Defying her Desert Duty. Annie West

wrapped itself around Soraya’s chest and seeped into bones that seemed suddenly brittle and aged. She drew a deep breath, willing away the panic that threatened whenever she thought too far ahead.

      That was the problem; she’d forgotten to think ahead. For too long she’d assumed the future was nebulous and unreal. From the moment at fourteen, when her father had explained the honour bestowed on their family by the Emir’s interest in her, through every year when Emir Hussein had remained a distant yet benign figure.

      At fourteen the betrothal had been exciting, like something from an age-old tale. Later it had grown less and less real, especially when her fiancé had shown little interest beyond polite responses to her father’s updates on her wellbeing and educational progress.

      Now it was suddenly all too real.

      ‘It’s not just the work,’ she blurted out. ‘I’d planned to be here longer and I want to make the most of my time in France.’

      ‘I’m sure you’re doing just that.’ His lips twisted.

      She ignored his disapproval. ‘I can finish up some of my work elsewhere, but not all of it.’ She gestured to the laptop. ‘Besides, I don’t want a direct flight to Bakhara.’

      His only response was to lift his eyebrows, stoking her impatience.

      ‘I intend to travel overland. In all these months I haven’t been out of Paris and I want to see more of the country before I return.’

      And store up some precious memories—of her last days of freedom. It wasn’t too much to ask. Once she returned she’d be the woman the Emir and his people expected. She’d marry a man renowned for his devotion to duty and her life would be circumscribed by that.

      She needed this time, just a little time, to adjust to the fact that her life as an individual was ending. The alternative, to return immediately, stifled the breath in her lungs and sent panic shuddering through her.

      ‘That’s not possible. The Emir is expecting you.’

      She nodded, glad now that she’d found the courage to do what she’d never done before and call the Bakhari Palace, giving her name and asking for the Emir. It had been surprisingly easy.

      ‘Yes, he is.’ For the first time she smiled. ‘I spoke to him today. He thinks it’s a wonderful idea that I take my time and soak up some of the sights along the way. He agrees it will be educational for me to get a better understanding of other places and people, not just Paris.’

      It had felt odd talking to the man who for so long had been a distant figure and who soon would be her husband.

      Zahir’s stunned expression would have pleased her if she’d wanted to score points off this man who always seemed so sure of himself. But she had more important concerns.

      ‘I’ve got till the end of the month.’ That would give her the breathing space she so desperately needed. There was only one problem, but right now it should be the least of her worries. She squared her shoulders and met his eyes. ‘The Emir’s only stipulation was that you accompany me.’

      CHAPTER FOUR

      ‘I KNOW it’s not what you planned, Zahir, but I see huge benefits in this trip. Soraya was very convincing.’

      Zahir gritted his teeth. He just bet she had been. He heard the smile in Hussein’s tone even over the phone. No doubt she’d employed her soft, sultry voice to best advantage in her long-distance call to Bakhara.

      ‘But a week is more than enough, isn’t it? The sooner she returns the better, surely?’

      ‘It will be a big change for her,’ Hussein answered slowly. ‘Living as my wife in the palace. Meeting VIPs, playing a role in diplomatic functions. Plus there’s the work that will be expected of her with our own people. She’ll be an advocate for many who, for whatever reason, are daunted by approaching their ruler directly. Giving her a chance to mix with as wide a range of people as possible can only be an advantage.’

      He paused. ‘That’s one of the reasons I supported her studying in Paris. She needs to broaden her horizons, ready for her future role.’

      Zahir stared unseeingly at the lights of Paris. His heart sank. Not just because Hussein supported Soraya’s plan to delay her return. Far worse was the burden of suspicion she wasn’t fit to be his mentor’s bride.

      He thrust a hand through his hair. How could he disabuse Hussein?

       How could he not?

      He’d do anything to save Hussein pain. The older man was more than a father to him. Friend, mentor, hero, he’d shown Zahir care, regard and even love when no one else had. He’d brought him up more like a son than a charity case. A not-quite-orphan shouldn’t have warranted the Emir’s personal attention.

      Zahir owed him everything: his place in the world, his education, his self-respect, even his life.

      He was caught between shattering Hussein’s illusions about his bride and letting her dupe him.

      His belly churned. ‘Hussein, I—’

      ‘I know you’re disappointed, Zahir. You’re eager to take up the post of provincial governor.’

      A sliver of guilt carved its way through Zahir’s gut. ‘You know me too well.’

      Hussein’s chuckle was like the man himself, warm and compelling. ‘How could I not? You’re the son I never had.’

      Something rose in Zahir’s chest, a welling sensation that tightened his lungs and choked his vocal chords. Despite their closeness, the regard between him and Hussein was rarely spoken. Bakhari males left emotion to their womenfolk, focusing instead on masculine concerns such as pride, duty and honour.

      ‘You make it sound like your time has past. You’re in your late fifties, not your dotage. You’ve got plenty of time to father a son. A whole family.’

      And, with a young, sexy bride, nothing was more likely.

      Out of nowhere Zahir glimpsed an image of Hussein holding Soraya close, pulling her to him and letting his hands slip over the curve of her hip, the soft fabric of her dress enhancing the femininity of her shapely figure.

      He swallowed hard as a jagged spike of pain skewered him. His breath shallowed and he turned to stride down the length of the suite, fighting sudden nausea.

      He was tired of being cooped up. He longed for the clean air of the desert, the wide sky studded with diamond-bright stars. The total absence of Soraya Karim.

      ‘Well, time will tell,’ was all Hussein said. ‘But as for the governorship …’

      ‘That doesn’t matter.’ Zahir splayed a hand against one wall and stared out at the glittering spectacle of the Eiffel Tower sparkling with a million electric lights. He’d trade it in a second for the light of the moon over the desert, highlighting dunes and silhouetting proud, ancient citadels.

      ‘Of course it matters. You’ll be the best governor the place has had.’

      Silence engulfed them. No doubt Hussein, like himself, was remembering the long period when Bakhara’s largest province had been ruled by a ruthless, decadent and utterly unscrupulous tribal leader. A man who’d tried many years before to increase his prestige by backing a coup to unseat Hussein.