style="font-size:15px;"> But Rakhal had not only survived. Out of the starvation of his mother’s womb he had thrived.
In Alzan the one rule was different—there the King could marry again on the death of his wife, but the ruler of Alzan must always be male. And now, as of this morning, Emir was the father of two little girls. Oh, there would be much celebrating and dancing in Alzirz tonight—their country was safe.
For now.
Having entered his third decade, Rakhal could no longer put it off. He had rowed frequently about this with his father, but now accepted that it was time for him to choose his bride. A wife he would bed at her fertile times only, for she would be rested at other times. A wife he would see only for copulation and at formal functions or special occasions. She would live a luxurious, pampered life in her own area of the palace, and guide the raising of children he would barely see.
Emir would see his children…. Rakhal recognised the darkness that dwelled within him as he thought of his rival, but it did not enter his head that jealousy might reside there too—for Rakhal knew that he had everything.
‘Do you have any ideas as to a gift?’ Abdul broke into Rakhal’s thoughts.
‘Two pink diamonds, perhaps?’ Rakhal mused. ‘No.’ He changed his mind. ‘I need to think about this. I want something more subtle than diamonds—something that will make him churn as he receives it.’ Of course he and Emir were polite when they met, but there was a deep rivalry between them—a rivalry that had existed before either was born and would be passed on for generations to come. ‘For once I will enjoy choosing a gift.’
‘Very well,’ Abdul said, gathering up his papers and preparing to leave the study in Rakhal’s luxurious hotel suite. But as he got to the door he could not help himself from asking, ‘You will speak with the King?’
Rakhal dismissed him with a wave of his hand. He did not answer to his aide—he had said that he would speak to the King, and that was enough.
Rakhal did speak with his father. He was the only person in Alzirz who was not intimidated by the King.
‘You are to return this instant,’ the King demanded. ‘The people are becoming unsettled and need to know that you have chosen your bride. I wish to go to my grave knowing you shall produce an heir. You are to return and marry.’
‘Of course,’ Rakhal responded calmly, because there was no debating that point. But he refused to dance to his father’s tune—they were two strong and proud men and often clashed. Both had been born natural leaders, and neither liked to be told what to do, yet there was another reason that Rakhal stood his ground and told his father he would not return till Monday. If he boarded a plane immediately, if he gave in without protest, then his father would really know that he was dying.
And he was dying.
Hanging up the phone, Rakhal closed his eyes and rested his head on his hands for a moment. He had spoken at length yesterday with the royal doctor and he knew more than the King did. His father had but a few months to live.
Conversations with his father were always difficult, always stilted. As a child Rakhal had been brought up by the maidens, and had seen his father only on special occasions. Once, as a teenager, he had joined his father in the desert and learnt the teachings of old. Now, though, as leadership approached for Rakhal, his father seemed to want to discuss his every move.
It was one of the reasons Rakhal liked London. He liked the freedom of this strange land, where women talked about making love and demanded things from their partner that were not necessary in Alzirz. He wanted to linger just a little longer.
Rakhal had a deep affinity for the city that was, of course, never discussed. Only by chance had Rakhal found out that it was here in this hotel that he had been conceived—a break with desert rules that had not only cost his mother her life, but also threatened the very country he would soon rule.
He stood and headed to the window and looked at the grey view, at the misty rain and the cluttered streets. He could not wholly fathom this country’s appeal, for he knew it was the desert where he belonged, the desert he must return to.
The desert that was summoning him home.
CHAPTER ONE
THE policewoman could not have been more bored as she instructed Natasha to fill out the necessary forms.
And, yes, in the scheme of things it wasn’t exactly riveting that her car had been stolen, and neither was it a disaster, but on the back of everything else that she was dealing with, today of all days, Natasha could very easily have put her head on the desk and wept.
She didn’t, of course. Natasha just got on with what she had to—it was how this year had been. Her long, thick red hair was wet from the rain and dripped on the counter as she bent her head. She pushed it out of her eyes. Her fingers were white from the cold. If her car had to have been stolen, Natasha almost wished it could have been in a couple of days’ time, when she would have known nothing about it.
Natasha was supposed to be spending this gruelling day planning a holiday. It was the anniversary of her parents’ death, and she had wanted to mark it somehow. She had been determined to push on with her life, but had finally listened when her friends had said that she needed a break—a proper one—and it didn’t need to be expensive.
As a substitute teacher it had been easy for her to arrange a fortnight off, and today she had been planning to visit the cemetery and then go to a friend’s house to book the cheapest, hottest place on the planet she could afford. Instead she was standing in a draughty police station, politely trying not to listen as the woman beside her reported a domestic incident.
The policewoman’s voice suddenly trailed off mid-sentence. In fact the whole room seemed to stop, even the argument breaking out between a father and son paused, and Natasha looked up as a door beside the counter opened.
She watched the policewoman’s cheeks redden, and as Natasha followed her gaze she could certainly see why. Walking into the foyer was possibly the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
Definitely the most beautiful, she amended, as he walked past the counter and came into full view. He was tall, with exotic dark looks, his elegance so effortless that he wore even a torn shirt and a black eye well.
He was tousled and unshaven, and the torn shirt allowed for more than a glimpse of one broad coffee-coloured shoulder. As he gave up trying to fasten the broken buttons on his shirt he moved to tuck it in, and even though Natasha looked away the image of a flat stomach with a snake of jet hair danced before her eyes. She struggled to remember the registration number of the car she’d owned for more than five years.
‘Maybe you should go and sit down to fill it in?’ the policewoman suggested.
Natasha was quite sure she was only being helpful because, now he had moved, Natasha was blocking her view of the exotic prisoner. Still, it was rather nice to sit in a front row seat and every now and then look up from the form to witness him sliding in his belt and buckling it, and then, a moment later, when they were handed to him, slipping on his shoes.
‘Are you sure we can’t offer you a ride home?’ a sergeant asked.
‘That won’t be necessary.’
His voice was deep and
