Hidden In The Sheikh's Harem

‘I’m not sleeping with you!’

Zachim tugged the horse blanket over the top of them. ‘No, you’re not. You’re sleeping next to me. There’s a big difference. We need to share body heat to keep warm. Relax and this will be a lot easier.’

Relax? Farah couldn’t have been more tense if she’d tried. It had been a long time since she had been physically close to anyone, and all this bodily contact was messing with her head.

‘This isn’t right.’

‘But kidnapping your Prince is fine?’

‘Must you always have the last word?’ she grumbled.

‘I was going to ask the same of you.’

Not wanting to find him at all amusing, Farah curled herself into a tight ball to try and put distance between them. Self-sufficiency was a prized trait in the harsh desert climate, and Farah was proud that she could survive on her own if she had to. She wanted to point this out to the Prince, but that would involve speaking to him and she’d much rather pretend he wasn’t there. She’d much rather pretend she was in her own bed than on the cold, hard ground, wrapped in the strong arms of her father’s number one enemy.

With two university degrees and a variety of false career starts under her belt, MICHELLE CONDER decided to satisfy her lifelong desire to write and finally found her dream job. She currently lives in Melbourne, Australia, with one super-indulgent husband, three self-indulgent (but exquisite) children, a menagerie of over-indulged pets, and the intention of doing some form of exercise daily. She loves to hear from her readers at michelleconder.com

Hidden in the

Sheikh’s Harem

Michelle Conder

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my family, with love. Always.

And to Bobo, shokran!

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

PRINCE ZACHIM BAKR AL-DARKHAN tried not to slam the door as he left the palace apartment his half-brother was using for his brief visit but it wasn’t easy. Nadir was being a cranky, stubborn hard-ass, refusing to take his rightful place as the next King of Bakaan, which left Zach in line for the job.

‘Everything, all right, Highness?’

Damn; he was so preoccupied with what had just gone down he hadn’t even sensed the elderly servant he’d known all his life waiting in the shadowed recess of the arched windows.

But, no, everything was not all right. Every day that passed without a leader made their people more and more uneasy. His father had only been dead for two weeks but already there were whispers of some of the more insurgent tribes gathering for ‘talks’.

Yeah, like the Al-Hajjar tribe. Once their families had been rival dynasties, but two centuries ago the Darkhans had defeated the Hajjars in a brutal war, creating resentments that still remained. But Zach knew that the current leader of the tribe—Mohamed Hajjar—hated his father, not only because of their history, but because he held his father responsible for the death of his pregnant wife ten years ago. And probably his father had been partly responsible because, Allah knew, he had been responsible for the death of Nadir’s mother for entirely different reasons.

The fact was their father had been a miserly tyrant who’d ruled through fear and had been ruthless when he didn’t get his own way. As a result Bakaan was stuck in the dark ages, both in its laws and infrastructure, and it was going to be an enormous challenge to pull it into the twenty-first century.

A challenge that his brother was better suited to take on than Zach. And not just because Nadir was politically savvy with finely honed boardroom instincts, but also because it was his rightful place as the eldest son. With Nadir taking charge it would also free Zach up to do what he did best—creating and managing change at street level where he could do the most good.

Something he’d already started doing after his delicate mother had begged him to come home five years ago when Bakaan had been on the brink of civil war. The cause of the unrest had stemmed from a rogue publication started by someone in one of the mountain tribes detailing his father’s failings and calling for change. There wasn’t much in the publication Zach could argue with, but he’d done his duty and settled the unrest in his father’s favour. Then, appalled at the state his country was in, he’d set aside his Western lifestyle and stayed, working behind the scenes to do what he could until his increasingly narcissistic and paranoid father had either seen sense or died. Death had come first and the only thing Zach felt was hollow inside. Hollow for the man who had only ever seen him as the spare to the throne, and not a very worthy one at that.

‘Highness?’

‘Sorry, Staph.’ Zach shook off the memories he didn’t want to delve into and started striding towards his own private wing of the palace, Staph quickstepping to keep pace with him. ‘But, no, everything is not all right. My brother is proving to be stubborn.’

‘Ah, he does not wish to return to Bakaan?’

No, he did not. Zach knew Nadir had good reason for not wanting to, but he also knew that his brother was born to be king, and that if Nadir could get past the bitterness he felt for their father, he would want to rule their small kingdom. Realising that Staph was having trouble keeping pace with him, Zach slowed. ‘He has some other considerations to think of right now,’ he hedged.

Like an infant daughter he hadn’t known about and the mother he was set on marrying. Now, there had been a revelation to shock the hell out of Zach. Out of the two of them it was he who believed in love and marriage, while Nadir thought the concept had been created by the masses to counter boredom and a lack of productivity. Zach didn’t believe that. He knew that one day he’d have a family who he’d treat a lot better than their old man had treated his.

