Desert Justice. Valerie Parv

      “Can’t you simply take no for an answer?” Simone snapped.

      He lifted their joined hands. “Not when you tremble like this.”

      Her hand wasn’t the only part of her quaking with pleasure. She was glad Markaz didn’t know the full extent of his effect on her. “Read my lips. I don’t want—”

      Before she could complete the sentence, his mouth crushed hers. As he deepened the kiss, the last of her resistance vanished. He felt the change when she stopped trying to free her hand and curled her fingers tighter around his.

      He lifted his head, his eyes flaming. “You were going to tell me something.”

      She shook her head, her expression dazed. “I was, but it’s gone now.”

      He trailed kisses along the line of her jaw, her shivers of pleasure echoing his own tremors as she arched against him. “Good. For now I want you to think only of me.”

      The gaze she directed at him was troubled. “And later?”

      “There is no later, only now.”

      Dear Reader,

      When I was a little girl, my family moved to Australia from England. My adopted country had different customs, accents, a different social structure and a landscape alien to anything I’d known, vast and untamed, the earth red where I’d only known green. Much as I loved (and still do) this wonderful frontier country, adapting was a challenge. Now I wouldn’t live anywhere else, and have explored Australia from coast to coast with my husband, a former crocodile hunter, making fascinating discoveries at every turn.

      This may explain why my heroines often find themselves in unusual settings or situations where they also have to sink or swim. Invariably, they swim, with a gorgeous man right alongside. In this book, I wanted to create a desert warrior worthy of a headstrong, capable Aussie heroine. His kingdom also had to be something special to equal her homeland. I hope you find both as enticing as she does.

      Best,

      Valerie

      Desert Justice

      Valerie Parv

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      VALERIE PARV

      With twenty million copies of her books sold, including three Waldenbooks bestsellers, it’s no wonder Valerie Parv is known as Australia’s queen of romance and is the recognized media spokesperson for all things romantic. Valerie is married to her own romantic hero, Paul, a former crocodile hunter in Australia’s tropical north.

      These days he’s a cartoonist and the two live in the country’s capital city of Canberra, where both are volunteer zoo guides, sharing their love of animals with visitors from all over the world. Valerie continues to write her page-turning novels because they affirm her belief in love and happy endings. As she says, “Love gives you wings, romance helps you fly.” Keep up with Valerie’s latest releases at www.silromanceauthors.com.

      To Drew, with thanks for his generosity, and to my agent, Linda Tate, for her patience and belief in this story.

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Epilogue

      Chapter 1

      From his hiding place among the ruins of the ancient castle known as Al-Qasr, the business-suited man studied the foreign tourist through powerful binoculars. He was almost disappointed to find that she wasn’t the one he’d come to kill.

      As she spoke boldly to a male guard, the watcher’s lip curled in distaste. When he ruled Nazaar, such wanton behavior would be punished. Female beauty like hers would be hidden from men’s eyes, saving them from the sinful lust he felt stirring in his loins.

      Should he kill this woman, too, as an example to all temptresses? He touched the vial of poison in his pocket. There was enough for her as well as his intended target. Why not start as he meant to go on?

      Simone Hayes felt her heartbeat quicken as she saw the motorcade arrive at Al-Qasr. As she’d hoped, the fleet of Rolls Royce cars pulled up close to where a silk cordon separated the tourists from the royal party. Unlike the expectant crowd around her, she wasn’t waiting for a glimpse of His Royal Highness Sheikh Markaz bin Kemal al Nazaari, hereditary monarch of Nazaar.

      Nevertheless, her gaze was attracted by a pennant bearing the royal coat of arms fluttering from the lead car. Then the sheikh himself emerged from the vehicle. Unlike most of his entourage, Markaz al Nazaari had no beard to reduce the impact of a strong, unyielding profile that would have looked at home on a Roman coin. His upright bearing and assured movements suggested an enviable ease with who and what he was. Simone didn’t need to be any closer to feel the air of absolute authority he projected.

      Applause followed him as he was welcomed by the director of the Al-Qasr, an ancient fortress complex in the desert, now a popular tourist attraction. In contrast to the intense light, everything about the sheikh looked dark, from the glimpse of night-dark hair and brows visible under his traditional headdress, to his burnished olive skin. She couldn’t see his eyes as he approached the receiving line, but she would bet they were dark, too. He looked about as relaxed as a trap waiting to be sprung, she thought with uncharacteristic fancy.

      Out of professional interest, she itched to get a better look at the mishlah he wore over his white dishdasha. The mishlah, a transparent black surcoat with exquisitely embroidered gold edges, was only worn by royals, sheikhs and potentates. On his head was the haik, a long stream of white cloth held in place by an i’qal, a black band threaded with gold.

      Taller than the men around him with the exception of a giant who stayed glued to his boss’s side, the sheikh looked exactly how Simone had imagined a prince of the desert should look.

      She had to make an effort to switch her attention to the guards and attendants surrounding the sheikh. Could her father’s half brother be among them, as her inquiries had led her to hope?

      Unfortunately, every one of the sheikh’s party wore impeccable—and identical—white dishdashas, the traditional neck-to-ankle male garment in Nazaar. Only their roving eyes and the tiny black earpieces linked to wires disappearing inside their clothing distinguished them from the other Nazaari men she’d seen when she explored the ancient site earlier.

      The man she sought had a distinctive tattoo of a coiled snake around his right wrist, but the sleeves of their dishdashas fell over the men’s hands. How was she supposed to get a look at their wrists?

      She hadn’t expected to be so distracted by the sheikh that he and several members of his party were inside the main building by the time she snapped out of her reverie. Now what was she going to do? She’d already been told that no visitors were allowed inside while the sheikh inspected some recently completed restoration work on the famous tourist attraction. She would have to try again to spot her half uncle when the