Читать книгу Claiming His Replacement Queen - Amanda Cinelli, Amanda Cinelli - Страница 9

‘I’D RATHER DIE than be your wife a moment longer.’

Khal opened his eyes, clean cool air filling his lungs with painful force. His surroundings were a jolt to his system, the sleek interior of the royal jet’s main cabin so far apart from the angry red sands and fathomless black water of his dream. It had just been a dream. He sat back, looking up at the ceiling as his heartbeat found its rhythm once more.

His subconscious had long ago stopped tormenting him with every detail of his last conversation with his wife before her death. Or so he had believed.

He unbuckled his seat belt and stood, stretching out the painful tightness in his shoulders. He could have chosen to sleep in any one of the three luxurious bedrooms on board, but sleep had not come easily of late. The dreams were back with a vengeance. The same dreams that had plagued him for an entire year after his wife’s death. Stress seemed to be a trigger and the past few weeks had most certainly not been a relaxing time.

He pressed a button on the panel by his side and, as if by magic, two flight attendants emerged from the end of the cabin. A tray bearing hot towels and fresh ice water was placed on the nearest table without a word. His chair was returned to the upright position and a pot of hot coffee set down within reach.

‘That will be all, thank you,’ he said, his voice unintentionally gravelly from sleep. He glanced up just in time to see one of the women visibly flinch as he waved one hand in dismissal. He fought the urge to roll his eyes with irritation. Without another word, they hurried back behind the curtain and he was alone once more. Just as he preferred it.

Most of his staff knew him well enough to disregard the rumours that had spread upon his wife’s untimely passing. Disgusting, slanderous rumours that he had worked hard to dispel even while in the first days of his grief. But still, whispers spread and somehow the idea that he was a man to be feared had stuck.

People believed him to be a villain and it suited him to keep it that way. He was not forced to make idle conversation, to pretend to care. He did not throw social functions nor did he attend a great many.

Or at least he hadn’t until recently.

Khal opened his laptop and scanned an assortment of international news articles that his press team had collated from the past week. The Most Romantic Royal Love Story of the Decade, one headline proclaimed. It was any news reporter’s dream, Princess Olivia of the tiny European kingdom of Monteverre turning her back on her lofty title to marry a man her family deemed unsuitable. One picture showed Khal’s close friend Roman Lazarov as he walked hand in hand with the beautiful redhead. What a cruel twist of fate it was that the woman he had finally chosen as his second wife, the answer to all his economic woes, would be snatched up at the last moment. And by his best friend, no less.

Remarrying had never been in his plans for his reign as Sheikh. He had been a young man on his first wedding day, filled with naïve hope for the future. That version of himself was long gone. He had no desire to find a woman to mend his broken heart, or any of the other schemes he had heard whispered by his mother and sister when they thought he could not hear. Thanks to his sister, he had two strong nephews that would carry on the Al Rhas bloodline and therefore he’d believed he had absolutely no need for a wife.

But he could no longer deny that the rumours surrounding his wife’s demise were affecting Zayyar’s international image. His country had been peaceful for over two decades, his father and grandfather before him credited with having brought their small Middle Eastern kingdom back from the brink of complete ruin. Khal had no wish for fame or a place in the history books, but he refused to be remembered as the Sheikh who had ruined all of their hard work.

Known for his careful planning, he had spent months drawing up an arrangement with Monteverre, one of the oldest and most financially troubled kingdoms in Europe. It was a deal that would solve all his problems in one fell swoop. He would provide the Monteverrian economy with a very healthy injection of capital and in return he would gain a loyal alliance in the form of the perfect bride with the perfect amount of political influence and public appeal.

By now the whole world knew that the Princess had given up her formal title to be with her scandalous Russian lover. There was no mention of a failed engagement to the Sheikh of Zayyar in any newspaper, nor would there ever be, thanks to his team. His name rarely graced any of the world media sources, nor did paparazzi images. He paid handsomely for his privacy. And a good thing too, considering he was about to arrive unannounced into a foreign country to retrieve his replacement bride.

