Maya Blake - The Sultan Demands His Heir

‘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.