The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride. Annie West

here to meet him. The man she’d known as Rafiq. Who had turned out to be a royal prince, ruler of Q’aroum.

      The man she’d spent the last few days trying to forget.

      The man who’d seen her at her weakest, who’d recognised her despair and comforted her with his body and his soothing words. Who knew her vulnerability and her needs almost better than she did. Who’d read the raw, physical hunger in her eyes when she’d looked at him and had been repelled by it.

      She swallowed. Did she have any hope of avoiding this interview?

      Of course she didn’t.

      The car slid to a halt and a man in long pale robes came forward to open the door for her. Quickly she smoothed her hair, ignoring the fine tremor in her hands. She was hardly dressed for a royal interview—but then, what was new? At least this time she was dressed. She tilted her chin up, hoping bravado would overcome embarrassment.

      Rafiq al Akhtar had saved her life, and she owed him her thanks. It would be humiliating, facing him, reading the knowledge in his eyes, but it would soon be over. And then she’d never have to see him again.

      ‘Masa’a alkair, Ms Winters. Good evening. You are welcome.’ It was Dawud, the man who’d brought Duncan back to safety. He looked different, in flowing robes and a turban. She wondered if he wore his knife concealed beneath the swathed cotton.

      ‘Masa’a alkair, Dawud.’

      He smiled at her, a twist of the lips that tugged at his scar, and her tension eased fractionally.

      ‘It’s good to see you, Dawud.’

      ‘And you, Miss Winters. Please, this way.’ He gestured to the huge bossed wooden doors and ushered her inside. A pair of servants stood silent just inside the foyer.

      As she accompanied him across the wide marble floor, the enormous double doors closed with a reverberating thud behind them. The sound made her falter. It was like the slam of a cell door: final and forbidding.

      Belle straightened her shoulders, cursing her over-active imagination. She was no prisoner. This would be a short, formal audience. Nothing to panic about.

      They crossed a reception room the size of an auditorium. Thank goodness Rafiq hadn’t decided to see her here, where the elaborate raised dais with its gilt canopy would reinforce the power and pomp of his royal status. She already dreaded this interview. She didn’t need a reminder of the yawning chasm between them.

      Eventually Dawud knocked on a pair of carved doors.

      ‘Come.’

      The hair stood up on the back of Belle’s neck as she recognised Rafiq’s voice. It had haunted her dreams for three days. Sometimes its honeyed tones had lulled her with the lyrical, comforting flow of foreign words. But just as often that voice had thrilled her with its deep, masculine promise, till she woke edgy and aroused, unable to sleep again for the knowledge of her own desperate weakness.