Annie West - The Sultan's Harem Bride

Asim drew in a searing breath, forcing back grief. His cousin had been on assignment with this woman. They’d headed out together for an interview. But only one had returned.

* * *

Jacqui clutched the fabric tighter at her chest. The silk kept slipping through her damp palms.

She’d planned to be fully dressed if she met the Sultan. She bit her lip, suppressing an insane urge to giggle. There was nothing remotely funny about this.

Sultan Asim had the power to scupper her project before it got off the ground. How could she convince him of her case, dressed in a bedspread and dazed from her nightmare? He’d never take her seriously.

Instinctively she rose, locking wobbly knees as she pushed the hair from her eyes.

‘My by-line is always Jacqui Fletcher.’

‘But you were identified as Jacqueline in the official reports.’ Accusation rang in his tone and she flinched.

Jacqui knew the reports that he meant. Police reports, diplomatic reports, hospital and media updates. It was amazing the paperwork caused when two foreign news reporters got caught up in a supposed terrorist blast, even if it was in a distant African nation. She swallowed. It felt like broken glass lined her throat, scraping her raw.

‘That’s my given name but I never use it.’

‘No.’ His face turned to granite. ‘I understand you prefer to be called Jack.’

Imran. Her fragile composure cracked. Imran must have mentioned that to his cousin.

‘It’s a nickname my colleagues use. Used.’ She drew a shaky breath that didn’t fill her lungs.

‘You were my cousin’s partner.’ It was a statement, not a question, yet Jacqui had the impression he probed. Did he think them lovers? His gaze scoured so intently she felt it abrade her skin.

Remorse filled her. Here she was in Imran’s childhood home, meeting his family, while he...

‘We were colleagues, and friends.’ He’d been the nearest she’d had to a best friend. Her throat closed on a searing ball of emotion.

No wonder she’d thought this man familiar. He and Imran shared that superior nose and striking good looks. But, where Imran’s eyes had danced with mischief, Jacqui couldn’t imagine the Sultan laughing. His brand of handsome was harder than his cousin’s. Those features looked like they’d been sculpted into proud, spare elegance by the desert winds.

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ Her voice was hoarse. She’d written to Imran’s family after he’d died but today was the first time she’d met any of them.

‘Thank you.’ He inclined his head in a gesture that was at once courtly yet distancing.

As if he didn’t want her sympathy. He disapproved of her.

The knot of guilt in her stomach twisted tighter. She couldn’t blame him. It was her fault Imran had died. If she hadn’t dragged him to what had clearly been a set-up, he’d still be alive.

And she’d still be a journalist.

Brittle ice crackled in her veins and she hugged the bedding tighter. She desperately needed to be alone. But the man before her looked as immoveable as this massive ancient citadel.

Obviously her state of undress didn’t faze him. She wished she could say the same. She was used to men, spent most of her time with them, but always fully clothed as one of the guys. Now she felt hyper-aware of her femininity and her nakedness.

‘My grandmother invited you here to research a book?’ Disbelief dripped from every syllable and his sable eyebrows shot up.

‘She did.’ Jacqui scrabbled for poise. How she wished she wore her charcoal trouser suit, or even the wrinkled cargo pants and long sleeved T-shirt she’d travelled in. Something familiar that would boost her confidence in the face of his imperious disbelief.

Once she’d have taken it in her stride, a challenge to be overcome to reach the next professional goal. But that certainty had been blown apart the day the bomb had exploded. She felt battered and unsure of herself. It wasn’t just the trauma of the dream and waking to his disturbing presence. These past months had taken a terrible toll, not only on her career, but her confidence.

She wasn’t the woman she’d been.

The realisation stiffened her spine. Hadn’t she determined to drag herself out of the dark void of despair and fear? Hadn’t she promised she’d make a success of this?

After all, it was all she had left.

She had to succeed.

‘The Lady Rania was very supportive, and hospitable ,’ she added with deliberate emphasis, ignoring the whisper of her conscience that he had a right to resent her presence. ‘She personally invited me to stay here—’ her gesture took in the muted beauty of the ancient room ‘—in the heart of the old palace.’ Jacqui forced a smile, as if she couldn’t read the Sultan’s disbelief. ‘I’m most grateful to her.’

His expression grew more brooding.

‘Clearly you can’t remain.’

Jacqui’s smile died. ‘But I—’

He gestured in a slashing motion that signified no argument would be brooked. ‘This is no place for a guest.’

Jacqui put her palm to her chest where her heart crashed into her ribs. For a moment she thought he’d meant to evict her from the royal residence. That would have been disastrous, the end of all her hopes and plans.

Relief eased the rapid beat of her heart.

‘I’m perfectly comfortable, truly.’ After some of the places she’d bunked down, this was luxurious, despite the lack of modern facilities.

Again his brows rose. Yet it was true. Besides, the tranquillity here soothed after the bustle of the capital. Even now, months after the explosion, Jacqui was edgy and uncomfortable with crowds or sudden noise.

‘Nevertheless, it’s not appropriate.’ He looked as if he’d swallowed something sour. It hit her that he might be talking about more than the lack of amenities. Did he think she was going to filch the silver? His stare was disapproving.

Strange how that hurt, though she should have expected it. He clearly blamed her for what had happened to Imran.

But the Sultan’s grandmother had been so supportive and kind, first via correspondence and then today in person, that Jacqui had believed she’d be accepted here. She’d let herself believe that in completing the project she and Imran had discussed she could somehow atone for what had happened. Was that even possible?

‘I’ll have someone move you to another room.’ He inclined his head and turned away.

Jacqui’s old spirit surfaced. Being dismissed had always rankled.

‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Your Highness.’ She grimaced. It was too late for royal protocol—the man had already seen her naked and screaming her lungs out—yet surely it couldn’t hurt. ‘Truly, there’s no need. I’m just so grateful to the Lady Rania for allowing me such access.’

He stopped in his tracks, his neck and shoulders stiffening. Was he so unused to anyone speaking up once he’d dismissed them?

Imran hadn’t talked of his cousin much, apart from occasional references to his focus on duty and royal responsibilities. The man had none of Imran’s laughing charm. She guessed he was too self-important to bother charming anyone.

Slowly he turned. His face was impassive, but those night-dark eyes glittered sharply. Jacqui sucked in a breath and fumbled for a better hold on her covering as her fingers momentarily slackened.

Silently she cursed her misfortune in being caught at anything but her professional best. But regret couldn’t distract her from the way her body sizzled under his scrutiny. As if he was seeing her naked again.

As if she wanted him to!

Abruptly she looked away, stunned. What was happening to her? She didn’t react like this to any man. She closed her eyes momentarily, wishing she could wake and find this was all just an extension of her nightmare.