In fact, he’d nearly proposed to a woman once; right before he’d been called home. Amy Anderson had ticked all his boxes—sophisticated, polished and blonde. Their courtship had gone smoothly and he still didn’t know what had made him pull back. Nadir had been no help at the time, claiming that Zach had a tendency to choose women who were all wrong for him so that he didn’t have to make a commitment at all.

Zach bid Staph goodnight and strode into his apartment. As if he’d ever take relationship advice from a confirmed bachelor. Or confirmed ex-bachelor, so it seemed.

Shedding his clothes on the way to the shower, he doused himself in steaming hot water before lying on his bed and willing himself to sleep. He’d agreed to meet his brother the following lunchtime so that Nadir could abdicate in front of the council but Zach was hoping he would see sense way before then.

When a message pinged into his phone, he immediately reached for the distraction and saw it was from a good friend he used to race superboats with, Damian Masters:

Check email for party invite. Ibiza. Also, just relented and gave Princess Barbie your private email address. Hope that’s okay. D

Well, well, well. Zach wasn’t one for all that ‘signs and destiny’ rubbish but he’d just been thinking about Amy—or ‘Princess Barbie’ as his friends had unhelpfully nicknamed her—and now here she was.

Clicking onto his email list, he found hers and opened it.

Hi Zach, Amy here.

Long time, no chat. I hear you’re going to Damian’s party in Ibiza. I really hope to see you there. Catch up on old times perhaps??

Love Amy xxx

A wry smile crossed his face. If those question marks and kisses were any indication she wanted to do more than “catch up” on old times. But did he?

He laced his hands behind his head. He might not have thought of her much over the last five years, but what did that matter? It would be interesting to see her again and see how he felt. See if he still thought she should be the mother of his future children.

Almost distractedly he sent a short reply indicating that if he went to the party they would talk, but instead of feeling better he felt worse.

Sick of the thoughts batting back and forth inside his head and the restlessness that had invaded his usually upbeat attitude, he gave up on sleep, flung on jeans and a shirt, and headed out to the palace garage. Once there he jumped into an SUV and waved his security detail off as he turned the car towards the vast, silent desert beyond the city. Before he even knew he was thinking about it, he turned the car off-road and sped down one enormous sand dune after another, lit up in peaks and shadows by the light of the full moon.

Feeling his agitated mood ebb away, he let out a primal roar and pressed the accelerator flat to the floor.

Two hours later he disgustedly tossed the empty jerry can into the back of the car and swore profoundly. He hadn’t realised how long he’d been out or how far he’d come and now he was stranded in the desert without any juice and no mobile phone reception.

No doubt his father would have put his impulsivity down to arrogance and his cavalier attitude to life. Zach just put it down to stupidity. He knew better than to head into the desert without a backup plan.

Hell.

Just then the soft whisper of movement had him turning as a dozen or so horsemen appeared on the horizon. Dressed all in black, with their faces covered by traditional keffiyehs to keep the sand out of their mouths and noses, he couldn’t tell if they were friend or foe.

When all twenty of them lined up in front of him and sat motionless without saying a word, he thought probably foe.

Slowly, he walked his gaze over the line up. Probably he could take ten of them, given that he had a sword and a pistol with him. Probably he should try diplomacy first.

‘I don’t suppose one of you gentlemen has a jerry can full of petrol strapped to one of those fine beasts, do you?’

The creak of a leather saddle brought his attention back to the thickset stranger positioned at the centre of the group and who he had already picked as the leader. ‘You are Prince Zachim Al Darkhan, pride of the desert and heir to the throne, are you not?’

Well, his father would probably argue with the antiquated ‘pride of the desert’ title, and he wasn’t the direct heir, but he didn’t think now was the time to quibble over semantics. And he already knew from his tone that the stranger with eyes of black onyx had figured out who he was. ‘I am.’

‘Well, this is fortuitous,’ the old man declared and Zach could hear the smile in his voice even if he couldn’t see it behind the dark cloth.

The wind picked up slightly but the night remained beautifully clear, full of stars and that big old moon that had beckoned him to leave the palace and burn up some of his frustrated energy on one of his favourite pastimes.

The old stranger leaned towards one of the other men, who then dismounted slowly from his horse. Of medium height and build, the younger man squared off in front of Zach, his legs braced wide. Zach kept his expression as impassive as he’d held it the whole time. If they were going to try and take him one at a time, this was going to be a cakewalk.

Then the other eighteen dismounted.

Okay, now that was more like it. Pity his weapons were in the car.

