The Secret Kept From The King

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re sitting there as though you’re half afraid I’m going to bite you.’

A small smile lifted Daisy’s mouth. ‘How should I be sitting, sir?’

He took the seat opposite, his own body language relaxed. His legs, long and muscled, were spread wide, and he lifted one arm along the back of the sofa. He looked so completely at home here, in this world of extreme luxury. That was hardly surprising, given he’d undoubtedly been raised in this kind of environment.

‘However you would usually sit,’ he prompted.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, the words quizzical rather than apologetic. ‘It’s just this has never happened before.’

‘No?’

‘My job is to provide for your every need without actually being noticed.’

At that, his eyes flared wider, speculation colouring his irises for a heart-racing moment. ‘I’m reasonably certain it would be impossible for you to escape anyone’s notice.’

Heat rose in her cheeks, colouring them a pale pink that perfectly offset the golden tan of her complexion. She wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she stayed quiet.

‘Have you worked here long?’

She compressed her lips then stopped when his eyes followed the gesture, tracing the outline of her mouth in a way that made her tummy flip and flop.

‘A few years.’ She didn’t add how hard that had been for her—to finally accept that her long-held dream of attending the Juilliard was beyond reach, once and for all.

‘And always in this capacity?’

‘I started in general concierge.’ She crossed her legs, relaxing back into the seat a little. ‘But about six months later, I was promoted to this position.’

‘And you enjoy it?’

Of their own accord, her eyes drifted to the view of New York and her fingers tapped her knee, as if playing across the keys of the beloved piano she’d been forced to sell. ‘I’m good at it.’ She didn’t catch the way his features shifted, respect moving over his face.

‘How old are you?’

She turned back to face him, wondering how long he intended to keep her sitting there, knowing that it was very much within her job description to humour him even when this felt like an utterly bizarre way to spend her time.

‘Twenty-four.’

‘And you’ve always lived in America?’

‘Yes.’ She bit down on her lower lip thoughtfully. ‘I’ve actually never even been overseas.’

His brows lifted. ‘That’s unusual, isn’t it?’

She laughed softly. ‘I don’t know. You tell me?’

‘It is.’

‘Then I guess I’m unusual. Guilty as charged.’

‘You don’t have any interest in travelling?’

‘Not having done something doesn’t necessarily equate to a lack of interest,’ she pointed out.

‘So it’s a lack of opportunity, then?’

He was rapier sharp, quickly able to read between the lines of anything she said.

‘Yes.’ Because there was no point in denying it.

‘You work too much?’

‘I work a lot,’ she confirmed, without elaborating. There was no need to tell this man that she had more debt to her name than she’d likely ever be able to clear. Briefly, anger simmered in her veins, the kind of anger she only ever felt when she thought about one person: her waste-of-space ex-husband Max and the trouble he’d got her into.

‘I thought you were guaranteed vacation time in the United States?’

Her smile was carefully constructed to dissuade further questioning along these lines, but, for good measure, she turned the tables on him. ‘And you, sir? You travel frequently, I presume?’

His eyes narrowed as he studied her, and she had the strangest feeling he was pulling her apart, little by little, until he could see all the pieces that made her whole.

She held her breath, wondering if he was going to let the matter drop, and was relieved when he did.

‘I do. Though never for long, and not lately.’ His own features showed a tightness that she instinctively understood spoke of a desire not to be pressed on that matter.

But despite that, she heard herself say gently, ‘Your father was ill for a while, before he died?’

The man’s face paled briefly. He stood up, walking towards the window, his back rigid, his body tense. Daisy swallowed a curse. What was she thinking, asking something so personal? His father had just died—not even a month ago. She had no business inviting him to open that wound—and for a virtual stranger.

‘I’m so sorry.’ She stood, following him, bitterly regretting her big mouth. ‘I had no right to ask you that. I’m sorry.’ When he didn’t speak, she swallowed, and said quietly, ‘I’ll leave you in peace now, Your Highness.’

