At the Sheikh's Command: She Was His Prisoner First, His Lover Next. But Would She Be His Princess?

by Clare Connelly

  “It is,” he agreed with a nod. “But you will not be seen by anyone but me.”

  She shot him a look that was heavy with bemusement. “That’s not possible. The palace is teeming with staff.”

  “I will have something brought for you to wear, on the occasions when we leave your rooms. But you are a prisoner, Miranda, and unless I give you consent, you are to remain here.”

  She scowled. “Dressed in these?” She nodded towards the box of negligées.

  “Or naked,” he said with a slow-spreading smile. “It is your decision.”

  “Gee, thanks.” And though her body hadn’t stopped aching from sexual pleasure, she felt something akin to annoyance now.

  He saw the darkness in her features, and heard the pain in her voice. “This bothers you.”

  She shook her head, and her fair hair flew like leaves about her face. “No,” she lied.

  “Miranda…”

  She bit down on her lip, her eyes meeting his. “Okay, fine. Yes.” She slipped out of her black dress again, and eased the pale green negligee over her head. She turned to face him, and her argument almost disappeared in the face of the look he gave her. “I don’t know if I’m comfortable sleeping with a man who seems to get such pleasure from keeping me locked up.”

  He stood and moved to her slowly. He lifted a finger and ran it slowly down the supple skin of her arm. “You are locked up, whether we sleep together or not.”

  She shivered as the now familiar pleasure sent pins and needles shooting down her arm. “I think I should speak to a lawyer.”

  Radiz linked his arms behind her back. “A lawyer will tell you just what I am. That the punishment for your crimes is severe. That your best chance of gaining freedom is to meet the terms I have given you.”

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Can I at least make a phone call?” She asked with an attempt at a smile.

  “It depends. Who to?”

  “A, um, friend. She’ll be worried that I’m not back.”

  He sighed and pulled his phone from his pocket. “Here.”

  It was a gold phone. Not gold in colour. Actual gold. “Don’t you think this is a little extravagant?” She muttered, looking at it as though it were an object of distaste.

  He shrugged. “It is what I am given. I do not have a preference for phone designs, Miranda.”

  He made her feel petty, and that, in turn, made her cross. She did a quick time calculation and worked out that Steph would most likely be in the flat above the pub. It was far safer to ring her there anyway, rather than to call Steph’s mobile directly. She punched in the familiar number and waited anxiously for it to connect.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me,” Miranda instinctively moved away from Radiz, towards one of the windows that overlooked the gardens below.

  “Oh, Mirry, thank goodness. I have been going out of my mind with worry,” Steph’s voice was shaking.

  “Oh, don’t,” Miranda pleaded, putting a hand to her head. “I didn’t want to worry you, you know that. I got… held up… but everything is fine. I’ll be home soon. How are you, more importantly?”

  “Fine, enormous, and that’s not more important,” she brushed past Miranda’s question. “Where are you? What held you up? Is there a problem?”

  Miranda looked up at Radiz’s face. He was glowering. Not happy. Something was making him scowl at her. “Um, I’m sorry, I know we were meant to meet up, but I got an opportunity to go on a tour of the ruins of Neman, and I couldn’t say no.”

  “Neman? That’s the other side of the country. Did you fly?”

  “Um, yes?” She cleared her throat. “It was just a last minute thing. But I’ll only be a few more days, okay?”

  “Are you at least having fun? Isn’t my country beautiful?”

  “Yes,” she said, blushing to the roots of her hair. “Very.”

  Radiz began to move closer, and Miranda startled. “Listen, babes, I’ve got to go now. I’m borrowing someone’s phone. My handbag was, um, stolen. But I’ve got everything else. Everything’s fine. And I’ll see you soon. Love you.”

  She disconnected the call and glared at him challengingly. “You couldn’t even give me five minutes of privacy?”

  He shook his head. “No. But you should be flattered. Of all the women I’ve known, you singularly fascinate me. I have never been as obsessed by a woman as I am you.”

