And she looked at her baby that lay on her stomach. Even though she may not have been ready for a photo shoot, with her shrivelled skin from being ten days late, she was the most beautiful girl either had seen. Her feet were blue but already turning pink as Leila examined them as well as her once-perfect round nose, which was now flat from the delivery.
Leila watched James’s shaking hand cut the cord.
Pink now, she was already searching for food and Leila did not think that her child was greedy as she brought her to her breast.
For a brief moment she wanted to call her mother and share the happy news and she told James the same thing.
‘I’m scared she might say something to spoil it.’
‘I’ll call her if you want,’ James said.
‘I don’t know,’ Leila said, and she looked at her tiny defenceless baby. Two minutes after James had done the same to their infant, Leila shook her head and finally she cut the last piece of that cord.
* * *
She was beautiful, James thought as he looked at Leila sleeping.
They were beautiful, he amended as he looked down at his daughter.
A black-haired mother and a black-haired baby, both of whom had owned James’s heart from the moment their eyes had met.
As Leila slept he stood holding his baby and could not believe that she was here or even imagine a world without her anymore.
She was wrapped in a little blanket and had on a hat, but James had taken it off so that he could see her curls. He examined her little nose, which Catherine had explained was a bit squashed from the delivery but would soon be fine.
Excuse me! he thought to himself.
Her nose looked better than perfect to James.
He loved how her fingers closed around his and he thought of all the ski slopes he had hurled himself down with barely a thought and his very reckless ways should surely have him drenched in horror. But when he watched her little fingers close around his, James knew that they had led him to this, to a place where he got to properly feel.
He looked at the flowers that had started to arrive and loathed most of them.
James, unlike Leila, read cards.
Why was there a question mark immersed in exclamation marks in some of their congratulation cards? Why was the rest of the world holding their breath for James to mess up the best thing that had ever happened in his life?
Inexplicable was the love that had walked into The Harrington all those months ago and he no longer needed to explain or excuse that night to others.
Their baby didn’t have a name yet and James hoped to God that Leila didn’t still want to name her Jasmine.
‘You’re a good girl,’ James said to his daughter, who opened blue eyes to him.
And Leila smiled as she woke, for she knew what he was thinking. Leila had seen the face he had pulled when she’d suggested naming her Jasmine. And she smiled, too, that on the day she had been born he told their baby how good she was, how loved she was.
He made Leila feel like that every day too.
‘Can I hold her?’ Leila asked.
‘Nope, you’ve had enough goes,’ James said. ‘It’s my turn. You go back to sleep.’ Leila smiled as he carried on talking. ‘I’ve managed to put my parents off till tomorrow,’ James said. ‘Your brother and Sophie are coming in tonight, and they both can’t wait to meet her.’
Brother and sister were speaking again. James had spoken with Zayn and had found out that yes, there was a very good reason that Sophie had revealed James’s name to the press and gently he had told Leila why.
Bloody Jasmine, James thought, making her mischief from the grave.
He handed Leila their baby and he watched as Leila gazed upon her with so much love and he saw, too, the flicker of confusion, for she had once been that small.
‘Are you sure that you don’t want me to let your parents know? I don’t mind,’ James offered—he was the gatekeeper to her heart and would not let her be hurt again. ‘I can practise my Arabic,’ James said as he cleared the back of his throat, and Leila laughed, but with affection.
‘No.’ Her moment of weakness just after the birth had long since faded. ‘I don’t want them near her, ever. I will not let them poison her. They can read it in the press if they choose to, or Zayn can tell them. Really, James, I don’t care if they know or if they don’t. I have my family and that is you and her.’
She loved him so much and she was not scared to love him now.
Their love was real, it existed, and he showed her that each day.
‘We need a name,’ James said.
‘I’ve already chosen it.’
‘Well, that’s the sort of thing that might merit a discussion,’ James hastily said, and sat on the bed. ‘It’s for both parents to decide.’
‘Please let me have the name I want for her, James. It would mean so much to me and you know that I would have chosen it after careful thought.’
James took a deep breath and looked at Leila, who had just given him the greatest gift of his life, and really, how could he say no to her for something she really wanted? ‘Sure.’ He looked at his daughter and was determined to smile and say, ‘How beautiful, how perfect,’ when Leila said she wanted the baby to be called Jasmine...
‘Aqiba,’ Leila said.
‘Aqiba?’ James repeated, and she watched as a very real smile spread across his lips as he worked out the translation.
‘Consequence,’ Leila said.
No, James thought, a night, such as the one they had shared, could not be without consequence.
James looked at his daughter and said her name. ‘Aqiba.’
Their very beautiful consequence.
