Читать книгу The Sultan Demands His Heir - Maya Blake - Страница 8

CHAPTER ONE

ESME SCOTT JERKED awake in the split second between her phone vibrating and the bell ringtone blaring through her darkened bedroom. Heart racing, she lifted her head off the pillow and stared at the illuminated screen.

As a social worker, it wasn’t unusual for her phone to ring in the middle of the night. The problems of her wards and an overstrained system required twenty-four-hour dedication.

Except she knew instinctively that this phone call had nothing to do with her job. The same gut instinct she’d been forced to hone for less altruistic purposes in her past.

But she’d left that life far behind.

After the fourth ring, she reached for the phone, willing her hand to stop shaking.

‘Hello?’

‘Am I speaking to Esmeralda Scott?’

Esmeralda. Her heart sank further. The only person who used her full name was her father. The man she hadn’t spoken to or seen in eight long years.

She forced her jaw to relax. ‘Y-yes.’

‘Daughter of Jeffrey Scott?’ came the deep, cultured, slightly accented query. The voice was stamped with enough authority and arrogance to make her grip tighten on the handset.

No, this was no ordinary phone call.

Sitting up, she turned on her bedside lamp, although she couldn’t focus on anything but the ominous voice on the line.

‘Yes. Who is this?’

‘My name is Zaid Al-Ameen. I’m the chief prosecutor in the Royal Kingdom of Ja’ahr.’ The voice was filled with deep pride. Implacable purpose.

Esme’s breath snagged in her lungs, but she refused to let the premonition lurking in her mind take hold. ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked, using the tone she reserved for calming her most agitated wards.

Momentary silence met her cool query. ‘I called to inform you that your father is in jail. He’s due to be arraigned in two days when formal charges will be brought against him.’

A thousand icicles pierced her skin, the boulder in her stomach confirming that even though she’d written him off when she’d walked away eight years ago, her father still possessed the power to rock her foundations.

‘I...see.’

‘He insisted on using his one phone call to reach you, but it seems the number he had for you is out of order.’

There was speculation in the crisp, no-nonsense tone but Esme wasn’t prepared to inform him that she’d made sure her number was unlisted for this sole purpose.

‘So how did you find me?’ she asked, her mind swirling with a thousand questions. None of which she wanted to air to the deep-voiced stranger on the phone.

‘I have one of the best police forces in the world, Miss Scott,’ he replied haughtily.

I?

The possessive reply made her frown a little, but she couldn’t put off the one question sitting on the tip of her tongue no matter how much she hated to ask. ‘What are the charges against him?’

‘They’re too long to list. Our investigation unearths a new charge almost on the hour,’ he replied, his voice growing colder with every answer. ‘But the main charge is fraud.’

Her heart banged harder against her ribs. ‘Right.’

‘You don’t seem surprised by the news.’ This time the query held stronger speculation that snapped her spine straight.

‘It’s the middle of the night here in England, Mr. Al-Ameen. You’ll pardon me if I’m struggling to take it all in,’ she replied, transferring the phone to her other hand when her palm grew clammy.

‘I’m aware of the time difference, Miss Scott. And while we’re not under obligation to track you down on behalf of your father, I thought you might like to know about the incident—’

‘What incident?’ she blurted.

‘There was an altercation in the jail where your father is being held—’

‘Is he hurt?’ she demanded, her stomach hollowing at the thought.

‘The medical exam shows a mild concussion and a few bruises. He should be well enough to be returned to custody tomorrow.’

‘So he can be attacked again or will you be doing something to protect him?’ she screeched, tossing aside the duvet to get out of bed. She paced from one end of her small bedsit to the other before the man at the end of the phone deigned to answer.

‘You father is a criminal, Miss Scott. He doesn’t deserve special treatment and he will be given none. Consider yourself fortunate to be receiving this courtesy call at all. As I mentioned before, his arraignment is in two days. It’s up to you to attend if you wish. Goodnight—’

‘Wait! Please,’ she added when the man didn’t hang up. Esme forced herself to think rationally. Were this one of her young wards, what would she do?

‘Does he have a counsel? I’m assuming he’s entitled to one?’

The terse silence that greeted her told her she’d caused offence. ‘We’re not a backward country, Miss Scott, despite what the world’s media likes to portray. Your father’s assets are frozen, as is the law in fraud cases, but he’s been given a public defender.’

Esme’s heart sank. In her experience, most public defenders were overstretched and overworked. Add the fact that her father was indubitably guilty of the charges levelled against him and the outlook was bleak.

