Читать книгу Demanding His Desert Queen - Annie West - Страница 10

‘THE ANSWER IS NO.’

Karim’s voice was harsher than usual, sharp rather than simply firm. The Assaran envoy’s suggestion had stunned him. It seemed, despite his actions five years ago, he was still a part of Middle Eastern politics.

Karim stared through the window at the panorama of sapphire lake, verdant foothills and Swiss mountains, yet felt none of the calm the view was supposed to inspire. He spun around, ignoring the quickened beat of his pulse and the clench of his gut.

‘But, Your Highness…’

Karim stiffened at the words. ‘I no longer use a royal title.’

He watched the envoy absorb that.

‘Sir, at least take time to consider. You haven’t yet heard the Royal Council’s reasoning.’

It was an enormous honour to be asked to take the Assaran throne. Especially since Karim wasn’t Assaran. He came from the neighbouring kingdom of Za’daq, where his brother now ruled.

Karim wouldn’t accept the Assaran crown. Yet he wondered why the Council was looking beyond its borders for a new sheikh. What about the heir? He knew the recently deceased ruler of Assara had left behind a wife and son.

When Karim realised the direction of his thoughts he sliced them off. But not quickly enough to dispel the sour tang on his tongue.

‘Please, sir.’

The man looked distressed. Karim knew his visitor would be blamed for failing in his mission. If it was discovered he’d been ejected by Karim in mere minutes…

Stifling a sigh, he gestured to the lounge. ‘Take a seat. You might as well be comfortable.’

The presidential suite of this exclusive hotel might be comfortable, but sadly it hadn’t proved exclusive enough to prevent this unwanted diplomatic delegation. As the hotel’s new owner, Karim would change that.

‘Thank you, sir.’

Even so, he waited till Karim had taken a seat facing him. Deference towards royalty was ingrained in the man. Even royals who’d renounced their regal claim.

For a mad moment Karim considered revealing the truth and ending this farce. But he’d vowed not to. His brother Ashraf had enough to deal with, imprinting his own stamp on Za’daq. He didn’t need full-blown family scandal as well.

Their father had believed Ashraf, the younger brother, was the result of an affair between their mother and the man she’d later run off with. It had only been as the old Sheikh lay dying that they’d discovered Ashraf was legitimate.

Instead Karim, the firstborn, the one groomed from infancy to take the throne, was the cuckoo in the nest.

When, soon after, the old Sheikh had died, Karim had renounced the Za’daqi throne in favour of his brother. No one but the brothers knew the scandalous reason for his decision.

‘The Council has given this its deepest consideration since the tragic death of our Sheikh.’

Karim nodded. The Assaran King’s death had come out of the blue. ‘But surely there’s an heir?’

If the envoy noticed Karim’s voice had turned to gravel, he didn’t show it.

‘Yes, but he’s far too young to take up the reins of government. If the boy were older…a teenager, perhaps…a regent might be appointed to rule in his stead and help guide him. Given his extreme youth, the Council has decided unanimously that it’s better for the country to find a new sheikh.’

‘Thus disinheriting the child?’ Karim had never met the boy. Intended never to meet him. Yet he felt for the child. His own brother would have been denied his true birthright if disapproving old men had had their way.

‘Our constitution is different from yours in Za’daq, sir. In Assara what we propose is quite legitimate. The crown is passed from adult male to adult male.’

Karim nodded. This wasn’t his battle to fight. He was only hearing the envoy out so the man could tell his masters he’d done his best.

‘Surely there are suitable leaders in Assara? You don’t need to go outside your country.’

Especially to a man who’d already turned his back on one sheikhdom.

The envoy pursed his lips, clearly taking time to choose his words. ‘I need hardly say, sir, that the Council’s deliberations are in strictest confidence.’

‘Naturally.’ Karim nodded. ‘You have my assurance that nothing you say will leave this room.’

It would have been easier to end the meeting and send the man away. But Karim’s curiosity was roused. He’d spent years building his investment business in lieu of ruling a country. But some things hadn’t died—such as his interest in state affairs.

