The Desert King's Bejewelled Bride. Sabrina Philips

      ‘I’m afraid we’re closed for today.’

      Tamara jumped at the discovery that she was not alone and swung round instantly to try to locate the origin of the deep voice that had seemed to come out of nowhere.

      Leaning nonchalantly at the doorway was a man unlike any other she had seen before—and not just because of his Eastern dress. A man who stood as if not only she, but the whole world had turned to him. Who took her breath away and replaced it with heat and excitement.

      ‘I’m sorry it’s just—’ she turned back to the case guiltily ‘—it’s so beautiful I couldn’t help but look.’

      His dark eyes narrowed. ‘They tend to have that effect— people not being able to help themselves. Which is why we only ever display a replica.’

      Tamara looked puzzled for a moment. ‘Actually, I was talking about the photograph.’ His eyes widened, as if she had surprised him. ‘It’s a fascinating display. It must be a pleasure to work here.’

      A look of amusement crossed his lips and she saw his expression visibly soften. ‘Indeed. And no doubt there will be time for you to continue your appraisal tomorrow, Miss Weston. In the meantime, let me show you where you will be staying.’ He inclined his head towards the door. ‘Your father sends his apologies that he is not here to meet you in person. He is still in a conference—on Qwasirian security.’ He raised his eyebrow ironically.

      ‘Tamara, please,’ she offered. ‘And, as it seems you already know, I am the daughter of James Weston. It’s a pleasure to meet you…?’ Tamara raised her eyebrows inquisitively.

      ‘We have a tradition in Qwasir that guests and hosts share nothing but names until they have shared food together,’ he offered in explanation, gesturing for her to follow him, though the slight curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth belied the severity of his tone.

      ‘I had read that was so,’ Tamara said equally levelly, though mischief was dancing in her eyes, ‘but since you had already broken that tradition by surmising so much about me, I thought perhaps you were hoping I was unaware of the custom.’

      He whipped his head round in shock and Tamara instantly wondered whether her quick-wittedness had offended him. But, as she raised her head anxiously, his eyes glittered back in amused challenge.

      ‘Very well,’ he said, facing her head-on and extending his hand to her, ‘I am Kaliq Al-Zahir A’zam, and my father is King Rashid of Qwasir. Welcome to our palace.’

      The crown prince!

      Tamara felt instantly that she should drop into a reverent curtsy, but she was too overwhelmed and embarrassed to move. Of course he was royalty! Who else would be capable of giving off that aura of magnificence unlike any she had ever felt before? Though she knew that her father resided in a wing of the palace, she hadn’t anticipated that she would come into contact with the A’zam family herself. According to the books she had read, the crown prince spent most of his time studying abroad. She didn’t think he’d just be meandering round the palace where he might be mistaken for—oh, God, had she really supposed he was a museum steward?

      Tamara blushed and extended her hand quickly in return, and was almost as shocked by the bolt of electricity his touch sent through her body as by the revelation of who he was. She bowed her head. ‘It is an honour to meet you.’

      To her surprise, she thought she heard him exhale wearily, but though it took every effort, she dared not look up.

      But, to her astonishment, he lowered his head until her light blue eyes met the rich darkness of his. ‘Kaliq, please.’

      His gaze was too enthralling to hold. She turned away. ‘I am sorry. I didn’t expect… I didn’t know what to expect.’

      ‘You are not quite what I was expecting either.’

      Tamara’s eyes moved down over her pink and white gingham dress, her heart sinking. No doubt he must be used to women dropping at his feet immediately, either covered reverently in swathes of beautiful fabric, or buffered to such perfection that they resembled a female form of himself. She failed on both accounts.

      ‘You misunderstand me, Tamara,’ he said, slowing raising her hand to his lips, her eyes growing wider and her heart beating faster the closer he got. ‘I find it very rare that I am surprised by anything of late. I had forgotten what a pleasure it is.’

      It was then—as his lips touched her flesh—that Tamara suddenly raised her head and something passed between them. Something indescribable. That felt as old and unique as the treasures in that room, yet new and so much more precious.

      For in that one statement and the glance that had followed, her feelings of unworthiness, her fear at having the wrong words, the wrong clothes, of being a world away from him, disappeared on the spot. As he gazed back at her she realised that underneath all that she was just a woman and he was just a man who might long to be something other than he was as much as she did, no matter how much colour his world held to her.

      Had held to her then, Tamara corrected inwardly as she flicked on her bedside lamp. Not any more. Because, whatever she had once thought, she couldn’t have got it more wrong. And the incredible week that had followed—the hours they had spent talking about anything and everything whilst her father was working, the life-changing day when he had taken her to the new school he’d had built and made her see how misguided she had been to think of her years of education as restrictive, hearing about his studies in Europe with his best friend Leon, encouraging her hopes to do the same—none of it had been about open-mindedness or respect at all. He had made her believe that the world was her oyster, and then tried to confine her to another rock pool, just different from the one she’d started in.

      She would do well to try and remember that. Yesterday in her dressing room she ought to have known better than to allow herself to feel anything, she thought bleakly as she watched a tiny moth flit into the bulb of her bedside lamp again and again. At the very least she ought to have been capable of masking her emotions, as she did every day in front of the camera, even if she couldn’t help surrendering to them at night.

      Tamara picked up her mobile phone to check the time. Six-twenty a.m. One new message. She drew in a deep breath, her nerves on edge, but it was from Emma, Henry’s assistant. She told herself to feel relieved.

      Henry says PLEASE be on time for Prince A’zam. Good

      Luck. Emma xxx

      As she read the words, she imagined herself waiting obediently in her hallway at eleven o’clock. The thought made her grimace. Surely there was another way to see this through. A way which didn’t make her feel as if she’d already lost…

      It was not, Tamara discovered, particularly easy to book a last minute flight, nor accommodation in the middle of the desert at half past six on a Tuesday morning, but the challenge at least gave her the satisfaction of doing something rather than just sitting there, passively awaiting her fate. She felt relieved knowing that this way she could see the job through and hang on to her independence without the distraction of Kaliq’s formidable presence every time she turned around.

      With the sun still low in the sky, she wheeled her suitcase down the steps from her flat. The flat she was still renting, even though she had saved enough for a deposit. Her landlord was happy to sell it to her, but she still couldn’t bring herself to commit, even though it had plenty of good points. Like the fact it was just a short walk to the train station, which thankfully linked directly with the airport.

      But just as she turned out of the gate to begin that familiar route, she caught sight of a low-slung vehicle with tinted windows on the opposite side of the street. Despite its understated metallic black bodywork, it looked as conspicuous as a panther in the Arctic. It was large and sleek, and she knew it was not the kind of car her neighbours could even afford to hire, let alone own. Please, she prayed to herself, let Penny downstairs have finally bagged her rich boss who she was always harping on about.

      ‘Raring