He knew nothing of the youngest Sandoval Princess, only that she had been studying abroad in England for many years and had agreed to his offer of a royal marriage of convenience with very little hesitation. She had even agreed to sign a formal engagement contract without first meeting in person. He should feel relieved that his plans had not been completely derailed, and yet something seemed off.

He had amended the terms of the agreement from its original form, limiting the deal to five years of marriage in name only, followed by an easy divorce settlement. With such a solid link to European royalty provided by his bride, five years would be more than enough time for him to repair the bridges that had been burned by his reputation. Divorce was a common occurrence across the globe; Zayyar was no different. Still, he knew he would not truly rest until he had spoken to his fiancée in person.

He spent the remainder of the flight in quiet contemplation, barely noticing that they had landed until his pilot announced the incredibly low temperature in the city of London. It was the middle of May and yet he felt the need to pull up the collar of his impeccably tailored wool coat as he made the short trip from jet to limousine, grateful that he had chosen to change into Western-style clothing mid-flight. His usual flowing white robes were perfect for the desert heat, but not designed for the chilly, wet weather so common in this part of the world.

His Chief of Security sat waiting in the car, his expression stressed—Sayyid never looked stressed. Immediately Khal’s instincts stood to attention.

‘There has been a small problem,’ Sayyid said solemnly.

Khal kept his features expressionless as his trusted servant outlined the events of the past twenty-four hours’ surveillance operation. Finally, he closed his eyes, fighting the urge not to slam his fist into the door panel. ‘You believe she is a flight risk?’

‘She shows all of the signs of it, Sire.’ After a prolonged silence, Sayyid cleared his throat quietly. ‘If you give me the order, I will have the Princess collected immediately and delivered to the jet.’

‘Your men are currently in pursuit?’ Khal spoke with quiet control, hardly believing history was repeating itself so blatantly.

‘She is safely surrounded and unaware of their presence.’

Khal nodded, running a hand across the light stubble on his jaw. He had already taken King Fabian’s word once and been burned, but this time it was different. He had sent his personal secretary to London with official documents and ensured that Her Highness signed them herself in person. He had done everything within his power to ensure her complete consent before entering into a legally binding engagement to protect his investment. If she walked away from their engagement now, the repercussions for her kingdom were grave.

Surely she realised that?

But of course he had to be prepared for the fact that maybe she did not care. Nonetheless, at this moment in time she was his fiancée. And in Zayyar that was as good as already being his wife. He had a duty to ensure her safety. Princess Cressida might be having second thoughts about their marriage, but he’d be damned if he would send anyone in to talk her round this time, other than himself.

‘I’ll handle this myself.’ He spoke with a calm he did not feel. ‘Take me to her.’

* * *

The exclusive club was a secret to most Londoners, hidden away behind the rather nondescript black door of a Georgian townhouse in Mayfair. The chilly breeze brushed across her skin as Cressida Sandoval stepped out onto the pavement and looked up at the building’s dimly lit facade. The urge to abandon her plans and retreat to the warm interior of the limousine was strong. Frank, her loyal chauffeur of five years, was not happy with her insistence that he remain behind and he’d made his disapproval known by slamming the door audibly behind her.

‘Your Highness, are you sure you don’t want me to escort you inside?’ He spoke quietly, worrying his black tie with one hand.

Cressida stiffened at the honorific. The title that set her so far apart from every other twenty-four-year-old woman seeking a night of freedom. She inhaled softly, reminding herself that her freedom relied entirely on the driver’s discretion. ‘I have never asked for a favour before now.’

He shook his head, leaning back against the car bonnet. ‘Five years of driving you from home to Oxford, Oxford to home, like blimmin’ clockwork. Last night on the job and you’ve decided to give me heart failure.’

‘Two hours alone, Frank. That’s all I want.’ She understood his worry; his job would be on the line if anything happened to her on his watch. If she’d had any street sense she would probably have taken a cab, but princesses did not take cabs, nor did they sneak out unaccompanied to secret clubs in the dead of night. She’d had to dodge her two bodyguards and beg Frank, just to get him to agree to drive her and wait outside. Once the time was up, she would return to reality. Or at least the suffocating reality of what her life had recently become.

Her father’s voice rang in her ears.

