The Desert King's Secret Heir. Annie WestЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER ONE

      ‘LET ME BE the first to congratulate you, Cousin. May you and your Princess be happy all your days.’

      Hamid beamed with such goodwill Idris felt his own mouth kick up in a rare smile. They might not be close but Idris had missed his older cousin as they’d carved separate lives for themselves, Idris in Zahrat and Hamid as a UK-based academic.

      ‘Not my Princess yet, Hamid.’ He kept his voice soft, aware that, despite the chatter of a few hundred VIPs, there were plenty of ears eager for news of his impending nuptials.

      Hamid’s eyes widened behind rimless glasses. ‘Have I put my foot in it? I’d heard—’

      ‘You heard correctly.’ Idris paused, tugging in a breath before it lengthened into a sigh. He had to conquer this sense of constraint whenever he thought of his upcoming marriage.

      No one forced his hand. He was Sheikh Idris Baddour, supreme ruler of Zahrat, protector of the weak, defender of his nation. His word was law in his own country and, for that matter, here in his opulent London embassy.

      Yet he hadn’t chosen marriage. It had chosen him—a necessary arrangement. To cement stability in his region. To ensure the line of succession. To prove that, despite his modern reformist ways, he respected the traditions of his people. So much rode on his wedding.

      Change had been hard won in Zahrat. A willingness to conform in the matter of a suitable, dynastically necessary marriage would win over the last of the old guard who’d fretted over his reforms. They’d viewed him as an unseasoned pup when he’d taken over at just twenty-six. After four years they knew better. But there was no escaping the fact this wedding would achieve what strong leadership and diplomacy hadn’t.

      ‘It’s not official yet,’ he murmured to Hamid. ‘You know how slowly such negotiations proceed.’

      ‘You’re a lucky man. Princess Ghizlan is beautiful and intelligent. She’ll make you a perfect wife.’

      Idris glanced to the woman holding court nearby. Resplendent in a blood-red evening gown that clung to a perfect hourglass figure, she was the stuff of male fantasy. Add her bred-in-the-bone understanding of Middle Eastern politics and her charming yet assured manner and he knew he was a lucky man.

      Pity he didn’t feel like one.

      Even the thought of acquainting himself with that lush body didn’t excite him.

      What did that say about his libido?

      Too many hours brokering peace negotiations with not one but two difficult neighbouring countries. Too many evenings strategising to push reform in a nation still catching up with the twenty-first century.

      And before that too many shallow sexual encounters with women who were accommodating but unimportant.

      ‘Thank you, Hamid. I’m sure she will.’ As the daughter of a neighbouring ruler and a means to ensure long-term peace, Ghizlan would be invaluable. As the prospective mother of a brood of children she’d be priceless. Those children would ensure his sheikhdom wasn’t racked by the disruption it had faced when his uncle died without a son.

      Idris told himself his lack of enthusiasm would evaporate once he and Ghizlan shared a bed. He tried to picture her there, her ebony hair spread on the pillow. But to his chagrin his mind inserted an image of hair the colour of a sunburst. Of curling locks soft as down.

      ‘You’ll have to come home for the ceremony. It will be good to have you there for a while instead of buried in this cold, grey place.’

      Hamid smiled. ‘You’re biased. There’s much to be said for England.’

      ‘Of course there is. It’s an admirable country.’ Idris glanced around, reminding himself they might be overheard.

      Hamid’s smile became a chuckle. ‘It’s got a lot going for it.’ He leaned even closer, his voice dropping further. ‘Including a very special woman. Someone I want you to meet.’

      Idris felt his eyes widen. Hamid with a serious girlfriend? ‘She must be out of the ordinary.’

      One thing the men in his family excelled at was avoiding commitment to women. He’d been a case in point until political necessity forced his hand. His father had been famous for sowing his wild oats, even after marriage. And their uncle, the previous Sheikh, had been too busy enjoying the charms of his mistresses to father a child with his long-suffering spouse.

      ‘She is. Enough to make me rethink my life.’

      ‘Another academic?’

      ‘Nothing so dull.’

      Idris stared. Hamid lived for his research. That was why he’d been passed over for the throne when their uncle died. Everyone, Hamid included, acknowledged he was too absorbed in history to excel at running a nation.

      ‘Will I meet this paragon tonight?’

      Hamid nodded, his eyes alight. ‘She’s just gone to freshen up before—ah, there she is.’ He gestured to the far end of the room. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’

      Only a man besotted would expect him to identify an unknown woman in that crowd. Idris followed Hamid’s eager gaze. Was it the tall brunette in black? The svelte blonde in beads and diamonds? Surely not the woman with the braying laugh and the oversized rings flashing like beacons beneath the chandelier?

      The crowd shifted and he caught a sliver of silk in softest green, skin as pale as milk and hair that shone like the sky at dawn, rose and gold together.

      His pulse thudded once, hard enough to stall his breath. Low in his belly an unfamiliar sensation eddied. A sensation that made his nape prickle.

      Then his view was blocked by a couple of men in dinner jackets.

      ‘Which one is she?’ His voice echoed strangely, no doubt due to the acoustics of the filled-to-capacity ballroom.

      For a second he’d experienced something he hadn’t felt in years. A tug of attraction so strong he’d convinced himself it hadn’t been real, that imagination had turned a brief interlude into something almost...significant. No doubt because of the dark, relentlessly tough days that had followed. She’d been the one lover he’d had to put aside before his passion was spent. That explained the illusion she was different from the rest.

      But the woman he’d known had had a cloud of vibrant curls, not that sleek, conformist chignon.

      ‘I can’t see her now. I’ll go and fetch her. Unless—’ Hamid’s smile turned conspiratorial ‘—you’d like a break from the formalities.’

      Tradition decreed that the ruler received his guests on the raised royal dais, complete with a gilded, velvet-cushioned throne for formal audiences. Idris was about to say he’d wait here when something made him pause. How long since he’d allowed himself the luxury of doing something he wanted, not because it was his duty?

      Idris’s eyes flicked to Ghizlan, easily holding her own with a minor royal and some politicians. As if sensing his regard she looked up, smiled slightly then turned back to her companions.

      No doubt about it, she’d make a suitable queen—capable and helpful. Not clinging or needy. Not demanding his attention as too many ex-lovers had done.