks of the position.’
The words hauled Karim’s thoughts out of the past and straight back to Assara. To the idea of Safiyah at the mercy of a man like Shakroun. Hassan Shakroun wouldn’t be slow to recognise that tying himself to the previous Sheikh’s beautiful widow would cement his position. Karim might not care for Safiyah any more but the thought of her with a thug like Shakroun...
Karim cursed under his breath, long and low. His brother, having made his point, merely said goodbye and left him with his thoughts.
Instinct warned Karim to keep a wide berth from Assara and its troubles. Yet his sense of responsibility nagged. It wasn’t helped by the realisation, crystallised during the meeting with Safiyah, that his new life wasn’t as fulfilling as he’d like. Yes, he had an aptitude for business and making money. Yes, he enjoyed the freedom to choose for himself, without pondering the impact of his decisions on millions of others. And Ashraf was right: it was far easier enjoying a discreet affair without the encumbrance of royalty.
But Karim had spent his life developing the skills to administer a nation. He’d had a few years of taking on more responsibility when the old Sheikh’s health had faded. He’d thrived on it. It had been his vocation. Which was why he’d been so devastated when he’d had to step away. Ashraf had told him to stay as Sheikh but Karim hadn’t been able to do it. His brother had already been robbed of so much. Karim had refused to take what was rightfully his.
The idea of making a real difference in Assara, doing what he was trained for and what he enjoyed, tempted him. He could do a lot for the place and its people. Assara was a fine country, but it was behind Za’daq in many ways. He’d enjoy the challenge.
Yet behind all those considerations was the thought of Safiyah. Of what would happen to her and her son if Shakroun became Sheikh.
Karim paced the private gym from end to end. Safiyah was nothing to him—no more important than any other Assaran citizen. He should be able to contemplate her without any stirring of emotion.
He grimaced. Emotion had lured him into playing out that scene with her earlier. He’d drawn out the interview with talk of marriage purely so he could watch her squirm. It had been a low act. Karim was ashamed of stooping to it. He couldn’t recall ever deliberately lying before. But he’d lied blatantly today. To salve his pride. And because he hated the fact that Safiyah could make him feel anything when she felt nothing. To her he was, as he’d always been, a means to an end.
But his talk of marriage had backfired mightily.
Because now he couldn’t get it out of his head.
Karim was intrigued by her. He kept circling back to the idea of Safiyah as his lover. Maybe because although they’d once been on the verge of betrothal, they’d never shared more than a few kisses. The night she’d agreed to come to him had been the night his world had been blown apart.
That had to be the reason he felt so unsettled. Safiyah was unfinished business.
Lust speared him, dark and urgent, as he remembered her in the crimson dress that had clung like a lover’s hands. The delicate pendant she’d worn, with a single glowing red stone, had drawn his eyes to the pale perfection of her throat. He’d wanted to bury his face where her pulse beat too fast and find out if she was still as sensitive there as he remembered. Or if that too had been a hoax. Like the way she’d pretended to fall for him.
He knew he should walk away.
Safiyah tested his limits more than any woman he’d met. He didn’t want to spend his life with a woman he couldn’t trust or respect. Even to satisfy his lust.
&
nbsp; But what if he did walk away? If he let Shakroun take the throne?
Karim would be in part responsible for what that thug did to Assara. And what he might do to Safiyah and her boy.
Karim stopped pacing and stared at the tall figure reflected in the mirror on the far side of the room. He saw hands clenched into fists, tendons standing taut, a body tensed for action.
He’d been raised to put the welfare of a nation before his own. That conditioning was hard to break.
Surely that was what made him hesitate.
He had a major decision to make and it would not hinge on Safiyah.
Karim forked his hand through his hair, scraping his fingers along his scalp. The trouble was, the more he thought about it, the more he realised marriage to the Assaran Queen was the best way to ensure he was accepted as Sheikh.
If he chose to take the role.
