The Sultan Demands His Heir Read online

  One imperious brow lifted. ‘How would you know unless you try?’ he drawled.

  A spike of something hot and unnerving shot through her midriff at the sound of his accented voice. Deep, gravel rough, filled with power, it rumbled like ominous thunder. Esme’s shiver coursed down to her toes.

  ‘It may be the done thing, but I don’t think I want to.’

  An enigmatic expression crossed his face, disappearing before she could accurately decipher it. ‘“But I don’t think I want to, Your Highness”.’

  She blinked, dragging her attention from his exotically captivating face. ‘What?’

  ‘You were told of the correct form of address, were you not? Or does your lack of respect for my country and my judicial system extend to my station as well?’

  The throb of anger in his voice sent a chill over her nape. She was in the lion’s den, faced with its incredibly displeased occupant. Regardless of her personal feelings, she needed to tread carefully if she wanted to escape with her hide intact.

  ‘My apologies, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to cause offence.’

  ‘How is it possible that I’ve known of your existence only a short time and yet I’m ready to add insincere to the list of your unsavoury attributes?’

  Her mouth gaped. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Excuse me, Your Highness.’ This time the command was coated in ice, his eyes reflecting the same frigid displeasure as he regarded her.

  Esme attempted to curb the angry words tripping over her tongue. She failed. ‘Perhaps it has something to do with being brought here against my will. Your Highness.’

  With measured strides, he rounded his desk. Esme couldn’t help but stare. Despite his immense size, he moved like poetry in motion. Like a stealthy predator, focused on only one goal.

  Vanquishing his prey.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ESME EXPECTED A cataclysmic event to occur in the seconds it took for him to prowl closer. Such was the power of the force field he wielded. Instead, Zaid Al-Ameen stopped a few feet from her, his gaze capturing hers as a frown pleated his brow.

  ‘You were brought here against your will?’

  ‘Well...yes. Somewhat. Your Highness.’

  ‘The answer is either yes or no. Did my men lay their hands on you?’ he enquired, his voice a touch rougher.

  She had to lock her knees to keep from doing something stupid. Like crumbling into an inelegant heap at his feet. Because the closer he got, the higher she craned her neck, the more her brain scrambled. ‘I...er...’

  ‘Were you harmed in any way, Miss Scott?’ he demanded in a near growl.

  ‘No...but your emissary misrepresented himself.’

  He stopped moving, his eyes narrowing. ‘How?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me he was bringing me here for a start. He gave me the impression that he was taking me to my father—’

  ‘But no one touched you?’

  Esme couldn’t understand why he was so hung up on that. But she shook her head. ‘No one touched me, but that doesn’t alter the fact that this is a form of kidnapping.’

  He clasped his hands behind his back, but that didn’t diffuse the power of his presence. If anything, his focus sharpened on her face, his eyes raking her from temple to chin and back again. ‘You weren’t told that I wished to speak to you?’

  ‘Not until we got here. And I got the feeling that I wouldn’t be allowed to leave even if I wanted to.’

  He remained silent for a moment, hawk-like eyes probing her every breath. ‘First you allege that the authorities wanted a bribe in order for you to see your father, and now you’re alleging a potential kidnapping, even though you came here of your own free will. Are you in the habit of making assumptions about everything, Miss Scott? Or getting into the vehicles of men you think wish you harm?’ The accusation was delivered in a low, pithy tone as he took yet another step closer.

  The icy fingers crawling up her back shrieked at her to retreat from the wall of bristling manhood coming at her. But Esme had learned to stand her ground a long time ago.

  So, even though her instinct warned that Sultan Zaid Al-Ameen posed a different sort of danger from that she was used to, perhaps an even more potent kind, she angled her chin and stubbornly met his gaze. ‘No, Your Highness. I’m in the habit of judging a situation for myself. But if I’m wrong, here’s your chance to prove it. I wish to leave,’ she threw out.

  That left brow arched again. ‘You just got here.’

  ‘And as I said, Your Highness, I thought I was being taken to see my father and not...’

