The Sultan Demands His Heir Read online

  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.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ZAID AL-AMEEN RESTED his head against the back seat of the tinted-windowed SUV transporting him from the courthouse. Only for a moment. Because a moment was all he had. His caseload was staggering. A dozen cases waited in the briefcase on the seat next to him, with dozens more waiting in the wings.

  But even that was secondary to the colossal weight of his responsibilities as ruler of Ja’ahr. A weight that made each day feel like a year as he battled to right the wrongs of his uncle, the previous King.

  A fair number of his ruling council had been shocked by his intention to carry on with his chosen profession when he’d returned from exile to take the throne eighteen months ago.

  Some had cited a possible conflict of interest, questioning his ability to be both an able ruler and a dedicated prosecutor. Zaid had quashed every objection by doing what he did best—following the letter of the law and winning where it counted. Meting out swift justice had been the quickest way to begin uprooting the rank corruption that had permeated Ja’ahr’s society. From the oil fields in the north to the shipping port in the south, no corporate entity had been left untouched by his public investigative team. Inevitably, that had made him enemies. Khalid Al-Ameen’s twenty-year corrupt rule had birthed and fed fat cats who’d fought to hold onto their power.

  But in the last six months things had finally started to change. The majority of factions that had strenuously opposed and doubted him—after all, he was an Al-Ameen like his late uncle—had begun to ally with him. But those unused to his zero tolerance approach still incited protestors against him.

  His bitterness that his uncle had escaped Zaid’s personal justice by falling dead from a heart attack had dissipated with time. It was an outcome he couldn’t change. What he could change was the abject misery that his people had been forced to endure by Khalid.

  Zaid had first-hand, albeit deadly experience of the misery crime and the greedy grasp for power could wreak. That he’d lived through the experience was a miracle in itself. Or so the whispers went. Only Zaid knew what had happened that fateful night his parents had perished. And it was no miracle but a simple act of self-preservation.

  One that had triggered equal amounts of guilt, anger and bitterness over the years. It was what had driven him to practise law and pursue justice with unyielding fervour.

  It was what would bring his people out of the darkness they’d been thrust into.

  Lost in the jagged memories of his past, it took the slowing of the lead vehicle in his motorcade to alert him to his surroundings.

  A large group of protestors was gathered in a nearby park normally used to host summer plays and concerts. Some had spilled into the street in front of his motorcade. Protests weren’t uncommon, and, although regretful, it was part of the democratic process.

  Zaid glanced around him as a handful of his personal security began to push back the crowd.

  Ja’ahr City was particularly magnificent in early April, new blooms and moderate weather bathing the city in sparkling beauty. Giant sculptures and stunning monuments, surrounded by verdant gardens containing exotic flowers, lined the ten-mile-long central highway that led from the courthouse to the palace.

  Except, as with everything else, this particular display of Ja’ahr’s wealth had been carefully cultivated to fool the world. One only had to stray along a few streets on either side of the highway to be met with the true state of affairs.

  The grim reminder of the wide chasm dividing the social classes in his kingdom forced his attention back to the crowd and the giant screen showing a reporter surrounded by a handful of protestors.

  ‘Can you tell us why you’re here today?’ the female journalist asked, thrusting her microphone forward.

  The camera swung toward the interviewee.

  Zaid wasn’t exactly sure why his hand clenched on his thigh at the sight of the woman. In the previous life he’d led in the United States, he’d had numerous liaisons with women more beautiful than the one currently projected on the super-sized screen in the park.

  There was nothing extraordinary about her individual features or the honey blonde hair tied in a bun at her nape. And yet the combination of full lips, pert nose and wide green-grey eyes was so striking his fingers moved, almost of their own accord, to the button that lowered his window. But still he couldn’t decipher what had triggered the faint zap of electricity that had charged through him at the sight of her. Perhaps it was the determined thrust of her jaw. Or the righteous indignation that sparked from her almond-shaped eyes.

  Most likely it was the words falling from her mouth. Condemning. Inciting words wrapped in a husky bedroom voice and amplified on speakers that threatened to distract him even as he strained to focus on them.

  A voice he’d heard before, slightly sleep husky, over the phone in the middle of the night. A voice that had, disturbingly and inappropriately, tugged at the most masculine part of him.

  ‘My father has been attacked twice in prison during the last week, while under the supervision of the police. Once was bad enough, considering he suffered a concussion then. But he was attacked again today, and I’m sorry, but twice is not acceptable.’

  ‘Are you saying that you hold the authorities responsible?’ the reporter prompted.

  The woman shrugged, causing Zaid’s gaze to drop momentarily from her face to the sleek lines of her neck and shoulders, her light short-sleeved top clearly delineating her delicate bones and the swell of her breasts. He forced his attention up in time to hear her answer.

