magnificent courtyard below, but her attention had not been attracted by the lush selection of tropical plants and the beautiful playing fountains. It was Razul she saw, his luxuriantly black, slightly curly hair gleaming like raw silk in the strong sunlight...and then the woman, sobbing and clutching frantically at his ankles.
‘We go for walk, sitt,’ Zulema urged uncomfortably.
‘No, thanks.’ In all her life Bethany had never seen a woman humiliate herself to such an extent. She was appalled. She needed no grasp of Arabic to interpret that distraught voice, that subservient posture and the passionate intensity with which the poor woman was hanging onto him.
Razul hissed something in his own language and literally stepped over her. As she attempted to follow him he snapped his fingers furiously at a cluster of servants cowering in a corner. Within seconds they were rushing to lift the woman from the ground and hurry her away through one of the archways off the courtyard.
‘Who is that woman?’ Bethany whispered.
‘The Princess Fatima,’ Zulema muttered thinly. ‘Prince Razul take only one wife. Always he say that... only the one.’
Bethany’s stomach lurched sickly. Perspiration broke out on her brow. So Razul was married. Dear heaven, that tormented woman was his wife, and it did not take great imagination to comprehend the source of her hysteria, did it? Razul had brought another woman into the palace and the poor creature was quite naturally distraught. The sheer cruelty of his behaviour devastated Bethany. He was every inch the savage, despotic Arab prince, who believed his own desires to be innately superior to any mere female’s wants and needs.
In a tempest of pain she refused to acknowledge Bethany descended the marble stairs. Razul swung round, his starkly handsome features flushed and still set with cold anger and hauteur. And then, as his stunning golden eyes settled on Bethany, the tension went out of him. A dazzling smile completely transformed his strong dark face.
That smile hit her like a shock wave, made her steps falter and her heart give a gigantic lurch behind her breastbone. For a split second she was hurled back two years to the evening they had first met. She had been coming out of the library. He had been leaning against the bonnet of his Ferrari, surrounded by gushing female students, every one of whom had been blonde and not known for her inhibitions with men. And then he had looked up and focused on Bethany and perceptibly stilled, treating her to a narrowed, intent stare before suddenly flashing that spectacularly glorious smile. Riveted to the spot, she had dropped her books.
But not this time, she swore to herself, despising her own shameful susceptibility and the disturbing emotions and responses which could block out every rational thought.
‘I’ve always been told that the Arab male cherishes and protects the women in his family,’ she shot at him in stark challenge, ‘but report really doesn’t match reality, does it? The Princess Fatima does not appear to qualify for even an ounce of your respect.’
His smile vanished as though she had struck him. A dark rise of blood delineated his hard cheek-bones. ‘You saw...?’
‘I saw,’ Bethany confirmed shakily.
‘I am disturbed that you should have witnessed so distressing a scene but, in honour, I may not discuss it with you,’ Razul delivered in a grim undertone.
Bethany turned away. She could not bear to look at him. So he had that much decency—a tiny kernel of loyalty to his wife. And he was profoundly embarrassed that she had seen that distasteful encounter...amazing. It was almost as though he expected her to pretend that these other women did not exist in his life. Concubines and a wife.
Yet she had never been able to hate him properly for his lifestyle. Just as she was a product of her world, he was a product of his. Nor was she foolish enough to imagine that Datar was the only country in the world where concubines were kept. It was not a subject referred to; it was a subject politely ignored lest people in high places be offended. And she had often wondered how many Western males could truthfully say that, given the same opportunity and society’s silent blessing, they too would not indulge in the freedom of such sexual variety.
‘Did you sleep well?’
A laugh that was no laugh at all bubbled in her throat. ‘You should know...you drugged me—’
‘You were in great pain. I could not bear to see you suffer,’ Razul imparted tautly, on the defensive. ‘A sleeping potion allowed you to rest.’
A sudden unbearable sadness swept over her. She found herself sinking down on the stone edge of a fountain, and she let her fingers trail restively in the water. ‘And how do you answer the kidnapping and imprisoning charge?’
‘You gave me no other option.’
Bethany breathed in deeply and looked at him where he stood, brushing aside the disturbing realisation that in the superbly tailored dove-grey suit which outlined his broad shoulders, narrow hips and long, lean legs he looked achingly familiar to her. On the outside touched by Western sophistication, she thought painfully, on the inside not touched at all, and not about to apologise for it either.
‘You know I won’t let you get away with a cop-out like that,’ she whispered.
‘Cop-out?’ Razul queried flatly, standing very tall and taut.
‘An evasion.’ She guessed that the women in his life let him off the hook every time he smiled, and then doubted if he even had a passing acquaintance with being pinned between a rock and a hard place by her sex. Fatima had been crawling round his feet like a whipped dog, not standing up to him like an equal.
Pain trammelled through her afresh. Was that what had attracted Razul to a woman outside his own culture...to her? Her spirit, her independence? In Datar even the male sex walked in awe of Razul al Rashidai Harun. One day he would be their king.
‘You cannot seriously intend to imprison me here—’
‘It does not have to be a prison. Give me your word that you will not attempt to escape and you may roam free.’
‘Something of a contradiction in terms.’ Unwarily she connected with smouldering golden eyes intently pinned to her and her throat closed over. Why am I talking to him so calmly instead of screaming at him? she wondered. Her own pain had risen uppermost, swallowing up the anger. Worse still, there was a treacherous part of her that greedily cherished every stolen moment in his company. The knowledge filled her with a deep, abiding shame.
‘Je te veux...’ he had said two years ago. ‘I want you.’
‘Tu es à moi,’ he had purred like a sleek jungle cat. ‘You are mine.’
Temptation—sinful, sweet, soul-destroying...
‘You are an educated man,’ Bethany muttered not quite steadily.
‘On the surface. Don’t flatter me,’ Razul said with sudden harshness. ‘I know your opinion of me. My father allowed thousands of Datari men to attend British and American universities over the last two decades. He did this only because it became clear to him that our country would become totally dependent on foreign workers if he did not encourage our young men to seek education and technological training in the West. But he would not permit me to enjoy a similar experience.
‘I am well aware that reading many books and spending a short spell at university does not make me
