Annie West - The Sultan's Harem Bride

He looked down into wide, seductive eyes and for an instant knew sharp regret that those old days had gone. A hundred years ago he’d have been within his rights to clap an intrusive journalist in irons rather than risk her reporting private family matters.

But he wouldn’t have kept Jacqueline Fletcher in a dungeon. He’d have had her in one of those rooms adorned with murals of paradise. The bonds around her wrists would have been silk...

Suddenly she stepped back, her expression wary, as if she read his mind.

Asim blinked and refocused, stunned at his thoughts.

‘Not far now,’ he murmured, leading the way again.

What had come over him? He’d seen his share of naked women. Some would say more than his share. In his youth sex had been one of his favourite things. It still was, but these past months he’d exercised abstinence, distracted by Samira’s problems and the need to finalise the agreement that had been signed tonight.

Maybe that was the problem. Once he’d have celebrated such a significant coup in the arms of a delectable woman. Instead he found himself guarding an unwanted intruder. An intruder with none of the glamorous allure he was used to, yet who provoked lurid thoughts of her naked and responsive in his bed.

He opened the tall entrance door to the Sultan’s apartments.

He’d keep Jacqueline Fletcher from his sister. If she decided to wander she’d have to get past him first then his guards. Besides, he couldn’t have left her far from anyone after that nightmare. Its trauma had been obvious.

Asim remembered Samira’s frantic nightmares years ago when their parents’ love-hate relationship had see-sawed violently. After screaming rows and smashing china, was it any wonder his kid sister had had bad dreams? She’d been weak and frightened afterwards.

No, he was doing the right thing, securing this woman close.

‘This way.’ He walked through the atrium and into a colonnade that ran beside his favourite courtyard.

‘This is stunning.’ She stopped to stare. ‘Absolutely breath-taking.’

Asim followed her gaze. Trees offered shade during the day and the end of the courtyard was taken up by a long swimming pool, illuminated by underwater lights that showed off its aquamarine tiles. Concealed lighting above emphasised the decoratively carved arches of the colonnade, lending a traditional air.

‘I’m glad you approve. I had a hand in the design.’

He ushered her through a door into a private sitting room.

‘Oh my. It’s...’

Asim strode ahead into the bedroom and put her case down. ‘Too modern?’

He turned to find her standing in the middle of the room, eyes alight and a hint of a curve on her lips.

His pulse quickened. What effect would a full-blown smile have? He killed the thought, feeling as if it was a betrayal of his cousin.

She shook her head, turning to take in the airy space and the filmy curtains at the windows and pulled back from the bed. ‘Absolutely not. It’s sumptuous and gorgeous yet comfortable.’ Abruptly she fixed him with that disturbingly direct look. ‘It doesn’t feel like a guest suite.’

Asim shrugged. ‘That’s what it’s designed for.’ He didn’t add that only his intimates stayed here, one or two close friends and a handful of lovers.

Instantly he imagined her writhing naked on this bed...and she wasn’t alone.

Abruptly he gestured to the bathroom, disturbed at the way his mind strayed around her. ‘You’ll find all you need. If not, call housekeeping. There’s a phone beside the bed.’ He spun away. ‘I’ll wish you a good night.’

‘Wait!’ Her voice came from close on his heels. He turned and there she was, within touching distance.

Clearly he was getting too used to being treated with royal distinction. Her nearness surprised him. Outside his family no one but a lover got this close without permission.

A buzz of anticipation filled him. Is that what he wanted from this woman? It was a lunatic idea yet his body’s response told its own story.

‘You’ve got my laptop.’ She reached but stopped short of grabbing it from under his arm.

For a moment Asim considered refusing to return it. He could search it for anything she’d written about Samira.

Only for a moment. Such an act was beneath him.

Besides, anything she’d written could be rewritten and was probably already saved elsewhere.

With a slight bow he extended the case. ‘What would a journalist be without a computer?’

She opened her mouth as if to contradict him then snapped it shut. ‘Thank you. And thank you for your hospitality. The rooms are marvellous. I feel very privileged to be able to stay in the palace while I research.’

Asim shook his head, watching dismay tighten her features. ‘Enjoy the accommodation but don’t thank me so soon, Ms Fletcher. You’ll be leaving tomorrow.’

He left before her inevitable protest. Yet he was surprised she didn’t scurry after him.

He carried the image of her hurt eyes until he finally slept. Then he dreamed of a slim, pale-skinned woman laid out on his bed, awaiting his pleasure. Her hair was the tawny colour of the Jazeeri lion for which the country was famous and her voice husky as she pleaded for him to do all the things his burning body desired.

* * *

Asim paced his grandmother’s sitting room. He’d slept badly and dealing with the Emir and his precious niece this morning had sapped his patience. He’d walked a razor-sharp line between hospitality and discretion and hadn’t relaxed until he’d finally farewelled his guests. The assembled crowd’s gaze had been like a dagger between his shoulders every time he’d even looked at the woman. She, devil take her, had cast him sultry looks and leaned close whenever they spoke.

He sighed and propped one arm on the window embrasure. It was a relief to have the woman out of his palace.

Now he just had one more female to eject.

If only his grandmother wasn’t so obstinate about keeping her.

‘It won’t work. It’s naïve to think she can remain if we want to protect Samira.’ This time he’d keep her safe, keep control of the situation.

‘Of course it will work. I’ll see to it. They’ll be in separate parts of the palace complex and Ms Fletcher will be busy with her research. She strikes me as a woman of considerable focus.’

Asim looked at the little dumpling of a woman from whom, he suspected, he’d inherited his determination. He wished she’d been here in the palace during his boyhood. She’d have been a welcome addition to their unstable household with her brisk common sense and kind heart. But his mother hadn’t taken to her so despite centuries of custom his grandmother had retired to a summer palace in the foothills.

Yet for once Asim felt in sympathy with his departed mother. The Lady Rania, once fixed on an idea, was hard to budge.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, summoning patience.

‘It’s a recipe for disaster, putting a journalist under the same roof as a beautiful princess who’s on the run from the press.’

‘Ms Fletcher isn’t that sort of journalist. She’s not interested in kiss and tell affairs. She’s here for a real story. I told you about the book she wants to write.’

Yes, he’d heard about the book. The table near his grandmother just happened to be littered with articles Jacqueline Fletcher had published about women’s lives in Africa and East Asia. Clearly the woman was a workaholic. Given her demanding news job, he wondered how she’d found time.

‘You really think there’s a difference between a “news” journalist and the paparazzi?’ He couldn’t believe her naivety. ‘Let either one sniff a story and they’ll be onto it in a flash. Right now, Samira is news.’