The Sheikh Who Desired Her. Jennifer Lewis

those stunning blue eyes.

      Jamilah knew her parting words to Salman had been a cheap shot, but they’d felt good for a moment—even if they weren’t remotely true. Giving up any pretence of wanting to stay at the party, within an hour she had changed, her face scrubbed clean, and was in her Jeep and heading back to Merkazad.

      Eventually she had to pull over on the hard shoulder of the motorway when tears blurred her vision too much. She rested her head on her hands on the steering wheel. She had to concede that she’d been hopelessly naïve in having thought she could remain unscathed after seeing Salman—and, worse, after kissing him, which she was sure had been nothing more than his cruel experiment to see how she still hungered for him.

      On some level she’d never been able to believe how he’d turned into such a cruel and distant stranger that day.

      She ruthlessly stopped her thoughts from deviating down a self-indulgent path where she’d try to find justification for Salman’s behaviour. He was cold and heartless—he always had been. She’d just been too naïve to see it before.

      She’d often speculated if the cataclysmic events that had once taken place in Merkazad had anything to do with Salman’s insularity and darkness. Years before Merkazad had been invaded by an army from Al-Omar, which had been against its independence. Salman, his brother and their parents had been locked up in the bowels of the castle for three long months. It had been a difficult time for the whole country, and must have been traumatic for Nadim and Salman, but Jamilah had been just two at the time—far too young to remember the details.

      Years after their liberation she’d always been the one allowed to spend time with Salman, when he hadn’t even let his own brother or parents near. He’d never said much, but he’d listened to her inconsequential chatter—which had developed into tongue-tied embarrassment as she’d grown older. Yet he’d never made her feel uncomfortable. He’d even sought her out the day he left Merkazad for good. She’d been sixteen and hopelessly in love. He’d touched her cheek with a finger, such a wealth of bleakness in his eyes that she’d ached to comfort him, but he’d just said, ‘See you around, kid.’

      It was that bond that she believed had flared to life and blossomed over those three weeks in Paris. And yet if she believed what Salman had said to her there—and why wouldn’t she?—it had all been a cruel illusion. She had to get it through her thick skull that there could be no justification for Salman’s behaviour, and after tonight she had to draw a line under her obsession with him.

      CHAPTER TWO

      Present day.

      SHEIKH SALMAN BIN KALID AL SAQR looked at the shadows of the rotorblades of the helicopter as it flew across the rocky expanse below him. They undulated and snaked like dark ribbons over the mountaintops, and when he looked further he could already see minarets and the vague outlines of the buildings of Merkazad—and the castle, where he was headed. His home and birthplace. He was coming back for the first time in ten years. Ten long years. And he felt numb inside.

      He could remember the day he’d left, and the blistering argument he’d had with his older brother Nadim, as if it had happened yesterday, despite every attempt he’d made to block it out in the interim. They’d been standing in Nadim’s study, from where he’d been running the country since the tender age of twenty-one. His older brother’s responsibility had always struck fear into Salman’s heart because he’d known he would never have been able to bear it.

      Not because of a lack of ability, but because at the age of eight he’d borne a horrific responsibility for his own people that he’d never spoken about, and since that time he’d cut Merkazad and everyone associated with it out of his heart.

      As if to contradict him a memory rose up of Jamilah—the kinship he’d always felt with her, the way that for a long time she’d been the only person he could tolerate being near him and, in Paris, the ease with which he’d allowed her to seduce him to a softer place than he’d inhabited for as long as he could remember. If ever. And then the way he’d callously told her that it had been nothing, that she’d imagined them having some sort of bond. His skin prickled at being reminded of that now, and with ruthless efficiency he pushed it aside and focused on that moment with his brother again.

      ‘This is your home, Salman!’ his brother had shouted at him. ‘I need you here with me. We need to rule together to be strong.’

      Salman could remember how dead he’d felt inside, how removed from his brother’s passion. He’d known that day would be his last in Merkazad. He was a free man. Since he’d been that eight-year-old boy, since the awful time of their incarceration, he’d felt aeons older than Nadim. ‘Brother, this is your country now. Not mine. I will forge my own life. And I will not have you dictate to me. You have no right.’

      He’d been able to see the struggle that had run through Nadim, and silently he’d sent out a dire warning: don’t even go there. And as he’d watched he’d seen the fight leave Nadim. The weight of their history ran too deep between them. Salman felt bitter jealousy every time he looked at his brother and knew his integral goodness had never been compromised, or taken away, or violated. Salman’s had when his childhood had been ripped away from him over a three-month period that had felt like three centuries.

      Salman knew Nadim blamed himself for not protecting him all those years before. And even though Salman knew that it was irrational, because Nadim had been as helpless as he had, he still blamed Nadim for not saving him from the horrors he’d faced. In a way, he wanted his brother to feel that pain, and he inflicted it with impunity, knowing exactly what he was doing even while hating himself for it.

      Blame, counter-blame and recrimination had festered between them for years, and it had only been last year, when Salman had seen Nadim at the Sultan of Al-Omar’s birthday party, that he’d noticed a subtle change within himself. They’d spoken for mere tense moments, as was their custom when they met once or twice a year, but Salman had noticed a sense of weightlessness that he’d never felt before.

      He grimaced, his eyes seeing but not seeing the vista of his own country unfold beneath him in all its rocky glory. The fact that he was flying over it right now, about to land in mere minutes, spoke volumes. A part of him still couldn’t really believe that he was coming to Merkazad for a month in Nadim’s stead, while he and his pregnant wife went to spend time in Ireland, where she came from, before they returned to have their first baby.

      A ridiculous and archaic law said that if Merkazad was without its Sheikh for a month then a coup could be staged by the military to seat a new ruler. This law had been put in place at a time when they’d faced numerous and frequent attacks, to protect Merkazad from outside forces.

      They’d been in this position only once before, when their parents had died and an interim governing body had been set up until Nadim had come of age. Luckily the army had been steadfastly loyal to their deceased father and to Nadim.

      But Nadim had confided to Salman that since his marriage to Iseult some people were proving hard to win round, were disappointed that their Sheikh hadn’t picked a Merkazadi woman to be his wife. He’d been concerned that until his heir was born their rule might be vulnerable for the first time in years. But if Salman was there in his place there would be no question of dissent.

      Salman had found himself saying yes, bizarrely overriding his conscious intent to say no. He’d known on some deep level that one day he’d have to come home to face his demons, and it appeared the time had come. He’d put his completely incomprehensible decision down to that, and not to a latent sense of duty, or to passing time … or to the fact that since he’d seen Jamilah at that party a year ago he’d felt restless.

      Even now he could remember the visceral kick in his chest when he’d turned in that corridor in the Hussein Palace and seen her standing before him like a vision, like something from a dream he’d never admitted having.

      He’d only realised in that moment, as a kind of sigh of relief had gone through him, that in all the intervening years since Paris he’d gone to the