Maya Blake - The Sultan Demands His Heir

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.’

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.’