CHAPTER TWO

MANHATTAN WAS A vibrant hive of activity beyond the windows of his limousine. He kept his head back against the leather cushioning of his seat, his eyes focussed on nothing in particular.

‘That could not have gone better, Your Highness.’

Malik was right. The speech to the United Nations had been a success. As he was talking, he realised that he wasn’t the only one in the room who’d experienced anxiety about the importance of this. There was an air of tension, a fear that perhaps with the death of the great Kadir Al Antarah, they were to be plunged back into the days of war and violence that had marked too much of his country’s history.

But Sariq was progressive, and Sariq was persuasive. He spoke of Shajarah, the capital of RKH, that had been born from the sands of the desert, its ancient soul nestled amongst the steel and glass monoliths that spoke of a place of the future, a place of promise. He spoke of his country’s educational institutions which were free and world-class, of his belief that education was the best prevention for war and violence, that a literate and informed people were less likely to care for ancient wounds. He highlighted what the people of RKH had in common with the rest of the world and when he was finished, there was widespread applause.

Yes, the speech had been a success, but still there was a kernel of discontent within his gut. A feeling of dissatisfaction he couldn’t explain.

‘Your father would have been proud of you, sir.’

Malik was right about that too.

‘When we return to the hotel, have the concierge come to me,’ Sariq told Malik. He didn’t know her name. That was an oversight he would remedy.

‘Is there something you require?’

‘She will see to it.’

If Malik thought the request strange, he didn’t say anything. The limousine cut east across Manhattan, snagging in traffic near Bryant Park, so Sariq stared from his window at the happy scene there. The day had been warm and New Yorkers had taken to the park to feel the brief respite from the temperature offered by the lush surrounds. He watched as a child reached into the fountain and scooped some water out, splashing it at his older brother, and his chest panged with a sense of acceptance.

Children were as much a part of his future as ruling was. He was the last heir of the Al Antarah line of Kings, a line that had begun at the turn of the last millennia. When he returned to his kingdom and his people, he would focus more seriously on that. He knew the risks if he didn’t, the likelihood of civil war that would result from a dangerous fight for the throne of the country.

Marriage, children, these things would absolve him of that worry and would secure his country’s future for generations to come.

‘You wanted to see me, Your Highness?’ Her heart was in her throat. She’d barely slept since she’d left his apartment the night before, despite the fact she’d been rostered off during the day, while he was engaged on official business. That was how it worked when she had high-profile guests. She knew their schedules intimately so she could form her day around their movements, thus ensuring her availability when they were likely to need her.

He was not alone, and he was not as he’d been the night before—dressed simply in jeans and a shirt. Now, he wore a white robe, flowing and long, with gold embellishments on the sleeve, and on his head there was a traditional keffiyeh headdress, white and fastened in place with a gold cord. It was daunting and powerful and she found her mouth was completely dry as she regarded him with what she hoped was an impassive expression. That was hard to manage when her knees seemed to have a desire to knock together.

‘Yes. One moment.’

His advisors wore similar outfits, though less embellished. It was clear that his had a distinction of royal rank. She stood where she was as they continued speaking in their own language, the words beautiful and musical, the Sheikh’s voice discernible amongst all others. It was ten minutes before they began to disband, moving away from the Sheikh, each with a low bow of respect, which he acknowledged with a small nod sometimes, and other times not at all.

His fingers were long and tanned, and on one finger he wore a gold ring with a small, rounded face, like a Super Bowl ring, she thought out of nowhere and smiled at the idea of this man on the football field. He’d probably take to it like a duck to water, if his physique was anything to go by. Beneath those robes, she knew he had the build of a natural athlete.

Great.

Her mouth was dry all over again but this time he was sweeping towards her, his robes flowing behind him. She had only a few seconds to attempt to calm her racing pulse.

When he was a few feet away from her, he paused, so she was caught up in the masculinity of his fragrance, the exotic addictiveness of it—citrus and pine needles, spice and sunshine.

‘You were offended last night.’