The part of her that experienced the urge to end the conversation right now and pretend this wasn’t happening was immediately drowned out by the heavy guilt that followed. But she’d cut ties with her father for a very good reason. She’d turned her life around. She wouldn’t feel guilty for that.

‘Can I talk to him?’

For several seconds, silence greeted her request. ‘Very well. Provided he’s given the all clear by the doctors, I’ll allow him to make one more phone call. Make yourself available at six a.m. Goodnight, Miss Scott.’

The line disconnected, taking the authoritative voice with it.

A tiny knot in her stomach, caused solely by that charged, electric quality to her caller’s voice, unfurled. She dropped the phone and returned to sit on her bed, her vision blurring as her hands shook. As Zaid Al-Ameen had loftily stated, Esme wasn’t surprised by the news. If anything, she was only surprised it had taken eight years to finally arrive.

She exhaled roughly, willing the guilt and anger and pain to subside. When after a full ten minutes she still hadn’t managed to wrestle her emotions under control, she rose and padded to the small desk in the corner of her bedroom.

Further sleep tonight was out of the question. The only way to prevent the vault of bad memories straining to crack open was to fill her time with work. Her work, which thankfully involved concentrating on other people’s problems rather than her own, always managed to distract her. From the very first day she’d stepped into her junior social worker role four years ago, she’d welcomed that distraction simply because her actions produced positive results. Sometimes in indistinguishable ways, other times more meaningfully. Either way was good enough, although not good enough to ever wipe away the black stain on her soul.

Touch Global Foundation, the worldwide foundation she worked for, dealt directly with local organisations to help the disadvantaged, with numerous arms offering everything from drug rehabilitation to residential relocation.

Except working now, with her father’s news fresh in her mind, was near impossible. Esme forced herself to finish up the notes recommending rehousing for a single mother of four to a better neighbourhood, and a dyslexia test for the second child. She set a reminder to follow up her recommendation with a phone call, and closed the file.

Calling up her search engine, she typed in the relevant information. Although during the frenzied pockets of time she’d spent with her father he’d often talked of the Kingdom of Ja’ahr, they’d never visited that country. It hadn’t been on the list. Back then, decadent, well-established kingdoms like Monaco and Dubai and the brighter lights of New York and Vegas had been more desirable.

Within minutes, Esme understood why her father had taken an interest in Ja’ahr. The small kingdom, poised on the edge of the Persian Gulf, had gained as much international renown as its well-known neighbours in the last decade for all the right reasons.

Clever brokering of its rich resources of oil, gems and shipping lanes had seen it attain world’s richest status, catapulting its ruler and royalty to extreme wealth, while the lower classes had been left far behind. Such a divide wasn’t uncommon in such countries, but in Ja’ahr’s case it was staggering.

Inevitably, the result of such a divide had caused political and economical unrest, some of which had escalated into violence. All of which had been ruthlessly suppressed.

Esme cautioned herself not to believe everything she read on the Internet. But disturbing stories about the Kingdom of Ja’ahr’s judicial system were hard to dismiss. Stiff sentences were handed down for the lightest of offences, with even more ruthless punishment meted out to re-offenders.

‘We’re not a backward country, Miss Scott, despite what the world’s media likes to portray.’

Except their judicial system seemed backward. Right back to the Dark Ages. Which didn’t bode well for her father.

He deserves it. Remember why you walked away?

Jaw clenching, she straightened her spine.

She’d walked away. She’d changed her life for the better.

The reminder bolstered her up until her phone rang. Resolutely, she answered.

‘Hello?’

‘Esmeralda? Is that you?’

Her free hand tightened into a fist, her eyes closing at the deep, familiar voice.

‘Yes, Dad, it’s me.’

His exhalation was tinged with relief. Followed by a rough laugh. ‘When they told me they’d actually managed to reach you I thought they were having me on.’

Esme didn’t answer. She was too busy containing the cocktail of emotions that always swirled inside her when it came to her father.

‘Baby girl, are you there?’ Jeffrey Scott asked.

The endearment was so bitter-sweet, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘I’m here,’ she managed after a minute.

‘Okay, I guess you know what’s happened?’

‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat, hoping her mind would follow suit. ‘Are you all right? I was told you had concussion.’

Her father laughed, but the sound lacked its usual bravado. ‘A concussion is the least of my worries. Not if the big man gets his way.’

‘The big man?’

‘Yes. The Royal Punisher himself.’

She frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. What are you talking about?’

