The Sheikh Crowns His Virgin
Raj was disconcerted to find his brain sketching an erotic mental image of her chained to a bed, all flyaway blonde hair, passionate green eyes and little heaving pale pink curves for his private delectation. He stiffened and shifted restlessly while he fought to kill that untimely vision stone dead. But, sadly for him, there was nothing politically correct about his body and within seconds he was filled with desire.
‘You know, I don’t want to be rude or melodramatic,’ Zoe began shakily.
‘You may not want to be but you can’t help behaving that way?’ Raj incised hoarsely, knocked off balance now by his libido, that intimate imagery of her strengthening rather than fading and exercising the most extraordinary power over him.
Zoe spun. ‘You’re the one being rude!’ she condemned, challenged to catch her breath when she clashed involuntarily with his intense gaze. ‘Acting like being kidnapped is normal and refusing to tell me who orchestrated this whole stupid charade!’
‘I am withholding that information because there is no possibility of the man involved being punished,’ Raj admitted hoarsely.
What was it about that jet-dark gaze that made goose bumps rise on her exposed skin and sent little shivers running down her taut spine? Why did she suddenly feel so ridiculously overheated? Why did her tummy feel as though butterflies were fluttering through it? Instinctively she pressed her thighs together on the ache low in her core and she blinked in bewilderment and growing self-consciousness, her colour heightening as the explanation for her reaction dawned on her and shot through her like a lightning bolt. It was attraction, simple sexual attraction, and she was experiencing it for the first time ever. It made her feel all jumpy and twitchy, like a cat trying to walk across hot burning coals. Sheer shock crashed through her slender frame as she endeavoured to rise above her inner turmoil and focus on the conversation.
‘And why is there no possibility of punishment?’ Zoe demanded boldly.
‘I will not discuss that with you. Please get dressed and we will leave.’
‘To go where?’ Zoe demanded in surprise.
‘We are flying first to Dubai and then on to London, where you will be reunited with your grandfather,’ Raj explained. ‘As that arrangement is acceptable to him, I assume it is equally acceptable to you.’
‘Acceptable?’ Zoe echoed and she moved forward with a frown, her astonishment unhidden. ‘Are you telling me that you have actually spoken to Grandad?’
‘Of course.’ Raj’s intonation was clipped and businesslike. ‘He was very angry about your disappearance and I had to reassure him that you were safe and that I would personally ensure that you are restored to his protection as soon as possible.’
But Zoe was still struggling to come to terms with the startling reality that he had already discussed the entire episode with her grandfather because that he should have boldly taken that step was utterly unexpected. Most people avoided Stam Fotakis in a temper and tried to wriggle out of accepting responsibility for anything that annoyed the older man. In fact, the only person she knew who ever stood toe to toe with her grandfather when he was in a bad mood was her sister, Vivi, whose temper matched his. Whoever Raj was, he was fearless, she decided enviously, for when her grandfather started roaring like an angry bull, Zoe simply wanted to keep her head down and take cover.
‘I’m in a hurry. We will leave as soon as you are ready. My time here is limited,’ Raj admitted flatly, tension tightening his smooth bronzed features. ‘I would be obliged if you would be quick.’
‘Well, I would need my clothes back to be quick, and I don’t know where they are,’ Zoe told him thinly, lifting her chin.
With an exclamation, he strode to the doorway and, a moment later, a little woman in tribal dress came running to do his bidding. Zoe’s garments were located and laid in her arms, freshly laundered and fragrant. She stalked into the bathroom to look longingly at the shower and then she thought defiantly, What the hell? I’m not putting on clean clothes unless I’m clean as well!
