He stopped in the doorway and ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of annoyance. She followed the movement and was instantly distracted. Her fingertips tingled and she imagined how it would feel if she had access to his thick, dark pelt of hair.
“I did not expect my visit would place you in danger, Sabihah.”
Mentally, she chastised herself for her wayward thoughts and brought herself back to reality. “You say you’re sorry for placing me in danger, and yet you want me to return to Rhajia. You don’t believe turning up on Mustaf’s doorstep and trying to depose him would place me in even greater danger?”
“In Turastan, I could protect you properly. This trip was arranged on very short notice. Such an incident won’t happen again.”
“Even with a leak in your security?”
“A possible leak. If one exists, you may be certain it will be identified quickly.”
“Great.” Her lips twisted. Her throat felt thick with the futility of her situation.
“Sit down,” he instructed, ushering her into the living room which his team had cleaned.
If anyone else had made the suggestion, she would have sunk into a chair willingly. She was completely drained after the revelations and events of the afternoon. But this was Crown Prince Khalid and his words had been a command, not an invitation. In defiance, she remained where she was. She needed to wrest back some control and assert herself. He couldn’t order her about, and she couldn’t let herself become overwhelmed by his physical appearance. She wasn’t a teenager anymore, but a grown woman. Surely she’d left behind the silly fantasies she’d woven around this man years ago?
Prince Khalid was her adversary. His presence here and his determination threatened her plans for the future. Every one of her defensive barriers needed to be up.
He reached for her arm. “Please come and sit down, Sabihah.”
Sabrina’s mouth dried the instant he touched her. Despite her attempts to stop feeling attracted to him, her heartbeat stuttered as lightning forks of heat speared from his hand up her arm, across her chest and earthed deep at the juncture of her thighs. She only just managed to stifle a groan of need.
Seconds stretched. When she met his eyes she hoped he would not be able to read her reaction to him. “I don’t want to sit. You need to go.”
“We need to talk.”
She couldn’t keep looking into those tawny-gold eyes and maintain her fight against him. But when she broke eye contact to look pointedly at where his hand held her arm, she couldn’t help notice the strength of his long, tanned fingers. Masculine fingers. And, if his playboy reputation was true, fingers extremely familiar with the female form.
Oh man, she was in trouble. “I think we’ve said all there is to say. I’m exhausted. Arguing won’t do any good.”
He raised his other hand to lift her chin with firm but gentle fingers. She had no choice but to meet his eyes. She struggled to mask the rawness of her emotions.
“I’m not your enemy, Sabihah.”
Sabihah.
Every time he uttered her birth name it was like a sweet, exotic caress. A lover’s caress. The sound drew her gaze to his full, sensuous lips. She should suppress her response to him yet she had the overwhelming urge to feel his lips against her own. She knew it was crazy. It was a knee-jerk reaction because of everything she’d been through. His presence, the shooting, his insistence she was a princess with a kingdom to rule. He’d thrown her life out of orbit. Made her vulnerable. Now, due to that vulnerability, she was drawn to the strength he radiated. She craved assurance that everything would be okay. That was all this was. Nothing more.
Her conscious nagged her. He’s the most drop-dead good-looking guy you’ve ever set eyes on. Isn’t that the real reason you want him to kiss you?
Ignoring that thought she said, “If you aren’t my enemy, Crown Prince of Turastan, just how do you see yourself in all of this?” The husky quality of her voice took away from the demand she’d meant to issue.
His rich voice seemed to deepen as he answered, “I’m your protector.”
Amazingly the idea of being under his protection held a great deal more appeal than she cared to admit. He’d launched himself at her this afternoon to protect her from a bullet, proving they were not empty words.
“As long as you’re with me, you’re safe,” he said confidently. “But you will be safer in Turastan.”
“Going to Turastan is not an option.”
Displeasure tightened his lips as he withdrew his touch. Seizing the opportunity, she stepped away from him.
“If I leave you here, it would be as good as signing your death warrant,” he said.
“My life is here.” He needed to go. She needed to get back to reality.
“Sabihah, your life here will change.” His voice was harsh, the reality of his words harsher. “Your true identity has already been revealed to the police. I don’t believe the information will remain confidential in this small community. People will regard you differently. News will spread. Imagine the sensation when the media learns that the country teacher who has become a national heroine is actually a Crown Princess? You could be besieged by the world’s media within a couple of days. The paparazzi will want the scoop on how the lost princess of Rhajia survived the desert sandstorm. They will pry into every detail of your life.”
She swallowed down her horror. What he said was true. Her life was altered irrevocably. It had been bad enough coping with media interest after the bus accident, but this sort of exposure would be much worse. Images of photographers lying in wait as she left the house and made her way to school filled her brain. This was exactly the sort of story the press would want to expose. Photographers would want shots of her doing the most mundane activities—supposing she survived the shots fired at her by Mustaf’s henchmen.
One hand went to her hip. “I’ve lived the last seventeen years as my mother hoped—in complete anonymity. Now you’re trying to force my father’s expectations upon me. What about what I want? Why shouldn’t I be allowed to abdicate and live my life as I choose?”