‘The chief prosecutor is gunning for me, Esmeralda. I’ve already been denied bail. And he’s putting in a petition to fast-track my trial.’

The memory of the deep, powerful voice on the phone momentarily distracted her, made her breath catch a little. Then her hand tightened on the phone. ‘But you have a lawyer, don’t you?’

The laughter was starker. ‘If you call a lawyer who told me my case was hopeless and advised me to plead guilty and save everyone the trouble a proper defender.’

Despite what she’d read about Ja’ahr’s judicial system, she was still shocked. ‘What?’

‘I need you here, Esmeralda.’

This time her breath stayed locked in her throat. Along with the inner voice that screamed a horrified No.

When she’d tossed around scenarios of how she would conduct this reconnection with her father, she hadn’t deluded herself into thinking he wouldn’t want something from her. Money had been the most likely bet since his assets were frozen. She’d even mentally totted up her savings, and girded her loins to part with some of it.

But what he was asking of her...

‘I’ve done a little research. They’re very big on character witnesses over here during trials,’ he continued hurriedly. ‘I’ve put you down as mine.’

Déjà vu whispered down her spine. Wasn’t this how it had always started? Her father innocently asking her to do something? And her guilt eating away at her until she obliged?

Esme stiffened, reminding herself of that last, indefensible thing he’d done. ‘Dad, I don’t think—’

‘It could make the difference between me dying in prison or returning home one day. Will you deny me that?’

Esme firmed her lips. Remained silent.

‘According to my lawyer, The Butcher is going for life without parole.’

Her heart lurched. ‘Dad...’

‘I know we didn’t part on the best of terms, but do you hate me that much?’ her father asked, after another long stretch of silence.

‘No, I don’t hate you.’

‘So you’ll come?’ He latched on hopefully, his voice slipping into the oh-so-familiar smooth cajoling that even the hardest heart couldn’t resist.

She closed her eyes. Reminded herself that in the end she had resisted. She’d been strong enough to walk away from him. But, of course, that didn’t matter now.

Because no matter what had gone on before, Jeffrey Scott was the only family she had. She couldn’t leave him to the mercy of a man known as The Butcher.

‘Yes. I’ll come.’

The relief in her father’s voice was almost palpable, but the torrent of gratifying words that followed washed over Esme’s head as she contemplated the commitment she’d just made. Eventually she murmured her goodbyes as her father’s allotted time ended their call.

Almost detached, she typed another name into the search engine. And forgot the ability to breathe as she stared into the brandy-coloured eyes of The Butcher.

The formidable authority in those eyes was just the start of the shockingly arresting features of the chief prosecutor of the Kingdom of Ja’ahr. She already knew what his voice sounded like. Now she saw how accurately it matched the square, masculine jaw that could have been cut from granite. It was shadowed despite the clean shave and, coupled with sharp cheekbones resting on either side of a strong, haughty nose, slightly flared in suppressed aggression, it was near impossible to look away.

Blue-black hair sprang back from his forehead in short, gleaming waves, the same colour gracing winged eyebrows and sooty eyelashes. But what captured her attention for a breathless moment was the sensual lines of his mouth. Although set in grim purpose in the picture, she couldn’t help but be absorbed by them, even wonder if they ever softened in a smile or in pleasure. Whether they would feel as velvety as they looked in pixels.

The alarming direction of her thoughts prompted a hurried repositioning of the mouse. But that only revealed more of the man whose magnetism, even on screen, was hypnotising. Broad shoulders and a thick neck were barely restrained in the dark pinstriped suit, pristine shirt and immaculate tie he wore. Long arms braced an open-legged stance, displaying a towering figure with a streamlined body that had been honed to perfection.

He stood before a polished silver sign displaying the name of a firm of US attorneys. Esme felt a tiny fizz of relief at the thought that she’d got the wrong hit on her search. But clicking the next link revealed the same man.

Only he wasn’t the same. His compelling features and hawk-like stare were made even more compelling by the traditional garb draping him from head to toe. The thawb was a blinding white with black and gold trim, repeated in the keffiyeh that framed his head and face.

With deep trepidation, Esme clicked one last link. Her gasp echoed in her bedroom as she read the biography of the thirty-three-year-old man nicknamed The Butcher.

Only the man who’d disturbed her sleep last night with bad news wasn’t just the feared chief prosecutor of an oil-rich kingdom. He was so much more. Gut clenching, her gaze drifted back up to the mercilessly implacable face of Zaid Al-Ameen. Sultan and Ruler of the Kingdom of Ja’ahr.

The man who held her father’s shaky fate in his hands.