The Sultan Demands His Heir

‘As the man prosecuting my father, isn’t it unethical to discuss the case with me, Your Highness?’ she parried.

His grim twist of his lips told her he’d seen through her evasion tactics. ‘Nothing I’ve said so far contravenes the correct judicial process, Miss Scott. You can trust me on that.’

His biographer had called him a master tactician, able to mould the word of law like putty in his hands, but never breaking it. Esme needed to proceed with caution if she didn’t want to be tripped up. ‘Did you bring me here to point out the error of my ways before you throw me in jail, too?’

‘I brought you here to warn you against indulging in any further public outbursts. If you wish to exhibit any more rash decision-making, wait until you’re back home in England.’

Affronted heat crawled up her neck. ‘That sounds distinctly like a threat, Your Highness.’

‘If that’s what it takes to get through to you, then so be it. But know that you’re treading on extremely thin ice. I won’t tolerate any further unfounded aspersions cast against me or my people without solid proof to back them up. Is that understood?’

The sense of affront lingered, attempting to override the same tiny voice she’d ignored during her interview. This time it urged her to be thankful that she wasn’t being hauled over royal coals. She was struggling with the dissenting emotions when, taking her silence as assent, he rose.

His towering frame made her feel even more insignificant, so she scrambled to her feet. Only to lose her balance as one heel twisted beneath her. She pitched forward, a gasp ripping from her throat as her hands splayed in alarm.

Strong hands caught her upper arms at the same moment she dropped her purse and her open hands landed on his hard-muscled chest. She heard his sharp intake of breath and felt her own breath snag in her lungs as heat from his body almost singed her palms.

Esme’s head snapped up, that compulsion to look into those eyes once again a command she couldn’t ignore. His eyes had darkened, the light brandy shade now a burnished bronze that fused incisively with hers. This close, she saw the tiny gold flecks that flared within the darker depths, the combination so mesmeric she couldn’t look away, despite the frisson shooting up her arm. Despite the lack of oxygen to her brain from the breath she couldn’t take.

Despite the fact that she shouldn’t be touching him, this man who was hell-bent on exerting his supreme authority over her. Who was hell-bent on keeping her father in prison.

Move!

Her palm started to curl, in anticipation, she told herself, of pushing back from him. But the infinitesimal tightening of his fingers stopped her. Absorbed by the gleam in his eyes, by his scent swirling around her, Esme remained immobile. His nostrils flared slightly as his gaze dropped to her mouth. Almost as if he’d touched them, her lips pulsed with an alien sensation that absurdly felt like excitement. Hunger.

She didn’t...couldn’t want to kiss him, surely?

He released her so suddenly she wondered if she’d spoken the thought aloud. Spoken it only to have it promptly, ruthlessly rejected.

She stepped back, silently urging her legs not to let her down, even as another wave of heat swept over her face.

She needed to leave. Now.

As if the same thought had struck him, Zaid Al-Ameen turned abruptly and walked away, his imposing figure carrying him to his desk. Released from the trap of his puzzling, spellbinding presence, she sucked in a much-needed breath then snatched up her purse. She straightened to the sound of him issuing a rasped instruction into his intercom. Seconds later, the door reopened.

His private secretary barely glanced her way, his attention focused solely on the Sultan and the rapid words of lyrical Arabic falling from his lips. Esme was so distracted by the exotic, melodic sound that she didn’t realise they’d stopped speaking and were staring at her until the silence echoed loudly in the room.

For the third time in a disgracefully short period her face heated up again. ‘I’m sorry, did you say something?’ she addressed Fawzi, unwilling to catch another mocking glance from Sultan Al-Ameen.

The private secretary looked a little perturbed at being addressed directly in the presence of his master. He stood straighter. ‘His Highness said you are free to go. I am to escort you to your chauffeur.’

Knowing it would be impolite to leave without acknowledging him, Esme reluctantly redirected her gaze to the Sultan. ‘I... I’m...’

