wasn’t exactly sure why his hand clenched on his thigh at the sight of the woman. In the previous life he’d led in the United States, he’d had numerous liaisons with women more beautiful than the one currently projected on the super-sized screen in the park.
There was nothing extraordinary about her individual features or the honey blonde hair tied in a bun at her nape. And yet the combination of full lips, pert nose and wide green-grey eyes was so striking his fingers moved, almost of their own accord, to the button that lowered his window. But still he couldn’t decipher what had triggered the faint zap of electricity that had charged through him at the sight of her. Perhaps it was the determined thrust of her jaw. Or the righteous indignation that sparked from her almond-shaped eyes.
Most likely it was the words falling from her mouth. Condemning. Inciting words wrapped in a husky bedroom voice and amplified on speakers that threatened to distract him even as he strained to focus on them.
A voice he’d heard before, slightly sleep husky, over the phone in the middle of the night. A voice that had, disturbingly and inappropriately, tugged at the most masculine part of him.
‘My father has been attacked twice in prison during the last week, while under the supervision of the police. Once was bad enough, considering he suffered a concussion then. But he was attacked again today, and I’m sorry, but twice is not acceptable.’
‘Are you saying that you hold the authorities responsible?’ the reporter prompted.
The woman shrugged, causing Zaid’s gaze to drop momentarily from her face to the sleek lines of her neck and shoulders, her light short-sleeved top clearly delineating her delicate bones and the swell of her breasts. He forced his attention up in time to hear her answer.
‘I was given the impression that the authorities here are practically the best in the world, and yet they can’t seem to keep the people under their care safe. On top of that, it seems I won’t be allowed to see my father until his trial or until I offer a financial incentive to do so.’
The reporter’s eyes gleamed as she latched onto the delicious morsel. ‘You were asked for a bribe before you could see your father?’
The woman hesitated for a millisecond before she shrugged again. ‘Not in so many words, but it wasn’t hard to read between the lines.’
* * *
‘So I take it your impression of Ja’ahr government so far isn’t a good one?’
A sardonic smile lifted her mouth. ‘That’s an understatement.’
‘If you could say anything to those in charge, what would you say?’
She looked directly into the camera, her wide eyes gleaming with purpose. ‘That I’m not impressed. And not just with the police. These people here clearly believe that too. I believe a fish rots from the head down.’
The reporter’s gaze grew a touch wary. ‘Are you alleging that Sultan Al-Ameen is directly culpable for what happened to your father?’
The woman hesitated, her plump lower lip momentarily disappearing between her teeth before emerging, gleaming, to be pressed into a displeased line. ‘It’s apparent that something’s wrong with the system. And since he’s the one in charge, I guess my question to him is what’s he doing about the situation?’ she challenged.
Zaid hit the button, blocking out the rest of the interview just as his intercom buzzed.
‘Your Highness, a thousand apologies for you having to witness that.’ The voice of his chief advisor, travelling in the SUV behind him, was almost obsequious. ‘I have just contacted the head of the TV studio. We are taking steps to have the broadcast shut down immediately—’
‘You will do no such thing,’ Zaid interjected grimly.
‘But, Your Highness, we can’t let such blatant views be aired—’
‘We can and we will. Ja’ahr is supposed to be a country that champions freedom of speech. Anyone who attempts to stand in the way of that will answer directly to me. Is that clear?’
‘Of course, Your Highness,’ his advisor agreed promptly.
As his motorcade passed the last of the protestors, he caught one last, brief glimpse of the woman on a much closer screen. Her head was tilted, the sunlight slanting over her cheekbone throwing her face into clear, more captivating lines. His jaw tightened at the further sizzle of electricity, until he was sure it would crack.
‘Do you wish me to find out who she is, Your Highness?’
He didn’t need to. He knew exactly who she was.
Esmeralda Scott.
Daughter of the criminal he intended to prosecute and put behind bars in the very near future. ‘That won’t be necessary. But have her brought to me immediately,’ he instructed.
As he hung up, he allowed the inner voice to question why he was going out of his way to trigger such a knee-jerk reaction. A second later, he smashed it away.
The why wasn’t so important. What mattered was her maligning the fragile pillars of the very things he was fighting to restore in his country. Integrity. Honour. Accountability.
Esmeralda Scott needed to answer a few questions of her own. After which he would take pleasure in pointing out the errors of her ways to her.
* * *
Esme gave in to the frantic urge to slide her clammy palms down her skirt as the black town car with tinted windows sped her towards an unknown destination. She’d cautioned herself a dozen times against letting fear take over. So far it hadn’t.
Perhaps it had something to do with the bespectacled, harmless-looking man sitting across from her and his reassurance that her interview had gained her the right audience on behalf of her father.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked for the second time, her mind still spinning at the swiftness at which her appearance on TV had earned her attention.
The question earned her a slightly less warm smile. ‘You will see for yourself when we arrive in a few minutes.’
The fear she’d staunched looming a little larger, Esme glanced out the window.
She began to notice that the landscape was growing more opulent, the parks even greener and studded with staggeringly beautiful works of art. Why that triggered a stronger sense of trepidation, Esme wasn’t sure. Sweat that had been steadily beading the back of her neck, despite the air-conditioning of the car, rolled between her shoulders.
‘My father’s prison hospital is on the other side of the city,’ she attempted again.
‘I am aware of that, Miss Scott.’
Alarm trickled through her. ‘You never said how come you knew my name.’ She’d only given the journalist her first name during the interview.
‘No, I did not.’
She opened her mouth to press for a clearer answer but closed it again as the car swerved in a wide circle before approaching huge double gates painted in stunning gold leaf. They slowed