If he could bring himself to marry the woman who’d once spurned him.
* * *
‘He’s fine, Safiyah. Truly. It was just a runny nose and he’s okay now. He’s bright as anything and he’s been playing with the puppies.’
The phone to her ear, Safiyah rolled onto her back on the wide bed, imagining Tarek with a tumble of puppies. He’d be in his element. He loved animals, but Abbas had always said a palace was no place for pets.
‘You brought them to the palace on purpose, didn’t you, Rana? You’re hoping we’ll keep one.’
Not that she minded. These last few years she’d missed being around dogs and horses. There was something soothing about their unquestioning love.
‘Guilty as charged.’
Her sister’s chuckle made Safiyah smile. It was such a carefree sound, and one she still cherished. Rana was happy and settled now—such a tremendous change from a few years ago.
‘But you know how hard it can be to find homes for a litter. Especially since they’re not pure-bred. What’s one little puppy...?’
Safiyah laughed at Rana’s exaggerated tone of innocence. ‘Probably a lot of trouble until it’s house-trained and learns not to chew everything in sight. But you’re right. A dog would be good company for Tarek.’
Not that her son showed any sign of missing Abbas. He’d rarely seen his father more than once a week, and then only for short periods, usually in the throne room or the royal study.
Those meetings had been formal affairs. Abbas hadn’t been one to cuddle his son, or play games. He’d said that was how royal heirs were raised. They weren’t supposed to cling to their parents. And besides, as Sheikh he’d had other things to keep him busy. He’d assured Safiyah that when Tarek was old enough he’d take him in hand and teach him what he needed to know to rule Assara.
That was never going to happen now.
Tarek would grow up without knowing his father.
Nor would he become Sheikh.
A pang of fear pierced her chest. Would her son be allowed to grow up in safety? What would happen if Karim didn’t take the crown? He’d looked anything but happy about the idea. But if he didn’t and Hassan Shakroun became Sheikh—
‘Safiyah? Are you still there?’
‘Sorry, Rana. I got distracted.’
‘Things didn’t go well?’
‘I’m sure it will work out just fine.’ Safiyah was so used to putting a positive spin on things, protecting her sister as much as possible, that the words emerged automatically.
‘Reading between the lines, it doesn’t sound like it.’ Rana paused, then, ‘You can talk to me, you know, Safiyah. I’m not as fragile as I used to be.’
‘I know that.’
These days Rana seemed a different person entirely from the severely depressed young woman she’d once been. It was habit rather than need that fed Safiyah’s protectiveness, yet old ways died hard.
‘But there’s no news yet—nothing to share.’
Other than the fact Karim had asked her to be his wife.
No, not asked. Demanded. Made it a condition of him even considering accepting the sheikhdom.
She couldn’t share that fact. Not till she’d worked out what answer she was going to give.
Marrying Karim seemed impossible. Especially as there’d been not even a hint of warmth when he spoke of it. Instead he’d looked so cold, so brooding...
She couldn’t say yes. The very thought of accepting another marriage of convenience when she’d just escaped one sent shivers scudding down her spine.
Naturally they were shivers of distaste. They couldn’t be anything else.
But if she said no what would happen to Tarek? She’d do whatever it took to see him safe. Of course she would. Yet surely there was some other way. Surely marriage wasn’t essential.
‘Well, if you need to talk I’m just here.’
It struck Safiyah how far Rana had come from the troubled girl she’d been. ‘Thank you, Rana. I’m so lucky to have you.’ Especially as a few short years ago Safiyah had almost lost her. ‘To be honest, I—’
A knock on the door interrupted her. ‘Sorry, there’s someone here. I’ll just see who it is.’
Safiyah swung her bare feet off the bed, retying the belt of her long robe. She glanced at the time. Nine o’clock. Too late for a casual visitor, even if she’d known anyone else in Switzerland. And the special envoy who’d accompanied her from Assara would never dream of simply turning up at her door. He’d ring first.