  “Great. I’m thrilled,” she drawled sarcastically.

  He laughed, genuinely amused by her spark. “You do not appear to fear me at all.”

  She raised her brows. “Should I?”

  “Yes,” he nodded. “And no.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That was precise.”

  “You are interested in the ruins of Neman?” He asked, taking the phone and slipping it back into his pocket.

  She nodded. “Who wouldn’t be? A whole village destroyed in a sand storm, the vestiges of the town perfectly preserved? It is both macabre and beautiful.”

  “How so?” He asked, fascinated. “How is their death beautiful?”

  “Well, that’s the macabre bit. But the immortalising of their lives is a thing of beauty. Isn’t that what we all aspire to, when we have tombstones engraved? For you, it is royal monuments. We all seek to be remembered after we are gone, and this is a way for a town of commoners to be forever as it was. Yes, I think that’s beautiful.”

  He lifted a hand and rubbed it along his jaw. He didn’t want to find her mind as interesting as he did her body. “First the parable of Priya and now this,” he observed quietly.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you surprised to meet a woman who has two opinions at the same time?”

  He laughed again. “No. Perhaps you do not know my sister after all, or you would know I grew up with a woman who holds a forceful opinion on just about everything.”

  She turned away from him, so that he wouldn’t see the way her expression flashed with guilt.

  “It is beautiful,” he said quietly. “You are right.”

  She nodded. “I felt that when I went to Pompeii. Such an incredible window to the past, but all the more profound for the fact that these people, separated by geography and centuries, were just like us. Toiling through their lives, to provide for those they loved… cooking, eating, fleeing when in fear. It’s remarkable.”

  “What is your interest in the matter?” He probed, despite the fact he’d sworn not to get to know her.

  “Doesn’t it interest every body? The past is like a roadmap to our society’s future. Everything that happens has happened before.”

  He nodded. “Except, perhaps, the internet.”

  Now it was her turn to laugh. “Yes, except perhaps that.”

  “I am serious, Miranda. Why is it of particular interest to you?”

  She propped herself on the edge of the window, and idly ran a finger along the glass. “My mother was Dr. Alison Jones. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?” When his face remained blank, she elaborated. “She was a world famous anthropologist.”

  “Was?”

  She nodded. Eight years had made the grief no less difficult to manage. “She was killed by a tribe in the Congo. It was an accident. They were hunting, she was watching.” She shook her head. “Occupational hazard.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, resisting the urge to reach out and comfort her physically. That he wanted to was worrisome enough.

  She nodded curtly, to discourage further sympathy. “Thank you. My father is an archaeologist. So between the two of them, I suppose I had no hope. I’m a social sciences nerd. I’m doing my post-grad in archaeology at the moment.”

  He forced himself to come back to the moment. To remember why she’d really come to Fasiya. “And jewellery theft is how you fund your studies? Or does it provide you with a unique insight into a country’s prison system.”

  She nodded sagely. “Mmm. Though I’ve never come across this particular approach before,” she murmured with a sm
all smile. “Seducing prisoners in exchange for their freedom. Fascinating.”

  He matched her smile, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I am pleased I am the first.”

  She flushed. He had been the first, in every way. Why did she have this overwhelming urge to confide the truth in him? She must be going crazy. The loyalty she owed Mastepha was so much greater than anything this man could be making her feel.

  A knock at the door interrupted what she’d been about to say. She squawked as the door opened inwards, looking down at her state of undress in panic. “It is fine,” Radiz promised. “No one will dare look at the Sheikh’s consort.”

  “Is that what I am?” She enquired silkily, nevertheless moving to stand behind a pot plant that offered partial protection.

  A servant wheeled a trolley in and began to arrange various items on the table. “That will do,” Radiz commanded without looking at the man. Once the door had been closed, returning them to a state of privacy, he held his hands out to her.

  “You do not need to hide.”