‘Politically advantageous...royal duty...for the good of the kingdom.’

Tomorrow she would become Princess Cressida Sandoval once more, returning to her kingdom after five years of self-imposed exile. Her father, the King of Monteverre, had barely listened to her weak argument about the European languages doctorate she had signed up for or the assistant teaching position she had been offered. ‘Princesses do not teach, Cressida,’ he had boomed in his usual way. ‘I’m sure the Sheikh will have plenty of dusty old books for you to bury your nose in, or whatever it is that you’ve been wasting your time with for the past five years.’

The Sheikh. Her future husband.

She should not feel so nervous about something that was essentially just a business arrangement. Five years of service, her father had said. How utterly romantic. Not that romance had ever played a part in her life so far, but still... She had been comfortable here in London, away from the watching eyes of the public. Was she truly ready to become a queen?

A fresh wave of anxiety fuelled her with adrenaline as she met the eyes of the burly man guarding the door to the club. She quietly spoke the code word she had overheard three nights before from one of her bodyguards. The door was opened without comment, revealing plush red carpeted stairs with sleek chrome handrails descending downwards. She paused for a moment, fear of the unknown snaking around her chest and pulling tight. The low hum of music and conversation drifted upwards like a siren’s song.

This was her last night in London, she reminded herself as she took the first step downwards. She owed it to herself to experience at least a taste of the freedom she had stupidly taken for granted before her face graced the front of every newspaper on the globe.

She had felt the walls closing in on her as she’d signed her name on each document that had been presented to her, precious control slipping through her fingers. Perhaps that was why she was acting on impulse for the first time in her life. She was overcome with the need to go somewhere new and be someone anonymous for just a few short hours before doing The Right Thing.

Because, when it came to royal duty, she always did what was asked of her. Whether she liked it or not.

She had felt on edge from the moment she’d ended that fateful phone call with her father. Knowing that she would do as he asked, even if it was not what she wanted. He knew it too. He knew that she always felt the pressure to measure up to her older sisters. It was so much more than simple sibling rivalry. He had always made it clear that she was his least favourite, the daughter he simply tolerated. Her thoughts turned dark, thinking of that fateful day when, as a twelve-year-old, she had finally found out why...

Pausing at the end of the stairway, Cressida took in the image of a sultry blonde in red and took a deep breath as she realised it was her own reflection. Her dark blonde locks fell in soft waves around her face, free from their usual tight ponytail. Her plain black glasses had been replaced by contact lenses. Her jeans and sneakers gone, in favour of a stylish red dress and heels slightly too high for comfort. She had devoted more time and research to tonight’s outfit than she’d given to her most recent thesis. She was good at research. It was the practical application that made her insides shake. But suddenly, standing looking at this strange, almost pretty version of herself, the bands around her chest loosened a little and she felt a hint of that freedom she so craved.

The club was deceptively spacious inside, much larger than it seemed from the narrow building facade. The décor was a modern monochrome with a hint of old world glamour in the large sparkling chandeliers that hung from the ceiling at various points. A small stage with a live jazz band dominated one corner of the large space while a double-sided bar with floor-to-ceiling mirrors glittered in the middle. It was like walking into an old black-and-white movie.

Cressida walked towards the bar as confidently as she could muster, ignoring the painful beat of her heart high up in her throat.

The music was fast paced but sensual, accentuated by a husky-toned singer in a scandalously short dress and elbow-length gloves. As she slid onto a bar stool she spied a line of strategically roped-off areas towards the back, some filled with very beautiful but rather bored-looking people. The nameless secret basement club was known for its A-list clientele and its air of anonymity, according to the conversation she had overheard between her two bodyguards. No paparazzi allowed.

Even though it was a weeknight, the club was filled with people dancing and moving to the music as the lighting curved around them. As she looked on, a famous blonde singer stood up on a table and began to pour a bottle of expensive-looking champagne over the people around her. The group of men and women began dancing and gyrating under the spray, laughing and singing along to the music.

She found herself smiling in wonder at the sight of such ridiculous behaviour. If she were to truly enjoy her freedom, she would just stand and join in with the dancing and no one would look twice at her... The thought came and passed as she took a seat at the end of the long bar, comfortably on the outskirts of the action.

