Annie West: The Royal House of Karedes: The Desert Throne: Tamed: The Barbarian King / Forbidden: The Sheikh's Virgin / Scandal: His Majesty's Love-Child

They all had rifles and hard, glowering faces, but the leader was far taller and more broad-shouldered than the others. A ceremonial jeweled dagger at his hip proclaimed his status while the hard look in his blue eyes betrayed his ruthlessness. Beneath the hot Qusani sun, his robes were stark white against his deeply tanned skin as he leapt gracefully down from his black stallion.

Shaking in sudden panic, Jasmine looked at him, praying she was wrong. It couldn’t be him. Couldn’t!

But when she looked at his handsome, brutal face, she could not deny his identity. For thirteen years, she’d seen his face in her dreams.

Kareef Al’Ramiz, the barbarian prince of the desert.

The party guests recognized him with a low gasp that echoed her own.

Kareef. The man who’d seduced and deserted her to shame and exile. The man who’d caused the loneliness and grief of half her life. The man who’d made her pay so dearly for the crime of loving him.

And in a few days, Kareef Al’Ramiz would be crowned king of all Qusay.

Fierce hatred flashed through her, hatred so pure it nearly caused her to stagger. She clutched at Umar’s arm. “What is he doing here?”

His thin lips curved in a smile. “The king is my friend. Are you impressed? It’s part of my plan. Come.”

He pulled her across the grass to greet the royal arrival. She tried to resist, but Umar kept dragging her forward in his thin, sinewy grip. The colors of white tent and green grass and blue sea seemed to blend and melt around her. Trying to catch her breath, to regain control, she twisted her engagement ring tightly around her finger. The enormous diamond felt hard and cold against her skin.

“Sire!” Hajjar called jovially across the lawn. “You do me great honor!”

“This had better be important, Umar,” the other man growled. “Only for you would I return to the city in the middle of a ride.”

At the sound of Kareef’s voice—the deep, low timbre that had once sounded like music to her—the swirls of color started to spin faster. She started to fear she might faint at her own party. How would Umar react to that?

Marry me, Jasmine . Kareef’s long-ago whisper echoed in her mind. He’d stroked her cheek, looking down at her with the deep hunger of desire. Marry me.

No! She couldn’t face Kareef after all these years. Not now. Not ever!

Her heart pounded furiously in her chest. “I have to go,” she croaked, pulling frantically away from Umar’s grasp. “Excuse me—”

Startled by her strength, Umar abruptly let go. Knocked off balance, she stumbled forward and fell across the grass in an explosion of pale green chiffon.

She heard a low exclamation. Suddenly hands were on her, lifting her to her feet.

She felt the electricity of a rough touch, so masculine and strong, so different from Umar’s cool, slender hands. She looked up.

Kareef’s handsome, implacable face was silhouetted against the sun as he lifted her to her feet. His ruthless eyes were full of shadow. Blinding light cast a halo around his black hair against the unrelenting blue sky.

His hand was still wrapped over hers as their eyes locked. His pupils dilated.

“Jasmine,” he breathed, his fingers tightening on hers.

She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even breathe. She dimly heard the cry of the seagulls soaring over the nearby Mediterranean, heard the buzz of insects. She was barely aware of the two hundred highborn guests behind them, watching from the pavilion.

Time had stopped. There was only the two of them. She saw him. She felt his touch on her skin. Exactly as she’d dreamed every night for the last thirteen years, in dark unwilling dreams she’d had alone in her New York penthouse.

Umar stepped between them.

“Sire,” the older man said, beaming. “Allow me to present Jasmine Kouri. My bride.”

Kareef stared down at her beautiful face in shock.

He’d never thought he would see Jasmine Kouri again. Seeing her so unexpectedly— touching her—caused a blast of ice and fire to surge through his body, from his hair to his fingertips.

Against his will, his eyes devoured every detail of her face. Her long black eyelashes trembling against her creamy skin. The pink tip of her tongue darting out to lick the center of her full, red lips.

Jasmine’s dark hair, once long and stick-straight, now was thickly layered past her shoulders, cascading over a flowy, diaphanous dress that seemed straight out of a 1930s Hollywood movie. The gown skimmed her full breasts and hips, tightly belted at her slim waist. Her graceful, slender arms could be seen through long sheer sleeves.

She was almost entirely covered from head to toe, showing bare skin only at the collarbone and hands, but the effect was devastating. She looked glamorous. Untouchable. He wanted to grab her shoulders, to touch and taste and feel her all over and know she was real. Just the mere contact of his fingers against hers burned his skin.

Then he realized what Umar Hajjar had said.

Jasmine—Hajjar’s bride?

As if he’d been struck by a blow, Kareef abruptly released her. He glanced down at his fingers and was almost bewildered to find them whole. After the electricity he’d felt touching her hand, he’d half expected to find his fingers burned beyond recognition.

With a deep breath, he slowly looked up at her. “You—are married?”

Jasmine’s dark eyes met his, stabbing into his soul as deeply as a blade. Licking her lips nervously, she didn’t answer.

“Not yet,” Umar purred beside her. “But we will be. Immediately following the Qais Cup.”

Kareef continued to look at Jasmine, but she didn’t speak. Not one word.

Once, she used to chatter away in his company—she’d cajoled away his bad moods, making him laugh in spite of himself. He’d found her easy conversation relaxing. Charming. Perhaps because it was so natural—so unguarded and real. She’d been shy at first, a bookish girl more comfortable with reading newspapers and studying charts than speaking to the son of a sheikh. But once he’d coaxed her out of her shell, she’d happily told him every thought in her head.

They’d both been so young then. So innocent.

Fire burned through him now as he looked at her. Jasmine. Her name was like a spell and he could barely stop himself from breathing it aloud. He had to force his face to remain expressionless, his body taut and implacable as if ready for battle.

To attack what? To defend what?

“I’m so pleased you could attend our party at such late notice,” Umar continued, placing his hands on Jasmine’s shoulders. “We await your permission to serve dinner, my king.”

Kareef found himself staring at Umar’s possessive hands on her shoulders. He had the sudden urge to knock them away—to start a brawl with the man who had once saved his life!

But this wasn’t just any woman. It was Jasmine. The girl he’d once asked to be his wife.

“Sire?”

“Yes. Dinner.” Still clenching his jaw, Kareef motioned to his two bodyguards to attend to the horses. He glanced toward the white pavilion and all the eager waiting faces. Several of the bolder guests were already inching closer to him, trying to catch his eye, hoping to join the conversation. After so many years of solitude in the northern desert of Qais, Kareef was not known for his sociability. But somehow being inaccessible and cold had just made him more desirable to the elite Qusanis of Shafar. Everyone in this godforsaken city seemed desperate for the barbarian king’s attention, his favor, his body or his soul.

He wasn’t even crowned yet, but according to Qusani tradition they already called him king—and treated him almost like a god. The people of Qusay had seen what he’d done for the desert people of Qais, and wanted that same prosperity for themselves. So they worshipped him.