One sardonic brow elevated, the look he sent her haughty enough to freeze water. ‘You pick a curious time to become tongue-tied, considering your desire to leave has been granted. The next time we meet will be in the courtroom when you testify on behalf of your father. Let us hope you’re not as inarticulate under cross-examination. I would hate to see all the effort you made to come to the aid of your father wasted. Goodbye, Miss Scott.’

The dismissal was as final as the drive back to the hotel was quick. Even after she was safely back in her hotel room, Esme still couldn’t force her heartbeat to slow. She’d been summoned, judged and found severely wanting.

And yet the righteous anger she’d felt in Zaid Al-Ameen’s presence was no longer present. Instead, awareness from his touch clung to her skin, her mind supplying an alarmingly detailed play-by-play of the moment he’d stopped her from falling. With each meticulous recounting her body grew hot and tight, her breathing altering into shameful little pants that drew a grimace of disgust at herself. To distract her out-of-control hormones, Esme turned on the TV and channel-surfed, only to come face to face with herself in a replay of her interview. Forcing herself to watch, she experienced a twinge of remorse as her words echoed harsh and condemning in the room.

The stone of unease in her belly hadn’t abated hours later when she was in bed, attempting to toss and turn herself into sleep. Sleep came reluctantly, along with jagged, disturbing dreams featuring a breathtakingly hypnotic figure with brandy-coloured eyes.

The intensity of the dream was so sharp, so vivid she jerked awake.

Only to find it was no dream. There was someone in her room.

Esme’s breath strangled in her lungs as she battled paralysing fear and scrambled upright. The dark, robed figure outlined ominously against her lighter curtains tensed for a watchful second then launched after her the moment she scurried off the bed. Her feet tangled in the sheets, ripping a cry from her throat. She sensed rather than saw the figure rounding the bed towards her as she pushed at the sheets and crawled away on her hands and knees. A few steps from the bathroom she attempted to stand.

A strong, unyielding arm banded her waist, plastering her from shoulder to thigh against a hard, masculine body. He lifted her off the floor with shocking ease, her feet kicking uselessly as he evaded her efforts to free herself. Acute terror finally freeing her vocal cords, Esme screamed.

The large hand that clamped over her mouth immediately muffled the sound.

Terrified by the ease with which the intruder had caught and restrained her, Esme fought harder. She wrapped her fingers around the thick wrist and was attempting to pry him off when she felt his warm breath against her cheek.

‘Calm yourself, Miss Scott. It is I, Zaid Al-Ameen. If you wish to remain safe, you need to come with me. Right now.’

CHAPTER FOUR

ESME SLACKENED IN shock for a handful of seconds before outrage kicked in. At her renewed struggle, he held her tighter. ‘Be calm,’ he commanded again.

She shook her head, her heart tripping over all the possible reasons for his presence here in her room, holding her prisoner. She came up with nothing remotely reassuring. ‘You have my word that I mean you no harm, Esmeralda. But I need your reassurance that you won’t scream before I release you,’ he said, his lips brushing against her ear.

Despite her racing heart, she felt herself go still. She told herself it wasn’t the effect of the deep but lyrical lilt to her first name as it fell from his lips, or the low, even way he spoke that finally soothed her, but the need to be set free from the deeply disturbing sensation of the body welded to hers.

No longer fighting, she was keenly aware of the firm strength of his body against hers. The splay of the fingers of his restraining arm branding her hips. Her bare legs dangling against his longer ones. Her back absorbing his unhurried breathing as her bottom snuggled between the widened stance of his hips. And the highly masculine, very proud organ cradled between them.

Heat surging up her body, Esme jerked her head in quick assent. He waited a beat then released her. She launched herself away from him, slapped her hand on the light switch in the bathroom before whirling to face him.

The sight of the Sultan of Ja’ahr, dressed from head to toe in black traditional clothes, every inch the dark desert warrior lord he was, threatened to rob her of the breath she’d just regained. The hand she lifted to push back her heavy hair shook as she glared at him. ‘You may be the ruler of this kingdom, but you have no right to invade my privacy,’ she condemned, a touch too shakily. ‘Not to mention the fact that you scared the living—’

One imperious hand slashed through the air. ‘I understand that you wish to express your outrage. But I highly recommend you do so once we’re away from the hotel.’

