The Sultan Demands His Heir

There was nothing extraordinary about her individual features or the honey blonde hair tied in a bun at her nape. And yet the combination of full lips, pert nose and wide green-grey eyes was so striking his fingers moved, almost of their own accord, to the button that lowered his window. But still he couldn’t decipher what had triggered the faint zap of electricity that had charged through him at the sight of her. Perhaps it was the determined thrust of her jaw. Or the righteous indignation that sparked from her almond-shaped eyes.

Most likely it was the words falling from her mouth. Condemning. Inciting words wrapped in a husky bedroom voice and amplified on speakers that threatened to distract him even as he strained to focus on them.

A voice he’d heard before, slightly sleep husky, over the phone in the middle of the night. A voice that had, disturbingly and inappropriately, tugged at the most masculine part of him.

‘My father has been attacked twice in prison during the last week, while under the supervision of the police. Once was bad enough, considering he suffered a concussion then. But he was attacked again today, and I’m sorry, but twice is not acceptable.’

‘Are you saying that you hold the authorities responsible?’ the reporter prompted.

The woman shrugged, causing Zaid’s gaze to drop momentarily from her face to the sleek lines of her neck and shoulders, her light short-sleeved top clearly delineating her delicate bones and the swell of her breasts. He forced his attention up in time to hear her answer.

‘I was given the impression that the authorities here are practically the best in the world, and yet they can’t seem to keep the people under their care safe. On top of that, it seems I won’t be allowed to see my father until his trial or until I offer a financial incentive to do so.’

The reporter’s eyes gleamed as she latched onto the delicious morsel. ‘You were asked for a bribe before you could see your father?’

The woman hesitated for a millisecond before she shrugged again. ‘Not in so many words, but it wasn’t hard to read between the lines.’

* * *

‘So I take it your impression of Ja’ahr government so far isn’t a good one?’

A sardonic smile lifted her mouth. ‘That’s an understatement.’

‘If you could say anything to those in charge, what would you say?’

She looked directly into the camera, her wide eyes gleaming with purpose. ‘That I’m not impressed. And not just with the police. These people here clearly believe that too. I believe a fish rots from the head down.’

The reporter’s gaze grew a touch wary. ‘Are you alleging that Sultan Al-Ameen is directly culpable for what happened to your father?’

The woman hesitated, her plump lower lip momentarily disappearing between her teeth before emerging, gleaming, to be pressed into a displeased line. ‘It’s apparent that something’s wrong with the system. And since he’s the one in charge, I guess my question to him is what’s he doing about the situation?’ she challenged.

Zaid hit the button, blocking out the rest of the interview just as his intercom buzzed.

‘Your Highness, a thousand apologies for you having to witness that.’ The voice of his chief advisor, travelling in the SUV behind him, was almost obsequious. ‘I have just contacted the head of the TV studio. We are taking steps to have the broadcast shut down immediately—’

‘You will do no such thing,’ Zaid interjected grimly.

‘But, Your Highness, we can’t let such blatant views be aired—’

‘We can and we will. Ja’ahr is supposed to be a country that champions freedom of speech. Anyone who attempts to stand in the way of that will answer directly to me. Is that clear?’

‘Of course, Your Highness,’ his advisor agreed promptly.

As his motorcade passed the last of the protestors, he caught one last, brief glimpse of the woman on a much closer screen. Her head was tilted, the sunlight slanting over her cheekbone throwing her face into clear, more captivating lines. His jaw tightened at the further sizzle of electricity, until he was sure it would crack.

‘Do you wish me to find out who she is, Your Highness?’

He didn’t need to. He knew exactly who she was.

Esmeralda Scott.

Daughter of the criminal he intended to prosecute and put behind bars in the very near future. ‘That won’t be necessary. But have her brought to me immediately,’ he instructed.

As he hung up, he allowed the inner voice to question why he was going out of his way to trigger such a knee-jerk reaction. A second later, he smashed it away.

The why wasn’t so important. What mattered was her maligning the fragile pillars of the very things he was fighting to restore in his country. Integrity. Honour. Accountability.