‘That’s fine. I need to go anyway.’
In the background Safiyah heard yapping. She grinned as she crossed the bedroom and entered the suite’s sitting room, flicking on a lamp as she went.
‘Okay. Give Tarek a hug and kiss from me and tell him I’ll be home soon.’
‘I will. And good luck!’
More yapping, this time more frenzied, and Rana hung up.
Safiyah reached the entrance of her suite and peered through the peephole. Her vision was obscured by a large fist, raised to knock. When it lowered she was looking at a broad chest, straight shoulders and the dark gold flesh of a masculine neck and jaw.
Karim!
Safiyah’s pulse catapulted against her ribs, taking up a rackety, uneven beat. They’d agreed to meet tomorrow morning. Not tonight. She wasn’t prepared.
She glanced down at the silk robe of deep rose-pink. It covered her to her ankles, but abruptly Safiyah became aware that beneath it she wore nothing but an equally thin nightgown.
That hand rose to knock again, and she knew she had no choice but to answer.
She cracked the door open, keeping out of view behind it as much as possible.
‘Karim. This is a surprise.’ Despite her efforts her voice sounded husky, betraying her lack of calm.
‘Safiyah.’ He nodded and stepped forward, clearly expecting her to admit him.
She held the door firmly, not budging. ‘It’s late. I’m afraid it’s not convenient to talk now.’ Not when she was barefoot and wearing next to nothing. ‘Can this wait till the morning?’
By then she’d have some idea of what she was going to say. Hopefully. Plus she’d be dressed. Definitely. Dressed in something that didn’t make her feel appallingly feminine and vulnerable just standing close to Karim.
* * *
Was she entertaining a lover? The idea flashed into his brain, splintering thoughts of sheikhdoms and politics.
Her cheeks were pink and her hair was a messy dark cloud drifting over her shoulders, as if she’d just climbed out of bed. Her eyes shone like gems and he saw the pulse jitter at the base of her throat, drawing attention both to her elegant neck and her agitation.
Karim’s pulse revved as he propped the door open with his shoulder. He heard no noise in the room behind her but that meant nothing.
‘I’m afraid this can’t wait.’
Wide eyes looked up at him. Still she didn’t move. He watched her sw
allow, the movement convulsive. Karim felt a stab of hunger. He fought the urge to stroke that pale skin and discover if it was as soft as he remembered.
Such weakness only fired his annoyance. Bad enough that his every attempt to think logically about this situation and his future kept swinging back to thoughts of Safiyah. Karim chafed at his unwanted weakness for this woman.
‘Surely tomorrow—’
‘Not tomorrow. Now.’ He bent his head, bringing it closer to hers. ‘If I walk away now, Safiyah, don’t expect me ever to walk into Assara.’
He didn’t mention the sheikhdom. Even in this quiet corridor he was cautious with his words, but she understood. He saw the colour fade from her cheeks and she stepped back, allowing him to enter.
One quick, comprehensive survey revealed that she wore silk and lace. Her robe clung to an hourglass figure that would make any man stare. Especially when she swung round after shutting the door and her full breasts wobbled with the movement, clearly unrestrained by a bra. That wobble shot a dart of pure lust to his tightening groin.
Karim guessed her robe had been put on quickly. It was belted, but gaped open over a low décolletage, over creamy, fragrant flesh and more pink silk. Even the colour of the silk was flagrantly feminine.
A flicker of long-buried memory stirred...of his mother’s private courtyard, filled with the heady scent of damask roses, their petals a deep, velvety pink. It had been an oasis of femininity in his father’s austere palace. And it had been razed to bare earth when the old man had discovered her sons, at four and three respectively, were pining for her after she’d run off with her lover and had secretly sought solace in her garden.
But memories of the past faded as he took in Safiyah, looking lush and sensual. Outrageously inviting. Especially with that cloud of dark hair spilling around her shoulders, the ends curling around her breasts.