  ‘Not?’

  ‘Bundled here for...whatever reason you’ve had me brought here. I’m assuming you’re going to tell me?’

  ‘In due course.’

  Her response stuck in her throat as he strode past her. The mingled trail of incense, aftershave and man that sneaked into her senses momentarily distracted her. Esme found herself turning after him, her feet magnetically taking a step in his direction.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ Zaid Al-Ameen said.

  The invitation was low and even, but another layer of apprehension dragged over her skin. She glanced at the closed doors through which she’d walked a few minutes ago.

  ‘Just for the hell of it, if I said no, that I want to leave, will you let me?’

  ‘You may leave if you wish to. But not until we’ve had a conversation. Sit down, Miss Scott.’ There was no mistaking the command this time, or the inference that she wouldn’t be allowed to leave until he was ready to let her go.

  Esme gripped her purse tighter, her fingers screaming with the pressure on the leather. Pulse tripping over itself, she followed him to the sitting area and perched on the nearest seat.

  Almost on cue, the doors opened and his private secretary appeared, bearing a large, beautifully carved tray of refreshments.

  He set it down, executed another bow, then waited with his hands clasped respectfully in front of him.

  Zaid Al-Ameen sat down in the adjacent seat and looked at her. ‘Do you prefer tea or coffee?’ he asked.

  About to refuse because she didn’t think she could get anything down her throat, she paused, keenly aware of the two sets of eyes watching her.

  ‘Tea, please, thank you. Your Highness,’ she hastily added after a sharp look from Fawzi.

  His master cast her a sardonic look before nodding to Fawzi, who moved forward and prepared the tea with smooth efficiency.

  Bemused, Esme accepted the beverage, almost afraid to handle the exquisite bone china. She refused the delicious-looking exotic treats Fawzi offered her, then waited as Sultan Al-Ameen’s coffee was prepared and handed to him.

  Fawzi bowed again and left the room.

  Silence reigned as Esme took another sip, and attempted to drag her gaze from the slim, elegant fingers gripping his coffee cup. After taking a large sip, he set the cup back on the saucer and swung his penetrative gaze to her.

  ‘Contrary to what you wish me to think, you know exactly why you’re here.’

  The muscles in her belly quivered, but she fought to keep her voice even. ‘My television interview in the park?’

  ‘Precisely,’ he intoned.

  Sensing the beginning of a tremble in her hand, she gripped her cup harder. ‘I thought Ja’ahr advocated free speech among its citizens?’

  ‘Free speech is one thing, Miss Scott. Skirting the inner edges of slander is another matter entirely.’

  The quivering in her belly escalated. ‘Slander?’

  ‘Yes. Disrespecting the royal throne is a criminal offence here in Ja’ahr. One that is currently punishable by a prison sentence.’

  ‘Currently?’

  ‘Until that law, like a few others, is amended, yes. Perhaps that is what you wish? To be tossed in prison so you can keep your father company?’ Zaid Al-Ameen enquired in a clipped tone.

  ‘Of course it isn’t. I only wanted... I was frustrated. And worried for my father.’

  ‘So you always leave
your common sense behind when your emotions get the better of you? Are you aware that some of the allegations you made this afternoon are serious enough to put you in danger?’

  The rattle of the cup had her hastily setting it down. ‘Danger from who?’

  ‘For starters, the police commissioner doesn’t like his organisation or his reputation questioned so publicly. He could bring charges against you. Or worse.’

  Fear climbed into her throat. ‘What does worse mean?’

  ‘It means you should’ve given your words a little more thought before you went on live television.’

  ‘But...everything I said was true,’ she argued, unwilling to let fear take over.

  His lips pursed for a moment. ‘It would’ve been prudent to take into account that you’re no longer in England. That things are done somewhat differently here.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ she asked again.

  He discarded his own cup and saucer then leaned forward, his arms braced on his knees. The action caused his wide shoulders to strain beneath his suit, drawing her unwilling attention to the untamed power beneath the clothes.

