The Desert King's Secret Heir. Annie West

a hand over his face.

      Did he want the scandal of an illegitimate child? A child whose first, vital years he’d missed?

      He’d have to be crazy.

      His phone was in his hand before he realised. He called Hamid’s number and looked up, surprised, to see the sun still streaming through the high sash windows. It felt as if time had galloped since Ashar had entered the room.

      No answer from Hamid, just the message bank. It took far too long for Idris to remember his cousin mentioning an early flight to an academic conference in Canada. He was probably in the air, absorbed in one of his beloved journal articles.

      Idris swung around to Ashar. ‘Anything else?’

      Ashar’s lips twitched in what might in another man have edged towards a smile. ‘That’s not enough?’

      ‘More than enough.’ Scandal in London and no doubt at home, as well as in Ghizlan’s country. A betrothal contract about to be signed, a peace treaty on the table and a child who might be his.

      And, simmering beneath it all, the taste he hadn’t been able to banish from his memory. The sweet taste of Arden Wills, sabotaging his ability to concentrate.

      ‘Get me the Princess’s suite on the line. And send a security detail to my cousin’s house.’

      ‘To keep the press back? They’ll already be there in droves.’

      ‘To observe and report back. I want to know what’s going on.’

      Whether the child was his cousin’s or his own, Idris had a responsibility to protect mother and child from the notoriously intrusive paparazzi. At least till he sorted out the truth.

      ‘And find out what time my cousin’s flight touches down in Canada. I want to talk to him as soon as he lands. Get someone to meet the flight.’

      * * *

      Arden ignored the pounding on the front door, turning up the television so Dawud could hear the music of his favourite children’s programme. He sat enthralled, bouncing while he clapped his hands in time with the music.

      When the reporters had descended on the house he’d cried, awakened from his nap by the hubbub of voices and the constant noise of the phone and knocking at the front door. Arden felt wobbly with frustrated outrage because even now they hadn’t left.

      She’d been more than reasonable. She’d gone to the door and asked politely for some privacy. She’d given a ‘no comment’ response to their frenzy of questions and faced their clicking cameras, giving them the pictures they wanted.

      But it hadn’t been enough. They’d clamoured to see Dawud. They’d even known his name. That was when anger had turned ice-cold, freezing her from the inside out.

      She wouldn’t let those vultures near her precious boy. They’d mobbed her, trying to follow her into her basement flat. Terror had grabbed her as she slammed the door shut, her hands slick with sweat.

      She’d turned to find Dawud watching, eyes huge and bottom lip trembling, as the noise echoed through their little home.

      There had to be a way out of this. Somewhere to escape. But Hamid was overseas and her friends had no more resources than she did. Certainly not enough to spirit her and Dawud away.

      A shudder racked her. She needed to find somewhere safe till this died down. How she was going to do that when she was due at work tomorrow she had no idea. Would the reporters hound her at the shop, or mob Dawud’s nursery?

      Probably both. Her stomach roiled and nausea stirred.

      She’d known she shouldn’t have gone to that embassy reception. Not because she’d suspected for a moment she’d see Shakil... Idris as he now was. But because it was pure weakness to give in to her curiosity about his country. Look where it had got her.

      It’s not your fault, it’s his. He was the one who kissed you. He was the one who wouldn’t leave.

      Yet, if she were truthful, those moments in his arms had been magic, as if—

      A sharp knock sounded on the front door. That was when Arden suddenly realised how quiet it had grown. As if the crowd of reporters had left.

      She didn’t believe it for an instant. It was a trick to lure her out, preferably with Dawud.

      Arden smiled at her son as he looked up at her, singing the simple lyrics they often sang together. She hunkered down and cuddled him, joining in.

      But the rapping on the door started again. Peremptory. Unavoidable.

      Kissing Dawud’s head, she got up and walked softly into the tiny entrance hall, closing the door behind her. The letter box flap opened. She hadn’t thought of that. She was just wondering what she could use to stick it closed when she heard a man’s voice. A deep, assured voice that had featured in her dreams far too often in the last four years.

      ‘Arden. Open the door. I’m here to help.’

      Her feet glued to the floor. She was torn between the offer of help and the knowledge that this was the man who’d brought disaster crashing down on them.

      And the fact that, despite a sleepless night, she was no closer to knowing if she wanted him in Dawud’s life.

      As if you’ve got a choice now.

      In the background she heard a rising murmur of voices, presumably from the paparazzi. Yet he didn’t speak again. Perhaps because he was used to minions running to obey his every whim. Yet she understood how much courage it took to stand there alone, with a mob of press recording his every move.

      And he’d come to help.

      She reached out and unlatched the door, staying behind it as she swung it open just wide enough for him to enter.

      Swiftly he bolted the door then turned.

      Idris. He was definitely Sheikh Idris now. There was no hint of Shakil, the laughing, passionate lover she’d known in Santorini. This man’s face was a symphony in sombre beauty, lines carving the corners of his mouth, ebony eyebrows straight and serious.

      ‘You’re all right? Both of you?’

      Arden nodded. To her dismay her mouth crumpled. Until now she’d been buoyed by fury and indignation. But one hint of concern and she felt a great shudder pass through her. She hadn’t realised before how her anger had masked terror.

      ‘Arden.’ He reached out as if to take her arm then stopped. His mouth flattened and he dropped his hand.

      ‘We’re okay.’ Her voice was husky. She told herself she’d react this way to sympathy from anyone after facing the press onslaught. It had nothing to do with the concern in his dark eyes. Yet that look ignited a new warmth in her frozen body.

      Finally her brain engaged and she frowned.

      ‘You shouldn’t have come. You’ve made it a hundred times worse. What were you thinking?’

      His eyebrows rose in astonishment. Clearly he wasn’t used to anyone questioning his actions.

      ‘It can’t get any worse. Not after the photos they’ve already got.’ He folded his arms over his dark suit, for all the world like a corporate raider contemplating a run on his stocks, not a Middle Eastern potentate. Surely sheikhs wore long robes and headscarves?

      ‘But now they’ve seen you here they’ll think—’

      ‘They already know.’ His tone was so grim it made the tiny hairs at her nape stand up. ‘In fact—’ he paused, his voice dropping to a silky, dangerous note that made her think of an unexploded bomb ‘—some would say they know more than I do.’

      Arden wanted to say the press didn’t know anything. They assumed. But it was splitting hairs.

      ‘Couldn’t you have sent someone instead?’ She crossed her arms tight across her chest,