Esmeralda Scott needed to answer a few questions of her own. After which he would take pleasure in pointing out the errors of her ways to her.

* * *

Esme gave in to the frantic urge to slide her clammy palms down her skirt as the black town car with tinted windows sped her towards an unknown destination. She’d cautioned herself a dozen times against letting fear take over. So far it hadn’t.

Perhaps it had something to do with the bespectacled, harmless-looking man sitting across from her and his reassurance that her interview had gained her the right audience on behalf of her father.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked for the second time, her mind still spinning at the swiftness at which her appearance on TV had earned her attention.

The question earned her a slightly less warm smile. ‘You will see for yourself when we arrive in a few minutes.’

The fear she’d staunched looming a little larger, Esme glanced out the window.

She began to notice that the landscape was growing more opulent, the parks even greener and studded with staggeringly beautiful works of art. Why that triggered a stronger sense of trepidation, Esme wasn’t sure. Sweat that had been steadily beading the back of her neck, despite the air-conditioning of the car, rolled between her shoulders.

‘My father’s prison hospital is on the other side of the city,’ she attempted again.

‘I am aware of that, Miss Scott.’

Alarm trickled through her. ‘You never said how come you knew my name.’ She’d only given the journalist her first name during the interview.

‘No, I did not.’

She opened her mouth to press for a clearer answer but closed it again as the car swerved in a wide circle before approaching huge double gates painted in stunning gold leaf. They slowed long enough for armed guards to wave them through.

‘This...is the Royal Palace,’ she mumbled, unable to stop her voice from shaking as she stared at the immense azure-coloured dome that could rival St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome.

‘Indeed,’ the man responded, not without a small ounce of relish.

The town car drew to a firm stop. The sweat between her shoulders grew icy. She cast another, frantic glance outside.

The penny finally dropped. She was here, at the Royal Palace. After publicly calling out the ruler of the kingdom.

Dear God, what have I done?

‘I’m here because of what I said on TV about the Sultan, aren’t I?’

A sharply dressed valet opened the door and the chief advisor stepped out. He signalled to someone out of sight before he glanced down at her. ‘That is not for me to answer. His Highness has requested your presence. I do not advise keeping him waiting.’

Before she could answer, he walked away, his shoes and those of his minders clicking precisely on the white and gold polished stone tiles that led to the entrance steps of the palace.

Esme debated remaining in the car as alarm flared into full-blown panic. The driver was still seated behind the wheel. She could ask him to take her back to her hotel. Even beg if necessary. Or she could get out and start walking. But even as the thoughts tumbled she knew it was futile.

Another set of footsteps approached the car. Esme held her breath as a man dressed in dark gold traditional clothes paused beside the open door and gave a shallow bow. He, too, was flanked by two guards.

They seem to travel in threes.

She was tossing away the mildly hysterical observation when he spoke. ‘Miss Scott, I am Fawzi Suleiman, His Royal Highness’s private secretary. If you would come with me, please?’

The question was couched in cultured diplomacy, but she had very little doubt that it was a command.

‘Do I have a choice?’ she asked anyway, half hoping for a response in the affirmative.

The response never came. What she witnessed instead was the firmer, watchful stance of the bodyguards, even while Fawzi Suleiman bowed again and swept out his arm in a polite but firm this-way gesture.

Esme alighted into dazzling sunshine and a dry breeze. She took a moment to tug down her knee-length black pencil skirt and resisted the urge to adjust her neckline. Fidgeting was a sign of weakness, and she had a feeling she would need every piece of her armour in place.

Slowly, she raised her chin and smiled. ‘Lead the way.’

He took her words literally, walking several steps ahead of her as they entered the world-famous Ja’ahr Palace.

At first sight of the interior her steps slowed and her jaw dropped.

Tiered Moorish arches framed in black lacquer and gold leaf veered off half a dozen hallways, all of which converged in a stunning atrium centred by a large azure-tiled fountain.

She dragged her gaze away long enough to see that they’d arrived at the bottom of wide, magnificent, sweeping stairs. Carpeted in the same azure tone that seemed to be the royal colour, the painstakingly carved designs that graced the bannisters were exquisite and grand.

Truly fit for a king.

