The Desert Sheikh's Defiant Queen. Jane Porter

Jamila and Aman all the time.”

      “The three of you practically grew up together.”

      She dug her nails into her palms, her throat aching with suppressed emotion. “Your parents blamed me for the accident, though.”

      “My father never did. He knew you weren’t even at the wheel.”

      “But your mother …”

      “My mother has found it difficult to accept that her only daughters are gone. But that’s not your responsibility.”

      Jesslyn nodded and yet his words did little to ease her pain. The day of the funeral she wrote a long letter to King and Queen Fehr telling them how much she’d loved their daughters and how much she would miss them. The letter was never acknowledged.

      A week after the funeral Jesslyn received a call from one of the queen’s staff telling her she had to be out of the Mayfair house by the weekend because the house was being sold.

      It was a scramble finding a new place to live on such short notice, but she did find a tiny studio flat in Notting Hill. Just days after moving into the new flat she collapsed. Apparently, she’d been bleeding internally ever since the accident.

      The upside was they stopped the bleeding and did what they could to repair the damage.

      The downside was that they warned her the scar tissue would probably make it impossible for her to ever have kids.

      And then in the middle of so much sadness and darkness and loss, flowers appeared on her Notting Hill doorstep, white tulips and delicate purple orchids, with a card that said, “You can call me anytime. Sharif.”

      Sharif had scribbled his number on the card. She tried not to call. He was Prince Fehr, the eldest of the beautiful royal Fehr clan, the one Jamila and Aman had said would eventually inherit the throne.

      But he’d also been kind to her, and he’d been the one to break the news to her that Aman had died.

      Jesslyn called him. They talked for hours. Two days later he called her, inviting her out to dinner.

      Sharif took her to a little Italian restaurant, one of those rustic hole-in-the-wall places with great food and friendly service. Jesslyn thought it was fantastic. Dinner was fantastic because it was so normal, so comfortable, with Sharif putting her immediately at ease. That night they talked about Jamila and Aman, they talked about Greece, they talked about the unseasonably cold weather they were having for late August, and at the end of the evening when he dropped her off, she knew she’d see him again.

      She did see him again, she saw lots of him despite the fact that he was this famous rich gorgeous prince and she was, well, she was very much a nice, middle-class girl. But they enjoyed each other too much to think about their differences, so they just kept seeing each, never looking back, never looking forward. Not for two and a half years. Not until his mother found him a more suitable woman, a princess from Dubai.

      “There are few people in this world like your sisters,” Jesslyn said, her voice husky. “They were just so much fun, and so good humored.” She tried to smile, but tears filled her eyes. “They knew how to live. They embraced it, you know?”

      “I do know,” he said as the hum of the jet changed and the nose dipped down. “Check your seat belt,” he added gruffly. “We’ll be on the ground soon.”

      A fleet of black Mercedeses waited at the airport, all in a line on the tarmac, not far from where the jet had parked.

      In less than three minutes they disembarked, settled into the cars and were off, exiting the small private terminal reserved for the royal family’s use and heading through the city streets to the palace.

      Jesslyn already knew that Sarq was ninety percent Muslim and yet as they drove through the streets Jesslyn saw relatively few women wearing the veil, apart from a few still wrapped in white robes, and although she’d lived in the Emirates for the past six years, she was still surprised by how relaxed everything seemed, the people on the streets appearing open and friendly.

      “It feels like everyone’s on holiday here,” she said, as the car idled at a traffic light waiting for it to turn.

      “People say Sarq is becoming the southern Mediterranean’s Costa del Sol.”

      “Is that good or bad?” she asked, watching a cluster of girls cross the street linked arm in arm.

      “It depends on who you talk to. In the past ten years a rather staggering number of beach resorts—inexpensive as well as deluxe properties—have opened along the coast. Some welcome the growth with open arms—my brother Zayed— for one, while others, like my nomadic brother Khalid, want to ban further development.”

      “What do you think?”

      “I’m in between. Economic stability enables Sarq to remain free and independent of any other country, and yet growth has a price. While the developing tourism industry has strengthened our economy, the environment’s paid a stiff price with the destruction of sand dunes and the troubling disappearance of wildlife.”

      “You sound like you lean toward wildlife conservation,” she said.

      “I have to. My father didn’t consider the impact development would have on our country’s natural resources, and now I’m forced to deal with the consequences.”

      The car turned down a long drive marked by high stuccoed walls, lush, towering palm trees and flowering citrus trees beneath.

      “We are here,” Sharif added as the Mercedes sedan slowed before immense wood and iron gates and the ten-foot-tall gates smoothly swung open.

      Jesslyn craned her head to get her first look at the palace, a place she’d heard so much about from Jamila and Aman.

      The girls had called the palace “heaven” and “paradise.” They’d said it was like a jewel in the most beautiful garden ever, and indeed, as the car turned round a corner, she spotted a sprawling pink building, the palace a compound of one-story stuccoed villas draped with trailing purple, pink and peach bougainvillea.

      Elaborately carved columns and miniature domes marked the entrance, and Jesslyn knew from her friends’ description that inside were elaborate courtyards filled with fountains, dwarf palms and date palms and flowers.

      White-robed and uniformed staff appeared in the entrance, greeting Sharif and welcoming the king home.

      Sharif introduced Jesslyn, explaining that the teacher would be with them for the summer and he wanted everyone to make sure she lacked for nothing.

      While Sharif communicated his wishes, Jesslyn surreptitiously glanced around. The palace’s cool, crisp interior contrasted with the soft pastel hues of the exterior. The walls inside were white, the high ceilings painted blue and gold, huge carved wood columns soared up to support the elaborate ceilings forming cool narrow columned corridors and intimate seating areas.

      Introductions finished, the staff dispersed and Sharif offered to take her on a minitour while they waited for his children to return.

      “Where are they now?”

      “Out for an afternoon excursion,” he answered, “but they’ll be back soon for tea.”

      Sharif’s pride was tangible as he pointed out some of the rare works of art housed within the palace walls—paintings, sculptures, armor, weapons and more. Jesslyn was awed by the history of the collection, sculptures dating back to Greco-Roman civilization, a flawless mosaic from the tomb of a Byzantine king, an enormous scarlet rug that could be traced to the Ottoman Empire.

      “And this has always been here?” she asked.

      “For generations.” He smiled faintly. “Some people go to museums to see priceless artifacts. I grew up with them, am still surrounded by them.”

      They’d reached the end of a long arched corridor, the stone floor patterned with sunlight shining through the dozen square windows