The Sheik & the Virgin Princess

“You’ve been very kind,” she said. “We won’t be troubling you again.”

But he didn’t climb back into the car. Instead he took her arm and led her into the modest hotel. “I think we have more to discuss,” he said, not giving her an opportunity to protest. Cleo trailed along behind.

Zara made one attempt to pull free of his grip, but as she’d suspected, he didn’t let her go. No doubt he wanted to scare them into leaving. As soon as they were in private, she would tell him that he didn’t have to worry. She and Cleo would be heading back to the States as soon as possible.

They moved through the lobby toward the elevator. Zara tried not to notice the clean but slightly shabby furniture. Prints added color to the white walls. There were a few plants scattered around, but little else in the way of decorations.

She knew what he was thinking. She could read his thoughts as clearly as if they were her own.

“Just because we’re on a budget doesn’t mean we’re in it for the money,” she said in a low, angry voice when they stopped for the elevator. “You have no right to judge me or find me wanting.”

Those amazing blue eyes turned toward her. She met his gaze, despite the powerful force he exuded. Pride stiffened her spine and made her strong.

The elevator doors opened, breaking the spell.

“So do you know the king?” Cleo asked, oblivious to the tension between them.

“Yes.”

She laughed. “You’re not real chatty, are you? It doesn’t matter how mad you want to be. The truth is Zara is his daughter. She has letters and a ring. I think you should do your darnedest to prove them to be fakes. When you can’t, you’ll have no choice but to accept her for who she says she is.”

For the first time since they were led away from the tour group, Zara felt herself relax. Maybe it was a little too soon to think about running away.

“You have an excellent point,” she told her sister.

“I am more than a pretty face,” Cleo reminded her, as the elevator came to a stop on the fourth floor.

Zara turned to the man who still had a death grip on her arm. “Are you willing to look at the evidence? Despite already reaching a conclusion?”

“Absolutely.”

“And when you find out you’re wrong?”

“Let’s discuss that if it happens.”

Thirty minutes later Rafe was less convinced this was a hoax. He fingered the dozen or so letters Zara had shown him. The subject matter—especially the comments about the cats—made him suspicious. All the information could have been gathered by careful research. However the handwriting looked like Hassan’s, and the syntax was pure royal-speak. But what convinced him the most was the feeling in his gut.

Long years of experience had taught him to listen to his instincts—instincts that had saved his life on more than one occasion. He fingered the yellowing linen paper, then glanced at the stack of letters on the small desk in the hotel room. Despite his assumptions that Zara and her sister were looking to make an easy couple of million, there was a good chance he’d been wrong.

“Anything else?” he asked, turning his attention to the woman sitting on the bed next to the desk.

Zara reached into her carry-on bag and drew out a pad of paper. “Here’s a list of the jewelry I can remember my mother selling. It’s not a complete list because I’m sure she sold some before I was born or while I was too young to know what was happening. There’s also this.”

The “this” turned out to be a diamond band inscribed with the word forever on the inside. The tightening in Rafe’s gut got worse.

Zara sat facing him, her hands carefully folded on her lap. She wore a light cotton, peach sundress and sandals. Her long hair tumbled down her back. With her dark eyes and honeyed complexion, she looked a lot like Princess Sabra—Sabrina—the king’s only daughter.

Yeah, there were differences. Sabrina didn’t wear glasses and she had an air of confidence that Zara lacked. Still, the combination of the physical similarities and the evidence made him fairly sure Zara was exactly who she claimed to be. He couldn’t begin to imagine what was going to happen when the king found out.

“What stories did your mother tell you about your father?” he asked.

“She rarely said anything.” Zara shrugged. “When I would ask questions, she would just say that they couldn’t be together. He didn’t know about me and she wasn’t in a position to tell me about him. I used to ask if he would want me if he found out he had a daughter. She always said he would, but I never knew if that was her interpretation of events or if it was true.”

The information hardly helped. He glanced over at Cleo who had stretched out on the far bed, reading a fashion magazine.

“Do you remember your mother telling any stories about your father?”

Cleo smiled. “I’m not lucky enough to be related to royalty. Sorry.”