As Zoe stepped beneath the flowing water with a deep sigh of relief, Raj strode out of the main tent, the old rules of polite conduct kicking in even though it felt like a lifetime since he had had to pay attention to such outdated beliefs. She was a single woman and he was a single man and he was in a very old-fashioned place where only his rank had granted him the right to speak to her alone. Even so, he had noted that the females in Omar’s family were hovering nearby to ensure that the proprieties were observed. He was relieved that her attack on him had gone unnoticed for that would have very much shocked the tribe, none of whom would have recognised the need for a woman to learn the skills to protect herself. Male relatives were supposed to protect the women in the family.
Evidently, however, Zoe Mardas had not been protected, Raj reckoned thoughtfully, wondering what had happened to her, wondering why she had been so terrified and acknowledging that he would never know. He didn’t get into deep conversations of that nature with women. His relationships, if they could be called that, were superficial and consisted of lots of sex and not much else. He doubted that he would ever want anything more from a woman. Why would he? Love had once made him stupid. He had given up everything for love and had ended up with nothing but the crushing awareness that he had made a serious mistake.
‘Raj!’ Omar gasped as he surged up to him, red-faced from the effort and winded, a small, rather tubby man, who rarely hurried at anything he did. ‘You need to leave. One of the camel traders phoned to tell me...a bunch of military helicopters are flying in.’
‘Soldiers love to rehearse disasters. It’ll be some war game or something,’ Raj forecast, refusing to panic. ‘I told Zoe to hurry as politely as I could but you know what women are...’
‘Raj, if you’re caught on Marabanian soil, you could be arrested, imprisoned!’ Omar emphasised in frustration. ‘Grab that stupid woman and get in that helicopter and go!’
The racket of rotor blades approaching made both men throw their heads back and peer into the sky.
‘Do you see those colours? That is the royal fleet, which means your father is on board!’ Omar groaned in horror.
‘It’s too late to run. I’ll have to tough it out.’
‘No, run!’ Omar urged abruptly. ‘Right now...leave the woman here. I think this was a trap. I think she was dumped with me because they knew I was sure to ask you for your help. In the name of Allah, Raj, I will never forgive myself if you come to harm because of my thoughtlessness!’
A trap? Raj pondered the idea and as quickly discarded it. Why would his father, who had considered him a disappointment practically from the day of his birth, seek to trap him in Maraban? Sending Raj into exile, finally freeing himself from a son and heir who enraged him, had been the best solution for both of them, Raj reasoned ruefully.
‘My father always warned me that Tahir was very devious, very calculating,’ Omar breathed worriedly.
‘He is,’ Raj agreed. ‘But he has no reason to want to find his son breaking the terms of his exile. Why would he? That would only embarrass him. I’ll stay out of sight. Ten to one, he’s taken one of his notions to call a tribal meeting and hash over boundaries and camel disputes. He revels in that kind of stuff...it takes him back to his youth.’
‘The army craft are encircling the camp to land in advance,’ Omar informed him.
‘Standard security with the monarch on board,’ Raj dismissed.
‘No, I’m telling you,’ Omar declared in growing frustration at his friend’s lack of concern. ‘This was a trap and I don’t know how you’re going to get out of it...’
CHAPTER THREE
THE RACKET OF the helicopters nearby unnerved Zoe and she dressed in haste, flinching from the cling of her clothes to her still-damp skin. When a woman entered the bathroom to fetch her, she was grateful she had hurried and she walked out through the main tent, glad to be embarking on her journey home.
It was a surprise, however, when she was not escorted to the stationary helicopter she had espied earlier and was instead led into another tent, where a group of women were seated round a campfire.
‘The King is visiting,’ the woman opposite her explained to her in perfect English. ‘My husband, Omar, can only receive the King in his tent, which is, unfortunately, the one you have been using, which means that you will have to wait here with us.’
‘Your husband?’ Zoe studied the attractive brunette, who wore more gold jewellery than she had ever seen on one woman at the same time.
‘Sheikh Omar. The King is his uncle. I am called Farida...and you?’
‘Zoe,’ Zoe proffered, accepting the tiny cup of black coffee and the plate of sliced fruit she was given with a grateful smile. ‘Thank you.’
