The Sheikh's Wedding Contract. Andie Brock

sire. I believe it is a matter of some importance.’

      * * *

      Nadia started at the sound of the key turning in the lock and quickly turned to face the door, her hands behind her back.

      It was about half an hour since Zayed had imprisoned her in his bedchamber. Having pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, the quick flash of his naked rear widening Nadia’s eyes still farther, he had locked the door to the interconnecting suite of rooms, theatrically jangling the bunch of keys in front of her face to make sure she had got the message. Finally, hissing a few curt words through his teeth to the effect that he would deal with her later, he had marched from the room, locking the door behind him.

      Nadia’s first thought was that there had to be some way to escape. After futilely rattling the door handles she had felt along the panelled walls, convinced that there had to be a hidden doorway somewhere. But if there was, it was too well hidden for her to discover. And one look at the terrifying drop from the fourth-floor windows had convinced her that, unless she could somehow sprout wings before she hit the ground, that wasn’t an option, either.

      So instead she had ended up pacing round the room, impotent fury pumping through her veins that she, Princess Nadia of Harith, should be held captive against her will by this maddening sheikh. Furious, too, that all her plans had gone so horribly wrong and she couldn’t see any way out of this mess.

      Her pacing had taken her over to a large ormolu-mounted desk in the corner of the room. A collection of electronic devices littered the top: a laptop, a smartphone, a tablet. Nadia had never been allowed any of these things, her brother insisting that they would be a corrupting influence on her. But it was the modestly framed photo at the back of the desk that caught her eye. Picking it up, Nadia studied the four fine young men wearing grey gowns and mortar boards and grinning widely for the camera. Graduation day. Four young men with the world at their feet. There was Zayed, second from the left with his arms slung over the shoulders of his friends, several years younger but already heartbreakingly handsome and a twinkle in his eye that said he knew it. Nadia felt something pull inside.

      ‘What are you doing?’

      ‘Nothing.’ Nadia glared back at him, fumbling to replace the photo behind her on the desk. ‘I’m hardly in a position to do anything, locked in here like a prisoner.’

      ‘And whose fault is that?’ He growled the words as he ran his hand over his thick dark hair. Nadia recognised the weariness of the gesture, sensed the heavy weight of responsibility that he carried, quite apart from the trouble she was causing him. She almost felt sorry for adding to his burden. Almost. ‘You are damned lucky I haven’t called security—’ he paused ‘—yet.’

      Nadia felt his eyes scanning her body again, starting with the bra top and sweeping down the length of her torso to her bare stomach that contracted under his gaze, lower to her belted hips and long, shapely legs that the sheer, gauzy fabric twisting around them made no attempt to conceal.

      She squirmed visibly. Zayed cleared his throat.

      ‘The question is, what do I do with you now?’

      From the fierce look on his face Nadia suspected he wasn’t waiting for an answer from her. And even if he had been she wasn’t sure how to reply.

      Despite her earlier determination to escape, she had no idea what she would do if she was set free, where she would go, especially still dressed in this hateful outfit.

      Returning to Harith was out of the question. She knew that by now her disappearance would have sparked a full-scale search of the kingdom, that her father and brother would be seething with rage when she had not returned from the ‘shopping trip’ she had set out on earlier that morning, a morning that now seemed an eon ago. She knew that her mother would already be worried sick, and for that she was genuinely sorry. She would have loved to have been able to confide in her, tell her of her daring plan, but she knew that she couldn’t. Years of persecution from her husband and then her son had weakened her mother from the highly intelligent, spirited young woman of her youth to the nervous, fearful woman she was today. Nadia had watched her decline, powerless to do anything about it. But one thing was for sure. She was never going to let that happen to her.

      And so she had made her escape. Accompanied by her chaperone, a young woman called Jana whom Nadia had secretly befriended, she had set out with instructions to buy ‘the fine clothes for her trousseau.’ The money her family had given her for this task had been extremely generous and, added to the stash that Nadia had been accumulating over the past months, amounted to a small fortune.

      In fact, she and Jana had only made one purchase of clothing, the harem outfit that the two nervously giggling young women had chosen hardly being what her family had had in mind. Then, taking just enough for her flight ticket to Gazbiyaa, Nadia had insisted that Jana had the rest of the money, and the two women had embraced long and hard before Jana had set off on her own adventure, fleeing back to her family with the money for her mother’s operation tucked safely away beneath her hijab. Nadia just hoped she was having more luck than she was.

      Zayed had walked across the room, positioning himself in front of one of the balcony windows with his arms folded across his chest, the middle finger of one hand tapping an impatient beat. Nadia could do nothing but silently watch as he decided what he was going to do with her.

      ‘You know what—’ he sighed heavily ‘—I could stand here all night, trying to figure out what you are doing here, why you have broken into my bedroom, sneaked into my bed. But frankly—’ he stopped to give Nadia a particularly derisory stare that shrivelled her insides ‘—I don’t even care.’

      ‘Your Royal Highness, if I could just be allowed to explain—’

      ‘No, Nadia.’ Raising a firm hand, Zayed stopped her. ‘I refuse to listen to any more of your explanations. I’ve heard more than enough of your half-baked nonsense for one evening. But, as much as I would like to be rid of you, I am not going to be held responsible for whatever fate might befall you walking the city streets at this time of night looking like that.’

      The sneering gesture, along with the look of distaste on his face that went with it, clearly spelled out just what he thought of her attire.

      ‘You will stay tonight in the palace.’

      As Nadia opened her mouth to protest he barked, ‘And that’s an order.’

      * * *

      Moving over to the marble-topped credenza, Zayed took out a bottle of Scotch and a crystal tumbler and poured himself a generous measure. Then, pulling out a chair, he sat down heavily, stretching his long legs out in front of him and flexing his muscled arms behind his head. This evening had to rank as one of the most bizarre of his life—and that was saying something.

      When he had found out that he, rather than his brother Azeed, was to be crowned sheikh of Gazbiyaa, he had immediately known that his life would change dramatically and forever. He could never have foreseen the circumstances that had led to his being in this position, but the fact was that the future of the kingdom was now in his hands and duty to his country and his subjects had to come before everything else.

      From a practical point of view he could do it, he knew that. He had absolute faith in his abilities. His hugely successful global company was a testament to his business acumen and he was certain he could further the prosperity of the fledgling but rapidly moving expansion of the kingdom’s economy. More than that, his keen intelligence and insightful mind meant he instinctively made astute judgements, knowing just when to take the hard line or to follow a more diplomatic approach. Something that could only stand him in good stead with the role he now found himself in.

      But emotionally he was still struggling to come to terms with the idea of being the sheikh of Gazbiyaa. This was not the life he had planned for, not the life he had ever wanted. And the more he saw of it, the less he liked it.

      Because beneath the flashy, showy front that Gazbiyaa presented to the world, the front that he had let himself believe when he had been thousands of miles away in New York pursuing