‘Why?’ she demanded.

Not bothering to dignify her with a response, he strode to the small wardrobe on the other side of the room. Esme watched, stunned, as he began to rummage through her clothes.

‘What on earth do you think you’re doing? If you think I’m going anywhere with you after barging into my room in the middle of the night, think again.’

He turned from the wardrobe, his eyes narrowed in displeased slits. ‘I caution you against using that tone of voice with me or my men will arrest you, with or without my permission.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Your men?’

He jerked a head towards the door. Esme followed his action and for the first time she noticed the men who stood guard, their broad backs to the door but rigidly alert. Protecting their King.

Barring her way.

‘Why are they here? Why are you here?’

He stepped forward and she saw that he held her black cotton dress in his hand. ‘I don’t have time to debate the matter with you. Put this on. We need to leave now, unless you plan on walking out of the hotel dressed in that wispy scrap of nothing?’ he rasped. Although his expression remained stoically impersonal, his voice was a touch more raw than before.

Esme stared down at the peach night slip she wore. The silky, lace-edged material was short, barely coming to mid-thigh. The bodice consisted of two cupped triangles also edged in lace, with thin straps joining at her nape in a halter design. As nightwear went, it was intended to be feminine and sexy, hugging, flattering and titivating where necessary.

Except, with Zaid Al-Ameen’s piercing gaze on her, Esme bypassed those middling sensations and went straight to fiery hot awareness between one heartbeat and the next. Mild shock rippled through her belly at the intensity of the feeling singeing her body as his gaze conducted a slow journey over her. When it rose from her feet to linger at her thighs, a heavy throbbing commenced between her legs. The sensation rippled outward, sparking tiny fireworks that exploded beneath her skin as it spread.

Dark golden eyes rose higher, over her stomach to rest on her breasts. Suddenly sensitive peaks prickled, then slowly tightened into hard nubs. Realising that the silk exhibited every reaction of her body, Esme hastily threw her arm up over her chest, even as she defied the hot flush staining her neck and cheeks to stare challengingly at him.

But she might as well have been a gnat challenging an elephant. The eyes that met hers may have been a touch more turbulent than they were moments ago, perhaps even gleaming with a hint of suppressed hunger, but the man who strode determinedly over to her and thrust her dress at her was once again the supreme marauder intent on having his way.

‘You have two minutes to put this dress on or I will do it for you myself,’ he pronounced succinctly.

Even though she caught the dress, Esme stood her ground. ‘I’ll put the dress on, but I’m not leaving this room until you tell me what is going on.’

At his curt nod, she stepped back into the bathroom and shut the door firmly behind her. About to put the dress on, she froze when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her long loose hair was in complete disarray, her colour high as her chest rose and fell in agitation. But it was the brightness of her eyes that shocked her most of all. Where she’d expected fear, she read something else. Something that made her skin tingle even more wildly. Her nipples were still tight twin points of blatant arousal and belatedly she realised that, standing in the light of the doorway, Sultan Zaid would have been able to see right through her slip.

With renewed chagrin and heightened disquiet, she turned away and tugged the dress over the night slip. There was no way she was going back in there to retrieve her bra so the nightgown would have to offer the extra protection she needed. Besides, she could feel Sultan Zaid’s restless prowling through the bathroom door.

After sliding her fingers through her hair in a vain effort to control the unruly mess, she tugged it into a ponytail and left the bathroom to confront the figure pacing the room. ‘Okay, I deserve to know what’s going on, and I’m not moving until I do.’

‘The chief of police is on his way to arrest you. And unless you come with me, you will be in jail within the hour. It won’t be a pleasant experience.’

Her mouth dropped opened, but the stark words had shrivelled her vocal cords and killed any further protest in her throat. Her gaze swung to the guards standing at the door. They hadn’t moved, but she sensed an escalated urgency in the air.

He’d turned on a lamp while she’d been in the bathroom and Esme hurried across the room to shove her feet into the heels she’d discarded at the bottom of the bed. Then she went to the wardrobe and tugged out her suitcase. It was ripped from her hand a second later.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded.