A faintly cleared throat reprimanded her for dawdling. But as they traversed hallway after hallway, past elegantly dressed palace staff who surreptitiously eyed her, awe gave way to a much more elemental emotion.

She’d been expertly manipulated. With clever words and non-answers, but tricked nevertheless. Esme could only think of one reason why.

Intimidation.

They arrived before a set of carved double doors. She curbed the panic that flared anew, clutching her purse tighter as Fawzi Suleiman turned to her.

‘You will wait here until you’re summoned. And when you enter, you will address the Sultan as Your Highness.’

He didn’t wait for her response, merely grasped the thick handles and pushed the doors wide open.

‘Miss Scott is here, Your Highness,’ she heard him murmur.

Whatever response he received had him executing another bow before turning to her. ‘You may go in.’

She’d taken two steps into the room when she heard the doors shut ominously behind her. Despite the slow burn of anger in her belly, Esme swallowed, fresh nerves jangling as the faint scent of incense and expensive aftershave hit her nostrils.

She was in the presence of the ruler of Ja’ahr.

She forced her feet to move over the thick, expensive Persian rugs she was certain cost more than she would earn in two lifetimes as she emerged into the largest personal office she’d ever seen. Esme’s entire focus immediately zeroed in on the man behind the massive antique desk.

From the photos on the Internet she’d known he was a big man. But the flesh and blood version, the larger-than-life presence watching her in golden-eyed silence, was so shockingly visceral, she stumbled. She caught herself quickly, silently admonishing herself for the blunder.

A dozen feet from his desk, his magnetic aura hit her, hard and jolting. She wanted to stop walking but she forced herself to take another step. And then she froze as he rose to his feet.

It was like being hit with a tidal wave of raw masculinity. At five feet five, she considered herself of average height but her heels added a confidence-bolstering three inches. None of that mattered now as she took in the towering man looking down his domineering royal nose at her.

He was dressed in a three-piece suit, but he may as well have been adorned in an ancient warrior’s suit of armour, such was the primitive air of aggression Zaid Al-Ameen gave off as he watched her. Above his head, a giant emblem depicting his royal kingdom’s coat of arms hung, emphasising the glory and authority of its ruler.

But even without the trappings of all-encompassing wealth and power, Esme would have been foolish to underestimate the might of the man before her.

She summoned every last ounce of composure. ‘I...don’t know why I’ve been brought here. I haven’t done anything wrong. Your Highness,’ she tagged on after a taut second.

He didn’t respond. Esme forced herself to return his intense stare as she fought the urge to wet her dry lips. ‘And I hope you don’t expect me to bow. I’m not sure I can do it correctly.’

One imperious brow lifted. ‘How would you know unless you try?’ he drawled.

A spike of something hot and unnerving shot through her midriff at the sound of his accented voice. Deep, gravel rough, filled with power, it rumbled like ominous thunder. Esme’s shiver coursed down to her toes.

‘It may be the done thing, but I don’t think I want to.’

An enigmatic expression crossed his face, disappearing before she could accurately decipher it. ‘“But I don’t think I want to, Your Highness”.’

She blinked, dragging her attention from his exotically captivating face. ‘What?’

‘You were told of the correct form of address, were you not? Or does your lack of respect for my country and my judicial system extend to my station as well?’

The throb of anger in his voice sent a chill over her nape. She was in the lion’s den, faced with its incredibly displeased occupant. Regardless of her personal feelings, she needed to tread carefully if she wanted to escape with her hide intact.

‘My apologies, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to cause offence.’

‘How is it possible that I’ve known of your existence only a short time and yet I’m ready to add insincere to the list of your unsavoury attributes?’

Her mouth gaped. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Excuse me, Your Highness.’ This time the command was coated in ice, his eyes reflecting the same frigid displeasure as he regarded her.

Esme attempted to curb the angry words tripping over her tongue. She failed. ‘Perhaps it has something to do with being brought here against my will. Your Highness.’

With measured strides, he rounded his desk. Esme couldn’t help but stare. Despite his immense size, he moved like poetry in motion. Like a stealthy predator, focused on only one goal.

Vanquishing his prey.