His words were the last thing she’d expected. Heat bloomed in her cheeks.

‘I was too familiar, sir.’ She dropped her eyes to the view, unable to look at him, a thousand and one butterflies rampaging wildly inside her belly.

‘I invited you to be familiar,’ he reminded her so the butterflies gave way to a roller coaster.

‘Still...’ she lifted her shoulders, risking a glance at him then wishing she hadn’t when she discovered his eyes were piercing her own ‘...I shouldn’t have...’

‘He had been sick. It was unpleasant to witness. I wished, more than anything, that I could do something to alleviate his pain.’ A muscle jerked in his jaw and his eyes didn’t shift from hers. ‘I have been raised to believe in the full extent of my power, and yet I was impotent against the ravages of his disease. No doctor anywhere could save him, nor really help him.’ He didn’t move and yet somehow she felt closer to him, as though she’d swayed forward without realising it.

‘Your question last night is difficult for me to answer.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong.’

Her body was in overdrive, every single sense pulling through her, and she was aware, in the small part of her brain that was capable of rational thought, that this was a completely foreign territory to be in. He was a guest of the hotel—their boundaries were clearly established.

She had to find a way to get them back onto more familiar territory.

‘I work for the hotel,’ she said quietly. ‘Asking you personal questions isn’t within my job description, and it’s certainly not appropriate. It won’t happen again.’

He didn’t react to that. He stayed exactly where he was, completely still, like a sentinel, watching her, his eyes trained on her face in a way that made her pulse stutter.

‘I asked you to talk with me,’ he reminded her finally.

‘But I should have declined.’

‘Your job is to facilitate my needs, is it not?’

Her heart began to pound against her ribs. ‘Within reason.’

His smile showed a hint of something she couldn’t interpret. Cynicism? Mockery? Frustration?

‘Are you saying that if I ask you to come and sit with me again tonight, you’ll refuse?’

Her body was filled with lava, so hot she could barely breathe.

Her eyes were awash with uncertainty. ‘I’m not sure it’s appropriate.’

‘What are you afraid of?’

‘Honestly?’

He was watchful.

‘I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing. Of offending you. My job is to silently...’

‘Yes, yes, you have told me this. To escape notice. And I told you that’s not possible. I have already noticed you, Daisy. And having had the pleasure of speaking with you once, I would like to repeat that—with a less abrupt conclusion this time. Are you saying therefore that you won’t sit with me?’

Her chest felt as though it had been cracked open. ‘Um, yes, I am, I think.’ She dropped her eyes to the shining floor.

Because I enjoyed talking to you, too, she amended inwardly, fully aware that she was moving into a territory that was lined with danger.

‘But if you’re worried you offended me, let me assure you, I am not easily offended,’ he offered, and now he smiled, in a way that was like forcing sunshine into a darkened room. Her breath burned in her lungs.

‘Frankly, I’d be surprised if you were.’

‘Then you can bring me tea tonight. I have a dinner but Malik will send for you when it’s done.’

He had no idea what he was doing. The American woman was beautiful, but it had been a long time since Sariq had considered beauty to be a requirement in a woman he was interested in. Besides, he couldn’t be seriously interested in her. His duty was clear: to return to the RKH and marry, so that he could begin the process of shoring up his lineage. There were two women whom it would make sense to marry and he would need to choose one, and promptly.

Enjoying the companionship of his hotel’s concierge seemed pointless and futile, and yet he found himself turning his attention to his watch every few minutes throughout the state dinner, willing it to be over so he could call for a tray of tea and the woman with eyes the colour of the sky on a winter’s morning.

She had asked the kitchen to prepare tea for two, with no further explanation. And even though they had no way of knowing the Sheikh wasn’t entertaining in his suite, she felt a flush of guilt as she took the tray, as though surely everyone must know that she was about to cross an invisible line in the sand and socialise with a guest.

