The Return of the Sheikh. KRISTI GOLD

like to have front row seats to that. She’d also like to think he might reconsider. Unfortunately, neither fell into the realm of possibility at the moment. “I wish you all the best for a smooth transition, Your Highness. Again, let me know if you decide you need my services.”

      After slipping the bag’s strap back on her shoulder, Madison covered her disappointment with a determined walk to the door. But before she made a hasty exit, the sheikh called her back. “Yes?” she said as she faced him, trying hard not to seem too hopeful.

      He’d rounded the desk and now stood only a few feet away. “You’ve changed quite a bit since we first met all those years ago.”

      The fact he did recall the dinner party, and he hadn’t bothered to mention it before now, thoroughly shocked her. “I’m surprised you remember me at all.”

      “Very difficult to forget such an innocent face, ocean-blue eyes and those remarkable blond curls.”

      Here came the annoying blush, right on cue. “I wore glasses and braces and my hair was completely out of control.” Which had all been remedied with laser eye surgery, orthodontists and flat irons.

      He took a few steps toward her. “You wore a pink dress, and you were very shy. You barely glanced my way.”

      Oh, but she had. Several times. When he hadn’t been looking. “I’ve since gotten over the shyness.”

      “I noticed that immediately. I’ve also noticed you’ve grown into a very beautiful woman.”

      Madison barely noticed anything but his dark, pensive eyes when he walked right up to her, leaving little space between them. “Now that we’ve established my transformation,” she said, “I need to get to the airport so I don’t miss my flight to D.C.” She needed to get away from him before his extreme magnetism commandeered her common sense.

      “I do have a private jet,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “You are welcome to use it whenever it is available. If you plan to travel to the region in the future, feel free to contact me and I’ll arrange to have you transported to Bajul. I would enjoy having you as my guest. I could show you things you’ve never seen before. Give you an experience you will not easily forget.”

      She’d enjoy being his guest, perhaps too much. “You mean an evening trek by camel, or perhaps on the back of an elephant, across the desert? You’ll feed me pomegranates while we’re entertained by dancing girls?”

      He looked more amused than offended by her cynicism. “I prefer all-terrain vehicles to camels and pachyderms, I detest pomegranates, but dancing would be an option. Between us, of course.”

      She didn’t dare dance with him, much less take a midnight ride with him in any form or fashion. “As fascinating as that sounds, and as much as I appreciate the offer, I won’t be traveling outside the U.S. now that I won’t be working with you. But thank you for the invitation, and have a safe trip home.”

      This time when Madison hurried away, the future king closed the doors behind her, a strong reminder that another important career door had closed.

      However, she refused to give in to defeat. Not quite yet. As soon as the sheikh returned home, he might decide he needed her after all.

      He greatly needed an escape.

      The absolute loss of freedom weighed heavily on Zain as the armored car navigated the steep drive leading to the palace. So did the less-than-friendly reception. A multitude of citizens lined the drive, held back by the guards charged with his protection. Some had their fists raised in anger, others simply scowled. Because of the bulletproof glass, he couldn’t quite make out what they were shouting, yet he doubted they were singing his praises.

      Rafiq had suggested he return at night, yet he’d refused. He might be seriously flawed, but had never been a coward. Whatever he had to endure to fulfill his obligation, he would do so with his head held high and without help.

      He thought back to Madison Foster’s visit two days ago, as well as her intimation that he might be considered a stranger in a familiar land. He’d come close to accepting her offer, but not for those reasons. She’d simply intrigued him. She’d also forced him to realize how long it had been since he’d kept company with a woman. Yet she would have proven to be too great a temptation, and he could not afford even a hint of a scandal. If they only knew the real scandal that had existed within the palace gates, a secret that had plagued him for seven years, and the primary reason why he’d left.

      As the car came to a stop, Zain quickly exited, but he couldn’t ignore the shouts of “Kha’en!” He could not counter the claims he’d been a traitor without revealing truths he had no intention of disclosing.

      Two sentries opened the heavy doors wide, allowing him to evade the crowd’s condemnation for the time being. Yet the hallowed halls of the palace were as cold as the stone that comprised them. At one time he’d been happy to call this place home—a refuge steeped in lavish riches and ancient history. Not anymore. But he did welcome the site of the petite woman standing at the end of the lengthy corridor—Elena Battelli, the Italian au pair hired by his father for his sons, despite serious disapproval from the elders. Elena had been his nursemaid, his teacher, his confidante and eventually his surrogate mother following his own mother’s untimely death. She’d been the only person who understood his ways, including his wanderlust.

      As soon as Zain reached her, Elena opened her arms and smiled. “Welcome back, caro mio.” She spoke to him in English, as she always had with the Mehdi boys, their “code” when they’d wanted to avoid prying ears.

      He drew her into an embrace before stepping back and studying her face. “You are still as elegant as a gazelle, Elena.”

      She patted her neatly coiffed silver hair. “I am an old gazelle, and you are still the charming giovinetto I have always adored.” A melancholy look suddenly crossed her face. “Now that your father has sadly left us, and you are to be king, I shall address you as such, Your Majesty.”

      “Do not even think of it,” he said. “You are family and always will be, regardless of my station.”

      She reached up and patted his cheek. “Yes, that is true. But you are still the king.”

      “Not officially for another few weeks.” That reminded him of his most pressing mission. “Where is Rafiq?”

      She shrugged. “In your father’s study, caro. He has spent most of his time there since…” Her gaze wandered away, but not before Zain glimpsed tears in her eyes.

      He leaned and kissed her cheek. “We shall have a long talk soon.”

      She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “We shall. You must tell me everything you have been doing while you were away.”

      He didn’t dare tell her everything. He might be an adult now, but she could still make him feel like the errant schoolboy. “I look forward to our visit.”

      Ignoring his bodyguards and Deeb, Zain sprinted up the stone steps to his father’s second-floor sanctuary and opened the door without bothering to knock. The moment he stepped inside, he thought back to how badly he’d hated this place, plagued by memories of facing his father’s ire over crossing lines that he’d been warned not to cross. King Aadil Mehdi had ruled with an iron hand and little heart. And now he was gone.

      Zain experienced both guilt and regret that their last words had been spoken in anger. That he hadn’t been able to forgive his father for his transgressions. Yet he could not worry about that now. He had more pressing matters that hung over his head like a guillotine.

      His gaze came to rest on his brother predictably seated in the king’s favorite chair located near the shelves housing several rare collections. The changes in Rafiq were subtle in some ways, obvious in others. He wore the kaffiyeh, which Zain refused to wear, at least for the time being. He also sported a neatly trimmed goatee, much the same as their father’s. In fact, Rafiq could be a younger version of the king in every way—both