‘I’m getting my things.’

‘There’s no time for that. Your belongings will be taken care of.’

Again she wanted to protest, but at the implacable look in his eyes she nodded. Her purse held her passport, credit cards and phone. He waited long enough for her to grab it before he marched her to the door.

Eight bodyguards immediately positioned themselves in a protective cordon around them. A lift she suspected had been held especially for him transported them swiftly to the ground floor.

They exited to a large, empty foyer with only a sleepy male receptionist stationed behind the desk. He straightened to attention, then bowed respectfully as they moved past him.

Sultan Zaid barely glanced at him, his focus on the revolving doors. And the small group of armed men walking through it.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Beside her, Zaid tensed, even though he didn’t break his stride.

‘Remain by my side and do not speak.’ The words were delivered in a low, even voice, but the stern command that pulsed through them was unmistakeable.

She nodded as the small group drew closer. Their posture and uniforms announced who they were before she read the insignia on their attire.

The leader, a small, rotund man, came forward and in unison they executed a bow, but she noted that although the chief of police paid his respects to his ruler, the act was delivered with reluctance and more than a hint of antagonism.

‘Your Highness, I am surprised to see you here at this time of night,’ he said, slowly tucking the cap he’d removed from his head under his arm. His black, beady eyes swung to the Sultan’s bodyguards protecting them before returning to Zaid.

‘Matters of state do not always wait for civilised hours to demand attention.’

The man’s gaze settled on her and Esme spied the distinct gleam of malevolence in the black depths. ‘And that is what is happening here? A matter of state?’

Zaid’s response was spoken in sharp, rapid-fire Arabic, his posture seething with unbridled authority. Esme watch the man shrink back slowly. The hostile expression in his eyes didn’t abate, and his gaze darted to her many times during the conversation but he didn’t attempt to arrest her.

Although only mere minutes passed, it felt like a lifetime before Zaid glanced her way.

‘We’re leaving now,’ he said.

Relief punched through her and she gave a swift nod as she hurried to match her steps to his.

The moment she slid into the car he climbed in after her. A second later, after she’d slotted in her seat belt, they were moving with the smoothness borne of military precision.

She took a deep, shaky breath, but the thousand questions that crowded Esme’s brain were momentarily suppressed when her senses were suffused with the very male scent of the man sitting next to her.

The man staring at her with silent, watchful intensity.

‘What...?’ She stopped and flicked her tongue over her dry lips. ‘Why was he coming to arrest me?’

‘Because he found out, like I did, that the allegations you made against his police force weren’t entirely accurate. Your interview has been televised every hour for the past twelve hours. There are those who called for your arrest the moment it was aired. It came to my attention that the police chief was beginning to gather his forces.’

Ice cascaded down her spine. ‘Oh, my God.’ The hand she lifted to push back a swathe of hair shook badly. Tightening it into a fist, she placed it in her lap. ‘What...what was he going to charge me with?’ Not that it mattered. Jail was jail. And prison in Ja’ahr wasn’t something she wanted to experience, even for a minute.

To her surprise, Zaid Al-Ameen’s lips pursed before his powerful shoulders moved in a shrug. ‘He would’ve found something.’

‘What? You mean he could’ve just made something up?’

‘It could’ve been something as simple as questioning you about what you said, or it could’ve been more. You supplied him with all the base he could have wanted. All he needed to do was capitalise on it.’

Her heart dropped to her stomach. ‘But isn’t that...illegal?’ she questioned carefully, unwilling to add further fuel to the fire it seemed she’d started.

In the semi-darkness of the vehicle she watched his jaw clench harshly, his expression turn grave. ‘The wheels of change are turning in Ja’ahr, but not fast enough,’ he said semi-cryptically. ‘True democracy comes at a cost. Not everyone is ready to pay that price yet.’

The bald statement left very little room for more questions after that. The convoy rolled swiftly along near deserted streets, silence reigning in the vehicle. Until Esme realise the familiar road they travelled on.

Her gaze swung from the elevated road and the familiar dome ahead to the man sitting next to her. He was staring at her, shrewd sharp eyes waiting. ‘You’re taking me—’

‘Back to the Royal Palace, yes,’ he confirmed.