  ‘I was given the impression that the authorities here are practically the best in the world, and yet they can’t seem to keep the people under their care safe. On top of that, it seems I won’t be allowed to see my father until his trial or until I offer a financial incentive to do so.’

  The reporter’s eyes gleamed as she latched onto the delicious morsel. ‘You were asked for a bribe before you could see your father?’

  The woman hesitated for a millisecond before she shrugged again. ‘Not in so many words, but it wasn’t hard to read between the lines.’

  * * *

  ‘So I take it your impression of Ja’ahr government so far isn’t a good one?’

  A sardonic smile lifted her mouth. ‘That’s an understatement.’

  ‘If you could say anything to those in charge, what would you say?’

  She looked directly into the camera, her wide eyes gleaming with purpose. ‘That I’m not impressed. And not just with the police. These people here clearly believe that too. I believe a fish rots from the head down.’

  The reporter’
s gaze grew a touch wary. ‘Are you alleging that Sultan Al-Ameen is directly culpable for what happened to your father?’

  The woman hesitated, her plump lower lip momentarily disappearing between her teeth before emerging, gleaming, to be pressed into a displeased line. ‘It’s apparent that something’s wrong with the system. And since he’s the one in charge, I guess my question to him is what’s he doing about the situation?’ she challenged.

  Zaid hit the button, blocking out the rest of the interview just as his intercom buzzed.

  ‘Your Highness, a thousand apologies for you having to witness that.’ The voice of his chief advisor, travelling in the SUV behind him, was almost obsequious. ‘I have just contacted the head of the TV studio. We are taking steps to have the broadcast shut down immediately—’

  ‘You will do no such thing,’ Zaid interjected grimly.

  ‘But, Your Highness, we can’t let such blatant views be aired—’

  ‘We can and we will. Ja’ahr is supposed to be a country that champions freedom of speech. Anyone who attempts to stand in the way of that will answer directly to me. Is that clear?’

  ‘Of course, Your Highness,’ his advisor agreed promptly.

  As his motorcade passed the last of the protestors, he caught one last, brief glimpse of the woman on a much closer screen. Her head was tilted, the sunlight slanting over her cheekbone throwing her face into clear, more captivating lines. His jaw tightened at the further sizzle of electricity, until he was sure it would crack.

  ‘Do you wish me to find out who she is, Your Highness?’

  He didn’t need to. He knew exactly who she was.

  Esmeralda Scott.

  Daughter of the criminal he intended to prosecute and put behind bars in the very near future. ‘That won’t be necessary. But have her brought to me immediately,’ he instructed.

  As he hung up, he allowed the inner voice to question why he was going out of his way to trigger such a knee-jerk reaction. A second later, he smashed it away.

  The why wasn’t so important. What mattered was her maligning the fragile pillars of the very things he was fighting to restore in his country. Integrity. Honour. Accountability.

  Esmeralda Scott needed to answer a few questions of her own. After which he would take pleasure in pointing out the errors of her ways to her.

  * * *

  Esme gave in to the frantic urge to slide her clammy palms down her skirt as the black town car with tinted windows sped her towards an unknown destination. She’d cautioned herself a dozen times against letting fear take over. So far it hadn’t.

  Perhaps it had something to do with the bespectacled, harmless-looking man sitting across from her and his reassurance that her interview had gained her the right audience on behalf of her father.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked for the second time, her mind still spinning at the swiftness at which her appearance on TV had earned her attention.

  The question earned her a slightly less warm smile. ‘You will see for yourself when we arrive in a few minutes.’

  The fear she’d staunched looming a little larger, Esme glanced out the window.

  She began to notice that the landscape was growing more opulent, the parks even greener and studded with staggeringly beautiful works of art. Why that triggered a stronger sense of trepidation, Esme wasn’t sure. Sweat that had been steadily beading the back of her neck, despite the air-conditioning of the car, rolled between her shoulders.

  ‘My father’s prison hospital is on the other side of the city,’ she attempted again.

  ‘I am aware of that, Miss Scott.’

  Alarm trickled through her. ‘You never said how come you knew my name.’ She’d only given the journalist her first name during the interview.

  ‘No, I did not.’

  She opened her mouth to press for a clearer answer but closed it again as the car swerved in a wide circle before approaching huge double gates painted in stunning gold leaf. They slowed long enough for armed guards to wave them through.

  ‘This...is the Royal Palace,’ she mumbled, unable to stop her voice from shaking as she stared at the immense azure-coloured dome that could rival St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome.

  ‘Indeed,’ the man responded, not without a small ounce of relish.

  The town car drew to a firm stop. The sweat between her shoulders grew icy. She cast another, frantic glance outside.

  The penny finally dropped. She was here, at the Royal Palace. After publicly calling out the ruler of the kingdom.

  Dear God, what have I done?

  ‘I’m here because of what I said on TV about the Sultan, aren’t I?’