Hopefully she would be on her way home within the hour, she reasoned, munching on a slice of apple with appetite. ‘Where’s Raj?’ she asked curiously. ‘I thought he was in a hurry to leave.’
‘Prince Faraj is greeting his father,’ Farida framed with slightly raised brows.
Zoe coloured, wondering if her familiar use of Raj’s name had offended. ‘I didn’t know he was a prince,’ she said ruefully. ‘He said he was nobody of any importance.’
Farida startled her by loosing a spontaneous giggle and turned, clearly translating Zoe’s statement for the benefit of their companions. Much laughter ensued.
‘The Prince was teasing you. He is the son of our King.’
Zoe’s eyes widened to their fullest extent and she gulped. ‘He’s the bad-boy Prince?’ she exclaimed before she could think better of utilising that label.
‘The bad boy?’ Farida winced at that definition. ‘No, I don’t think so. He is my husband’s best friend and he took a dangerous risk coming here to see us. ‘
‘Oh...’ Zoe noticed that Farida didn’t risk translating her comment about Raj being a bad boy and resolved to be much more careful about what she said. According to Raj these people had had nothing to do with her kidnapping and they had looked after her well while she was unable to look after herself. She didn’t want to slight them.
After all, she knew next to nothing about Raj, had merely read that tag for him on a website she had visited, which had contained the information that he had been sent into exile years ago for displeasing his father, the King.
‘Risk?’ she found herself pressing, taut with curiosity. ‘What did he risk?’
‘That is for his telling—if he has the opportunity,’ Farida said evasively. ‘But do not forget that the Prince is the King’s only son, his only child in fact. He was born to the King’s third wife when he had almost given up hope of having an heir.’
Zoe nodded circumspectly, unwilling to invite another polite snub and swallowing back questions that she was certain no one, least of all Farida, would wish to answer. Stupid man, she thought in exasperation. Why on earth hadn’t he told her who he really was? It was not as though she could have guessed that he was of royal blood. She felt wrong-footed, however, and, recalling how she had assaulted him, gritted her teeth. It was his own fault though: he shouldn’t have crept up on her like that.
An adorable toddler nudged her elbow in pursuit of a piece of apple and Zoe handed it over, waving her hand soothingly at Farida, who rebuked the little girl.
‘No, my daughter must learn good manners,’ Farida asserted.
‘What’s her name?’ Zoe asked as the toddler planted herself in her lap and looked up at her with eyes like milk-chocolate buttons, set beneath a wealth of wavy black hair.
Farida relaxed a little then, and talked about her three children.
* * *
Accompanied by Omar, Raj strode into his cousin’s tent where his father awaited him, seated by the fire.
‘I thought I would find you here,’ his father informed him with a look of considerable satisfaction. ‘You are grown tall, my son. You have become a man while you have been away. Omar, you may leave. We will talk later.’
Raj’s appraisal of the older man was slower and filled with concern because he could see that Tahir had aged. It was eight years since he had seen his father in the flesh. His parent had been in his fifties when Raj was born twenty-eight years earlier and the agility that had distinguished Tahir then had melted away. From a distance, Raj had watched his father’s slow, painful passage to the tent, recognising that the rheumatoid arthritis, which had struck his parent in his sixties, now gripped him hard in spite of the many medical interventions that had been staged. He was still spry but very thin and stiff, the lines on his bearded face more deeply indented, but his dark eyes remained as bright and full of snapping intelligence as ever.
‘Sit down, Raj,’ the King instructed. ‘We have much to discuss but little time in which to do it.’
Raj folded lithely down opposite and waited patiently while the server ritually prepared the coffee from a graceful metal pot with a very long spout. He took the tiny cup in his right hand, his long brown fingers rigid as he waited for one of his father’s characteristic tirades to break over his head. Tahir was an authoritarian parent and had become even more abrasive and critical after the death of his third wife, Raj’s mother. Sadly, that had been the period when Raj had been most in need of comfort and understanding and, instead of receiving that support, Raj had been sent to a military school where he was unmercifully bullied and beaten up. From the instant Raj had left school, he and his father had had a difficult relationship.