“Cleo is my foster sister,” Zara said.

“That’s right. Fiona brought me home when I was ten, just like picking up a puppy in a pound. I was housebroken, so she decided to keep me.”

Cleo spoke cheerfully enough, but there was a hint of darkness in her eyes. Rafe studied her pretty round face, taking in the wide eyes, blond hair and full, pouty mouth. She didn’t look anything like Zara.

Zara glared at her sister. “It wasn’t quite like that. Cleo came to us as a foster child, but quickly became a member of the family.”

This was more information than Rafe had wanted. “So you’re not blood relatives.”

Zara returned her attention to him. “No.” She opened her mouth as if she was about to speak, then shook her head and rose. “I can’t do this,” she said, and headed for the balcony.

Cleo sighed. “Zara’s been like this since we left Spokane,” she confided. “It’s one thing to say you want to meet your real father, but it’s another to have it happen. At least, that’s what she says. I think being related to royalty is pretty cool, but then, Zara’s always been the sensitive one.”

Sensitive? Rafe didn’t do sensitive. Why the hell had he been the one standing in the room when the guard had brought in Zara? Couldn’t someone else have attacked her and been responsible for this mess?

Muttering under his breath, he rose and stalked out to the small balcony that overlooked the tourist portion of the city. The late-May heat was a tangible creature, sucking air from his lungs and moisture from his body. Zara didn’t seem to notice as she leaned against the railing and stared off into the distance.

“I don’t want you to say anything to the king,” she said without looking at him.

“I don’t have a choice.”

That got her attention. She spun toward him. “Why? It doesn’t matter. He already has one daughter…he doesn’t need another one. Besides, I don’t think I’d be a very good princess.”

“You’d be fine.”

Rafe shifted uneasily. He didn’t like emotional confrontations with women who looked as if they might start to cry.

She swallowed. “You think maybe he’s really…” Her voice trailed off as she gestured to the letters he still held in his hand.

He knew what she was asking. “Yes, Zara. I think he could be your father.”

She turned her attention back to the city. “I didn’t think it would be like this,” she said quietly. “All my life I’ve wanted to belong to a real family. To have relatives and roots. But not here—with royalty. I wanted some normal, American family. You know the kind with a bunch of kids and maybe one or two eccentric relatives.”

She had a perfect profile. His gaze lingered on the gentle curve of her mouth and the length of her neck. Something flickered inside. Something that had nothing to do with his gut instincts and everything to do with being a man.

A faint breeze stirred, bringing with it the scent of her. A scent he remembered from when he’d attacked her. Even as he’d pulled a gun and prepared to defend the royal house of Bahania, he’d been aware of her feminine fragrance, not to mention her body beneath his.

She looked at him. “What if I can’t do this?”

There were questions in her brown eyes. Questions and pain.

“I could act as intermediary,” he found himself saying. “I could take the letters and the ring to the king privately. You wouldn’t have to be there, and no one else would have to know.”

She bit her lower lip. “Once you begin, there’s no turning back. I don’t like that.”

“You wouldn’t have come here if you hadn’t wanted this,” he reminded her. “You’re the one who started this in motion by going to the palace.”

“But wanting and getting are too different things. Maybe Cleo and I should just disappear.”

“If you do, you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what would have happened.”

“Maybe that doesn’t sound so bad.” Zara hesitated, then nodded. “You’re right. I’m here. I want to know the truth. If you wouldn’t mind taking the letters to the king, that would be great. I’m not feeling brave enough to be rejected in person. Not that I could get in to see the king.”

Rafe didn’t know how the king was going to react, but he was fairly certain Hassan was Zara’s father. Which could create many complications.

She headed toward the room. “You should probably take the ring, too.”

She was so damn trusting. “How do you know I’ll return it?”

She stopped to stare at him. “Why would you keep it?”

He groaned. “You have no business traveling on your own.”

“I’m not. I’m with my sister.”

“The blind leading the blind.”

She drew herself up to her full height and glared at him. As he was six foot three, the top of her head barely grazed his chin. He wasn’t impressed by her erect posture or the fire spitting from her eyes.

“Cleo and I have done perfectly well without your help.”