CHAPTER THREE

ESME EXPECTED A cataclysmic event to occur in the seconds it took for him to prowl closer. Such was the power of the force field he wielded. Instead, Zaid Al-Ameen stopped a few feet from her, his gaze capturing hers as a frown pleated his brow.

‘You were brought here against your will?’

‘Well...yes. Somewhat. Your Highness.’

‘The answer is either yes or no. Did my men lay their hands on you?’ he enquired, his voice a touch rougher.

She had to lock her knees to keep from doing something stupid. Like crumbling into an inelegant heap at his feet. Because the closer he got, the higher she craned her neck, the more her brain scrambled. ‘I...er...’

‘Were you harmed in any way, Miss Scott?’ he demanded in a near growl.

‘No...but your emissary misrepresented himself.’

He stopped moving, his eyes narrowing. ‘How?’

‘He didn’t tell me he was bringing me here for a start. He gave me the impression that he was taking me to my father—’

‘But no one touched you?’

Esme couldn’t understand why he was so hung up on that. But she shook her head. ‘No one touched me, but that doesn’t alter the fact that this is a form of kidnapping.’

He clasped his hands behind his back, but that didn’t diffuse the power of his presence. If anything, his focus sharpened on her face, his eyes raking her from temple to chin and back again. ‘You weren’t told that I wished to speak to you?’

‘Not until we got here. And I got the feeling that I wouldn’t be allowed to leave even if I wanted to.’

He remained silent for a moment, hawk-like eyes probing her every breath. ‘First you allege that the authorities wanted a bribe in order for you to see your father, and now you’re alleging a potential kidnapping, even though you came here of your own free will. Are you in the habit of making assumptions about everything, Miss Scott? Or getting into the vehicles of men you think wish you harm?’ The accusation was delivered in a low, pithy tone as he took yet another step closer.

The icy fingers crawling up her back shrieked at her to retreat from the wall of bristling manhood coming at her. But Esme had learned to stand her ground a long time ago.

So, even though her instinct warned that Sultan Zaid Al-Ameen posed a different sort of danger from that she was used to, perhaps an even more potent kind, she angled her chin and stubbornly met his gaze. ‘No, Your Highness. I’m in the habit of judging a situation for myself. But if I’m wrong, here’s your chance to prove it. I wish to leave,’ she threw out.

That left brow arched again. ‘You just got here.’

‘And as I said, Your Highness, I thought I was being taken to see my father and not...’

‘Not?’

‘Bundled here for...whatever reason you’ve had me brought here. I’m assuming you’re going to tell me?’

‘In due course.’

Her response stuck in her throat as he strode past her. The mingled trail of incense, aftershave and man that sneaked into her senses momentarily distracted her. Esme found herself turning after him, her feet magnetically taking a step in his direction.

‘Come and sit down,’ Zaid Al-Ameen said.

The invitation was low and even, but another layer of apprehension dragged over her skin. She glanced at the closed doors through which she’d walked a few minutes ago.

‘Just for the hell of it, if I said no, that I want to leave, will you let me?’

‘You may leave if you wish to. But not until we’ve had a conversation. Sit down, Miss Scott.’ There was no mistaking the command this time, or the inference that she wouldn’t be allowed to leave until he was ready to let her go.

Esme gripped her purse tighter, her fingers screaming with the pressure on the leather. Pulse tripping over itself, she followed him to the sitting area and perched on the nearest seat.

Almost on cue, the doors opened and his private secretary appeared, bearing a large, beautifully carved tray of refreshments.

He set it down, executed another bow, then waited with his hands clasped respectfully in front of him.

Zaid Al-Ameen sat down in the adjacent seat and looked at her. ‘Do you prefer tea or coffee?’ he asked.

About to refuse because she didn’t think she could get anything down her throat, she paused, keenly aware of the two sets of eyes watching her.

‘Tea, please, thank you. Your Highness,’ she hastily added after a sharp look from Fawzi.

His master cast her a sardonic look before nodding to Fawzi, who moved forward and prepared the tea with smooth efficiency.

