Sheikh's Desert Desire: Carrying the Sheikh's Heir. Maisey Yates

a long morning spent in meetings with his council when Mostafa hurried into his office, a wide-eyed look on his face. The man dropped into a deep bow before rising again.

      “Speak,” Rashid said, knowing Mostafa would not do so until told.

      “Majesty, it’s the woman.”

      Rashid went still, his hand hovering over a dish of rice and chicken. He set the spoon down. The woman was such an inadequate description for Sheridan Sloane, but if he tried to point that out to Mostafa, the man would think him cracked in the head.

      “What about her, Mostafa?”

      “She has, er, broken a window. And she is asking to see you.”

      A prickle of alarm slid through him. “Is she hurt?”

      “A few small cuts.”

      Rashid was on his feet in a second. Steely anger hardened in his veins as he strode out the door and down the corridors of the palace toward the women’s quarters. He’d placed her there because it was supposed to be safe—and also because he didn’t quite know what to do with her now that he had her here. He’d sent his father’s remaining two wives to homes of their own, ostensibly in preparation for taking his own wife—or wives—but in truth he’d wanted to rid the palace of their presence.

      They were women his father had married later in life, and so they were much younger than King Zaid had been. Rashid had no idea what kind of relationship his father had had with either of them, but they made him think too often of his father’s tempestuous relationship with his own mother. Rashid would not live with women who reminded him of those dark days.

      Palace workers dropped to their knees as he passed, a giant wave of obeisance that he hardly noticed. He kept going until he reached the women’s suite and the mountainous form of Daoud, the guard he’d placed here.

      Daoud fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to the floor. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”

      “What happened?”

      Daoud looked up from the floor and Rashid made an impatient motion. The man had been with him for years now, long before Rashid became king. Daoud stood. “The woman tried to leave. I prevented her.”

      “Did you harm her?” His voice was a whip and Daoud paled.

      “No, Your Majesty. I took her by the arm, placed her inside the room and closed the door. A few minutes later, I heard the crash.”

      Rashid brushed past him and went into the room. One tall window was open to the outside. Hot air and fine grains of sand rushed inside along with the sounds of activity on the palace grounds below. Two men worked to clean up the glass that had blown across the floor.

      Sheridan sat on cushions in the middle of the room, looking small and dejected. There were a couple of small red lines on her arms and his heart clenched tight. But the ice he lived with on a daily basis didn’t fail him. It rushed in, filled all the dark corners of his soul and hardened any sympathetic feelings he may have had for her.

      Sheridan looked up then. “And the mighty king has come to call.”

      “Out,” Rashid said to the room in general. The servants who were busy picking up the glass rose and hurried out the door. A woman appeared from the direction of the bath. She dropped a small bowl and cloth on the side table and then she left, as well.

      The door behind him sealed shut. Rashid stalked toward the small woman on the cushions. Her golden-blond hair was down today. It hit him with a jolt that it was long and silky and perfectly straight. She was wearing flat white sandals with little jewels set on the bands and a light blue dress with tiny flowers on it. She did not look like a woman who might be carrying a royal baby. She looked like a misbehaving girl, fresh and pretty and filled with mischief.

      And sporting small cuts to her flesh. Cuts she’d caused, he reminded himself. She picked up the cloth and dabbed at her hand. The white fabric came away pink.

      “What did you do, Miss Sloane?”

      As if he couldn’t tell. The window was open to the heat and a silver tray lay discarded to one side. Such violence in such a small package. It astonished him.

      She wouldn’t look at him. “I admit it was childish of me, but I was angry.” Then her violet eyes lifted to his. “I don’t ordinarily act this way, I assure you. But you put me here with nothing to do and no one to talk to.”

      “And this is how you behave when you don’t get your way?”

      Her gaze didn’t waver. In fact, he thought it flickered with anger. Or maybe it was fear. That gave him pause. She had no reason to fear him. Daria would be ashamed of him for scaring this woman.

      He tried to look unperturbed. He didn’t think it was working based on the way her throat moved as he stared back at her.

      “In fact, I realize that we can’t always have our way,” she said primly. “But this is my first time as a prisoner, and I thought perhaps the rules were different. So I decided to do something about it.”

      Rashid blinked. “Prisoner?” He spread his hands to encompass the room. It was plush and comfortable and feminine. He remembered it from when he was a child, but he’d not entered these quarters in many years. They hadn’t changed much, he decided. “I’ve been in exclusive hotels that lacked accommodations this fine. You think this is a prison?”

      A small shard of guilt pricked him even as he spoke. His rooms with Kadir had been opulent, too, and he’d always thought of them as a cage from which he couldn’t wait to escape. Beautiful surroundings did not make a person happy. He knew that better than most.

      And she looked decidedly unhappy. “Even the cheapest hotels tend to have televisions. And computers, radios, telephones. There are plenty of books here, I’ll grant you that—but I can’t read them because they aren’t in English.”

      Rashid’s brows drew down. He turned and looked around the room. And realized that she was correct. There was no television, no computer, nothing but furniture and fabric and walls. When the women left, they’d taken their belongings with them. Clearly, they’d considered the electronics to be theirs, too.

      “I will have that corrected.”

      “Which part, Rashid?”

      He nearly startled at the sound of his name on her lips. He hadn’t forgotten that he’d told her she could call him by name, but he somehow hadn’t expected it here and now. Her voice was soft, her accent buttery and sweet.

      He suddenly wanted her to speak again, to say his name so he could marvel at how it sounded when she did. Deliciously foreign. Soft.

      He shoved away such ridiculous thoughts. “I will have a television installed. And a computer. Whatever you need for your comfort.”

      “But I am still a prisoner.”

      He clenched his jaw. “You are not a prisoner. You are my guest. Your every comfort is assured.”

      “And what if I want to talk to people? Have things to do besides watch television all day? I’m a businesswoman, Rashid. I don’t sit around my home and do nothing all day.”

      “I will find a companion for you.”

      She sighed heavily. And then she went back to dabbing the cuts on the back of her hand. His anger flared hot again.

      “You could have hurt yourself far worse than you did,” he growled. “Did you even consider the baby when you behaved so foolishly?”

      Her head snapped up, guilt flashing in her gaze. “I’ve already admitted it was a mistake. And yes, I considered what I was doing before I acted. But I didn’t expect the glass to shatter everywhere like that. I threw the tray from a distance, but I guess I threw it harder than I thought.”

      She’d thrown the tray. At the window. She could have been seriously hurt, the foolish woman. But she sat there looking contrite and dejected—and