“I can see that. Getting attacked at the palace was part of your plan all along, right?”

“That was your fault, not mine.”

“In a situation like this you have to be prepared for the unexpected.” Although she’d certainly caught him off guard.

Zara’s temper faded. “Do I really look like her?”

“Enough to fool a new guard.”

“But not you.”

“No.” He shifted from foot to foot. “I’m sorry I attacked you.”

“It’s all right. You thought there was a threat.”

Looking at her now he didn’t see how that was possible, but that was what he’d assumed.

She pushed up her glasses. “Do you think there’s really a chance I’m the king’s daughter?”

“What do you know about your name?” he asked instead of answering her question.

“Nothing. I mean I know it’s unusual, but if you’d ever met my mother, you wouldn’t be surprised. She wasn’t exactly the most conventional person on the planet.”

“Zara was King Hassan’s mother’s name.”

Zara shivered, as if she were suddenly cold. Rafe didn’t blame her. She might have come to Bahania looking for her father, but she was about to get a whole lot more than she’d bargained for.

Zara paced restlessly after Rafe left. “He said he’d call as soon as he saw the king,” she said, more to herself than to Cleo, who was still reading her magazine. “He said he could get in to see him this afternoon. What kind of man can just waltz in and see the king?”

“A man with connections,” Cleo said, then grinned at her. “Honey, you’re taking this way too hard. What’s the worst that can happen? You’ll turn out not to be Hassan’s daughter. Then we can enjoy the rest of our vacation and head home.”

Zara supposed it was just that simple, although there was a part of her that hated the idea of being fatherless again. Not that she wanted a king for her father.

“I didn’t think it would be so complicated,” she admitted, more to herself than to Cleo.

“It’s not so complicated. Nothing’s changed.”

Zara sank onto her bed and shook her head. Things had changed the second Rafe Stryker had tossed her to the ground. Not only was she seeing their position from someone else’s point of view, she couldn’t stop thinking about his incredible blue eyes and how her insides quivered when she was close to him.

“Who do you think he is?” she asked. “Rafe was dressed like a sheik, but he’s obviously American.”

“What does it matter, as long as he can do what he says.” Cleo tossed the magazine aside and rolled toward her. “Forget about him. Think about the palace instead. Wouldn’t it be great to live there? It was so beautiful.”

“It was big and scary,” Zara said.

Cleo sighed. “What am I going to do with you? This is a fabulous opportunity and you’re going to blow it by getting cold feet. We’re talking princess, Zara. You could be an honest-to-goodness princess. That doesn’t happen to people like us. It wasn’t that long ago that money was so tight we could only afford day-old bread.”

“I know.”

“You could be rich.”

“I don’t want to be rich—I want to belong. I want roots and relatives and a history.”

“You could have all of that and a tiara, too.”

Zara laughed. “Is that all you can think about?”

Cleo grinned. “Diamonds have a way of getting my attention.”

“You talk big, but in your heart you want what I want. Real family.”

“Maybe, but I’d settle for royalty.”

Zara tucked her legs under her. “Do you think Rafe works for the king?”

Cleo groaned. “Don’t you dare get all dopey about that guy. For one thing, you’re about to find out if the king of a wealthy nation is your father. You don’t have time to be distracted. Second, you have the worst luck on the planet when it comes to men. Don’t even think about it.”

“I know.”

Zara couldn’t disagree with either of her sister’s statements. She just might be starting an amazing adventure, and her ill fortune with men bordered on legendary. Still there’d been something about Rafe’s eyes.

“I wonder if he’s married,” she murmured.

Cleo threw a pillow at her. “Stop it. Think about being a princess instead.”

“All right.”

But as Zara shifted to stretch out on the bed, she pictured a tall, dangerous looking man with a gaze that seemed to see into her soul.

Chapter Three

I nstead of going directly to the king, Rafe detoured by his own office first. Once there he headed for his computer, prepared to research the possibility of Zara Paxton being King Hassan’s illegitimate daughter.

A part of him had already accepted her story, which made him uneasy. Except for the feeling in his gut, he had no reason to trust her. Was he getting soft? Had he been out of combat too long? Or were his instincts telling him the truth?