  “I don’t want to be seen like this by anyone,” she swore. The negligee, though undoubtedly expensive and top-quality, was flimsy and transparent. It barely covered her arse, and it dipped between the breasts. It was designed to sheath her in the briefest way possible. To tantalise and promise and allure. Not to conceal or offer modesty in any way.

  “But you look good enough to eat,” he drawled slowly.

  And amazingly, as his eyes moved slowly from her head to her feet, she had the first jab of discomfort. Of feeling degraded and objectified. The day before, she’d been as caught up as he in the whirlwind of desire. But now?

  Perhaps it had been talking about her mother and father. Two fiercely intelligent people who would be mortified if they knew what she’d done, and what she’d agreed to. Remorse washed over her like an actual wave. “Oh, shoot.” She turned away from him, but it didn’t work. Nothing could conceal the way her body was shaking.

  “Miranda?” He crossed the room and gripped her by the shoulders. “What is it?”

  “I….” her eyes were swimming, her mouth was dry. “Did I really agree to this?” She reached out and put a hand against the wall for support, squeezing her eyes shut in the hope her self-disgust would subside.

  When she opened her eyes, they revealed a bleak pain to Radiz. And his fascination only increased. “You did.”

  She nodded. “Can we at least agree on a time?”

  “A time?”

  “I mean how long you want me to stay for. A time limit.”

  Something inside of him clenched painfully. His gut? His heart? He felt an unfamiliar surge of adrenalin, caused by her obvious desire to retract the deal they’d made only twenty-four hours earlier.

  “I have already told you, Miranda, that you will be free when this has run its course.” But he was not a complete bastard. He sighed heavily. “What is it that bothers you?”

  She sucked in a deep breath and tried to speak calmly. It didn’t work. “My mother died doing what she loved. What she was famous for. My dad is a Rhodes scholar who read me Aristotle and Pliny and Auden before bed. I’m a doctoral student who came to Fasiya for a few days and ended up sleeping with the country’s bloody ruler in exchange for my freedom.” She was trembling from head to toe. “I feel dirty and cheap and ashamed.”

  Radiz wanted to pull her into his arms. He longed to run his hands over her hair and reassure her. And that very temptation filled him with panic. She was a criminal. Yes, very beautiful. Yes, educated and interesting. But a criminal nonetheless. And a woman who had bartered her virginity. He could not form an attraction to her that went beyond the physical. An actual relationship with her was forbidden by his position, his breeding, and his own moral standards.

  He pulled himself up tall, and crossed his arms across his broad chest. “We all do what we must, Miranda.”

  Her stomach rolled; his words had hurt her. What had she expected? Sympathy? Kindness? From the man who held her life in his hands? Who had slept with her because he desired her, offering her freedom in exchange for sex? Miranda closed her eyes briefly, and traced the outline of her lips with her tongue. He was right. She’d been stupid to think she could waltz into Fasiya and waltz right out, clutching millions of pounds worth of jewels.

  She’d made her decisions, and she was a big enough girl to stand by them. She blinked her eyes open, and when she spoke, her voice was far more in control than she felt. “Yes, you’re right.” She nodded. “So I will stay here, and I will wear this, until you decide you want me again.” Her words were laced with greater tartness than she’d intended, but she was smarting.

  His eyes narrowed and he subjected her to a slow appraisal. His eyes, such magical eyes, dragged down her body, pausing on the swell of her cleavage before moving to the legs that were almost completely revealed by the negligee’s short length.

  Miranda watched him with a toe-curling fascination. He was so sexy, and yet he was everything she had thought she despised in a man. Such brutish masculinity, bordering on machismo, was certainly not something she’d ever been impressed by. Maybe it was because Radiz seemed to radiate with absolute power. Not the impersonation of it; an acute sense of strength and dynamism was communicated in his every step.

  As his green eyes lifted back to her face, her pulse began to rush through her veins. She was new to the whole sex thing, but she was pretty sure the slick of moist heat between her legs was a sign of strong desire. It terrified her, that she could want him so much, even when she thought him to be a complete bastard.