  A hint of it emerged in a low rumble as he spoke. ‘It means my magnanimity and position are the only things keeping you out of jail right now, Miss Scott, given the fact that some of the allegations you claim to be true are unfounded.’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘You said your father was attacked twice in the last week. But my preliminary investigation tells a different story.’

  Her breath caught. ‘You’ve looked into it already?’

  ‘You maligned my government and me on live television,’ he replied in icy condemnation. ‘“The fish rots from the head” I believe were your exact words? I don’t take kindly to such an accusation, neither do I leave it unanswered.’

  She felt a little light-headed. ‘Your Highness, it...wasn’t personal—’

  ‘Spare me the false contrition. It was a direct challenge and you know it. One I took up. Quite apart from my intimate knowledge of your father’s many crimes, do you want to know what else I discovered?’

  The taunting relish in his voice told her she didn’t. But she swallowed down the No that rose in her throat. ‘You’re going to tell me anyway, so go ahead.’

  ‘I have it on good authority, and on prison security footage, that your father instigated both confrontations. He seems to be under some misguided delusion that his fate will be less dire if he’s seen as a victim.’

  She tensed as the words struck a little too close to the bone. Jeffrey Scott was a master at reading situations and adapting to them. It was the reason he’d survived this long in his chosen profession.

  Eagle eyes caught her reaction. ‘I see you’re not surprised. Neither are you hurrying to his defence,’ he observed. ‘Perhaps some of what I’ve said rings truer for you than the picture you painted of him on live TV?’

  She took a deep, steadying breath. No matter what she knew in her heart, she wouldn’t incriminate her father by answering the question. ‘That doesn’t alter the fact that the guards didn’t take action after the first incident,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps if he’d been released on bail—’

  ‘So he could attempt to take the first flight out of the country? Your father is a veteran con man, which, judging by your continued lack of surprise, is not news to you. And yet he’s named you as his principal character witness,’ he mused, his eyes cutting into her.

  ‘As the man prosecuting my father, isn’t it unethical to discuss the case with me, Your Highness?’ she parried.

  His grim twist of his lips told her he’d seen through her evasion tactics. ‘Nothing I’ve said so far contravenes the correct judicial process, Miss Scott. You can trust me on that.’

  His biographer had called him a master tactician, able to mould the word of law like putty in his hands, but never breaking it. Esme needed to proceed with caution if she didn’t want to be tripped up. ‘Did you bring me here to point out the error of my ways before you throw me in jail, too?’

  ‘I brought you here to warn you against indulging in any further public outbursts. If you wish to exhibit any more rash decision-making, wait until you’re back home in England.’

  Affronted heat crawled up her neck. ‘That sounds distinctly like a threat, Your Highness.’

  ‘If that’s what it takes to get through to you, then so be it. But know that you’re treading on extremely thin ice. I won’t tolerate any further unfounded aspersions cast against me or my people without solid proof to back them up. Is that understood?’

  The sense of affront lingered, attempting to override the same tiny voice she’d ignored during her interview. This time it urged her to be thankful that she wasn’t being hauled over royal coals. She was struggling with the dissenting emotions when, taking her silence as assent, he rose.

  His towering frame made her feel even more insignificant, so she scrambled to her feet. Only to lose her balance as one heel twisted beneath her. She pitched forward, a gasp ripping from her throat as her hands splayed in alarm.

  Strong hands caught her upper arms at the same moment she dropped her purse and her open hands landed on his hard-muscled chest. She heard his sharp intake of breath and felt her own breath snag in her lungs as heat from his body almost singed her palms.

  Esme’s head snapped up, that compulsion to look into those eyes once again a command she couldn’t ignore. His eyes had darkened, the light brandy shade now a burnished bronze that fused incisively with hers. This close, she saw the tiny gold flecks that flared within the darker depths, the combination so mesmeric she couldn’t look away, despite the frisson shooting up her arm. Despite the lack of oxygen to her brain from the breath she couldn’t take.

  Despite the fact that she shouldn’t be touching him, this man who was hell-bent on exerting his supreme authority over her. Who was hell-bent on keeping her father in prison.

