it had seemed her life was truly about to begin, she thought wretchedly. Because, although on paper it had always looked to be a life full of potential—the daughter of a West End actress and a great foreign diplomat, the reality had been nothing so sensational. Her father’s work abroad and her mother’s gruelling schedule had led them to divorce when she was still at junior school and, by the age of thirteen, boarding school had become the place she grudgingly called home. Though her father would send gifts galore from the places he’d visited, and her dorm was stacked full of her mother’s memorabilia, she would gladly have swapped them all for the odd family holiday or the chance to have done something more notable than sit her A levels and watch the Wimbledon finals with her school friends. And whilst they’d been happy choosing college courses and eyeing up the boys from the local school, Tamara had been restless, dreaming of finding her own place in the world. She certainly had no desire to remain in the classroom, or to repeat her parents’ failed attempt at love.
So when her father had announced that he wished her to visit him in the Middle East for a week, it had felt as if the door to her future had at last been flung open. As if finally she was on the cusp of…something. And Qwasir! She remembered rolling the word over in her mouth like an exotic delicacy for weeks before her ticket had even arrived, immersing herself in every book she could find on the country, noting down snippets of information as if they were bright keys to her future.
When the plane had finally touched down, she was not disappointed. Qwasir had not only met, but surpassed her wildest imaginings. From the minute she’d been met by the black royal-crested Jeep at the airport and driven through the town and out across the expansive desert landscape towards the royal palace, everything seemed full of so much colour, heat, life. As if all this time she’d been living in a rock pool and she had finally escaped into the wide, wide ocean.
Never more so than at the moment when the driver of the Jeep had led her through the enormous palace gates and asked Tamara to wait in the bright white marble atrium. It was such a maze of rooms and corridors that it put in her mind of the story of Theseus and the Minotaur, just asking to be explored.
Finding herself alone, Tamara had tiptoed towards the first doorway to the left, her eyes widening to discover a room full of glass display cases. It seemed to be a section of the palace open to public view. She wandered in, her eyes drawn to an original colour photograph of King Rashid and his late wife Sofia on their wedding day, an enlarged version of the black and white one she had so loved in her guidebook. Not because she had a penchant for all things bridal, but because of the look on Sofia’s face, as if in that instant she had discovered where she truly belonged. It was then that Tamara’s eyes had dropped to the glass case beneath the photo and widened in awe, for it contained the very necklace Sofia had worn in the picture, and which had been given more page-space in her guidebook than anything else—the famous A’zam Sapphires.
‘I’m afraid we’re closed for today.’
Tamara jumped at the discovery that she was not alone and swung round instantly to try to locate the origin of the deep voice that had seemed to come out of nowhere.
Leaning nonchalantly at the doorway was a man unlike any other she had seen before—and not just because of his Eastern dress. A man who stood as if not only she, but the whole world had turned to him. Who took her breath away and replaced it with heat and excitement.
‘I’m sorry it’s just—’ she turned back to the case guiltily ‘—it’s so beautiful I couldn’t help but look.’
His dark eyes narrowed. ‘They tend to have that effect— people not being able to help themselves. Which is why we only ever display a replica.’
Tamara looked puzzled for a moment. ‘Actually, I was talking about the photograph.’ His eyes widened, as if she had surprised him. ‘It’s a fascinating display. It must be a pleasure to work here.’
A look of amusement crossed his lips and she saw his expression visibly soften. ‘Indeed. And no doubt there will be time for you to continue your appraisal tomorrow, Miss Weston. In the meantime, let me show you where you will be staying.’ He inclined his head towards the door. ‘Your father sends his apologies that he is not here to meet you in person. He is still in a conference—on Qwasirian security.’ He raised his eyebrow ironically.
‘Tamara, please,’ she offered. ‘And, as it seems you already know, I am the daughter of James Weston. It’s a pleasure to meet you…?’ Tamara raised her eyebrows inquisitively.
‘We have a tradition in Qwasir that guests and hosts share nothing but names until they have shared food together,’ he offered in explanation, gesturing for her to follow him, though the slight curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth belied the severity of his tone.
‘I had read that was so,’ Tamara said equally levelly, though mischief was dancing in her eyes, ‘but since you had already broken that tradition by surmising so much about me, I thought perhaps you were hoping I was unaware of the custom.’
He whipped his head round in shock and Tamara instantly wondered whether her quick-wittedness had offended him. But, as she raised her head anxiously, his eyes glittered back in amused challenge.
‘Very well,’ he said, facing her head-on and extending his hand to her, ‘I am Kaliq Al-Zahir A’zam, and my father is King Rashid of Qwasir. Welcome to our palace.’
The crown prince!
Tamara felt instantly that she should drop into a reverent curtsy, but she was too overwhelmed and embarrassed to move. Of course he was royalty! Who else would be capable of giving off that aura of magnificence unlike any she had ever felt before? Though she knew that her father resided in a wing of the palace, she hadn’t anticipated that she would come into contact with the A’zam family herself. According to the books she had read, the crown prince spent most of his time studying abroad. She didn’t think he’d just be meandering round the palace where he might be mistaken for—oh, God, had she really supposed he was a museum steward?
Tamara blushed and extended her hand quickly in return, and was almost as shocked by the bolt of electricity his touch sent through her body as by the revelation of who he was. She bowed her head. ‘It is an honour to meet you.’
To her surprise, she thought she heard him exhale wearily, but though it took every effort, she dared not look up.
But, to her astonishment, he lowered his head until her light blue eyes met the rich darkness of his. ‘Kaliq, please.’
His gaze was too enthralling to hold. She turned away. ‘I am sorry. I didn’t expect… I didn’t know what to expect.’
‘You are not quite what I was expecting either.’
Tamara’s eyes moved down over her pink and white gingham dress, her heart sinking. No doubt he must be used to women dropping at his feet immediately, either covered reverently in swathes of beautiful fabric, or buffered to such perfection that they resembled a female form of himself. She failed on both accounts.
‘You misunderstand me, Tamara,’ he said, slowing raising her hand to his lips, her eyes growing wider and her heart beating faster the closer he got. ‘I find it very rare that I am surprised by anything of late. I had forgotten what a pleasure it is.’
It was then—as his lips touched her flesh—that Tamara suddenly raised her head and something passed between them. Something indescribable. That felt as old and unique as the treasures in that room, yet new and so much more precious.
For in that one statement and the glance that had