Soon she would probably need to ask for permission before doing something so daring as dancing in public; she felt her mouth curve downwards.

She could refuse the match, of course. This was not some medieval drama where she would be bound and dragged down the aisle, whether she agreed to the union or not. She adored the simple life she had begun to carve out for herself here in London but of course she knew it was not allowed for a member of royalty to take a paid job. She was not meant for such blissful normality as being a teaching assistant, much as she had been delighted to be offered the position. She had a duty to serve the people of Monteverre.

She ordered a white wine, not feeling confident enough to order anything else. She occasionally drank a glass with dinner, but never more. Alcohol dulled her senses in a way that simply did not appeal to her orderly nature. She sipped slowly, feeling slightly at sea amidst the raucous dancing and groupings of people. Mingling had never been a forte of hers. The word itself made her feel twitchy. She remembered herself as a young girl, wishing she was more confident, more natural at being a princess. She had always felt so different to her older sisters, the stereotypical mousy wallflower to their flame-haired beauty. And then one day everything had changed and she had simply stopped trying. She had found comfort in blending into the background where it was safer, where no one looked too closely at her...

You came here to feel free and here you are, hiding in the corner feeling sorry for yourself. She bit her lip hard, swirling the golden liquid in her glass and watching the light play on the surface. She became suddenly aware of a shadow in the reflection of the glass and the delicious scent of a warm, distinctly male cologne.

She looked up.

Goodness...

Tall, dark and handsome simply did not describe the man standing a mere foot away from her. This man was broad, exotic and breathtaking. She swallowed hard as dark, hooded eyes met hers. He didn’t make a move to speak and after a long moment her awkward nature interfered, her voice trembling slightly as she asked, ‘Can I help you?’

His expression changed fleetingly to one of mild surprise, making her wonder if he had mistaken her for someone else. His gaze moved down to take in her long legs crossed on the high barstool before returning to her face. She half hoped he had made a mistake, then perhaps he would leave and she might be able to breathe normally again.

‘Are you expecting someone?’ He gestured to the empty barstool beside her. His voice was a deep accented rumble.

‘No. I’m here alone,’ she said quickly, then worried if that made her seem a little bit needy. ‘I mean, the seat is yours. If you want it, that is. It’s...not mine, either way.’ She felt her cheeks heat. She was a babbling idiot.

A tension-filled silence followed and the stranger’s eyes narrowed slightly as though he were waiting for her to say something more. A strange bewildered expression crossed his face as he moved to sit back onto a barstool, leaving the seat between them empty.

Cressida frowned, one hand idly tracing the edge of her glass as she shot a sidelong glance towards the mysterious hunk. Nipping at her bottom lip with her teeth, she took a slow sip of her wine to cool her suddenly dry throat. He was handsome, there was no denying it, with warm mahogany-toned skin and jet black stubble shadowing his jawline.

The shadow that began on his jawline continued down a strong throat to disappear into the open collar of a perfect white shirt. A white shirt that covered the broadest shoulders she had ever seen...

She moved her gaze back up to find a pair of dark eyes watching her. Startled, she inhaled sharply and promptly breathed in a mouthful of wine. Her throat convulsed in a series of loud embarrassing coughs and she was vaguely aware of a napkin appearing in her peripheral vision. She prayed her eye make-up hadn’t run and silently willed the dark stranger to disappear so that she didn’t have to continue her embarrassment any longer.

She froze as he placed a glass of water into her hands, the heat of his fingers scorching her skin for a few short seconds. The cold water calmed both her raw throat and her overheated brain.

Cressida looked up to find he had moved to the seat directly beside her. This close, she could see tiny flecks of gold in his deep brown irises. The way he was looking at her so intently made her feel as though she had walked under a spotlight. She was too warm, too exposed.

‘Thank you,’ she blurted, forcing herself to meet his eyes. ‘For the water.’

‘It’s my pleasure.’ His eyes did not leave hers. ‘However, I believe it is now irresponsible of me to leave you unsupervised while you finish your drink.’