  A sharply dressed valet opened the door and the chief advisor stepped out. He signalled to someone out of sight before he glanced down at her. ‘That is not for me to answer. His Highness has requested your presence. I do not advise keeping him waiting.’

  Before she could answer, he walked away, his shoes and those of his minders clicking precisely on the white and gold polished stone tiles that led to the entrance steps of the palace.

  Esme debated remaining in the car as alarm flared into full-blown panic. The driver was still seated behind the wheel. She could ask him to take her back to her hotel. Even beg if necessary. Or she could get out and start walking. But even as the thoughts tumbled she knew it was futile.

  Another set of footsteps approached the car. Esme held her breath as a man dressed in dark gold traditional clothes paused beside the open door and gave a shallow bow. He, too, was flanked by two guards.

  They seem to travel in threes.

  She was tossing away the mildly hysterical observation when he spoke. ‘Miss Scott, I am Fawzi Suleiman, His Royal Highness’s private secretary. If you would come with me, please?’

  The question was couched in cultured diplomacy, but she had very little doubt that it was a command.

  ‘Do I have a choice?’ she asked anyway, half hoping for a response in the affirmative.

  The response never came. What she witnessed instead was the firmer, watchful stance of the bodyguards, even while Fawzi Suleiman bowed again and swept out his arm in a polite but firm this-way gesture.

  Esme alighted into dazzling sunshine and a dry breeze. She took a moment to tug down her knee-length black pencil skirt and resisted the urge to adjust her neckline. Fidgeting was a sign of weakness, and she had a feeling she would need every piece of her armour in place.

  Slowly, she raised her chin and smiled. ‘Lead the way.’

  He took her words literally, walking several steps ahead of her as they entered the world-famous Ja’ahr Palace.

  At first sight of the interior her steps slowed and her jaw dropped.

  Tiered Moorish arches framed in black lacquer and gold leaf veered off half a dozen hallways, all of which converged in a stunning atrium centred by a large azure-tiled fountain.

  She dragged her gaze away long enough to see that they’d arrived at the bottom of wide, magnificent, sweeping stairs. Carpeted in the same azure tone that seemed to be the royal colour, the painstakingly carved designs that graced the bannisters were exquisite and grand.

  Truly fit for a king.

  A faintly cleared throat reprimanded her for dawdling. But as they traversed hallway after hallway, past elegantly dressed palace staff who surreptitiously eyed her, awe gave way to a much more elemental emotion.

  She’d been expertly manipulated. With clever words and non-answers, but tricked nevertheless. Esme could only think of one reason why.

  Intimidation.

  They arrived before a set of carved double doors. She curbed the panic that flared anew, clutching her purse tighter as Fawzi Suleiman turned to her.

  ‘You will wait here until you’re summoned. And when you enter, you will address the Sultan as Your Highness.’

  He didn’t wait for her response, merely grasped the thick handles and pushed the doors wide open.

  ‘Miss Scott is here, Your Highness,’ she heard him murmur.


  Whatever response he received had him executing another bow before turning to her. ‘You may go in.’

  She’d taken two steps into the room when she heard the doors shut ominously behind her. Despite the slow burn of anger in her belly, Esme swallowed, fresh nerves jangling as the faint scent of incense and expensive aftershave hit her nostrils.

  She was in the presence of the ruler of Ja’ahr.

  She forced her feet to move over the thick, expensive Persian rugs she was certain cost more than she would earn in two lifetimes as she emerged into the largest personal office she’d ever seen. Esme’s entire focus immediately zeroed in on the man behind the massive antique desk.

  From the photos on the Internet she’d known he was a big man. But the flesh and blood version, the larger-than-life presence watching her in golden-eyed silence, was so shockingly visceral, she stumbled. She caught herself quickly, silently admonishing herself for the blunder.

  A dozen feet from his desk, his magnetic aura hit her, hard and jolting. She wanted to stop walking but she forced herself to take another step. And then she froze as he rose to his feet.

  It was like being hit with a tidal wave of raw masculinity. At five feet five, she considered herself of average height but her heels added a confidence-bolstering three inches. None of that mattered now as she took in the towering man looking down his domineering royal nose at her.

  He was dressed in a three-piece suit, but he may as well have been adorned in an ancient warrior’s suit of armour, such was the primitive air of aggression Zaid Al-Ameen gave off as he watched her. Above his head, a giant emblem depicting his royal kingdom’s coat of arms hung, emphasising the glory and authority of its ruler.

  But even without the trappings of all-encompassing wealth and power, Esme would have been foolish to underestimate the might of the man before her.

  She summoned every last ounce of composure. ‘I...don’t know why I’ve been brought here. I haven’t done anything wrong. Your Highness,’ she tagged on after a taut second.

  He didn’t respond. Esme forced herself to return his intense stare as she fought the urge to wet her dry lips. ‘And I hope you don’t expect me to bow. I’m not sure I can do it correctly.’