The Sheikh's Collection. Оливия Гейтс

my younger brother Akram.’

      She would have known Zahir’s brother immediately by his close resemblance to her husband, but she was not impervious to the look of hostility in his rather set face as he murmured a strictly polite welcome that was neither sociable nor encouraging. But Saffy kept the smile on her face, reminding herself that it was early days and that, after the divorce five years earlier, Akram might consider her a particularly bad match for his brother, the king. Or maybe Akram was less than impressed by the fact that she was already pregnant, although if that was the case he ought to remember that conception took two people, not one, she thought ruefully.

      Zahir carried her off again, one hand closed round hers as if he was keen to retain physical contact and, certainly, she had no objection retaining that connection. She had never been in the wing of the palace he took her to, was happy to be invited to explore and was pleasantly surprised by how contemporary the décor was there. Back in the old dark days of King Fareed’s occupation, the parts of the palace she had known had rejoiced in a preponderance of over-gilded furniture, brightly coloured wallpaper, fussy drapes and half-naked statues. But now all that was tasteless and garish had been swept away as though it had never been.

      ‘Did your father ever live here?’ she asked awkwardly.

      ‘No,’ Zahir said succinctly. ‘I didn’t want to occupy his wing at the front…too many bad memories. It’s government offices now.’

      ‘This is beautiful,’ Saffy confided, brushing back filmy drapes and opening French windows that led out into a spacious garden courtyard full of lush colourful plants. ‘It will be perfect for the baby to play in.’

      ‘One last place to show you,’ Zahir murmured, tugging her impatiently back indoors to walk her down the corridor, while she tried to compute the sheer number of rooms that she now had the right to regard as part of her new home. He flung open the double doors at the foot like a showman. ‘Our room. I had it freshly decorated.’

      Our room, she repeated inwardly, thinking that phrase, which once had unnerved her, now had a good, solid, reassuring sound to it. The big room was breathtaking in the morning sunshine, furnished with a simply huge bed dressed in white and covered with more pillows and cushions than anyone would ever want to move before slipping between the sheets. Masses of white flowers filled several vases and perfumed the air with their abundance. The effect was light, bright and designer chic. Twin bathrooms led off the bedroom, one with a family-sized Jacuzzi in the corner.

      ‘I’m already picturing you in there,’ Zahir muttered huskily from behind her, his breath warming her cheek as he settled his lean hands on her rounded hips.

      ‘Are you indeed?’ Sliding round to look up at him, Saffy lifted her hands to his face and curved them to his exotic cheekbones. Dear heaven, those eyes of his got to her every time, she conceded dizzily as he bent his handsome dark head and circled her lush mouth slowly, teasingly with his own and her heart skipped a beat. ‘I’ll only get in with company.’

      His cell phone hummed and Zahir winced. ‘Hold that thought,’ he urged, digging it out of his pocket to speak in his own language.

      And that fast the moment of intimacy was over. He inclined his head at an apologetic angle and told her that something needed his attention and he would see her later. Saffy suppressed her disappointment, conceding that their lives would often be interrupted by his duties and knowing she would have to get used to the fact. She returned to exploring their wing of the palace. A manservant brought her luggage. There was a complete dream of a clothing closet installed in the room next door and she smiled, smoothing shoe shelves and glancing into what could only be custom-built units. Knowing Zahir must have ensured that so much was prepared for her in advance gave her a warm feeling deep down inside.

      A maid brought her tea and tiny cakes and she sat out in the tranquil courtyard garden below the shade of the palm trees, enjoying the fading afternoon heat and the play of shadows through the palm fronds. For the first time in a long time she felt at peace. Acknowledging her feelings for Zahir had eased her worst insecurities and put paid to her frantic changes of mood because now she knew what lay behind her reactions. They were husband and wife and she was carrying their first child and she was happy. Happy, she thought wryly, unable to recall when she had last felt so happy or indeed an intensity of any emotion: only around Zahir. Had she always still loved him? Had it been his haunting image that prevented her from ever experiencing a strong attraction to another man? Regardless of what had happened between them, she had retained past memories of Zahir that were still clear as day in her mind. He had referred to her once as his ‘first love’ and she knew she wanted to be his first and only love, but the clock still couldn’t be turned back. And nor in many ways would Saffy have wanted to achieve that impossibility, not if it meant returning to the uninformed, bewildered teenager she had been, incapable of consummating her marriage and having to live within the confines of the repressive regime of the late King Fareed.

      Zahir phoned her full of apologies to say that he could not join her before dinner. He reappeared, vital and startlingly handsome, to study her where she sat reading on the terrace. She smiled at him, blue eyes sparkling, and his winged brows pleated in surprise. ‘I thought you’d be furious with me for leaving you alone all afternoon,’ he admitted ruefully.

      And Saffy laughed. ‘I’m not eighteen any more,’ she reminded him gently. ‘And I understand that you have responsibilities you can’t escape.’

      ‘But not the very first day you arrive. In that spirit, I have blocked off two weeks at the end of the month purely for us,’ Zahir told her, his features suddenly very serious in cast. ‘We can travel, stay here, do whatever you like, but there will no other demands on our time.’

      Saffy was impressed that he had already foreseen the necessity for them to formally make space in their schedules to spend time together as a couple. It was an effort and an opportunity he had not tried to organise five years earlier and she appreciated it. A pretty fabulous three-course meal was served to them in the dining room. There was evidently a chef in charge of the kitchens and one out to impress. While they ate, Zahir shared his ambition to promote Maraban as a tourist destination and he asked her if she would be interested in helping to put together a public relations film to show off some of Maraban’s main attractions.

      ‘We have beaches, archaeological sites, mountains,’ Zahir told her persuasively. ‘You could present it. You’re accustomed to being in front of the cameras.’

      ‘Not in a speaking role, at least only occasionally.’ But Saffy was pleased to be offered the chance to do something useful. ‘I haven’t been to any of those places though.’

      Zahir frowned at the unspoken reminder that his father’s determination to conceal their marriage had left her virtually imprisoned within the palace walls. ‘Your eyes will be fresh then, your observations and expectations more realistic. We have a lot to learn about what tourists want. We don’t have many marketing people here,’ he confided. ‘In fact Maraban would still be floundering and trapped in past mistakes if thousands of our former citizens hadn’t responded to my appeal to come home after my father’s regime fell. Many professionals returned from abroad to enable us to tackle the challenge of bringing our country into the twenty-first century.’

      ‘It’s wonderful that people chose to come back and help,’ Saffy murmured, loving the gravity of his lean strong face, the warmth and concern he could not hide when he spoke about the country of his birth.

      ‘But not half as wonderful as having you here with me again,’ Zahir countered, dark golden eyes welded to her as he rose from his chair. ‘Will you come to bed with me now, Your Majesty?’

      ‘Call me Queenie—I’m never going to get used to the other. In answer to your question, I don’t know…’ Saffy angled her head to one side, pretending to think it over even though her heart was racing like a marathon runner’s. ‘Last night you were a no-show.’

      Faint colour darkened his cheekbones. ‘On board our flight, I didn’t think I’d be welcome.’

      ‘Put it this way—I wouldn’t have kicked you out