‘Though the Sheikhs of Assara have been from the same family for over a hundred and fifty years, other significant families claim the right to offer a candidate in times where the inheritance is…complicated. Several names have been put forward. The one with the best claim is Hassan Shakroun.’

The visitor paused and Karim knew why. Shakroun was a bully whose idea of negotiation was bluster and intimidation. He was interested in personal aggrandisement and expanding his wealth, not in his nation. No wonder the Assarans were scoping other options for a king.

‘I see you know the name.’

‘We’ve met.’ Once had been enough.

‘Frankly, sir—’ The man swallowed, then ploughed on. ‘The Council is of the opinion that it’s not bloodlines that should determine our next leader so much as personal attributes.’

Karim swallowed a wry smile. They certainly wouldn’t get royal bloodlines from him, even if his mother was from a powerful family. His real father, as far as he could tell, came from humble stock.

‘You’re after someone who will do the bidding of the Council?’

It had been the same in Za’daq. Many councillors had been close friends of the previous Sheikh and, influenced by the old man’s disdain for Ashraf, had made his succession difficult. Things were better now, but for a while many had sought to bring Karim back and install him on the throne. Which was one of the reasons he’d refused to return to visit his homeland, except for Ashraf’s wedding. The other being that he knew it was better to cut all ties rather than pine for what might have been.

‘Not at all, sir.’ The envoy interrupted his thoughts. ‘The Council wants a strong leader capable of taking responsibility. A man who knows diplomacy and statecraft. A man who’ll be respected by other rulers in the region. If that man is from outside Assara, then it will short-circuit internal squabbling between rival families with an interest in the throne.’

So he was to be the outsider who united the unsuccessful parties? The Assaran Council had a high opinion of his capabilities, if they believed him able to walk in, calm any fractious rivals and make a success of the role.

Once Karim would have been pleased at such proof of respect from a neighbouring government. He must have impressed them in his years helping his father rule Za’daq, trying to persuade the old man into modernisation.

But that had been then. This was now.

He couldn’t accept the offer. Even if the Assarans did want him on merit rather than because of a royal pedigree. He’d built a new life. A life that hadn’t been laid out for him because of his supposed lineage.

For thirty years he’d followed a narrow, straight path, putting work first, shouldering responsibility for others. He had been dutiful and decent, a hardworking, honourable prince.

Till his life had crumpled like tissue paper in an iron fist.

For a moment an image swam before him of wide brown eyes. Of a cupid’s bow mouth. Of smashed hopes.

His breath hissed between his teeth as he banished the memory.

Karim was responsible for no one now but himself. That was exactly the way he wanted it. He knew the burden of being royal. He had no intention of putting on that yoke again.

‘Please pass my compliments and thanks to your Royal Council. I’m deeply honoured that they should consider me for such a noble position.’ He paused, watching his guest stiffen. ‘However, my answer is still no.’

Safiyah stood in front of the mirror in her suite and tried to still the panic rising from her belly to her throat. She wiped her hands down her thighs, hating that they trembled.

It didn’t matter what she wore. Yet she’d tried on every outfit she’d brought to Switzerland, finding fault with each one till all that had been left was this. A western-style dress, beautiful, in a heavy fabric that looked almost black. Until she moved. Then the light caught it and it glowed like deep crimson fire.

She bit her lip, suppressing a bitter laugh. Black and crimson. The colours of mourning and sacrifice. How apt. She’d done her share of both.

Safiyah shook her head, refusing to wallow in self-pity. She was far luckier than most. She had her health, a comfortable home and more money than she needed. Above all she had Tarek.

Life had taught her to set her shoulders and keep going, no matter what problems she encountered. To make the best of things and focus on others, not herself.

That was why she was here. To save someone precious.

To save a whole nation if her fears were right.