Wild hysteria powered through her. ‘So I was right. You are kidnapping me after all.’

She’d meant the words half-jokingly, a way for her tumbling thoughts to grapple with the events of the last hour and the enormity of what might have happened to her.

When he didn’t immediately answer, she glanced at him.

The look he levelled at her was in no way mirthful. It was filled with solemn, unwavering resolve. ‘For want of a better word...and for the foreseeable future, yes.’

* * *

Zaid watched her process his reply. She may have been joking, but he was deadly serious.

Slowly, every trace of amusement drained from her face. He told himself the apprehension that replaced it was much more useful to him. It would keep her focused properly on what lay ahead of her. It would also serve to draw his attention from the luscious curve of her mouth and the tiny twitch of her nose when she was amused.

He was already battling with the heated tug of his libido at the way her skin had shone under the bathroom lights, like the pearls mined in the sea bordering his kingdom. The way the scrap of silk she had worn to bed had caressed her flesh had made him infinitely glad he’d been wearing a shrouding tunic. The urge to touch her, to relive the memory of holding her warm body captive in his arms was so strong it was a visceral ache deep within him. He smashed down hard on the unwelcome sensation and concentrated on the matter at hand.

‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ Her eyes were widening, her hushed voice stained with burgeoning realisation.

‘I have a kingdom to rule. I don’t undertake missions like this just for the fun of it.’ His words emerged clipped.

She flinched. He experienced the tiniest dart of remorse before he firmed his lips.

Before he could say anything further, his vehicle drew to a stop. His head of security jumped out and opened his door.

Zaid didn’t exit immediately. For some reason, he found himself staring at her, taking in her pale features, the lower lip she was worrying as she stared back at him. The shadows under her eyes. ‘It’s almost two o’clock in the morning. We will continue this conversation at a more appropriate hour, once you’ve had some rest.’

He stepped out of the car and held out his hand. Her gaze dropped warily. For a tense moment he watched her silently debate whether or not to take it, then she reached out, almost in slow motion, to finally accept his help.

The sensation of her sliding her hand into his ramped up the volatile tension inside him. Zaid ruthlessly dismissed his body’s response, just as he’d dismissed almost all extraneous emotions since his return to Ja’ahr. He’d needed to, to be able to focus on rebuilding what his uncle had so brutally destroyed. It was the reason he hadn’t taken a woman to his bed in well over eighteen months. It was the reason his work days were so long and sleep was a luxury he afforded himself only when necessary.

Nevertheless, he found his grip tightening, his touch lingering even after she stood before him, her face upturned to his. In the floodlights gracing the entrance to his palace, her unique beauty struck him all over again.

Enough.

He turned and started to walk away, leaving Fawzi and the rest of his staff to make the arrangements for her care and comfort. Right now there were a hundred other tasks that needed his attention. ‘Goodnight, Miss Scott.’

He’d only taken a few steps when heard her rush after him. ‘Wait. Please. Your Highness.’

Against his will, Zaid felt the whisper of a smile tug at his lips at the way she’d tagged on his title. Reluctantly. Grudgingly.

Recalling his insistence that she use it the previous afternoon, he grimaced. Although his veins pulsed with royal blood, Zaid had never forced the outer trappings of his nobility on anyone, until her. Something about Esmeralda Scott had made him want to assert his dominion over her. Perhaps, even absurdly, he wanted to see that defiant chin and insubordinate body lowered in the archaic, submissive bow he hated from everyone else.

‘Your Highness, please.’

Zaid gritted his teeth and paused at the entrance to the hallway that led to his private lift. The small group of staff who found it necessary to follow him everywhere within the palace, night or day, paused at a respectful distance.

Esmeralda, however, kept coming, her lissom, curvy body swaying sensually beneath the cotton dress. Zaid dragged his gaze from her shapely legs and hips to her face, stamping down once more on the insistent tug to his groin.

‘I know it’s the middle of the night, but it may as well be the middle of the day for me. I won’t be able to sleep. Not until I know more about what’s going to...happen.’