‘I must seem quite ridiculous, really.’ Cressida half laughed, feeling rather blinded under the intense spotlight of his attention.

‘That’s the last word I would use,’ he said silkily, tilting his head to one side.

She managed a slight smile, wondering again why he had chosen to sit with her. Men like him did not show interest in women like her; it was hard not to be suspicious. Not that she was here seeking male attention; far from it. Tonight was simply about freedom, she reminded herself with a firm shrug of her shoulders.

‘I find myself wondering...’ his dark voice rumbled somewhere close to her ear ‘...what might have brought you here tonight to this particular club?’

Cressida felt the vibration of his deep voice travel down to her toes. She shifted in her seat. ‘The same reason as everyone else, I assume. It’s an escape.’

‘You are looking to escape something?’

‘If I say the outside world, is that rather a cliché?’ She grimaced with a half laugh, feeling herself relax slightly. ‘I must go back eventually, of course.’

He seemed thoughtful for a moment. ‘While you are here, what do you plan to do?’

‘I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.’ She laughed, shocked at how feminine she sounded. ‘I’m trying to be spontaneous for once. Perhaps I might dance?’

‘Alone?’

‘If no one asked me, I suppose I would have to dance alone.’ It was hardly a suggestive statement, but still she felt herself blush a little, knowing she suddenly wanted him to ask her to dance. What on earth had come over her?

She had never flirted with a man before—she wasn’t even sure if this qualified as flirting—but it definitely felt different to any previous conversations with a member of the opposite sex. What was she even doing? She was promised to another man, both morally and legally. She might not have met her fiancé yet, but she still knew where the boundaries stood. But a simple dance...that was hardly improper. Maybe it was the wine, though she knew herself that two sips could hardly provide enough stimulant. It was becoming intoxicating, feeling so free. That was the only explanation. It was making her feel different, bolder.

‘By all means, then. You should dance,’ he said.

‘Yes, I would love to.’ She smiled, feeling the sense of bravado heighten further. She slid off the barstool, biting her lower lip as he made no move to stand.

You should dance, he had said, not we. Silly girl.

She smiled a little too widely before turning to take a few steps towards the crowded dance floor. Throwing a final look over her shoulder as she walked away, she found herself momentarily pinned by a dark gaze. Heat sizzled through the air, seeming to settle somewhere in the region of her solar plexus.

Her painfully shy nature and workaholic tendencies had stopped her from ever having a dating life. So much so that the opposite sex might well have become a foreign species altogether, apart from her interactions with her bodyguards and driver. She could read and write fluently in eight languages and yet she could not formulate a simple sentence in English to ask a man if he wanted to dance with her. It was so utterly ridiculous that she laughed. Her laughter caught the attention of a blond-haired man nearby and he moved to dance beside her.

She smiled back briefly and continued dancing, distracted by wondering if he was still sitting at the bar, watching her. It was a ridiculous thought, that a complete stranger might feel the same hum of attraction after a moment of idle conversation. It was not as though she planned to do anything about it, but she had to admit it felt nice being noticed.

In the background, she registered the beat shifting seamlessly into a soft, seductive ballad. She let her gaze drift around the dance floor just as a handful of couples moved close and began moulding their bodies together sensually. She looked away for a moment then looked back, transfixed by the sight of a couple melting together in a haze of locked lips and intertwined limbs, all the while maintaining a perfect rhythm.

Without warning, the blond man moved close. A chunky arm snaked around her waist and she froze. She took a step away, trying to think of a kind way to decline the dance without hurting his feelings, but he moved with her, not forcefully but still determined to get close. Needing to be free of the situation, she placed her hand calmly against the man’s chest, shaking her head to show that she was leaving. Worried he wasn’t going to take the hint, she turned fully and took a few steps away from the dance floor, only to be blocked by a wall of warm, hard muscle.

‘Waiting for me?’ The stranger’s deep voice was like a balm to her nerves as he extended a hand towards her. To her surprise, she instantly placed her hand in his, allowing herself to be drawn into the delicious warm scent of his cologne until their bodies were mere inches apart. She was vaguely aware of the other man disappearing into the crowd, but it was becoming increasingly harder to form a coherent thought as a strong male arm moved slowly around her waist.