Calm down, she insisted to herself as the elevator sped towards the top of the building. It’s just tea and conversation, hardly a hanging offence. He was grieving and despite the fact he was surrounded by an entourage, she could easily imagine how lonely his position must be, how refreshing to meet someone who hadn’t been indoctrinated into the ways of worshipping at his feet by virtue of the fact that he ruled the land from which they heralded.

This was no different from the other unusual requests she had been asked to fulfil, it was just a lot harder to delegate. He wanted her. To talk to her. She couldn’t say why—she wasn’t particularly interesting, which filled her with anxiety at the job before her, but, for whatever reason, he had been insistent.

She knocked at the door then pushed it inwards. He was standing almost exactly where he’d been the night before, still wearing the robes he had been in earlier that day, though he’d removed the headpiece, so her heart rate trebled. Because he looked so impossibly handsome, so striking with his tanned skin and strong body encased in the crisp white and gold.

It brought out a hint of blond in his hair that she hadn’t noticed at first, just a little at the ends, which spoke of a tendency to spend time outdoors.

He walked towards her so she stood completely still, as though her legs were planted to the floor, and when his hands curved around the edges of the tray, it was impossible for them not to brush hers. A jolt of electricity burst through her, splitting her into a thousand pieces so she had to work hard not to visibly react.

‘I’m pleased you came.’

He stood there, watching her, for a beat too long and then took the tray, placing it on the coffee table.

‘The first reference to persimmon tea comes from one of our earliest texts. In the year forty-seven AD, a Bedouin tribe brought it as a gift to the people of the west of my country. Their skill with harvesting the fruit late in the season and drying them in such a way as to preserve the flavour made them popular with traders.’

He poured some into a cup and held it in front of him, waiting, a small smile on his lips that did funny things to her tummy.

She forced her legs to carry her across the room, a tight smile of her own crossing her expression as she took the teacup. ‘Thank you.’

He was watching her and so she took a small sip, her eyes widening at the flavour. ‘It’s so sweet. Like honey.’

He made a throaty noise of agreement. ‘Picked at the right time, persimmons are sweet. Dried slowly, that intensifies, until you get this.’

She took another sip, her insides warming to the flavour. It was like drinking happiness. Why had she resisted so long?

‘Are you going to have some?’

‘I don’t feel like sleeping tonight.’

Her stomach lurched and she chattered the cup against the saucer a little too loudly, shooting him a look that was half apology, half warning.

She had to keep this professional. It was imperative that she not forget who she was, who he was, and why her job mattered so much to her. She was lucky with this position. She earned a salary that was above and beyond what she could have hoped, by virtue of her untarnished ability to provide exemplary customer service. One wrong move and her reputation would suffer, so too would her job, potentially, and she couldn’t jeopardise that.

It helped to imagine her manager in the room, observing their conversation. If she pictured Henry watching, she could keep things professional and light, she could avoid the gravitational pull that seemed to be dragging on her.

‘You were at the United Nations today, sir?’

A quirk shifted his lips, but he nodded. ‘It was my first official speech as ruler of the RKH.’

‘How did it go?’

He gestured towards the sofa, inviting her to sit. She chose one side, crossing her legs primly and placing the cup and saucer on her knee, holding it with both hands.

He took the seat beside her, not opposite, so she was aware of his every movement, the shift of his body dragging on the cushions on the sofa, inadvertently pulling her towards him.

‘I was pleased with the reception.’

She sipped her tea, forcing herself to relax. ‘I can’t imagine having to do that,’ she confided with a small smile. After all, he wanted to talk to her—sitting there like a petrified automaton wasn’t particularly conversational. ‘I’m terrible at public speaking. I hate it. I feel everyone’s eyes burning me and just want to curl up in a ball for ever.’

‘It’s a skill you can learn.’

‘Perhaps. But fortunately for me, I don’t need to.’

Silence prickled at their sides.

She spoke to fill it. ‘I don’t feel like you would have needed to do much learning there.’

He frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Sorry, that wasn’t clear.’ She shook her head. ‘I just mean you were probably born with this innate ability to stand in front of a group of people and enthral them.’