* * *

Farah Hajjar woke with a start and then remembered it was a full moon. She never slept well on a full moon. It was like an omen and for as long as she could remember she was always waiting for something bad to happen. And it had once. Her mother had died on the night of a full moon. Or, the afternoon of one, but Farah had been unable to sleep that night and she’d railed and cried at the moon until she’d been exhausted. Now it just represented sadness—sadness and pain. Though she wasn’t twelve any more, so perhaps she should be over that. Like she should be over her fear of scorpions—not the easiest of fears to overcome when you lived in the desert where they bred like mice.

Rolling onto her side to get more comfortable, she heard the soft whinny of a horse somewhere nearby.

She wondered if it was her father returning from a weeklong meeting about the future of the country. Now that the horrible King Hassan was dead it was all he could talk about. That and how the dead king’s son, the autocratic Prince Zachim, would probably rule the country in exactly the same way as the father had. The prince had led a fairy-tale existence, if the magazines Farah had read were true, before moving back to Bakaan full-time five years ago. As nothing had really changed in that time, she suspected her father was right about the prince—which was incredibly demoralising for the country.

Yawning, she heard the horses gallop off and wondered what was going on. Not that she would complain if her father would be gone for another day or two. Try as she might, she could never seem to get anything right with him, and Allah knew how hard she had tried. Tried and failed, because her father saw women as being put on the earth to create baskets and babies and not much else. In fact, he had remarried twice to try to sire a son and discarded both women when they had proved to be barren.

He couldn’t understand Farah’s need for independence and she couldn’t understand why he couldn’t understand it, why he couldn’t accept that she had a brain and actually enjoyed using it. On top of that he now wanted her to get married, something Farah vehemently did not want to do. As far as she could tell there were two types of men in the world: those who treated their wives well and those who didn’t. But neither was conducive to a woman’s overall independence and happiness.

Her father, she knew, was acting from the misguided belief that all women needed a man’s protection and guidance and she was fast running out of ways to prove otherwise.

She sighed and rolled onto her other side. It didn’t help that her once childhood friend had asked if he could court her. Amir was her father’s right-hand man and he believed that a marriage between them was a perfect solution all round. Unfortunately, Amir was cut from the same cloth as her father, so Farah did not.

To add insult to injury, her father had just banned her from obtaining any more of her treasured Western magazines, blaming them for her ‘modern’ ideas. The truth was that Farah just wanted to make a difference. She wanted to do more than help supply the village with contraband educational material and stocks of medical supplies. She wanted to change the plight of women in Bakaan and open up a world for them that, yes, she had read about—but she knew she had zero chance of doing that if she were married.

Probably she had zero chance anyway but that didn’t stop her from trying and occasionally pushing her father’s boundaries.

Feeling frustrated and edgy, as if something terrible was about to happen, she readjusted her pillow and fell into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

The sense of disquiet stayed with her over the next few days, right up until her friend came racing up to where she was mucking out the camel enclosure and made it ten times worse.

‘Farah! Farah!’

‘Steady, Lila.’ Farah set aside her shovel while her friend caught her breath. ‘What’s wrong?’

Lila gulped in air. ‘You’re not going to believe this but Jarad just returned from your father’s secret camp and—’ She winced as she took in another big breath of air, lowering her voice even though there was no one around to hear her but the camels. ‘He said your father has kidnapped the Prince of Bakaan.’

CHAPTER TWO

FEELING HORRIBLY GUILTY that she had been enjoying her own time while her father was away, Farah raced to the ancient stables and saddled her beloved white stallion. If what Lila said was true then her father could face the death penalty and her heart seized.

As if he could sense her turmoil, Moonbeam whinnied and butted his head against her thigh as she saddled him. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, knowing she was reassuring herself more than the horse. ‘Just go like the wind. I don’t have a good feeling about this.’

Riding into the secret camp a short time later, she reined in Moonbeam and handed him off to one of the guards to rub down. As it was dusk the camp was getting ready to bed down for the night, the tarpaulin tents shifting and sighing with the light breeze that lifted her keffiyeh. The camp was set up with mountains on one side and an ocean of desert on the other and she usually took a moment to appreciate the ochre tones in the dying embers of the evening sun.

Not tonight, though. Tonight she was too tense to think about anything other than hoping Lila was wrong.

‘What are you doing here?’ Amir asked curtly as she approached her father’s tent, his arms folded across his chest, his face tense.

‘What are you?’ She folded her arms across her own chest to show him she wasn’t intimidated by his tough guy antics. He’d been her friend once, for Allah’s sake.

‘That’s not your concern.’

‘It is if what I just heard is true.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Please tell me it isn’t.’

‘War is men’s business, Farah.’

‘War?’ The word squeaked out of her on a rush of air and she let out a string of choice words under her breath. Amir looked at her with the disapproving frown he wore ever since he had asked her father for her hand in marriage; the boy she had once played with, and who had taught her to use a sword when she’d been twelve and full of anger and despair over the death of her pregnant mother, seemingly long gone. ‘So it’s true.’ Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. ‘The Prince of Bakaan is here?’