The smooth, steady rhythm of the music seemed to pound through the wall of her chest before joining her own erratic heartbeat. He pulled her close. So close that the smooth dark skin of his open collar was directly in her eye line, mere inches away. The tips of her breasts pressed momentarily against a wall of warm hard muscle before he moved back slightly. Her free hand hovered uncertainly for a moment before she bravely moved it upwards to link around his neck, her fingers resting between warm skin and the thick dark hair of his nape as he led her into an easy rhythm.

She had been given the finest dancing lessons as a young teenager to prepare her for the many occasions that a princess was required to perform a simple waltz or foxtrot. Nine times out of ten she tripped over her own feet, of course, but she knew the basics. But none of that could have prepared her for this moment. They seemed to dance for hours, moving in perfect unison. He was an excellent lead, confident and strong. He held her in such a way that she almost felt graceful for the first time in her life. His hands did not wander from their place on her waist; he didn’t even try to pull her too close against him. She felt safe, she realised. What a strange thing to feel in the arms of a man she barely knew.

Her dark stranger bent his head and for a moment she wondered if he planned to kiss her. She held her breath, relaxing when instead his mouth stopped somewhere just above her earlobe.

‘In my country, dancing like this is considered a very intimate act.’ His voice was a soft rumble that sent an earthquake of shivers down her spine.

‘Is that so?’ Cressida breathed, hardly believing that such a husky murmur had just escaped her own suddenly dry throat. ‘I can’t imagine why.’

A mischievous smile played on his lips. ‘You can’t?’

‘People dance all of the time. It’s hardly dangerous.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ he murmured. ‘Swaying like this...pressed so close... I can see how it would be seen as temptation.’

‘Temptation for what...?’ Her feverish brain wondered momentarily at his choice of words before realisation dawned with all the grace of a sledgehammer. She clumsily missed a step but her dancing partner barely reacted, correcting her misstep with graceful ease and continuing as though nothing had occurred.

‘It is usually only married couples who might dance like this,’ he continued, oblivious to her embarrassment. ‘Or perhaps those who are engaged to be married.’

She barely registered his words as her mind focused on the heat of his hand as it began to move higher on her waist, resting ever so slightly on the bared skin of her lower back. It was as though the movement of his hand shifted some kind of invisible barrier between them. She looked up, meeting the visible heat in his eyes for a long silent moment. The air seemed to pulse with heat along with the slow seductive crooning of the jazz in the background.

Suddenly it felt as though every inch of her front was glued to a wall of warm hard muscle. Her body felt heated and loose in his arms, her mind telling her to move closer. A tiny fragment of her logical brain warned her to walk away. She ignored it.

‘I doubt anyone else in here considers slow dancing to be such an important act.’ She kept her tone even, trying to maintain some level of worldly composure in the face of her body’s ridiculous reaction.

‘I had quite forgotten that there was anyone else here at all,’ he said softly.

Cressida looked up to meet his eyes; they were dark and earnest, no trace of humour or sarcasm. She felt her cheeks heat, her eyes lowering to rest comfortably on his chin. This was it, she told herself sternly—this was the moment where she should thank him for a lovely dance and make a calm and graceful exit.

The dance had been perfect, she told herself sternly—exactly what she had needed. She had sought a little excitement on her night of freedom and now she would leave London tomorrow and go happily to her duty. She could forget about this night, forget about this handsome stranger and easily go on for ever without wondering...

Suddenly she became aware that they had stopped dancing. The music had got faster and the other couples moved around the spot where they stood, entirely still in their embrace. She looked up. He was still watching her with that impenetrable gaze in a moment that seemed to stretch on as though separate from time entirely. His fingers flexed slightly at her waist, sending tingles up her spine.

What would it be like to feel his mouth on hers and his hands roaming over her body? The thought caught her by surprise, her cheeks heating as she ran the tip of her tongue along her suddenly dry lips. Her sister had described a kind of madness that had taken over when she’d met the man who was now her fiancé, an attraction that had overcome logic and reason. She doubted she could ever harbour such a passion. All of a sudden she despised the calm, rational Cressida who lived in fear of straying too far from her comfort zone. What would it feel like to simply have a thought pop into one’s mind and act on it? To be a different version of herself, even for just a moment?

