Captive For The Sheikh's Pleasure. Carol Marinelli

      Maggie looked down at the coveted ticket for the star-gazing trip tonight and a smile lit her face. ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘Well, I shan’t be using it. I was going to hand it back in at the desk and get a refund...’

      ‘Don’t!’ Maggie yelped, and handed over the cash that Tazia had just given her. ‘I’m way down the cancellation list.’

      ‘You’ll have to use my name, then. I booked the Star Package, with a camel ride included.’ She gave Maggie a smile. ‘You’d better get a move on, the bus leaves at eight.’

      There was just time for Maggie to tie back her hair and pack a small overnight bag as Suzanne pulled on her backpack.

      ‘Well, I’m off,’ Suzanne said.

      ‘Safe travels.’

      ‘You too! And don’t forget,’ Suzanne said as she headed out of the door, ‘for tonight you’re Suzanne.’

       CHAPTER TWO

      CROWN PRINCE SHEIKH ILYAS OF ZAYRINIA had been born to be king.

      And that was all.

      His parents had had no real desire to be parents, neither had they taken delight in their baby.

      They’d delivered for their country the necessary heir and then moved on to produce the spare.

      Ilyas had barely seen them, unless for official duties, and had been raised in a distant area of the stunning, sprawling palace. He’d been fed and groomed by royal nannies and immersed in the teachings by elders.

      It had been a busy little life and one utterly devoid of affection.

      When Ilyas was four, Prince Hazin of Zayrinia had been born, thus pushing the uncle his father loathed down to third in the line of succession. Only when, two months later, Ilyas had stood on the royal balcony beside his parents had he come to realise that the tiny infant his mother held in her arms was, in fact, his brother. He’d kept craning his head to have a peek but had been sternly told to look ahead.

      ‘Can I see him?’ Ilyas had asked his mother, the queen, as they’d moved from the balcony and back into the palace.

      But his mother had shaken her head. ‘Hazin has to go to the nursery,’ she’d informed Ilyas as she’d handed over her baby to the wet nurse for feeding. ‘And you have your afternoon lessons to attend, although King Ahmed wishes to speak with you first.’

      Ilyas had known, from the use of his father’s title, that it would not be a fatherly chat.

      It never was.

      He’d been led to his father, who had been speaking with Mahmoud, his vizier.

      ‘Well done, Your Highness,’ Mahmoud had said, for it had been a very large crowd that had gathered outside the palace to greet the new prince. The king, though, had been less than impressed with Ilyas’s behaviour out on the balcony.

      ‘Don’t fidget so much in future,’ his father had told him.

      ‘I just wanted to see what my brother looks like.’

      ‘He’s just a baby.’ The king had shrugged. ‘Now, remember, in future always look ahead no matter what else goes on around you.’

      For the most part, the brothers had been segregated. Ilyas had been considered too far ahead in his studies to be held back. Hazin, who was nothing more than a substitute, had eventually been schooled overseas in England.

      It was Ilyas who had been born to be king.

      For his first two decades he had absorbed the teachings and wisdom from his elders and everyone had assumed that Ilyas agreed with them, for he performed all his duties well.

      His parents believed that the strict discipline of his upbringing had worked well, but this was not filial obedience. What they failed to understand was that it was Ilyas himself who was disciplined—he had chosen to abide by their rules.

      For now.

      When Ilyas had turned twenty-two, tragedy had struck the palace. His father and adviser had decided that a royal wedding would raise the spirits of the country and that it was time for Ilyas to marry. They had called a meeting to inform him of their decision.

      But Ilyas had shaken his head.

      ‘It is not necessary for me to marry yet.’

      King Ahmed had frowned at his son’s response, assuming that Ilyas had misunderstood him, for the king had been used to his demands being met.

      But Ilyas had held firm on the subject of marriage.

      Ilyas had indeed taken his father’s advice to look ahead. He’d had plans for the future, many of them, in fact, but there was no one he could risk sharing those plans with.

      No one.

      Marriage was not something he’d wanted to consider, at least for a couple of decades, and so again he’d declined his father’s suggestion. The king had grown more insistent.

      ‘A wedding, followed by an heir, would be pleasing for our people,’ he’d told his elder son, assuming that was that and they could move on to the next matter, but Ilyas would not be swayed.

      ‘The people need to grieve in their own time,’ Ilyas had said. ‘I shall marry when the time is right, not when you decide.’ He’d glanced over at Mahmoud, whose face had paled as Ilyas had delivered this challenge to the absolute authority of the king.

      ‘I said that I would like you to marry,’ the king had bellowed, the command inherent in his tone.

      ‘Marriage is a lifetime commitment and one I am not yet willing to make. For now, the harem shall suffice.’ He’d looked over at Mahmoud again and moved on the meeting. ‘Next item.’

      * * *

      Ilyas was stern yet fair, level rather than cold, and the people of Zayrinia adored him and silently longed for the day he was king.

      As the king’s health had declined, Ilyas’s power had subtly risen, though not enough for his liking. But on this particular Friday, as Mahmoud stated that a fresh crisis threatened the palace, it was Ilyas who took control.

      ‘It is already being dealt with,’ Ilyas informed his father calmly, though the amber in his hazel eyes flashed with irritation. Why the hell had Mahmoud raised his younger brother’s latest indiscretions in front of the king?

      ‘But what sort of party was it?’ the king asked.

      ‘It was just a gathering,’ Ilyas smoothly answered. ‘You yourself said that you wanted Hazin to come home more often.’

      ‘Yes, but to attend to royal duties,’ the king said, and then looked at his aide and asked again, ‘What sort of party was held on his yacht?’

      Ilyas could very well guess the type of debauched gathering that had taken place.

      His brother was famous for them.

      Almost.

      The palace had their work cut out concealing the scandals that Hazin left in his wake and the king had recently decided that enough was enough. King Ahmed al-Razim was more than prepared to disinherit his youngest and strip him of privilege and title.

      Most would say Hazin deserved it.

      Ilyas was not swayed by others, though.

      Not even by his father, the king.

      ‘I discussed it with Hazin before he left,’ Ilyas informed his father. ‘He assured me that it was just a day out with friends before he headed back to London.’

      ‘And did you remind him that if there is one more whisper of scandal the London apartment will be off limits to him?’