the Royal Palace,’ she mumbled, unable to stop her voice from shaking as she stared at the immense azure-coloured dome that could rival St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome.
‘Indeed,’ the man responded, not without a small ounce of relish.
The town car drew to a firm stop. The sweat between her shoulders grew icy. She cast another, frantic glance outside.
The penny finally dropped. She was here, at the Royal Palace. After publicly calling out the ruler of the kingdom.
Dear God, what have I done?
‘I’m here because of what I said on TV about the Sultan, aren’t I?’
A sharply dressed valet opened the door and the chief advisor stepped out. He signalled to someone out of sight before he glanced down at her. ‘That is not for me to answer. His Highness has requested your presence. I do not advise keeping him waiting.’
Before she could answer, he walked away, his shoes and those of his minders clicking precisely on the white and gold polished stone tiles that led to the entrance steps of the palace.
Esme debated remaining in the car as alarm flared into full-blown panic. The driver was still seated behind the wheel. She could ask him to take her back to her hotel. Even beg if necessary. Or she could get out and start walking. But even as the thoughts tumbled she knew it was futile.
Another set of footsteps approached the car. Esme held her breath as a man dressed in dark gold traditional clothes paused beside the open door and gave a shallow bow. He, too, was flanked by two guards.
They seem to travel in threes.
She was tossing away the mildly hysterical observation when he spoke. ‘Miss Scott, I am Fawzi Suleiman, His Royal Highness’s private secretary. If you would come with me, please?’
The question was couched in cultured diplomacy, but she had very little doubt that it was a command.
‘Do I have a choice?’ she asked anyway, half hoping for a response in the affirmative.
The response never came. What she witnessed instead was the firmer, watchful stance of the bodyguards, even while Fawzi Suleiman bowed again and swept out his arm in a polite but firm this-way gesture.
Esme alighted into dazzling sunshine and a dry breeze. She took a moment to tug down her knee-length black pencil skirt and resisted the urge to adjust her neckline. Fidgeting was a sign of weakness, and she had a feeling she would need every piece of her armour in place.
Slowly, she raised her chin and smiled. ‘Lead the way.’
He took her words literally, walking several steps ahead of her as they entered the world-famous Ja’ahr Palace.
At first sight of the interior her steps slowed and her jaw dropped.
Tiered Moorish arches framed in black lacquer and gold leaf veered off half a dozen hallways, all of which converged in a stunning atrium centred by a large azure-tiled fountain.
She dragged her gaze away long enough to see that they’d arrived at the bottom of wide, magnificent, sweeping stairs. Carpeted in the same azure tone that seemed to be the royal colour, the painstakingly carved designs that graced the bannisters were exquisite and grand.
Truly fit for a king.
A faintly cleared throat reprimanded her for dawdling. But as they traversed hallway after hallway, past elegantly dressed palace staff who surreptitiously eyed her, awe gave way to a much more elemental emotion.
She’d been expertly manipulated. With clever words and non-answers, but tricked nevertheless. Esme could only think of one reason why.
Intimidation.
They arrived before a set of carved double doors. She curbed the panic that flared anew, clutching her purse tighter as Fawzi Suleiman turned to her.
‘You will wait here until you’re summoned. And when you enter, you will address the Sultan as Your Highness.’
He didn’t wait for her response, merely grasped the thick handles and pushed the doors wide open.
‘Miss Scott is here, Your Highness,’ she heard him murmur.
Whatever response he received had him executing another bow before turning to her. ‘You may go in.’
She’d taken two steps into the room when she heard the doors shut ominously behind her. Despite the slow burn of anger in her belly, Esme swallowed, fresh nerves jangling as the faint scent of incense and expensive aftershave hit her nostrils.
She was in the presence of the ruler of Ja’ahr.
She forced her feet to move over the thick, expensive Persian rugs she was certain cost more than she would earn in two lifetimes as she emerged into the largest personal office she’d ever seen. Esme’s entire focus immediately zeroed in on the man behind the massive antique desk.
From the photos on the Internet she’d known he was a big man. But the flesh and blood version, the larger-than-life presence watching her in golden-eyed silence, was so shockingly visceral, she stumbled. She caught herself quickly, silently admonishing herself for the blunder.
A dozen feet from his desk, his magnetic aura hit her, hard and jolting. She wanted to stop walking but she forced herself to take another step. And then she froze as he rose to his feet.
It was like being hit with a tidal wave of raw masculinity. At five feet five, she considered herself of average height but her heels added a confidence-bolstering three inches. None of that mattered now as she took in the towering man looking down his domineering royal nose at her.
He was dressed in a three-piece suit, but he may as well have been adorned in an ancient warrior’s suit of armour, such was the primitive air of aggression Zaid Al-Ameen gave off as he watched her. Above his head, a giant emblem depicting his royal kingdom’s coat of arms hung, emphasising the glory and authority of its ruler.
But even without the trappings of all-encompassing wealth and power, Esme would have been foolish to underestimate the might of the man before her.
She summoned every last ounce of composure. ‘I...don’t know why I’ve been brought here. I haven’t done anything wrong. Your Highness,’ she tagged on after a taut second.
He didn’t respond. Esme forced herself to return his intense stare as she fought the urge to wet her dry lips. ‘And I hope you don’t expect me to bow. I’m not sure I can do it correctly.’
One imperious brow lifted. ‘How would you know unless you try?’ he drawled.
A spike of something hot and unnerving shot through her midriff at the sound of his accented voice. Deep, gravel rough, filled with power, it rumbled like ominous thunder. Esme’s shiver coursed down to her toes.
‘It may be the done thing, but I don’t think I want to.’
An enigmatic expression crossed his face, disappearing before she could accurately decipher it. ‘“But I don’t think I want to, Your Highness”.’
She blinked, dragging her