Forty minutes later he had a rough idea of the king’s travel schedule from thirty years ago. There weren’t a lot of details, but it was obvious that Hassan had frequently visited New York City. Rafe toyed with the idea of breaking into the financial records to check on jewelry purchases, but figured he would do better to ask the king directly.

Rafe reached for the ring he’d slipped into his pocket and turned it over in his hand. The diamonds glinted in the midafternoon light. They circled the entire band. Again he studied the inscription of the word forever. Had the king meant the sentiment? He’d never been one to keep a mistress or wife around for very long. He had only ever loved one of his three wives. Had Zara’s mother been the only other woman to truly capture the monarch’s heart?

There was only one way to find out.

Rafe called Hassan’s secretary and requested a few minutes for a private meeting. Fortunately, the king was running ahead of schedule. Rafe collected the letters, tucked the ring back into his pocket and headed for the rear of the palace.

His Highness, the king of Bahania, believed in first impressions. His office suite was the size of a football field and overlooked a topiary garden growing around a large white fountain. Four guards in formal dress stood in front of wide double doors overlaid with a gold coat of arms. Once inside the suite, three secretaries protected the king from those who wished to see him. Two-story-high windows overlooked the lush gardens surrounding the palace, while priceless works of art hung on the walls—both paintings and tapestries delighting the eye. And wandering around as if they owned the place were several cats.

Rafe nodded at the guards as he approached. They opened the outer doors for him. As he entered, a white Persian cat slipped out, pausing to rub against him long enough to deposit several white hairs on his trousers. Rafe gritted his teeth. He’d never been much of a cat kind of guy—he was a dog person. But this was not the place to mention that. The king adored his cats.

Two gray cats lay curled up on a sofa by the window. A calico had stretched out on one of the secretaries’ desk, using a stack of files for a pillow. Rafe ignored the felines and approached the center desk.

Akil, an older man who had served the king for many years, smiled in greeting. “Mr. Stryker. His Highness is waiting for you. Please go on in.”

Rafe touched his suit pocket to make sure the ring was still in place, then headed for the half-open door on the left. As he entered the king of Bahania’s private chambers, he bowed.

“Your Highness,” he said, and paused.

King Hassan sat behind an impressive hand carved desk. The king generally wore Western-style suits during his working day and today was no exception. The tailored lightweight wool garment had been made by hand in Italy, the fabric especially woven to resist the ever-present cat hairs shed by the monarch’s beloved felines.

“Rafe, what brings you to see me?” Hassan asked, waving his guest forward.

Rafe had to move a dozing Siamese from a chair before he could sit and was then forced to allow the animal to drape itself across his lap. He couldn’t wait to get back to his regular job. At least his boss didn’t have a thing for cats.

“I have an unusual situation to report,” Rafe began.

Hassan raised his eyebrows. The king was close to sixty, but still a youthful-looking man. A few gray hairs had appeared in his closely trimmed beard but there weren’t many wrinkles on his face. He could be stern and distant. Until the recent decision to form a joint air force between Bahania, neighboring El Bahar and the City of Thieves, Rafe had had little to do with the king. Acting as the security liaison for the City of Thieves had recently put Rafe in close contact with the ruler of Bahania. He had yet to form an opinion of the man, so he couldn’t predict his reaction to Rafe’s news.

Hassan leaned forward. “Situation? With security?”

“No. This is personal. I haven’t discussed this with anyone, sir. If you instruct me to keep this to myself, I will never speak of it again.”

Hassan smiled slightly. “I’m intrigued. Go on.”

Rafe hesitated. He was about to tread over some potentially dangerous waters. “A young woman came to the palace this morning. She was part of the regular public tour. One of the guards noticed her because she bears a striking resemblance to the Princess Sabra.”

Hassan nodded to show he was listening. So far he hadn’t reacted. Rafe continued.

“I spoke with the young woman in question.” He’d already decided not to mention the details of their meeting. “She recently discovered some papers which had belonged to her late mother. Letters, actually. She thinks they may have been written by you.”

Hassan’s face tightened. “Who is this woman? How old is she?”