Bemused, Esme accepted the beverage, almost afraid to handle the exquisite bone china. She refused the delicious-looking exotic treats Fawzi offered her, then waited as Sultan Al-Ameen’s coffee was prepared and handed to him.

Fawzi bowed again and left the room.

Silence reigned as Esme took another sip, and attempted to drag her gaze from the slim, elegant fingers gripping his coffee cup. After taking a large sip, he set the cup back on the saucer and swung his penetrative gaze to her.

‘Contrary to what you wish me to think, you know exactly why you’re here.’

The muscles in her belly quivered, but she fought to keep her voice even. ‘My television interview in the park?’

‘Precisely,’ he intoned.

Sensing the beginning of a tremble in her hand, she gripped her cup harder. ‘I thought Ja’ahr advocated free speech among its citizens?’

‘Free speech is one thing, Miss Scott. Skirting the inner edges of slander is another matter entirely.’

The quivering in her belly escalated. ‘Slander?’

‘Yes. Disrespecting the royal throne is a criminal offence here in Ja’ahr. One that is currently punishable by a prison sentence.’

‘Currently?’

‘Until that law, like a few others, is amended, yes. Perhaps that is what you wish? To be tossed in prison so you can keep your father company?’ Zaid Al-Ameen enquired in a clipped tone.

‘Of course it isn’t. I only wanted... I was frustrated. And worried for my father.’

‘So you always leave your common sense behind when your emotions get the better of you? Are you aware that some of the allegations you made this afternoon are serious enough to put you in danger?’

The rattle of the cup had her hastily setting it down. ‘Danger from who?’

‘For starters, the police commissioner doesn’t like his organisation or his reputation questioned so publicly. He could bring charges against you. Or worse.’

Fear climbed into her throat. ‘What does worse mean?’

‘It means you should’ve given your words a little more thought before you went on live television.’

‘But...everything I said was true,’ she argued, unwilling to let fear take over.

His lips pursed for a moment. ‘It would’ve been prudent to take into account that you’re no longer in England. That things are done somewhat differently here.’

‘What does that mean?’ she asked again.

He discarded his own cup and saucer then leaned forward, his arms braced on his knees. The action caused his wide shoulders to strain beneath his suit, drawing her unwilling attention to the untamed power beneath the clothes.

A hint of it emerged in a low rumble as he spoke. ‘It means my magnanimity and position are the only things keeping you out of jail right now, Miss Scott, given the fact that some of the allegations you claim to be true are unfounded.’

‘Which ones?’

‘You said your father was attacked twice in the last week. But my preliminary investigation tells a different story.’

Her breath caught. ‘You’ve looked into it already?’

‘You maligned my government and me on live television,’ he replied in icy condemnation. ‘“The fish rots from the head” I believe were your exact words? I don’t take kindly to such an accusation, neither do I leave it unanswered.’

She felt a little light-headed. ‘Your Highness, it...wasn’t personal—’

‘Spare me the false contrition. It was a direct challenge and you know it. One I took up. Quite apart from my intimate knowledge of your father’s many crimes, do you want to know what else I discovered?’

The taunting relish in his voice told her she didn’t. But she swallowed down the No that rose in her throat. ‘You’re going to tell me anyway, so go ahead.’

‘I have it on good authority, and on prison security footage, that your father instigated both confrontations. He seems to be under some misguided delusion that his fate will be less dire if he’s seen as a victim.’

She tensed as the words struck a little too close to the bone. Jeffrey Scott was a master at reading situations and adapting to them. It was the reason he’d survived this long in his chosen profession.

Eagle eyes caught her reaction. ‘I see you’re not surprised. Neither are you hurrying to his defence,’ he observed. ‘Perhaps some of what I’ve said rings truer for you than the picture you painted of him on live TV?’

She took a deep, steadying breath. No matter what she knew in her heart, she wouldn’t incriminate her father by answering the question. ‘That doesn’t alter the fact that the guards didn’t take action after the first incident,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps if he’d been released on bail—’

‘So he could attempt to take the first flight out of the country? Your father is a veteran con man, which, judging by your continued lack of surprise, is not news to you. And yet he’s named you as his principal character witness,’ he mused, his eyes cutting into her.