The Desert King's Pregnant Bride. Annie West

her height, tall enough to top his shoulder, there was a fragile air about this woman. Her shadowed eyes were huge in that milky pale face. Her bowed neck as she’d hunched over in the road was long and slender and delicate.

      She hadn’t been at tonight’s dinner of luminaries who’d turned out to meet the heir to the throne of Shajehar. Khalid would have noticed.

      He flicked a glance at her, huddled beneath the tartan rug, her eyes closed and her head lolling against the seat. She looked weak and defenceless, but she must have a core of gritty strength to head out in this weather on foot. The woman was an intriguing mix that triggered his curiosity. That hadn’t happened in a long time.

      He felt a spurt of satisfaction that tonight, for once, he was without his entourage of security aides and obsequious hosts. He could indulge his curiosity, follow his instincts. Given the tight perimeter security on the vast estate, he’d won the argument that he was safe alone within its boundaries. Perhaps his security chief had realised too that it would be wise to give him space.

      For six weeks Khalid had dutifully toured his half-brother’s royal holdings in Europe, the Americas and Australia. But he didn’t share Faruq’s enjoyment of pomp and luxury. As heir to his terminally ill half-brother, Khalid had recently acquired a huge security retinue. Its size was due to Faruq’s love of ostentation rather than any threat. Plus he had a schedule full of social engagements.

      Social engagements! His time would be better spent supervising his latest project, a fresh water pipeline from the mountains in remote Shajehar. At least that would bring tangible benefits to his people.

      Lights shone ahead in the streaming darkness and the tension eased across his shoulders and arms. Once he got her inside, in the light and warmth, he could assess her injuries, call a doctor if need be.

      He bypassed the garages and drove round to the private owner’s wing of the sprawling homestead.

      ‘Here we are.’ He leaned across to shake her awake. She was limp beneath his hand. Frowning, he paused only a moment before touching her pale cheek. It was icy.

      ‘Maggie! Wake up.’

      That voice again. The crisp warm voice with its tantalising hint of a lilt. She smiled to herself as she pictured an exotic prince in flowing robes, a gleaming scimitar in his hand.

      ‘Maggie!’

      She shrugged off a hand that threatened to interrupt her lovely dream. In her mind her prince smiled and tugged her to him. Eyes brighter than gems gleamed down at her and her breath caught. He slipped his hand beneath her legs and lifted her in his embrace, his arms like cushioned steel.

      She’d never felt so safe, so secure, so full of anticipation. Those black eyes were shadowed with the promise of unknown delight, his narrow lips curving in a knowing, sensuous smile that made her long for his kiss.

      The steady drum of his heartbeat pulsed against her and his arms rocked her close as he strode over the warm sand. Soon now they’d—

      Maggie’s brows pleated as hard drops of water beat against her face. Did it rain in the desert?

      Instinctively, she turned her head, snuggling closer to his warm, solid body, filling her nostrils with the evocative scent of man. But her frown grew as she discovered he was wet, his clothes sodden.

      She opened her eyes and found herself in a man’s arms as he strode through a howling rainstorm. Her startled gasp was torn away by the wind.

      Carriage lights shone along the veranda of a classic-style colonial homestead. Warm light gleamed through a massive fanlight window above the door. Suddenly everything clicked into place. Marcus, the long walk home, the exotic stranger. They were at Tallawanta House.

      ‘You can put me down.’ Maggie tried to lever herself up and out of his hold but she could get no purchase.

      ‘We’re almost there.’ He stepped under cover and the needling rain on her skin ceased abruptly.

      Wordlessly he pushed open the front door, pulling her closer. Muffled against his chest, she was assailed again by that yearning. To stay here against him, his body warming hers. To discover more about the inexplicable excitement that shivered through her blood when he held her like this.

      She squeezed her eyes shut. This was no fantasy. This was real. Yet she felt oddly relaxed, almost floating. A yawn seized her and her head lolled against his shoulder.

      Khalid. That was his name. She loved the sound of it. Her lips moved as she traced its syllables.

      A moment later his grip changed, strong arms holding her flush against him as he lowered her legs. She slid down a hard torso till her feet reached the floor. Yet it was his unyielding embrace that kept her upright.

      ‘Now,’ murmured that seductively low voice, ‘it’s time to get your clothes off.’

      ‘What?’ Her eyes snapped open, instantly arresting him. In the bright light he found they were the colour of rich honey sprinkled with green fire. Mesmerising.

      Unsteady hands shoved at his chest, fending him off.

      Khalid’s lips firmed as he watched her battle to remain upright. Had someone taken advantage of her tonight? The idea sent heat roaring through his blood.

      ‘You need to get your wet clothes off.’

      ‘Not with you watching!’ Pink tinted her cheeks, fascinating him, highlighting a spattering of light freckles. A woman who still knew how to blush. When was the last time he’d come across one of that rare breed?

      ‘I simply want to make sure you don’t get hypothermia. I’m not interested in your body.’

      The blush intensified to a deep rose hue and her gaze slanted swiftly away from his. Her teeth sank into her pale bottom lip. She was embarrassed.

      ‘I can look after myself. I don’t need your help,’ she mumbled.

      Didn’t she? His curiosity was roused, and his concern. And, damn it, his time was his own, for tonight at least.

      Khalid had always believed in two things. Following his instinct and his duty. Years ago, in the darkest days of grief after Shahina’s death, only duty had kept him going. Embracing his responsibility to his people had given him purpose and strength when he’d wanted to shun the world and mourn his wife, the only woman he’d ever love.

      Now both instinct and duty dictated he remain.

      And something else. Something about Maggie Lewis that reached out to him in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time. The realisation fascinated and appalled him.

      ‘So I should have left you out in the storm?’

      ‘I didn’t mean that. I appreciate the lift.’ Her widening gaze roved the massive bathroom as if she’d never seen marble tiles before. ‘It would have been easier to take me home.’

      Her words were still slurred. But her eyes were clear and bright, the pupils normal. He guessed it was hypothermia, not drugs or drink, affecting her speech.

      He released his hold slowly, looking to ensure she could stand alone. Then he shrugged out of his dinner jacket and draped it over the edge of the spa bath.

      Maggie watched his swift, economical movements as he turned and took off his jacket. The frame of his spectacular shoulders, the impressive V of his torso, the classic male form of powerful chest and narrow waist. The wet shirt clung lovingly to every inch of his skin, and her mouth dried, absorbing all that physical perfection.

      Fiery heat burned her face as embarrassment sizzled under her skin. Of course he wasn’t interested in seeing her naked! She’d always been gawky and unattractive. A wave of anger and humiliation broke over her, threatening to tug her down into a tide of self-pity.

      Rapidly she blinked. She’d known for years she wasn’t the sort of girl men desired. Tonight had only just confirmed…no, she refused to go there. The memory was too raw,