“Her name is Zara Paxton. She’s twenty-eight.”

Hassan gasped as if he’d been shot. He held out his hands for the letters, and as Rafe passed them over he already had his answer. Hassan looked both elated and stunned. Both the name and the age had been significant to him.

While the king was distracted with the pages, he took the opportunity to set the cat on the ground and brush the hair from his lap.

Hassan opened each letter slowly and read it, then put it back in the envelope. Color drained from his face. When he’d finished, Rafe gave him the diamond ring. The king took it and closed his fingers around the stones.

“Fiona,” he breathed, then looked at Rafe. “The daughter. Where is she?”

“Zara is staying at a hotel in the city. Her mother died some years ago. Apparently, she had kept these letters with a lawyer. Zara only found out about them a few months ago. She thinks you could be her father.”

Hassan rose, with Rafe quickly doing the same. “Of course she is my daughter. Fiona and I were together for over two years. After all this time her daughter is here. My daughter.” He shook his head. “You say she looks like Sabrina?”

“They have the same coloring, the same general build. Zara is taller and thinner. She wears glasses.”

Hassan smiled sadly, obviously caught up in a memory. “My sweet Fiona was as blind as a bat, but vain. She would never wear her glasses. I used to have to lead her everywhere.” He headed for the door. “Come. I must meet Zara at once.”

Rafe grabbed the letters—Hassan still had the ring. “Your Highness, we need to talk about this first.”

The king turned to face him. “Why?”

“For one thing, you can’t know if she’s really your daughter.”

“True enough, although I suspect she is.”

He wanted her to be. Rafe read that truth in the longing in Hassan’s dark eyes. Rafe felt oddly protective of the woman he’d left back in the hotel.

“Zara is a little nervous about the situation. She’s not prepared to have her long-lost father be the king of a sizable country. There’s also the problem of the media. Until we know who she is, it’s best if we keep this information private.”

“I see your point.” Hassan nodded slowly. “What do you suggest?”

“A meeting in a neutral location. One of the big hotels, maybe. We can use one of the suites. Your security people can get you into the building quietly. I’ll bring Zara.”

Hassan glanced at his watch. “Have this arranged by four o’clock. I won’t wait any longer.”

Which gave Rafe less than two hours. Great. “Yes, Your Highness. I’ll take care of everything.”

“I’m going to throw up,” Zara announced as she stood in the center of the massive living room of the presidential suite at the Bahanian Resort Hotel.

To her left were floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the incredible Arabian Ocean. She’d already tried concentrating on the view as a way to calm herself, but the height made her head swim…and not in a good way.

The furniture in the suite was enough to make her uneasy. The living room held five sofas—five!—and a baby grand piano. There were also coffee tables and sofa tables. All this furniture, and there was still enough floor space to hold an aerobics class.

She and Cleo had yet to find their way through the entire suite. They’d gotten lost twice then had given up exploring, fearing that the king would arrive and find them trapped in a bedroom closet or bathroom.

“Don’t throw up,” Cleo advised. “It never makes a good first impression.”

“Thanks for the share.” Zara tried for a smile, but her face felt frozen and tight. Like she’d had too much Novocain at the dentist. “What are we doing here? Are we crazy?”

Cleo rubbed her hand along the back of one of the sofas. “I don’t know, Zara. I mean, I didn’t really connect this whole king-father thing before. But now it’s real and it’s scary.”

“Tell me about it.” Zara forced herself to sit. She chose a sofa that faced away from the windows. “At least Rafe arranged for us to meet the king here rather than at our hotel.”

Cleo managed a brief smile. “I’ll bet he’s never been in a two-star place before. Do you want to know that you’re the color of a sheet?”

“Not really.” Her stomach tightened. “What was I thinking?”

“That it would be nice to meet the family.” Cleo sank into a sofa opposite hers.

“You’re my family,” Zara reminded her. “Whatever happens here, I want you to know that. Anything else is just gravy.”

Cleo rolled her eyes. “If your father turns out to be the king, then I would say that at least rates him being an entrée. Oh, and if you are a real princess, I want you to promise to send your jewelry castoffs my way.”