heart lurched. ‘Dad...’
‘I know we didn’t part on the best of terms, but do you hate me that much?’ her father asked, after another long stretch of silence.
‘No, I don’t hate you.’
‘So you’ll come?’ He latched on hopefully, his voice slipping into the oh-so-familiar smooth cajoling that even the hardest heart couldn’t resist.
She closed her eyes. Reminded herself that in the end she had resisted. She’d been strong enough to walk away from him. But, of course, that didn’t matter now.
Because no matter what had gone on before, Jeffrey Scott was the only family she had. She couldn’t leave him to the mercy of a man known as The Butcher.
‘Yes. I’ll come.’
The relief in her father’s voice was almost palpable, but the torrent of gratifying words that followed washed over Esme’s head as she contemplated the commitment she’d just made. Eventually she murmured her goodbyes as her father’s allotted time ended their call.
Almost detached, she typed another name into the search engine. And forgot the ability to breathe as she stared into the brandy-coloured eyes of The Butcher.
The formidable authority in those eyes was just the start of the shockingly arresting features of the chief prosecutor of the Kingdom of Ja’ahr. She already knew what his voice sounded like. Now she saw how accurately it matched the square, masculine jaw that could have been cut from granite. It was shadowed despite the clean shave and, coupled with sharp cheekbones resting on either side of a strong, haughty nose, slightly flared in suppressed aggression, it was near impossible to look away.
Blue-black hair sprang back from his forehead in short, gleaming waves, the same colour gracing winged eyebrows and sooty eyelashes. But what captured her attention for a breathless moment was the sensual lines of his mouth. Although set in grim purpose in the picture, she couldn’t help but be absorbed by them, even wonder if they ever softened in a smile or in pleasure. Whether they would feel as velvety as they looked in pixels.
The alarming direction of her thoughts prompted a hurried repositioning of the mouse. But that only revealed more of the man whose magnetism, even on screen, was hypnotising. Broad shoulders and a thick neck were barely restrained in the dark pinstriped suit, pristine shirt and immaculate tie he wore. Long arms braced an open-legged stance, displaying a towering figure with a streamlined body that had been honed to perfection.
He stood before a polished silver sign displaying the name of a firm of US attorneys. Esme felt a tiny fizz of relief at the thought that she’d got the wrong hit on her search. But clicking the next link revealed the same man.
Only he wasn’t the same. His compelling features and hawk-like stare were made even more compelling by the traditional garb draping him from head to toe. The thawb was a blinding white with black and gold trim, repeated in the keffiyeh that framed his head and face.
With deep trepidation, Esme clicked one last link. Her gasp echoed in her bedroom as she read the biography of the thirty-three-year-old man nicknamed The Butcher.
Only the man who’d disturbed her sleep last night with bad news wasn’t just the feared chief prosecutor of an oil-rich kingdom. He was so much more. Gut clenching, her gaze drifted back up to the mercilessly implacable face of Zaid Al-Ameen. Sultan and Ruler of the Kingdom of Ja’ahr.
The man who held her father’s shaky fate in his hands.
ZAID AL-AMEEN RESTED his head against the back seat of the tinted-windowed SUV transporting him from the courthouse. Only for a moment. Because a moment was all he had. His caseload was staggering. A dozen cases waited in the briefcase on the seat next to him, with dozens more waiting in the wings.
But even that was secondary to the colossal weight of his responsibilities as ruler of Ja’ahr. A weight that made each day feel like a year as he battled to right the wrongs of his uncle, the previous King.
A fair number of his ruling council had been shocked by his intention to carry on with his chosen profession when he’d returned from exile to take the throne eighteen months ago.
Some had cited a possible conflict of interest, questioning his ability to be both an able ruler and a dedicated prosecutor. Zaid had quashed every objection by doing what he did best—following the letter of the law and winning where it counted. Meting out swift justice had been the quickest way to begin uprooting the rank corruption that had permeated Ja’ahr’s society. From the oil fields in the north to the shipping port in the south, no corporate entity had been left untouched by his public investigative team. Inevitably, that had made him enemies. Khalid Al-Ameen’s twenty-year corrupt rule had birthed and fed fat cats who’d fought to hold onto their power.
But in the last six months things had finally started to change. The majority of factions that had strenuously opposed and doubted him—after all, he was an Al-Ameen like his late uncle—had begun to ally with him. But those unused to his zero tolerance approach still incited protestors against him.
His bitterness that his uncle had escaped Zaid’s personal justice by falling dead from a heart attack had dissipated with time. It was an outcome he couldn’t change. What he could change was the abject misery that his people had been forced to endure by Khalid.
Zaid had first-hand, albeit deadly experience of the misery crime and the greedy grasp for power could wreak. That he’d lived through the experience was a miracle in itself. Or so the whispers went. Only Zaid knew what had happened that fateful night his parents had perished. And it was no miracle but a simple act of self-preservation.
One that had triggered equal amounts of guilt, anger and bitterness over the years. It was what had driven him to practise law and pursue justice with unyielding fervour.
It was what would bring his people out of the darkness they’d been thrust into.
Lost in the jagged memories of his past, it took the slowing of the lead vehicle in his motorcade to alert him to his surroundings.
A large group of protestors was gathered in a nearby park normally used to host summer plays and concerts. Some had spilled into the street in front of his motorcade. Protests weren’t uncommon, and, although regretful, it was part of the democratic process.
Zaid glanced around him as a handful of his personal security began to push back the crowd.
Ja’ahr City was particularly magnificent in early April, new blooms and moderate weather bathing the city in sparkling beauty. Giant sculptures and stunning monuments, surrounded by verdant gardens containing exotic flowers, lined the ten-mile-long central highway that led from the courthouse to the palace.
Except, as with everything else, this particular display of Ja’ahr’s wealth had been carefully cultivated to fool the world. One only had to stray along a few streets on either side of the highway to be met with the true state of affairs.
The grim reminder of the wide chasm dividing the social classes in his kingdom forced his attention back to the crowd and the giant screen showing a reporter surrounded by a handful of protestors.
‘Can you tell us why you’re here today?’ the female journalist asked, thrusting her microphone forward.