‘I knew that Omar would run to you for help. He never had a thought in his head that you didn’t put there first,’ Tahir remarked fondly. ‘We will not discuss the past, Raj. That would lead us back to dissension.’
‘I’m sorry, but this woman...’ Raj began even though he knew the interruption was rude, because he was so keen to find out why his father had acted as he had and had risked an enormous scandal simply to take his brother down a peg or two.
‘You never did have a patient bone in your body.’ Tahir sighed. ‘Have sufficient respect to listen first. I want you home, Raj, back where you belong, as my heir.’
Raj was stunned. For a split second he actually gaped at the older man, his brilliant dark eyes shimmering with astonishment and consternation.
His father moved a hand in a commanding gesture to demand his continuing silence. ‘I will admit no regrets. I will make no apologies. But had I not sent you away, my foolish brother would never have plotted to take your place,’ he pointed out grimly. ‘For eight years I have watched you from afar, working for Maraban, loyally doing your best to advance our country’s best interests. Your heart is still with our people, which is as it should be.’
Raj compressed his lips and gazed down into his coffee, dumbfounded by the very first accolade he had ever received from his strict and demanding parent.
‘Do you want to come home? Do you wish to stand as the Crown Prince of Maraban again?’
A great wash of longing surged through Raj and his shoulders went stiff with the force of having to hold back those seething emotions. He swallowed hard. ‘I do,’ he breathed hoarsely.
‘Of course, my generosity must come at a price,’ the King assured him stiffly.
Unsurprised by that stricture, Raj breathed in deep and slow. ‘I don’t care who I marry now,’ he declared in a driven undertone, hoping that that was the price his father planned to offer him. ‘That element of my life is no longer of such overriding importance to me.’
‘So, no longer a romantic,’ his father remarked with visible relief. ‘That is good. A romantic king would be too soft for the throne. And it is too late to turn you into a soldier. But your marriage... On that score I cannot compromise.’
‘I understand,’ Raj conceded flatly, shaking his hand to indicate that he did not want another cup of coffee, for any appetite for it had vanished. Sight unseen, some bride of good birth would be chosen for him and he and his bride would have to make a practical marriage. It would be a compromise, a challenge. Well, he was used to challenges even if he wasn’t very good at compromises, he acknowledged grimly. But he would have to learn, and fast, because it was unlikely he would have much in common with the bride chosen for him.
‘I should thank Hakem for bringing the Fotakis girl to my attention because I didn’t even know she existed,’ the King mused with unconcealed satisfaction. ‘I was outraged when I realised what my brother was planning to do. I was even more outraged when I realised that I had no choice but to approach Fotakis himself...the man who stole the beautiful Azra from me. But he has given his permission.’
Only then registering what the older man was proposing, Raj threw his head back in shock. ‘You’re expecting me to marry Zoe?’
‘And to do it right now, today. I brought the palace imam with me,’ his father told him bluntly. ‘This marriage would be your sign of good faith, your pledge to me that from now on you will act as a sensible son. Marry her and I promise you that nothing will stand in your path.’
‘Zoe wants to go home!’ Raj pointed out incredulously. ‘She will not want to marry me.’
‘Her grandfather has given his permission,’ the King pointed out with a frown of bewilderment. ‘A prince for a prince and a bridegroom less than half Hakem’s age, you make an acceptable substitute in Fotakis’s eyes. You have no choice in this, Raj. The girl is too great a prize to surrender, a huge gift to our people. No more popular bride than Azra’s granddaughter could be found for you. We will have a big state wedding to follow. I believe she is as beautiful as her grandmother. You should be pleased.’
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