He cleared his throat and she felt the moment slipping away; the small window of time she had been granted seemed to be disappearing, leaving nothing but the promise of tomorrow. Of the life being forced upon her. The choices she would no longer be free to make. But not yet...a small voice inside whispered.

She looked up into the deep brown of his gaze, catching her breath at the blatant heat she saw there. Madness indeed, she thought as her breath stopped completely, realising what she was about to do. Letting impulse take the lead, she flexed her body upwards and pressed her lips to his.

Soft, firm lips remained still under the clumsy touch of her inexperienced kiss. The hands on her waist applied pressure, holding her where she stood as his lips began to move against hers, hard and fast. Suddenly the kiss was demanding and filled with a hunger that took her breath away. It was intoxicating and overwhelming and...utterly perfect.

Was this what everyone felt when they kissed a man for the first time? Was this what she had been missing out on all these years? It felt as though she was waking up from a deep sleep and feeling her body come to life for the first time.

When he pulled his mouth from hers all too soon, she felt the loss keenly, as though going from the warmth of a fire to the bitter cold.

He uttered something harsh and guttural in a foreign language before she felt herself being unceremoniously hauled away from the dance floor towards the private area at the back of the club. Still dazed by the earth-shattering kiss, she didn’t think to protest, allowing herself to be steered into a semi-private booth shielded partially from view by a thick red velvet curtain.

‘I didn’t mean for that to happen.’ He spoke harshly, his breathing slightly laboured. ‘I didn’t intend to—’

‘Please, don’t apologise,’ she blurted, not wanting his regretful words to taint what had been such a wonderful moment for her. One half of her prayed silently that he would leave, while the other half wanted nothing more than for him to take her in his arms again. ‘I kissed you, after all.’ She forced a smile. ‘And I’m glad that I did.’

‘You might not feel that way if you knew who I was.’ He spoke evenly, but his expression held a trace of darkness that had not been there before.

‘Maybe it adds to the sense of mystery.’ She attempted a smile.

‘Is this what you were seeking tonight, coming here?’ His voice was a low rumble as he took a step closer. ‘Kissing strangers on a darkened dance floor?’

Something in his eyes brought gooseflesh to her exposed skin. She couldn’t put her finger on it but the atmosphere no longer felt warm and anonymous; she felt suddenly exposed and thoroughly out of her depth. The realisation of what she had just done came crashing upon her like a cold shower and she took a few slow backwards steps.

‘Thank you for the dance,’ she murmured, avoiding his eyes. ‘It was...wonderful.’

He raised one brow, leaning against the side panel on the wall. ‘Time to return to reality already?’

Cressida nodded once, feeling a strange pull between needing to get away and desperately wanting to stay. She wondered what his name was, where he came from. So many questions would be left unanswered once she left.

And still she walked away.

She left the club and its swaying music behind as she emerged into the night, the sharp wind making her wish she had brought a jacket. As she looked around to find where her chauffeur had got to, a trio of men in dark suits seemed to appear from nowhere.

‘Your Highness,’ the tallest one said in accented English, ‘do not be frightened. We are ordered here to assure your safety.’

‘My safety?’ she breathed, looking around the street wildly. ‘Where is my driver? How do you know who I am? Ordered by whom?’

‘Ordered by me,’ a familiarly accented voice rang out in the silent night from the nightclub doorway.

Cressida whirled, inhaling hard as she was met by the sight of the dark stranger from the dance floor walking towards her. Wordlessly, he draped a heavy woollen coat across her shoulders, guiding her a few steps away from the small army of what she presumed to be bodyguards.

His accented voice rang in her ears, intensifying the sensation of unease along her spine that warned her she had made a grave mistake tonight. She had overlooked something important. Her heart beat frantically in her chest as she met his dark gaze. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Sheikh Khalil Al Rhas, ruler of Zayyar.’ He held her pinned with his dark gaze. ‘And you, Princess, are in a world of trouble.’