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

brother to the old King and leader of a significant clan he’d been too powerful as it was—too dangerous. Having him rule the whole nation would have been like letting a wolf in amongst lambs.

      A heart attack, Kareef had said.

      No wonder. Their father had liked to indulge himself and hadn’t limited himself to one vice.

      Tahir approached the gaming table. He saw his barely touched champagne and the two women waiting for him, both undoubtedly eager to give him whatever he desired tonight.

      His lips curled. Perhaps he was more like the old man than he realised.

      ‘Tahir!’ Elisabeth’s voice was a shriek of delight. ‘You’ll never believe it. You won! Again! It’s unbelievable.’

      The babbling crowd hushed. Every eye was on him, as if he’d done something miraculous.

      Before him, piled high, were his winnings. Far larger than before. The croupier looked pale and rigidly composed.

      Eager feminine hands reached for Tahir as his companions sidled close. Their eyes were bright with avarice and excitement.

      Tahir slid some of the most valuable chips to the croupier. ‘For you.’

      ‘Merci, monsieur.’ He grinned as he scooped his newfound wealth safely into his hand.

      Tahir lifted his glass, took a long swallow and let the bubbles cascade from the back of his tongue down his throat.

      The wine’s effervescence seeped into him. He felt buoyant, almost happy. For once fate had played things right. Kareef would be the best King Qusay had known.

      He put the glass down with a click and turned away.

      ‘Goodnight, Elisabeth, Natasha. I’m afraid I have business elsewhere.’

      He’d taken but a few steps when the babble of voices stopped him.

      ‘Wait! Your winnings! You’ve forgotten them.’

      Tahir turned to face a sea of staring faces.

      ‘Keep them. Share them amongst yourselves.’

      Without a backward glance he strode to the entrance, oblivious to the uproar behind him.

      The doorman thrust open the massive doors and Tahir emerged into the fresh night air. He breathed deep, filling his lungs for the first time, it seemed, in recent memory.

      A hint of a smile played on his lips as he loped down the stairs.

      He had a coronation to attend.

      Tahir skimmed low over the dunes of Qusay’s great interior desert.

      Alone at the helicopter’s controls, he put the effervescence in his blood down to the freedom of complete solitude. No hangers-on. No business minions seeking direction. No women with wide eyes and grasping hands. Not even paparazzi waiting to report his next outrageous affair.

      Perhaps the barren glory of the desert had lifted his spirits? He even, for this moment, put from his mind what awaited him in Qusay.

       His family. His past.

      Yet he’d visited deserts in the last eleven years. From North Africa to Australia and South America, motor-racing, hang-gliding, base-jumping—always searching for new extreme ways to risk his neck.

      Finally he recognised his mood was because he flew over the place he’d called home for the first eighteen years of his life. The place he’d never expected to see again.

      But this realisation came as an almighty gust buffeted the chopper, slewing it sideways. Tahir grappled with the controls, swinging the helicopter high above the dunes.

      The sight that met him sent adrenalin pumping through his body. The growing darkness filling the sky wasn’t an early dusk, as he’d thought.

      If he’d been flying by the book he’d have noticed the warning signs sooner. Instead he’d been skylarking, swooping dangerously low, gambling on his ability to read the topography of a place that changed with every wind.

      This was the mother of all sandstorms. The sort that claimed livestock, altered watercourses and buried roads. The sort that could whip up a helicopter like a toy, whirl it round and smash it into fragments.

      No chance to outrun it. No time to land safely.

      Nevertheless, Tahir battled to steer the bucking chopper away from the massive storm. Automatically he switched into crisis mode, sending out a mayday, knowing already it was too late.

      Calmness stole over him. He was going to die.

      The prodigal had returned to his just deserts.

      He wasn’t dead.

      Fate obviously had something far worse in store. Dehydration in the heat. Or, going by the pain racking him, death from his wounds.

      The preposterous luck that had seen him win several fortunes at the gaming table had finally abandoned him.

      Tahir debated whether to open his eyes or lie there, seeking the luxurious darkness of unconsciousness again. Yet the throbbing pain in his head and chest was impossible to ignore.

      Even opening his eyes hurt. Light pierced his retinas through sand-encrusted lashes. It dazzled him and he groaned, tasting heat and dust and the metallic saltiness of blood. His hands and face felt raw from exposure to whipping sand.

      He had a vague recollection of sitting, blinded by dust and strapped in a seat, hearing the unearthly yowl of wind and lashing sand. Then the smell of petrol, so strong he’d fought free of both seatbelt and twisted metal, stumbling as far as he could.

      Then nothing.

      Overhead the pure blue of a cerulean sky mocked him.

      He was alive. In the desert. Alone.

      Tahir passed out three times before he dragged himself to a sitting position, sweating and trembling and feeling more dead than alive. His brain was scrambled, wandering into nothingness and then jerking back to the present with hideous clarity.

      He sat with his back against a sandbank, legs stretched out, and tried to ignore the brain-numbing pain that was the back of his skull in contact with sand.

      He was drifting into unconsciousness when something jerked him awake. A rough caress on his hand. Gingerly he tilted his head.

      ‘You’re a mirage,’ he whispered, but the words wouldn’t emerge from his constricted throat.

      The animal sensed his attention. It stared back, its horizontal pupils dark against golden-brown irises. It shook its head and a cloud of dust rose from its shaggy coat.

      ‘Mmmmah.’

      ‘Mirages don’t talk,’ Tahir murmured. They didn’t lick either. But this one did, its tongue tickling. He shut his eyes, but when he opened them the goat was still there. A kid, too small to be without its mother.

       Hell. He couldn’t even die in peace.

      The goat butted his hip, and Tahir realised his jacket pocket had something in it. Slowly, so as not to black out from the pain, he slipped his hand in and found a water bottle.

      A muzzy memory rose, of him grabbing bottled water as he stumbled from the wreckage. How had he forgotten that?

      It took for ever to pull the bottle out, twist off the lid and lift it to his lips. The hardest thing he’d ever done was drag it away after one sip.

      Guzzling too much was dangerous. He risked another sip then lowered his hand. It felt like a dead weight.

      Something nudged him and he opened his eyes to see the goat curled up close. In the whole vast expanse of desert the beast had chosen this place to shelter.

      Gritting his teeth as he brought his left hand over his body, Tahir poured water into his palm.

      ‘Here