Amir’s lips tightened. ‘Your father is busy.’

‘Is he in there?’

She’d meant the prince but he’d misunderstood. ‘He won’t want to see you right now. Things are...tense.’

No kidding. You could have cut the air in the camp with a knife. ‘How did this happen?’ she demanded. ‘You know my father is old and bitter. You’re supposed to look out for him.’

‘He is still leader of Al-Hajjar.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Farah? Is that you?’ Her father’s voice boomed from inside the tent.

Farah’s insides clenched. As much as her father’s controlling and chauvinistic ways chafed—a lot—he was all she had in the world and she loved him. ‘Yes, Father.’ She swept past a disgruntled Amir and entered the plush interior of her father’s retreat, lit from within by variously placed oil lamps.

The roomy tent was divided into sleeping and eating areas with a large bed at one end and a circle of cushions at the other. Worn rugs lined the floor to keep out the night-time chill and silk scarves were draped from the walls.

Her father looked tired as he sat amongst the cushions, the remnants of his evening meal set on a low table before him.

‘What are you doing here, girl?’

Looking out for you, she wanted to say but didn’t. Theirs had never been an overly demonstrative relationship even when her mother had been alive. Then, though, at least things had been happier and she’d tried so hard to get that feeling back in the years since.

Frown lines marred his forehead and his hands were clasped behind his broad back, his body taut. If she’d been a boy she would have been welcomed into this inner sanctum but she wasn’t and maybe it was time she just accepted that. ‘I heard that you have the Prince of Bakaan here,’ she said in a ‘please tell me it isn’t true’ voice.

He stroked his white beard, which she knew meant he was thinking about whether to answer her or not. ‘Who told you?’

Farah felt as if a dead weight had just landed on her shoulders. ‘It’s true, then?’

‘The information needs to be contained. Amir, see to it.’

‘Of course.’

Not realising that Amir had followed her in, she turned to him, her eyes narrowing as she noticed that one of his eyes was blackened. ‘Where did that come from?’

‘Never mind!’

Farah wondered if it was from the prince and turned back to her father. ‘But why? How?’

Amir stepped forward, his jaw set hard. ‘Prince Zachim arrogantly assumed he could go dune driving in the middle of the night without his security detail.’

Ignoring him, Farah addressed her father. ‘And?’

‘And we took him.’

Just like that?

Farah cleared her throat, trying not to imagine the worst. ‘Why would you do that?’

‘Because I will not see another Darkhan take power and he is the heir.’

‘I thought his older brother was the heir.’

‘That dog Nadir lives in Europe and wants nothing to do with Bakaan,’ Amir answered.

‘That is beside the point.’ She shook her head, still not comprehending what her father had done. ‘You can’t just...kidnap a prince!’

‘When news gets out that Prince Zachim is out of the picture, the country will become more and more destabilised and we will be there to seize the power that has always been rightfully ours.’

‘Father, the tribal wars you speak of were hundreds of years ago. And they won. Don’t you think it’s time to put the past to rest?’

‘No, I do not. The Al-Hajjar tribe will never recognise Darkhan rule while I am leader and I can’t believe my own daughter is talking like this. You know what he stole from me.’

Farah released a slow breath. Yes, the king’s refusal to supply the outer regions of Bakaan with basic medical provisions, amongst other things, had inadvertently led to the death of her mother and her unborn brother—everything her father had held dear. Farah tried not to let her own misery at never quite being enough for her father rise up and consume her. She knew better than anyone that wanting love—relying on love—ultimately led to pain.

Her father continued on about everything else the Darkhans had stolen from them: land, privileges, freedom. Stories she’d heard at her bedtime for so long she sometimes heard them in her sleep. Truth be told, she actually agreed with a lot of what her father said. The dead King of Bakaan had been a selfish, controlling tyrant who hadn’t cared a jot for his people. But kidnapping Prince Zachim was not, in her view, the way to correct past wrongs. Especially when it was an offence punishable by imprisonment or death.

‘How will this bring about peace and improve things, Father?’ She tried to appeal to his rational side but she could see that he had a wild look in his eyes.

Her father shrugged. ‘The country won’t have a chance of overthrowing the throne with him on it. He’s too powerful.’

Yes, Farah had heard that Prince Zachim was successful and powerful beyond measure. She had also heard he was extremely good-looking, which had been confirmed by the many photos she’d seen of him squiring some woman or another to glamorous events. Not that his looks were important on any level!

She rubbed her brow. ‘So what happens now? What was the Bakaan council’s response?’

For the first time since she’d walked in, her father looked uncertain. He rose and paced away from her, his hands gripped behind his back. ‘They don’t know yet.’