* * * * *
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PROLOGUE
SEETHING, SHEIKH MIKAEL KARIM, King of Saidia, watched the high fashion photo shoot taking place in the desert—his desert—wondering how anyone could think it was okay to enter a foreign country under a false identity and think he, or she, as it happened to be in this case, could get away with it.
Apparently the world was filled with fools.
Fools by the name of Copeland.
Jaw tight, temper barely leashed, Mikael waited for the right moment to intervene.
He’d been pushed too far, challenged directly, and he’d meet that challenge with swift retribution.
A king didn’t negotiate. A king never begged, and a king refused to curry favor.
Saidia might be a small kingdom, but it was powerful. And the government of Saidia might tolerate the West, but Wes
terners couldn’t enter Saidia, flaunt Saidia law, and think there would be no repercussions.
Jemma Copeland was a foolish woman. So like her father, thumbing her nose at the law, believing she was above it.
Perhaps Daniel Copeland had got away with his crimes. But his daughter would not be so lucky. Miss Jemma Copeland was going to pay.
CHAPTER ONE
NECESSITY HAD TAUGHT Jemma Copeland to shut out distractions.
She’d learned to ignore the things she didn’t want to think about, to enable her to do what needed to be done.
So for the past two hours she’d ignored the scorching heat of the Sahara. The insistent, hollow ache in her stomach. The stigma of being a Copeland, and what it meant back home in the United States.
She’d blocked out heat, hunger, and shame, but she couldn’t block out the tall, white-robed man standing just a foot behind the photographer, watching her through dark, unsmiling eyes while a half dozen robed men stood behind him.
She knew who the man was. How could she not? He’d attended her sister’s wedding five years ago in Greenwich and every woman with a pulse had noticed Sheikh Mikael Karim. He was tall, he was impossibly, darkly handsome, and he was a billionaire as well as the new king of Saidia.
But Mikael Karim wasn’t supposed to be on set today. He was supposed to be in Buenos Aires this week and his sudden appearance, arriving in a parade of glossy black luxury SUVs with tinted windows, had sent ripples of unease throughout the entire crew.
It was obvious he wasn’t happy.
Jemma’s gut told her something ugly could happen soon. She prayed she was wrong. She just wanted to get through the rest of the shoot and fly out tomorrow morning as planned.
At least he hadn’t shown up yesterday. Yesterday had been grueling, a very long day, with multiple shots in multiple locations, and the heat had been intense. But she hadn’t complained. She wouldn’t. She needed the job too much to be anything but grateful for the chance to still work.
It still boggled her mind how much things had changed. Just a year ago she had been one of America’s golden girls, envied for her beauty, her wealth, her status as an It Girl. Her family was powerful, affluent. The Copelands had homes scattered across the world, and she and her gorgeous, privileged sisters were constantly photographed and discussed. But even the powerful can fall, and the Copeland family tumbled off their pedestal with the revelation that Daniel, her father, was the number two man in the biggest Ponzi scheme in America in the past century.
Overnight the Copelands became the most hated family in America.
Now Jemma could barely make ends meet. The fallout from her father’s arrest, and the blitz of media interest surrounding the case, had destroyed her career. The fact that she worked, and had supported herself since she was eighteen, meant nothing to the public. She was still Daniel Copeland’s daughter. Hated. Loathed. Resented.
Ridiculed.
Today, she was lucky to get work, and her once brilliant career now barely paid the bills. When her agency came to her with this assignment, a three day shoot with two travel days, meaning she’d be paid for five work days, she’d jumped at the opportunity to come to Saidia, the independent desert kingdom tucked underneath Southern Morocco, and nestled between the Western Sahara and the Atlantic Ocean. She’d continued to fight for the opportunity even when the Saidia consulate denied her visa request.
It wasn’t legal, but desperate times called for desperate measures so she’d reapplied for a new visa as her sister, using Morgan’s passport bearing Morgan’s married name, Xanthos. This time she’d received the needed travel visa.
Yes, she was taking a huge risk, coming here under a false name, but she needed money. Without this paycheck, she wouldn’t be able to pay her next month’s mortgage.
So here she was, dressed in a long fox fur and thigh high boots, sweltering beneath the blazing sun.
So what if she was naked beneath the coat?
She was working. She was surviving. And one day, she’d thrive again, too.
So let them look.
Let them all look—the disapproving sheikh and his travel guard—because she wouldn’t be crushed. She refused to be crushed. The clothes were beautiful. Life was exciting. She didn’t have a care in the world.
Despite her fierce resolve, perspiration beaded beneath her full breasts and slid down her bare abdomen.
Not uncomfortable, she thought. Sexy.
And with sexy firmly in mind, she drew a breath, jutted her hip, and struck a bold pose.
Keith, the Australian photographer, let out an appreciative whistle. “That’s beautiful, baby! More of that, please.”
