The Sheikh's Princess Bride. Annie West

to the pretty Parisienne. ‘Bidders will adore the chance to meet the talented princess behind the gorgeous fashions. Your donation to the auction is sure to fetch a huge price.’

      Samira fixed on a practised smile and refused to cringe at yet another reference to her royal status.

      As daughter of, and now sister to, the Sultan of Jazeer, she knew all too well that royal rank didn’t guarantee happiness.

      Her heart lurched but she kept her gaze on her companion, not letting it stray to the other side of the opulent room.

      She reminded herself she was a pragmatist. Her successful design business benefited from the cachet of her aristocratic name. Designs by Samira had taken off these last few years. Her clientele, among the globe’s ultrawealthy, appreciated working with someone who understood their world, who promised absolute exclusivity and confidentiality. She had far more than many women dreamed of: independence, success, wealth.

      What right had she to yearn for more?

      Yet still that bone-deep ache persisted, no matter how often she reminded herself how lucky she was. For what did the trappings of success mean when deep at the heart of you there was...nothing?

      Samira bit her lip. She would conquer this. She would!

      ‘I’m looking forward to it, Celeste.’ Samira wrenched her thoughts back to tonight’s gala. ‘You and your team have done a marvellous job pulling it all together. How, exactly, will the auction work? What do you want me to do?’

      Celeste launched into an explanation of the auction, the exclusive invitation list and the business opportunities tonight’s event would present.

      Yet, businesswoman though she was, Samira couldn’t conjure answering enthusiasm. Perhaps because, having been born to status and privilege, mixing with the stratosphere of European society held no thrill for her.

      Was this all there was? Long days of work followed by an endless round of society events where she’d mix business, pleasure and occasional philanthropy, and leave feeling alone and empty?

      Samira blinked and gave herself a mental shake, refusing to linger on the maudlin thoughts that had edged her consciousness for so long.

      She leaned back in her chair, nodding as Celeste emphasised a point, letting her weary body relax for the first time, it felt, in days.

      That was it. She was exhausted. No wonder her attention strayed. She’d been in consultation with a new first lady in South America yesterday about a gown for an inauguration ball, then had stopped off in New York to see another client, only arriving in Paris an hour ago.

      When she rested she’d be herself, eager to be caught up once more in the challenges of business, and especially the joy of designing.

      Movement caught her eye. A tall figure in a dark suit moved through the perfectly arranged seating with a long, quick stride that made her think of her dressmaker’s shears cutting through rich velvet.

      She told herself it was a ridiculous comparison but when she turned to focus on him she realised it was apt. Though dressed with the formidable elegance of the best bespoke tailoring, some indefinable air proclaimed he didn’t belong in the luxury of Paris’s finest hotel. He belonged somewhere more vital, where crystal chandeliers and dainty side tables were unnecessary fripperies.

      A good head taller than every other man in the vicinity, his shoulders the broadest Samira had ever seen, he nevertheless moved with a fluid, athletic grace that spoke to her designer’s eye.

      A squeal of excitement froze her in the act of turning back to Celeste. One of the little, chubby-cheeked boys had spotted him and was scrambling across the sofa towards him.

      A low, rumbling chuckle reached her ears as the man bent and scooped up both children, one in each arm, as easily as she’d pick up a couple of cushions. He lifted them high, making them giggle with delight, and held them close as he ducked his head and murmured to each of them in turn. Tiny starfish hands planted on his shoulders and hair in their eagerness to get close and she heard him laugh again, the sound a ribbon of warmth channelling through the chill emptiness inside her.

      Just like that, without any fanfare or warning, Samira’s world contracted to the cold void of her barren body and the devastating vignette of a happy family on the other side of the room.

      The dividing line excluding her from them had never been more real, or more unbreakable.

      Pain juddered through her, making her clench her jaw and grab at the arms of her lounge chair.

      There would be no family for her, no children. As for finding a life partner to love... The air hissed between her teeth at the impossibility of that particular fantasy.

      ‘Samira. Is anything wrong?’

      ‘Nothing at all.’ Samira turned to Celeste with a dazzling smile that only years of practice in the public eye could muster. Surreptitiously she breathed in through her nose, filling lungs that seemed to have cramped shut. ‘It sounds like tonight will be a huge success. With luck you’ll attract far more than your fund-raising target.’

      ‘Thanks to you.’ At Samira’s raised brow she shrugged and smiled. ‘And to the rest of the donors.’ She paused, glancing across the lounge. ‘Speak of the devil, there’s one of them now.’ Celeste sat straighter, swiftly smoothing her short skirt and flicking her blonde hair from her face.

      She leaned close to Samira and whispered, ‘If only we could auction off a night in his bed we’d make a fortune. I’d bid for that myself and, believe me, I wouldn’t let anyone outbid me.’

      Surprised at the change in her companion, Samira turned. Yet she knew which man Celeste referred to. It could only be the hunky father of two who wore his elegant clothes with such casual panache that even her long-dormant libido sat up and slavered.

      Yet she wasn’t prepared for the shock that slammed into her solar plexus as she saw him again. For this time he’d turned and she saw his broad, high brow, defined cheekbones and the rough-cut jaw that looked dangerous and sexy at the same time. A long, harsh blade of a nose somehow melded those too-strong features into a whole that was boldly, outrageously attractive.

      And familiar.

      Samira’s breath hissed sharply as she recognised the man she hadn’t seen in years. The man who’d once been almost as dear to her as her brother, Asim.

      A tumble of emotions bubbled inside. Excitement and pleasure, regret and pain, and finally a sharp tang of something that tasted like desire, raw and real for the first time in four years. Amazement at that instantaneous response spiralled through her.

      ‘Oh, I’d forgotten you must know him, your country and his being in the same neighbourhood.’ Celeste sounded eager. ‘Sexy Sheikh Tariq of Al Sarath.’ She sighed gustily. ‘I’d even consider taking on a couple of kids for the sake of a man like that. Not that I’ll get the chance. They say he hasn’t looked at another woman seriously since he lost his wife. They try but none of them last. Apparently he was devoted to her.’

      With one final, lingering look at Tariq and his sons, Samira swung round, putting her back to them, letting Celeste’s chatter wash over her.

      She’d once thought Tariq her friend. She’d looked up to him and trusted him. He’d been as much a part of her life as her brother, Asim. But that friendship had been a mirage, as fragile as the shimmer of water on hot desert sands. He’d turned his back on her years ago with a suddenness that had mystified her, making her wonder what she’d done to alienate him or whether he’d just forgotten her in the press of responsibilities when he’d become Sheikh. When she’d been through hell four years previously she’d not heard a word from him.

      Strange how much that still hurt.

      * * *

      Tariq had been in the crowded banqueting hall just three minutes when his sixth sense, the one that always twitched at a hint of trouble, switched into overdrive.

      Casually