  “Radiz,” she said slowly, groaning as her legs, of their own volition, took a step towards him.

  He didn’t move. His eyes were still locked on her face. His own expression was impossible to read, but somehow Miranda just knew. He was feeling the same need that was running rampant through her.

  A chasm was dividing him. A sharp cleft of indecision made him pause. His desire was unmistakable; his libido was voracious and Miranda stirred something in him that was completely new. But her vulnerability and pain were emotions he knew he should be paying greater respect to. She was young and inexperienced, and in a position of complete dependence. He’d been raised to have noble intentions and yet all he wanted was to take her body again, and make it his.

  What he was capable of with Miranda filled him with discomfort, and finally, he took a step backwards.

  “Rest, Miranda. I will come back tonight.”

  “Tonight?” She breathed, her disappointment a frigid ache as it spread through her.

  His smile was perfunctory, though his disappointment matched hers. “Yes.”

  He walked away from her without allowing himself the luxury of a last look. Such an indulgence would have hinted at a weakness he did not want to admit to feeling. He walked away, and pulled the door shut behind him, and then swore to himself that he would not think of her for the rest of the day.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Fasiya was a country of great prosperity. Founded on the back of natural deposits of diamonds and gold, it also had streams of oil gushing far beneath the sand covered surface. The long-standing prosperity of the nation was evident in every gleaming luxury on display in his palace.

  He sank into the pool, breathing out a tense sigh as the cool water enveloped his broad frame. The tiles that framed the rectangular oasis were cast from gold, and at their edges, they had been hand-engraved with the names of each of the Kings who had ruled the land. As he always did, he crossed to the tile marked with his father’s title, and ran his fingers across the etching.

  “You are deep in thought.”

  Radiz didn’t initially respond to his cousin’s comment. He tapped the tile and pushed away from the wall, gliding through the pool with three powerful movements of his arms. He stopped in the middle, and then fixed his gaze on the man he considered to be his closest friend and confidante.

  “I am indeed, Samir.”

  Their mothers had been
sisters, but from the moment Radiz’s parents had married, Samir and his parents had moved into the palace. The connection of family was vitally important in Fasiyan culture, and the royal family led by example. Now, with Samir and Radiz’s parents all deceased, and Mastepha in self-imposed exile, it was just the two of them.

  He sighed again, angrily, and watched as Samir dove neatly into the pool. He was different in looks to Radiz. Far finer in build, with pale brown hair, almost golden brown in colour. His manner was different too. As teens, Radiz had been educated at the palace, in traditional academics but also in all of the skills he would need to lead his people. He’d spent his weekends serving in the military, so that he could better command his armed forces.

  Samir had the option, being out of the line of succession, to study in England, and he had grabbed the opportunity with both hands. Though they had remained close in that time, Radiz had found it hard not to envy Samir for that period of freedom.

  “What is it?” Samir asked, reclining against the pool coping and staring up at the sky. Dusk had only a breath left in her; the night was hot on her heels, changing the sky to a sludgy grey.

  He thought of his prisoner, and unconsciously his eyes drifted towards the wing of the palace she was contained in. His gut clenched in an involuntary gesture of remembering. Her body, naked beneath him, as he took her again and again. Her virginity, so freely offered, would always be his. When she was long gone, returned to her safe life in England, that gift would remain with him.

  He’d thought of her all day. He’d thought of making love to her, and he’d thought of her desperation and regret at what had happened between them, and he’d felt an overwhelming ache of emotions. A tangle of sentiments he had no idea how to shake loose. They were as foreign to him as they were unwelcome.

  “Is it Mastepha?” Samir pushed, his expression concerned.

  His sister. Why did he have this unshakable sense that she was involved in Miranda’s attempted theft? It did Mastepha a disservice, if she were innocent, for only the cruellest of people would invite theft in a country such as Fasiya.