The Desert King's Housekeeper Bride. Carol Marinelli

flapping leading it to the study, where it banged hopelessly against the glass doors.

      Anya shooed the staff away, and told Zafir to quietly sit and observe while she addressed her eldest son.

      ‘When trouble flies in, when people are running and shouting, you, Zakari, must stop the chaos with calm. Do not give in to the first response that comes to mind—do not run and chase along with the crowd. As a king, you must sit a while and observe. See how the palace that is so big to us is tiny and confining to him—see how he struggles to be free, but soon he will give in.’ So they sat and waited till the tiny bird had found its resting place behind some books and slowly Anya parted them.

      ‘He is there, Zakari. He is scared and petrified of you, yet he is still, so now you can help him.’

      The bird was weightless in his thirteen-year-old palm. The ugly grey bird, when he looked closer, was actually many shades of silver, and as he held its terrified body he could feel its helpless fear, the flutter of its tiny heart in his hand.

      He took it to the garden, placed it beneath a tree and watched for twenty minutes as it sat stunned, and then it flew.

      Zakari could feel her pulse beneath his fingers, fluttering just as the bird had, and though she was still, though Effie was outwardly unruffled, he knew she was terrified, could feel now the beats of her excitement—and suddenly Zakari wanted her to soar.

      He felt the cool space as she reclaimed her hand and turned and smiled, her voice friendly and even, as with calm demeanour she denied what they both knew.

      ‘I will prepare some refreshments.’

      Her face was on fire as she fled into the kitchen area. Her wrist felt as if it had been scalded where Zakari had touched her and she was tempted to run it under cool water, only that wouldn’t soothe the dangerous heat elsewhere…

      The vast tent seemed tiny now, as if it were under a magnifying glass, as if the heat of the sun were concentrated on this one minute scrap of the desert.

      Effie wanted her old job back. Wanted the familiar palace walls, her usual routines and the anonymity they brought. Wanted to be back where a maid wouldn’t hold the spotlight of the king’s gaze.

      The desert played tricks on one’s mind, Effie told herself, loading the tray as she willed herself calm—made you see things that weren’t there …caused mirages to appear. That was what had just occurred, she insisted to herself as she carried the heavy tray through. Zakari hadn’t been looking at her in that way.

      Sheikh King Zakari Al’Farisi would never look at her with want in his eyes.

      It was entirely irrelevant that she wanted him.

      Kneeling down, she poured iced mint tea. Christobel’s uniform on her was clearly way too small, the fabric straining over her curves, the top button impossible to do up, and as she bent forward she gave him a brief glimpse of her cleavage. Zakari’s jaw tightened as he saw a flash of a chain around her neck, the weight of its pendant dragging it down, clasping it between her creamy breasts, and he wished his finger were that lucky stone, nestled in that sweet warmth, or his tongue, Zakari thought, flaring with lust. He was tempted to put his hand out, to stroke the back of her neck, to capture her cheek in his palm, only he knew then what her reaction would be…