She swung away, but stopped before the balcony and the spectacular view of lake and mountains. This was her first trip out of the Middle East and she felt like a country bumpkin, gawping at everything. Well, not everything. She knew about luxury, about limousines and discreet security guards. But those mountains! And the green that was so incredibly green! She’d seen photos, of course, but this was different. Even the air through the open window tasted unique, ripe with moisture and growing things.

In other circumstances she’d put on jeans and flat shoes and find a way to slip out of the hotel, away from the bodyguards. She’d stroll through the public gardens, take her time staring into the glittering shop windows, then go to the lake and sit there, soaking up the scenery.

But circumstances weren’t different. Circumstances were difficult. Possibly dangerous, if the fears that kept her awake at night proved right and Hassan Shakroun took the throne.

Not surprising that her heart knocked against her ribs like a hammer on stone. Too much hung on this visit. Failure wasn’t an option.

Safiyah’s hand rose to her breastbone, her fingers touching the base of her throat as if to ease the riotous beat of her heart and the acid searing the back of her mouth.

It’s fine to be nervous. That will keep you grounded so you don’t get distracted by anything else.

Anything else being him—the man she’d travelled here to see. Even so, she’d hoped against hope it wouldn’t be necessary. That things would be sorted without her involvement. She’d been appalled to learn nothing had been agreed. That she had to see him after all.

Just thinking of him made her insides clutch as if someone had wrapped a rope around her middle and yanked it mercilessly. Her blood pumped so fast it rushed in her ears.

That’s good. The adrenalin will keep you alert. Give you courage.

Safiyah took a deep breath and smoothed her hands once more down her skirt. They were clammy, and her knees shook. But her dress covered her knees, and there’d be no handshake, so no one would know how nervous she was.

No matter what happened, she vowed one thing. She would not reveal weakness to this man.

Not after what he’d done to her before.

Ignoring the cold fingers dancing down her spine, Safiyah swung around and headed for the door.

‘Her Highness, the Sheikha of Assara.’

The butler announced her in a slow, impressive tone that helped steady her jittering nerves.

This she could do. For years she’d compartmentalised, leaving the real her—Safiyah—behind and donning the persona expected of a queen, gracious and unruffled.

She lifted her chin, pinned on a calm expression that hid her inner turmoil and stepped into the suite’s vast sitting room.

A few steps in and she paused, blinking against the light pouring in from the wall of windows. The butler bowed again and left, closing the door behind him with a quiet snick. It was only then that she made out a tall figure, motionless in the shadow just past the windows.

Even looking into the light, even unable to make out his features against the glare, she’d have known him. That rangy height, the sense of leashed energy. That indefinable shimmer in the air.

Her pulse quickened and her ribcage squeezed her labouring lungs. Fortunately she was old enough and experienced enough to know that this was her body’s response to the pressure of her situation. It had nothing to do with feelings she’d once harboured.

‘This is…unexpected, Your Highness.’ His voice was whiplash-sharp as he used her title.

Good. She didn’t want him trying his charm on her. Once bitten, twice shy. The thought steadied her nerves and stiffened her knees.

‘Is it, Karim?’

Deliberately she used his first name. He might prefer to pretend they were strangers but she refused to rewrite the past to soothe his conscience. If he thought to intimidate, he’d discover she wouldn’t yield meekly to a mere hint of displeasure. She’d had years to toughen up since they’d last met.

‘I’d assumed, as the hotel owner, you’d be informed of royal guests.’

She stepped further into the room, onto a thick-pile carpet that would have taken a team of master weavers years to produce.

‘Ah, but I’m here to conduct important business, not entertain passing acquaintances.’

As if she and her business were by definition unimportant. As if they had been mere acquaintances.

Safiyah had never been more grateful for those hard-learned lessons in self-control as his words ripped through to the small, vulnerable spot deep inside. To the tiny part of her that was still Safiyah, the eager innocent who’d once believed in destiny and happy endings.

Pain bloomed as if from a stabbing dagger. She breathed slowly and rode the hurt, forcing it down. ‘My apologies for interrupting your…important business.’ Pointedly she raised her eyebrows and glanced about the luxuriously furnished sitting room, as if expecting to see a conference table or a bevy of secretaries.