  Move!

  Her palm started to curl, in anticipation, she told herself, of pushing back from him. But the infinitesimal tightening of his fingers stopped her. Absorbed by the gleam in his eyes, by his scent swirling around her, Esme remained immobile. His nostrils flared slightly as his gaze dropped to her mouth. Almost as if he’d touched them, her lips pulsed with an alien sensation that absurdly felt like excitement. Hunger.

  She didn’t...couldn’t want to kiss him, surely?

  He released her so suddenly she wondered if she’d spoken the thought aloud. Spoken it only to have it promptly, ruthlessly rejected.

  She stepped back, silently urging her legs not to let her down, even as another wave of heat swept over her face.

  She needed to leave. Now.

  As if the same thought had struck him, Zaid Al-Ameen turned abruptly and walked away, his imposing figure carrying him to his desk. Released from the trap of his puzzling, spellbinding presence, she sucked in a much-needed breath then snatched up her purse. She straightened to the sound of him issuing a rasped instruction into his intercom. Seconds later, the door reopened.

  His private secretary barely glanced her way, his attention focused solely on the Sultan and the rapid words of lyrical Arabic falling from his lips. Esme was so distracted by the exotic, melodic sound that she didn’t realise they’d stopped speaking and were staring at her until the silence echoed loudly in the room.

  For the third time in a disgracefully short period her face heated up again. ‘I’m sorry, did you say something?’ she addressed Fawzi, unwilling to catch another mocking glance from Sultan Al-Ameen.

  The private secretary looked a little perturbed at being addressed directly in the presence of his master. He stood straighter. ‘His Highness said you are free to go. I am to escort you to your chauffeur.’

  Knowing it would be impolite to leave without acknowledging him, Esme reluctantly redirected her gaze to the Sultan. ‘I... I’m...’

  One sardonic brow elevated, the look he sent her haughty enough to freeze water. ‘You pick a curious time to become tongu
e-tied, considering your desire to leave has been granted. The next time we meet will be in the courtroom when you testify on behalf of your father. Let us hope you’re not as inarticulate under cross-examination. I would hate to see all the effort you made to come to the aid of your father wasted. Goodbye, Miss Scott.’

  The dismissal was as final as the drive back to the hotel was quick. Even after she was safely back in her hotel room, Esme still couldn’t force her heartbeat to slow. She’d been summoned, judged and found severely wanting.

  And yet the righteous anger she’d felt in Zaid Al-Ameen’s presence was no longer present. Instead, awareness from his touch clung to her skin, her mind supplying an alarmingly detailed play-by-play of the moment he’d stopped her from falling. With each meticulous recounting her body grew hot and tight, her breathing altering into shameful little pants that drew a grimace of disgust at herself. To distract her out-of-control hormones, Esme turned on the TV and channel-surfed, only to come face to face with herself in a replay of her interview. Forcing herself to watch, she experienced a twinge of remorse as her words echoed harsh and condemning in the room.

  The stone of unease in her belly hadn’t abated hours later when she was in bed, attempting to toss and turn herself into sleep. Sleep came reluctantly, along with jagged, disturbing dreams featuring a breathtakingly hypnotic figure with brandy-coloured eyes.

  The intensity of the dream was so sharp, so vivid she jerked awake.

  Only to find it was no dream. There was someone in her room.

  Esme’s breath strangled in her lungs as she battled paralysing fear and scrambled upright. The dark, robed figure outlined ominously against her lighter curtains tensed for a watchful second then launched after her the moment she scurried off the bed. Her feet tangled in the sheets, ripping a cry from her throat. She sensed rather than saw the figure rounding the bed towards her as she pushed at the sheets and crawled away on her hands and knees. A few steps from the bathroom she attempted to stand.

  A strong, unyielding arm banded her waist, plastering her from shoulder to thigh against a hard, masculine body. He lifted her off the floor with shocking ease, her feet kicking uselessly as he evaded her efforts to free herself. Acute terror finally freeing her vocal cords, Esme screamed.