He let out an aggravated breath while his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You’ve been living a lie. You need to face the truth. You can’t escape who you really are. The only way to survive is to embrace it.”
“Don’t you see? I’m not Sabihah anymore.” A short, sharp movement of her right hand accompanied each word. “I haven’t been raised as a royal. I haven’t even been raised as a Rhajian.”
With two strides he closed the distance between them. Both his arms extended to rest his hands on her shoulders. Her body wanted to lean toward him. It would be far easier to embrace him than to embrace the truth of her identity.
“I understand how you feel, more than you could know,” he told her quietly. Was there bitterness, a slight resentment she heard in his tone? Before she could question him, he continued. “But there are responsibilities you have by the mere fact of your birth. You might not need Rhajia but Rhajia needs you.”
“I can’t deal with that.” She lowered her head.
“You tell me the Rhajians aren’t your people, yet you share their heritage. Are you not at all curious to visit the country of your birth? The country you were born to rule?”
“No,” she said, but knew the word was a lie.
The sound he made was dismissive. “These are the people your parents loved so much, they gave their lives to protect them.”
Yes, that was a bitter reminder. Her parents had died for their people. Why hadn’t they chosen to escape and live for their daughter?
Without warning, tears ran down her cheeks. He shifted one hand from her shoulder and raised it to wipe them away. Surprisingly, given his obvious frustration with her, his touch was gentle. The gesture made her want to weep harder and take comfort against the solid wall of his chest.
Damn him, he was right. No matter how happy she told herself she was with her life, there was a giant void—Rhajia. Part of her could res
ent what the nation represented—it had robbed her of her parents. Yet still, it called to her. It was her tie to her parents. She may need to return there to achieve closure.
“I lived for years expecting to return to Rhajia,” she told him, focusing on a button on his shirt. “I wanted to go back. I guess I thought it was my destiny. Years ago I would have accepted it. Part of me craved contact with the country my father ruled—the country my mother fell in love with. When nobody came for me, I felt abandoned.” She should move away from him, but she couldn’t summon the energy. “I couldn’t go on thinking my future lay in a land thousands of kilometres away with people who had forgotten me. I needed to create my own identity. My own life.”
“You have,” he told her as one hand pushed a loose tendril of hair away from her cheek. “From what I’ve learned about you, you’ve done very well. But this isn’t where you belong.”
His touch was magic. God, she wanted to lean against him. Instead she forced herself to turn away from him, grab a tissue from the box on the coffee table, and wipe her eyes. “I can’t go back now.”
“If you felt your countrymen had abandoned you, perhaps you deliberately shut down your desire to return home?”
She thought about it. It sort of made sense. But his suggestion rang warning bells for her. He was getting way too close and much too fast. He’d been here a few hours, yet the connection she felt to him was incredibly powerful. Was it because he represented a link to her past?
Having scrunching the tissue up and stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans, she stilled as he spoke from right behind her and reached around her to take her hand.
“I realise this is all happening very fast for you, yet there is no time for delay.”
She closed her eyes and refused to turn around to look at him. Her lack of vision only sharpened her other senses. She breathed in the undeniably masculine scent of him, absorbed the feel of his slightly roughened fingers on the smooth skin of her hand with greater clarity, heard the raw huskiness of his sensual voice as he murmured, “Come with me to Turastan.”
His deep tones were hypnotic and made his words tempting. The male version of a siren’s call, his invitation was suddenly difficult to resist.
The muscles across her shoulders relaxed and her mind began to yield. Her body leaned back toward the source of the voice, craving the heat emanating from his body.
No! She forced her eyes open and blinked hard. “I need to abdicate.”
She felt his body jerk and he dropped his hand away from her. “No.”
The loss of physical contact with him evoked the same panic a swimmer would feel being cast adrift in stormy waters without a life jacket. It took enormous willpower to face him and try to reason with him. “You and your father have immense influence. I need your help. You must know how I can abdicate, Khalid.”
“I can’t allow you to do it.”
Oh God, stop looking at his mouth. Stop thinking about those lips. “This isn’t your decision to make.”
He paced a short distance before turning back to her. “Your life is targeted, but Helen’s life is also at risk. Do you want to place her in danger?”
“Surely they wouldn’t kill Helen?”
“Mustaf is capable of any heinous crime. If he can’t kill you, he could easily kidnap Helen and use her as leverage to get to you. Even your students could be caught in the cross-fire.”
Cold dread leeched into her heart as he played his trump card. No, this wouldn’t happen if she handed over the right to rule to Mustaf.
“I need to abdicate quickly,” she said. “Before he can do any of those things, I need to let him know the throne is his.”
The disappointment that flashed through his eyes before his features set in stone, made her want to shake him. The tension in the room was palpable as they stared each other down.
“You’re being selfish. You and those you care about are not the only ones Mustaf threatens. In Rhajia, many people live every day in fear for their own lives and the lives of their loved ones.”
She sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands as his words hit their mark. Mustaf was a monster. He’d killed her parents. Did she really have the right to live her normal, peaceful existence when she could depose him? Could she hand over her birthright when there might be the slightest chance she could improve the lives of the Rhajians?
“You can make a difference,” Prince Khalid told her firmly, as though he’d sensed her indecision. “Do it for your countrymen. Do it for your parents and all they sacrificed. Mostly, Sabihah, do it because you know it is right.”
Be brave … One day you will rule our country well. Her father’s words echoed in her head, wracking her with guilt. People were hurting. If she did nothing, they would continue to suffer. She didn’t doubt Khalid spoke the truth when he suggested other innocents would be hurt if she didn’t return with him.
Another memory assailed her. It was the day she’d first met Prince Khalid. It must’ve been just after her eighth birthday—mere months before her life would be changed forever. Her mother had dressed her up in beautiful clothes and told her how important it was to be on her best behaviour. The royal family from Turastan were visiting the palace and she was going to meet Prince Hazim Ul-Haq—still a boy in his teens but the one her father had chosen for her to marry.
Sabrina remembered each detail vividly. She’d been so curious about the prince who would be her husband. But the meeting had been a giant disappointment. Home on holidays from Oxford University, Prince Hazim hadn’t been at all interested in colouring-in. She’d thought him completely boring. She couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about, why all the maids had strained to catch a glimpse of him, and kept telling her how lucky she was.
Prince Khalid, however, had been a different matter. She’d seen him through the window, astride a magnificent black polo pony. He’d ducked and weaved alongside the best of the Rhajian polo team. He’d been daring, his moves horrifyingly reckless. Khalid had looked superb even back then. Something about him had mesmerised her and she’d wished it was Khalid and not Hazim who would be her husband.
“I remember meeting you after you trained with the Rhajian polo team,” she whispered.
“They were fine men,” he recalled, “but there’s no national polo team in your country now, Princess. Mustaf withdrew support for all national sports representation despite the disapproval of the Arab Council.” His hand slashed through the air. “That was minor to the people of Rhajia. Starvation, lack of education and inadequate medical facilities are far more pressing issues you can address.”
“Your brother, Hazim, pressed hard for the Council to intervene in Rhajia’s internal affairs.”
“Yes, but even such a magnificent statesman as my brother failed to influence the Council in these matters.”
She nodded, knowing the truth of his words. When she was thirteen years old, she’d typed Hazim’s name in an internet search. She’d wanted to know what was happening in Rhajia and Turastan. She’d tried to get to know Hazim by reading articles about the negotiations he was involved in. But she’d needed to force herself to plough through all the stories of Hazim’s incredible diplomatic actions. The stories and pictures about Khalid and the glamorous lifestyle he led had been far more enticing.
The younger, twenty-year-old prince had also captured her interest because of his irresistible good looks. Even before his features had matured, his looks had rivalled any of the Hollywood stars and his physique still held centrefold appeal.
Khalid had drawn her like a flame draws a moth. She’d not been able to resist reading any article about him that she came across. Yet the more she’d read about Khalid, the more angry and disdainful she’d become. This prince was photographed in one article after another with gorgeous women on his arm. The list of women he’d dated was endless and included supermodels, actresses and young heiresses. All rich and famous. All stunningly beautiful.
Sabrina had told herself she w
as fortunate Hazim was the first-born son. Despite Khalid’s physical appeal, marriage to a faithless playboy would’ve been intolerable. As she’d waited for King Hassan or Prince Hazim to come for her, Sabrina had schooled herself to follow the important international alliances Hazim was forging and to put Khalid out of her head. It would be important for her to know as much as possible about Hazim when she became his wife.
The final painful blow struck a year before Hazim’s death. His marriage to the beautiful Barika eighteen months ago had made international headline news. As the nation had adopted Christianity during the time of the crusades, Hazim would take only one wife. The last of Sabrina’s illusions was shattered. Nobody wanted her. Everyone seemed to accept she’d been lost in the desert and she’d been forgotten. Helen was the only one who cared.
She recognised the familiar torment of emotions from her childhood and teenage years reach out to her with grasping, greedy arms, trying to pull her down toward a turbulent whirlpool of self-pity and despair. Subconsciously she gripped the padded armrest of her chair tightly.
No. She wasn’t a child anymore. Sabrina refused to be that lost individual waiting to be found. Confidence and self-reliance had been hard-won traits she now possessed and she refused to be parted from. She loosened her grip.
A plan began to form in her head.
“Sabihah, you—”
“Wait,” she said. “I’m thinking.”
She ignored the irritated sound he made in response and the agitated tapping of his fingers against the back of a chair. She needed to focus and find a way she could claim the throne, save Rhajia, then return to the life she loved.
Did she dare propose it? There was no guarantee she would escape unscathed if he accepted her terms.
When she raised her head from her hands a few seconds later, she swallowed nervously before she spoke. “You are now the Crown Prince of Turastan.”
The Defiant Princess Page 5
