Scandal: His Majesty's Love-Child. Annie West

to fix it in his mind? Or because his memory was becoming impaired?

      His lips quirked briefly. Unfortunately his memory still functioned perfectly.

      Some things he’d never forget.

       No matter how hard he tried.

      Elisabeth. That was it. Elisabeth Karolin Roswitha, Countess von Markburg.

      Clamorous applause roused him from his thoughts. A cushioned embrace engulfed him as the Countess von Markburg almost climbed onto his lap in her excitement. Soft lips grazed his cheek, his mouth.

      ‘You’ve won again, Tahir!’ She pulled back, her eyes glittering with excitement. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’

      He moved his lips in what passed for a smile and raised his glass.

      Tahir envied her that simple rush of pleasure. How long since he’d experienced that? Gambling didn’t do it for him any more. Business coups? Sometimes. Extreme sports? At least he got an adrenalin rush when he put his neck on the line. Sex?

      He watched another woman approach. A dark-haired seductress wearing ruby drop earrings that brushed her bare shoulders and a dress that would have her locked up for indecency in a lot of countries.

      And he felt not a flicker of response.

      She stopped beside him, leaned down, giving him a view right down her dress, past unfettered breasts to her navel and beyond.

      ‘Tahir, darling. It’s been an age.’

      Her lips opened against his and her tongue slicked along the seam of his lips. But he wasn’t in the mood.

      Fatigue suddenly swamped him. Not physical tiredness, but the insidious grey nothingness that had plagued him so long.

       He was tired of life.

      Abruptly he pulled back from her hungry kiss. It was only months since they’d been together in Buenos Aires yet it felt a lifetime ago.

      ‘Elisabeth.’ He turned to the blonde still glued to his side. ‘Let me introduce Natasha Leung. Natasha, this is Elisabeth von Markburg.’

      He nodded to the waiter, who produced another champagne flute.

      ‘Ah, it’s my favourite vintage,’ Natasha purred, standing closer, so her thigh slid against his. ‘Thank you.’

      Over her shoulder Tahir caught the croupier’s expressionless gaze.

      ‘Place your bets, s’il vous plait.’

      ‘Quatorze,’ Tahir murmured.

      ‘Quatorze?’ The croupier’s impeccable reserve couldn’t hide the astonishment in his eyes. ‘Oui, monsieur.’

      ‘Fourteen again?’ Elisabeth’s voice rose shrilly. ‘But you’ll lose it all! The chances of getting the same number again are impossible.’

      Tahir shrugged and, alerted by a discreet ring tone, dragged his mobile phone from his pocket. ‘Then I’ll lose.’

      At the look of horror on her face Tahir almost smiled. Life was so simple for some.

      He looked at the phone, frowning when he didn’t recognise the number displayed. Only his lawyer and his most trusted brokers had his private number. This wasn’t one of them.

      ‘Hello?’

      ‘Tahir?’ Even after so long that voice was unmistakable. Tahir surged to his feet, dislodging both the women clinging to him.

      ‘Kareef.’

      Only something truly significant would make his eldest brother call him out of the blue and after so long. He turned his back on the table, gesturing to his companions to stay where they were. The crowd around him parted, as it always did, and he strode across the room to the privacy of a quiet corner.

      ‘This is an unexpected surprise,’ he murmured. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

      Silence. It stretched so long the back of his neck prickled.

      ‘I want you to come home.’ Kareef’s voice was as calm and familiar as it had always been.

      But the words. They were words Tahir had never thought to hear.

      ‘I don’t have a home any more. Remember?’

      A tiny part of long-dormant conscience told him he took out his old bitterness unfairly on Kareef. His brother wasn’t to blame for the disaster that was Tahir’s past.

      He clamped his mouth shut.

      ‘You do now, Tahir.’ Something in his brother’s voice sent a tingle of premonition down his spine.

      ‘Our revered father would have something to say to that.’

      ‘Our father is dead.’

      The words rolled like thunder in Tahir’s brain.

      The brute who’d ruled his people and his family so corruptly was gone for ever.

      The tyrant who’d betrayed his wife with a string of whores and mistresses. Who’d ruled his tribe by fear. Who’d thrashed Tahir time and again to within an inch of his life. Then had his thugs take over when Tahir grew old enough to defend himself against his father.

      The man who’d exiled his youngest son when he’d finally done what the old Sheikh had probably secretly wanted and overstepped the mark completely.

      Tahir had never been able to please his father, no matter how he tried. He’d spent his boyhood wondering what fault of his inspired such hatred.

      But he’d long ago given up caring.

      Tahir turned to look across the elegant room and its throng of late-night pleasure-seekers. In his mind’s eye it wasn’t the glamorous crowd he saw, the flirtatious and curious glances or the opulent display of wealth. It was Yazan Al’Ramiz’s bloodshot eyes, his bristling moustache flecked with spittle as he ranted and bellowed. The violent pounding of his clenched fists.

      Surely Tahir should feel something, anything, at the news his tyrant father was dead? Even after eleven years’ absence the news must evoke some response?

      A yawning void of darkness welled inside where once emotions had lodged.

      He supposed he should have questions.

      When? How? Wasn’t that what a child asked about a father’s death?

      ‘Still, I don’t feel a burning desire to return to Qusay.’ His tone was as blank as his mood. There was nothing for him in the land of his birth.

      ‘Damn it, Tahir. Stop playing the arrogant unfeeling bastard for a moment. I need you here. Things are complicated.’ Kareef paused. ‘I want you here.’

      Something unfamiliar roiled deep in Tahir’s belly.

      ‘What do you need?’ Kareef had always been his favourite brother. The one he’d looked up to, in the long-ago days when he’d still tried to emulate his elders and betters. ‘What’s the problem?’

      ‘No problem,’ Kareef said in a curiously strained voice. ‘But our cousin has discovered he isn’t the rightful king of Qusay. He’s stood aside and I’m to take his place on the throne.’ He paused. ‘I want you here for my coronation.’

      Tahir walked slowly to the roulette table.

      Kareef’s news was momentous. To discover their cousin had been made King in error was almost unbelievable. He was no blood relation to the old King and Queen, but had been secretly taken in by them while they grieved the death of their real son. If it had been anyone other than Kareef telling the story Tahir would have doubted the news.

      But Kareef would never make such an error. He was too careful, too responsible. He would make the perfect King for Qusay. Either of Tahir’s older brothers would.

      Thank