Maya Blake - The Sultan Demands His Heir

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.

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.