Maisey Yates - Sheikh's Defiant Wife - Defiant in the Desert

He wondered if the silent female servants who were sitting sentry had noticed the irresistible direction of his gaze. Or the fact that he had not left the side of the sleeping princess. But he didn’t care—for who would dare challenge him?

He had fulfilled the first part of his task by getting Sara on board the plane. He just wished he could shake off this damned feeling of guilt.

Their late exit from the cottage into the driving rain had left her soaking wet for she had stubbornly refused to use the umbrella he’d opened for her. And as she had sat shivering beside him in the car he’d fought the powerful urge to pull her into his arms and to rub at her cold flesh until she was warm again. But he had vowed that he would not touch her again.

He could never touch her again.

He let his eyes drift over her.

Stretched out in the wide aircraft seat in her crumpled jeans and sweater, she should have looked unremarkable but that was the very last thing she looked. He felt his gut tighten. The sculpted angles of her bone structure hinted at her aristocratic lineage and her eyelashes were naturally dark. Even her blonde hair, which had dried into tousled strands, looked like layered starlight.

She was beautiful.

The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

His heart clenched as he turned away, but his troubled thoughts continued to plague him.

He knew the Sultan’s reputation. He knew that he was a charismatic man where women were concerned and that most of his former lovers still yearned for him. But Murat the Mighty was a desert man and he believed in destiny. He would marry the princess who had been chosen for him, for to do otherwise would be to renege on an ancient pact. He would marry and take his new bride back to the Qurhahian palace. He would think nothing of it.

Suleiman winced as he tried to imagine Sara being closed off for ever in the Sultan’s gilded world and felt a terrible darkness enter his heart.

He heard the small sound she made as she stirred, blinking open her eyes to look at him so that he found himself staring into dark pools of violet ink.

Sitting up, she pushed her tousled hair away from her face. Was she aware that he had been watching her while she slept, and that it had felt unbelievably intimate to do so? Would she be shocked to know that he had imagined moving aside the cashmere blanket and climbing in beside her?

She lifted her arms above her head to yawn and in that moment she looked so free that another wave of guilt washed over him.

What would she be like when she’d had her wings clipped by the pressures and the demands of her new position as Sultana? Did she realise that never again would she wear her faded blue jeans or move around anonymously as she had done in London? Did she realize—as he now did—that this trip was the last time he would ever be permitted to be alone with her?

‘You’re awake,’ he said.

‘Top marks for observation,’ she said, raking her fingers back through her hair to subdue it. ‘Gosh, the Sultan must miss having you around if you come out with inspirational gems like that, Suleiman.’

‘Are you going to be impertinent for the rest of the journey?’

‘I might. If I feel like it.’

‘Would a little tea lighten your mood, princess?’

Sara shrugged, wondering whether anything could lighten her mood at that precise moment. Because this was fast becoming like her worst nightmare. She had been bundled onto the plane, with the Sultan’s staff bowing and curtseying to her as soon as she had set foot on the private jet. These days she wasn’t used to being treated like a princess and it made her feel uncomfortable. She had seen the surreptitious glances which had come shooting her way. Were they thinking: Here’s the princess who ran away? Or were they thinking what an unworthy wife she would make for their beloved Sultan?

But the most troubling aspect was not that she was being taken somewhere against her will, to marry a man she didn’t love. It was the stupid yearning feeling she got whenever she looked at Suleiman’s shuttered features and found herself wishing that he would lose the uptight look and just kiss her. She found herself longing for the closeness of yesteryear, instead of this strange new tenseness which surrounded him.

She could guess why he was behaving so coolly towards her, but that didn’t seem to alleviate this terrible aching which was gnawing away at her heart, despite all her anger and confusion.

‘So. How did your “chat” with the journalist go?’ she asked. ‘Did he agree to kill the story?’

‘He did.’ He slanted her a triumphant look. ‘I managed to convince him that your words were simply a heightened version of the normal nerves of a bride-to-be.’

‘So you bribed him, I suppose? Offered him riches beyond his wildest dreams not to publish?’

Suleiman smiled. ‘I’m afraid so.’

Frustratedly, Sara sank back against the cushions and watched Suleiman raise his hand in command, instantly bringing one of the servants scurrying over to take his order for tea. He was so easy with power, she thought. He acted as if he’d been born to it—which as far as she knew, he hadn’t. She knew that he’d been schooled alongside the Sultan, but that was all she did know—because he was notoriously cagy about his past. He’d once told her that the strongest men were those who kept their past locked away from prying eyes—and while she could see the logic in that, it had always maddened her that she hadn’t known more about what made him tick.

She took a sip of the fragrant camomile brew she was handed before putting her cup down to study him. ‘You say you’re no longer working for the Sultan?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So what are you doing instead? Doesn’t your new boss mind you flitting off to England like this?’

‘I don’t have a boss. I don’t answer to anyone, Sara. I work for myself.’

‘Doing what—providing bespoke kidnap services for reluctant brides?’

‘I thought we’d agreed to lose the hysteria.’

‘Doing what?’ she persisted.

Suleiman cracked the knuckles of his fists and stared down at the whitened bones because that was a far less distracting sight than confronting the spark of interest in those beautiful violet eyes. ‘I own an oil refinery and several very lucrative wells.’

‘You own an oil refinery?’ she repeated in disbelief. ‘A baby one?’

‘Quite a big one, actually.’

‘How on earth can you afford to do that?’

He lifted his head and met the confusion in her gaze. He thought how inevitably skewed her idea of the world was—a world where kingdoms were lost and bought and bartered. His investigations into her London life had assured him that her job for Gabe Steel was bona fide, but he knew that she’d inherited her luxury apartment from her mother. Sara was a princess, he reminded himself grimly. She’d never wanted for anything.

‘I played the stock market,’ he said.

‘Oh, come on—Suleiman. It can’t be as simple as that. Loads of people play the stock market, but they don’t all end up with oil refineries.’

He leaned back against the silken pile of cushions, an ill-thought-out move, since it put his eye-line on a level with her breasts. Instead, he fixed his gaze on her violet eyes.

‘Even as a boy, I was always good with numbers,’ he said. ‘And later on, I found it almost creative to watch the movement of the markets and predict what was going to happen next. It was, if you like, a hobby—a consuming as well as a very profitable one. Over the years I managed to accrue a considerable amount of wealth, which I invested. I bought shares along the way which flourished. Some property here and there.’

‘Where?’