She clamped her mouth shut, wishing she hadn’t come so close to admitting that she was a little bit enthralled by him.

He smiled though, in a way that relaxed her and warmed her. ‘I was born knowing my destiny. I was born to be Sheikh, ruler of my people, and, as such, never imagined what it would be like to...avoid notice.’ His eyes ran over her face speculatively, so even as she was relaxing, she was also vibrating in a way that was energising and demanding.

‘I don’t think you’d be very good at it.’

‘At being Sheikh?’

‘At avoiding notice.’

‘Nor are you, so this we have in common.’

Heat spread through her veins like wildfire.

‘I don’t think you see me clearly,’ she said after a moment.

‘No?’

‘I’m very good at not being seen.’

His laugh was husky. ‘It’s quite charming that you think so.’

She shook her head a little. ‘I don’t really understand...’

‘You are a beautiful young woman with hair the colour of desert sand and eyes like the sky. Even in this boxy uniform, you are very, very noticeable.’

She stared at him for several seconds, pleasure at war with uncertainty. Remember Max, she reminded herself. He’d noticed her. He’d praised her, flattered her, and she’d fallen for it so fast she hadn’t stopped to heed any of the warning signs. And look how that had turned out!

‘Thank you.’ It was stiff, an admonishment.

He laughed. ‘You are not good with compliments.’

She bit down on her lip, their situation troubling her, pulling on her. ‘I should go.’

He reached a hand out, pressing it to her knee. Her skin glowed where he’d touched her, filling her with a scattering sensation of pins and needles. ‘No more compliments,’ he promised. ‘Tell me about yourself, Daisy Carrington.’

Her eyes flared wide. ‘How do you know my surname?’

‘I asked my chief of security.’

‘How...?’

‘All hotel staff are independently vetted by my agencies,’ he explained, as though that were no big deal.

Her lips parted. ‘Then I suspect you know more about me than I realised.’

‘It’s not comprehensive,’ he clarified. ‘Your name, date of birth, any links to criminal activity.’ He winked. ‘You were clear, by the way.’

Despite herself, she smiled. ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

‘May I call you Daisy?’

‘So long as you don’t expect me to call you anything other than Your Highness,’ she quipped.

‘Very well. So, Daisy? Before you started working here, what did you do?’

Her stomach clenched. Remembered pain was there, pushing against her. She thought of her marriage, her divorce, her acceptance to the Juilliard, and pushed them all away. ‘This and that.’ A tight smile, showing more than she realised.

‘Which tells me precisely nothing.’

‘I worked in hospitality.’

‘And it’s what you have always wanted to do?’

The question hurt. She didn’t talk about her music. It was too full of pain—pain remembering her father, and the way he’d sat beside her, moving her fingers over the keys until they learned the path themselves, the way she’d stopped playing the day he’d left. And then, when her mother was in her low patches, the way Daisy had begun to play again—it was the only thing she had responded to.

‘It’s what I gravitated to.’

‘Another answer that tells me nothing.’

Because she was trying to obfuscate but he was too clever for that. What was the harm in being honest with him? He had reserved this suite for four nights—this was his second. He would be gone soon and she’d never see him again.

‘I wanted to be a concert pianist, actually.’

He went very still, his eyes hooked to hers, waiting, watching. And she found the words spilling out of her even when she generally made a habit of not speaking them. After all, what good could come from reliving a fantasy lost?

‘My father was a jazz musician. He taught me to play almost from infancy. I would sit beside him and he would arrange my fingers, and when we weren’t playing, we would listen to music, so I was filled with its unique language, all the beats that mixed together to make a song, to tell a story and weave a narrative with their melody. I love all types of music, but classical is my favourite. I lose myself in Chopin and Mozart, so that I’m barely conscious of the passage of time.’

He stared at her, his surprise evident, and with little wonder. It was as though the words had burst from her, so full of passion and memory, so alive with her love and regrets.