The voice inside told her not to rile him. She was supposed to persuade, even cajole him. But Safiyah refused to let him think he could brush her off.

‘To what do I owe this…pleasure?’

There it was again, that emphasis that made it clear she was uninvited in his private space. Wounded pride made her want to lash out, but she reined in the impulse. She owed it to Tarek to stay calm.

‘I need to talk with you.’

‘About?’

Even now he didn’t move closer. As if he preferred her to be at a disadvantage, unable to see him clearly while she stood in the full light from the windows.

She’d thought better of him.

‘May I sit?’ Did she imagine that tall body stiffened? She took her time moving to a cluster of chairs around a fireplace, then paused, waiting for an invitation.

‘Please.’

Safiyah sank gracefully onto a seat and was glad of it, because when he moved into the light something inside her slipped undone.

Karim was the same, and yet more. The years had given his features a stark edge that accentuated his potent good looks. Once he’d been handsome. Now there was a gravity, an added depth that turned his slanted cheekbones, high-bridged nose and surprisingly sensual mouth into a face that arrested the breath in her lungs.

That black-as-night hair was shorter than before, close-cropped to his skull. That, too, reinforced the startling power of those masculine features. Then there were his eyes, dark moss-green, so intense she feared he saw beneath her façade of calm.

His clothes, dark trousers and a jacket, clearly made to measure, reinforced his aura of command. The snowy shirt emphasised the gold tone of his skin and she had to force herself not to stare at the space where the open top couple of buttons revealed a sliver of flesh.

Her breath snagged and a trickle of something she hadn’t felt in years unfurled inside. Heat seared her cheeks. She didn’t want to feel it. Would give anything not to feel it.

For a frantic moment Safiyah thought of surging to her feet and leaving. Anything rather than face the discomfiting stir of response deep in her feminine core.

This couldn’t be happening! For so long she’d told herself her reaction to him all those years ago had been the product of girlish fantasy.

‘My condolences on your recent loss.’

Karim’s words leached the fiery blush from her face and doused the insidious sizzle of awareness. Shame enveloped her, leaving her hollow and surprisingly weak.

How could she respond like that to the mere sight of Karim when she’d buried her husband just weeks ago?

Abbas might not have been perfect. He might have been cold and demanding. But she owed his memory respect. He’d been her husband.

Safiyah looked at her clenched hands, white-knuckled in her lap. Slowly she unknotted them, spreading stiff fingers and composing them in a practised attitude of ease.

She lifted her head to find Karim sitting opposite her, long legs stretched out in a relaxed attitude. Yet his eyes told another story. Their gaze was sharp as a bird of prey’s.

‘Thank you.’

She said no more. None of the platitudes she’d hidden behind for the past few weeks would protect her from the guilt she harboured within. A guilt she feared Karim, with his unnerving perceptiveness, might somehow guess. Guilt because after the first shock of discovering she was a widow, and learning that Abbas hadn’t suffered, she’d felt relief.

Not because she’d wanted her husband dead. Instead it was the relief of a wild animal held in captivity and suddenly given a glimpse of freedom. No matter how hard she tried, she hadn’t yet managed to quell that undercurrent of excitement at the idea of taking control of her own life—hers and Tarek’s. Of being simply…happy.

But it was too early to dream of freedom. Time enough to do that when she knew Tarek was safe.

‘I’m waiting to hear the reason for your visit.’

Safiyah had imagined herself capable of handling most things life threw at her. She was stunned to discover Karim’s brusque tone had the power to hurt.

She blinked, reminding herself that to hurt she would have to care about him, and she’d stopped caring long ago. She’d meant nothing to him. All the time he’d pretended to be interested in her he’d had other plans. Plans she hadn’t understood and which hadn’t included her. At best she’d been a smokescreen, at worst an amusement.

Safiyah lifted her chin and looked him full in the face, determined to get this over as soon as possible.

‘I want you to take the Assaran crown.’