The Sultan Demands His Heir. Maya Blake

had been shocked by his intention to carry on with his chosen profession when he’d returned from exile to take the throne eighteen months ago.

      Some had cited a possible conflict of interest, questioning his ability to be both an able ruler and a dedicated prosecutor. Zaid had quashed every objection by doing what he did best—following the letter of the law and winning where it counted. Meting out swift justice had been the quickest way to begin uprooting the rank corruption that had permeated Ja’ahr’s society. From the oil fields in the north to the shipping port in the south, no corporate entity had been left untouched by his public investigative team. Inevitably, that had made him enemies. Khalid Al-Ameen’s twenty-year corrupt rule had birthed and fed fat cats who’d fought to hold onto their power.

      But in the last six months things had finally started to change. The majority of factions that had strenuously opposed and doubted him—after all, he was an Al-Ameen like his late uncle—had begun to ally with him. But those unused to his zero tolerance approach still incited protestors against him.

      His bitterness that his uncle had escaped Zaid’s personal justice by falling dead from a heart attack had dissipated with time. It was an outcome he couldn’t change. What he could change was the abject misery that his people had been forced to endure by Khalid.

      Zaid had first-hand, albeit deadly experience of the misery crime and the greedy grasp for power could wreak. That he’d lived through the experience was a miracle in itself. Or so the whispers went. Only Zaid knew what had happened that fateful night his parents had perished. And it was no miracle but a simple act of self-preservation.

      One that had triggered equal amounts of guilt, anger and bitterness over the years. It was what had driven him to practise law and pursue justice with unyielding fervour.

      It was what would bring his people out of the darkness they’d been thrust into.

      Lost in the jagged memories of his past, it took the slowing of the lead vehicle in his motorcade to alert him to his surroundings.

      A large group of protestors was gathered in a nearby park normally used to host summer plays and concerts. Some had spilled into the street in front of his motorcade. Protests weren’t uncommon, and, although regretful, it was part of the democratic process.

      Zaid glanced around him as a handful of his personal security began to push back the crowd.

      Ja’ahr City was particularly magnificent in early April, new blooms and moderate weather bathing the city in sparkling beauty. Giant sculptures and stunning monuments, surrounded by verdant gardens containing exotic flowers, lined the ten-mile-long central highway that led from the courthouse to the palace.

      Except, as with everything else, this particular display of Ja’ahr’s wealth had been carefully cultivated to fool the world. One only had to stray along a few streets on either side of the highway to be met with the true state of affairs.

      The grim reminder of the wide chasm dividing the social classes in his kingdom forced his attention back to the crowd and the giant screen showing a reporter surrounded by a handful of protestors.

      ‘Can you tell us why you’re here today?’ the female journalist asked, thrusting her microphone forward.

      The camera swung toward the interviewee.

      Zaid wasn’t exactly sure why his hand clenched on his thigh at the sight of the woman. In the previous life he’d led in the United States, he’d had numerous liaisons with women more beautiful than the one currently projected on the super-sized screen in the park.

      There was nothing extraordinary about her individual features or the honey blonde hair tied in a bun at her nape. And yet the combination of full lips, pert nose and wide green-grey eyes was so striking his fingers moved, almost of their own accord, to the button that lowered his window. But still he couldn’t decipher what had triggered the faint zap of electricity that had charged through him at the sight of her. Perhaps it was the determined thrust of her jaw. Or the righteous indignation that sparked from her almond-shaped eyes.

      Most likely it was the words falling from her mouth. Condemning. Inciting words wrapped in a husky bedroom voice and amplified on speakers that threatened to distract him even as he strained to focus on them.

      A voice he’d heard before, slightly sleep husky, over the phone in the middle of the night. A voice that had, disturbingly and inappropriately, tugged at the most masculine part of him.

      ‘My father has been attacked twice in prison during the last week, while under the supervision of the police. Once was bad enough, considering he suffered a concussion then. But he was attacked again today, and I’m sorry, but twice is not acceptable.’

      ‘Are you saying that you hold the authorities responsible?’ the reporter prompted.

      The woman shrugged, causing Zaid’s gaze to drop momentarily from her face to the sleek lines of her neck and shoulders, her light short-sleeved top clearly delineating her delicate bones and the swell of her breasts. He forced his attention up in time to hear her answer.

      ‘I was given the impression that the authorities here are practically the best in the world, and yet they can’t seem to keep the people under their care safe. On top of that, it seems I won’t be allowed to see my father until his trial or until I offer a financial incentive to do so.’

      The reporter’s eyes gleamed as she latched onto the delicious morsel. ‘You were asked for a bribe before you could see your father?’

      The woman hesitated for a millisecond before she shrugged again. ‘Not in so many words, but it wasn’t hard to read between the lines.’

      * * *

      ‘So I take it your impression of Ja’ahr government so far isn’t a good one?’

      A sardonic smile lifted her mouth. ‘That’s an understatement.’

      ‘If you could say anything to those in charge, what would you say?’

      She looked directly into the camera, her wide eyes gleaming with purpose. ‘That I’m not impressed. And not just with the police. These people here clearly believe that too. I believe a fish rots from the head down.’

      The reporter’s gaze grew a touch wary. ‘Are you alleging that Sultan Al-Ameen is directly culpable for what happened to your father?’

      The woman hesitated, her plump lower lip momentarily disappearing between her teeth before emerging, gleaming, to be pressed into a displeased line. ‘It’s apparent that something’s wrong with the system. And since he’s the one in charge, I guess my question to him is what’s he doing about the situation?’ she challenged.

      Zaid hit the button, blocking out the rest of the interview just as his intercom buzzed.

      ‘Your Highness, a thousand apologies for you having to witness that.’ The voice of his chief advisor, travelling in the SUV behind him, was almost obsequious. ‘I have just contacted the head of the TV studio. We are taking steps to have the broadcast shut down immediately—’

      ‘You will do no such thing,’ Zaid interjected grimly.

      ‘But, Your Highness, we can’t let such blatant views be aired—’

      ‘We can and we will. Ja’ahr is supposed to be a country that champions freedom of speech. Anyone who attempts to stand in the way of that will answer directly to me. Is that clear?’

      ‘Of course, Your Highness,’ his advisor agreed promptly.

      As his motorcade passed the last of the protestors, he caught one last, brief glimpse of the woman on a much closer screen. Her head was tilted, the sunlight slanting over her cheekbone throwing her face into clear, more captivating lines. His jaw tightened at the further sizzle of electricity, until he was sure it would crack.

      ‘Do you wish me to find out who she is, Your Highness?’

      He didn’t need to. He knew exactly who she was.

      Esmeralda Scott.