Chantelle Shaw: At the Sheikh's Bidding

‘Brute,’ Erin muttered thickly,tears of mortification burning hereyes.

She hated Zahir, and hated herself more, yet even now, when he was looking down his arrogant nose at her, she longed to trace her fingers over the hard planes of his face and feel the brush of his lips on hers in a kiss of tenderness rather than blazing passion.

From the first moment she had seen him she had felt a connection with him that she did not understand. It couldn’t be love, she told herself. It wasn’t possible to love and hate someone simultaneously—was it? And if it was love, then she was an even bigger fool than she had believed, because Zahir was as harsh and unforgiving as the desert. His heart was hewn from granite, and he would never love her.

Chantelle Shawlives on the Kent coast, five minutes from the sea, and does much of her thinking about the characters in her books while walking on the beach. She’s been an avid reader from an early age. Her school friends used to hide their books when she visited—but Chantelle would retreat into her own world, and still writes stories in her head all the time. Chantelle has been blissfully married to her own tall, dark and very patient hero for over twenty years, and has six children. She began to read Mills & Boon® as a teenager, and throughout the years of being a stay-at-home mum to her brood found romantic fiction helped her to stay sane! She enjoys reading and writing about strong-willed, feisty women, and even stronger willed sexy heroes. Chantelle is at her happiest when writing. She is particularly inspired while cooking dinner, which unfortunately results in a lot of culinary disasters! She also loves gardening, walking, and eating chocolate (followed by more walking!).

BY

CHANTELLE SHAW

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CHAPTER ONE

The Royal Palace in the desert kingdom of Qubbah .

PRINCE ZAHIR BIN KAHLID AL MUNTASSIR swept through the palace towards King Kahlid’s private quarters, the expression on his handsome face so grimly forbidding that the guards quickly jumped aside to allow him to pass. ‘How is he?’ he demanded, when his father’s servant A’waan greeted him with a bow.

‘Sleeping, sire—the doctor gave him a sedative and instructed that His Highness should be allowed to rest,’ A’waan murmured, hovering anxiously in front of the door leading to the King’s bedroom.

‘It’s all right, A’waan, I have no intention of disturbing him,’ Zahir assured the servant. ‘The news of Prince Faisal’s death has been a great shock to all of us, but especially to my father.’

‘His Highness is deeply saddened. He is not properly recovered from the virus he contracted recently, and I fear that the news will prove too much for him,’ A’waan said gravely. ‘Your father’s one glimmer of joy is the discovery that he has a grandson—a child who is now an orphan.’

Zahir’s jaw clenched as he fought to control his emotions while A’waan continued.

‘It is His Highness’s dearest wish that you should travel to England and bring the child back to Qubbah.’

‘I am well aware of my father’s wishes,’ Zahir said tightly. He crossed to the window and stared out over the stunning formal gardens and the ornate fountains that splashed into an azure pool. Within the grounds of the palace the desert had been tamed, but beyond the walls of the twelfth-century fortress it stretched outward in an endless sea of scorching golden sands.

The setting sun was suspended like a huge golden orb, the sky around it streaked with shades of pink and red. He remembered the times he and Faisal had raced their horses across the sands, or released their falcons and watched them soar across the dense blue sky. More than brothers, they had been the best of friends, but the bond between them had been broken—and all because they had both fallen in love with the same woman. Zahir’s brows drew together in a slashing frown. Love , he had discovered, was a destructive emotion and he would neverallow it to rule his heart or mind again .

A’waan spoke again. ‘As you know, your father always hoped to be reconciled with his eldest son, and that, on his death the Prince would return to Qubbah to rule. But now Prince Faisal is dead, and there is unrest in the kingdom while the people wait for the King to announce his successor. Forgive me for my presumption…’ the elderly servant shifted nervously beneath Zahir’s narrow-eyed stare ‘…but I know His Highness longs for you to appoint a deputy to head your business interests in America, so that you can settle permanently in Qubbah—and take a wife. Now, more than ever, it is your duty, sire.’

Zahir threw back his head proudly and glared at the servant. ‘I do not need lessons from you on my duty,’ he snapped coldly. ‘You forget your place, A’waan.’ He understood only too well that his brother’s death meant that from now on his life would no longer be his own. He would not shirk his responsibility to the kingdom his family had ruled for generations—but marriage was a different matter. ‘If you remember, I was about to be married six years ago, to a woman of my father’s choosing—and what a debacle that turned out to be. I will marry when I am good and ready.’ He swung abruptly away from the window and strode across the room, pausing briefly to glance back at the servant. ‘When my father wakes, tell him I have gone to England.’

Ingledean House—North Yorkshire Moors

‘Erin! There’s a Gordon Straker here to see you,’ announced Alice Trent, cook and housekeeper at Ingledean House, when Erin walked into the kitchen. ‘He says he’s Faisal’s solicitor, and he mentioned something about the will.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Erin nodded. ‘I spoke to him on the phone a couple of days ago and he said he would be travelling up from London.’

‘Well, he’s waiting in the library.’ Alice paused in her task of peeling potatoes and stared at Erin’s dishevelled appearance. ‘What on earth have you been doing? You look as though you’ve been down a coal mine.’

‘Clearing out the big spare bedroom.’ Erin glanced ruefully at the streaks of dust on her jeans. ‘Kazim’s nursery is too small to store all his toys now that he’s sleeping in a proper bed. The spare room will make a perfect playroom. I need to keep busy,’ she added defensively, when Alice’s brows lifted. It was fine when Kazim was awake, keeping a lively three-year-old entertained took up all her time, but she had come to dread his afternoon nap—an hour of peace and solitude that gave her time to think.

It was almost three weeks since Faisal’s funeral. His death had been expected—he had told her a year ago that the tumour on his brain was inoperable—and she was glad that he was now at peace, perhaps reunited with his beloved Maryam. But he had been her friend; she missed him, and she could not stem the feeling of panic that regularly swept through her whenever she thought about the future. Kazim’s well-being was totally her responsibility now, and she was terrified that she would somehow let him down.