She felt a rush of pleasure, which was quickly dashed by the sight of Mikael Karim moving closer to Keith.
The sheikh was tall, so tall he towered over Keith, and his shoulders were broad, dwarfing the slender Australian.
Jemma had forgotten just how intensely handsome Mikael Karim was. She’d modeled in other countries and had met many different sheikhs, and most had been short, heavyset men with flirty eyes and thickening jowls.
But Sheikh Mikael Karim was young, and lean, and fierce. His white robes only accentuated the width of his shoulders as well as his height, and his angular jaw jutted, black eyebrows flat over those intense, dark eyes.
Now Sheikh Karim looked over Keith’s head, his dark gaze piercing her, holding her attention. She couldn’t look away. He seemed to be telling her something, warning her of something. She went hot, then cold, shivering despite the heat.
Her stomach rose, fell. An alarm sounded in her head. He was dangerous.
She tugged on the edges of the coat, pulling it closer to her body, suddenly very conscious of the fact that she was naked beneath.
Sighing with frustration, Keith lowered his camera a fraction. “You just lost all your energy. Give me sexy, baby.”
Jemma glanced at the sheikh from beneath her lashes. The man oozed tension, a lethal tension that made her legs turn to jelly and the hair prickle on the back of her neck. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
But Keith couldn’t read Sheikh Karim’s expression and his irritation grew. “Come on, focus. We need to wrap this up, baby.”
Keith was right. They did need to wrap this shot. And she was here to do a job. She had to deliver, or she’d never work again.
Jemma gulped a breath, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin to the sun, feeling her long hair spill down her back as she let the heavy fur drop off her shoulder, exposing more skin.
“Nice.” Keith lifted his camera, motioned for his assistant to step closer with the white reflective screen, and began snapping away. “I like that. More of that.”
Jemma shook her head, letting her thick hair tease the small of her spine even as the fur fell lower on her breasts.
“Perfect,” Keith crooned. “That’s hot. Love it. Don’t stop. You’re on fire now.”
Yes, she was, she thought, arching her shoulders back, breasts thrust high, the nipples now just exposed to the kiss of the sun. In Sheikh Karim’s world she was probably going to burn in the flames of hell, but there was nothing she could do about it. This was her job. She had to deliver. And so she pushed all other thoughts from mind, except for giving the image they wanted.
Her shoulders twisted and the coat slid lower on her arm, the fur tickling the back of her bare thighs.
“Lovely, baby.” Keith was snapping away. “So beautiful. Keep doing what you’re doing. You’re a goddess. Every man’s dream.”
She wasn’t a goddess, or a dream, but she could pretend to be. She could pretend anything for a short period of time. Pretending gave her distance, allowing her to breathe, escape, escaping the reality of what was happening at home. Home. A sinking sensation filled her. What a nightmare.
Bat
tling back the sadness, Jemma shifted, lifting her chin, thrusting her hip out, dropping the coat altogether, exposing her breasts, nipples jutting proudly.
Keith whistled softly. “Give me more.”
“No,” Sheikh Mikael Karim ground out. It was just one word, but it echoed like a crack of thunder, immediately silencing the murmur of stylists, make-up artist, and lighting assistants.
All heads turned toward the sheikh.
Jemma stared at him, her stomach churning all over again.
The sheikh’s expression was beyond fierce. His lips curled, his dark eyes burned as he pushed the camera in Keith’s hands down. “That’s enough,” he gritted. “I’ve had enough, from all of you.” His narrowed gaze swept the tents and crew. “You are done here.”
And then his head turned again and he stared straight at Jemma. “And you, Miss Copeland. Cover yourself, and then go inside the tent. I will be in to deal with you shortly.”
She covered herself, but didn’t move.
The sheikh had called her Miss Copeland, not Mrs. Xanthis, the name she’d used on the visa, but Copeland.
Panic flooded her veins. Her heart surged. Sheikh Karim knew who she was. He’d recognized her after all these years. The realization shocked her. He, who knew so many, remembered her.
Hands shaking, she tugged the coat closer to her body, suddenly icy cold despite the dazzling heat. “What’s happening?” she whispered, even though in a dim part of her brain, she knew.
She’d been found out. Her true identity had been discovered. How, she didn’t know, but she was in trouble. Grave trouble. She could feel the severity of the situation all the way down to her toes.
“I think you know,” Sheikh Karim said flatly. “Now go inside the tent and wait.”
Her knees knocked. She wasn’t sure her legs could support her. “For what?”
“To be informed of the charges being brought against you.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”
His dark eyes narrowed. His jaw hardened as his gaze swept over her, from the top of her head to the boots on her feet. “You’ve done everything wrong, Miss Copeland. You’re in serious trouble. So go to the tent, now, and if you have half a brain, you’ll obey.”
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