The Desert Sheikh's Defiant Queen. Jane Porter

the tinkling notes of a fountain, and indeed, as they walked through an arched doorway, they came to stone stairs that led to a sunken living room from which she could see the fountain in a picture-perfect courtyard.

      “This must be where you entertain,” she said, dazzled beyond words. The living room exuded elegance and beauty and calm, every detail exquisitely thought out, from the sweet spicy perfume of antique roses, to the huge glass doors drenched in sunlight, to the low cream couches that formed comfortable conversation areas.

      “It’s actually where you’ll entertain,” he said, an enigmatic smile lighting his eyes. “This is part of your room, the most public of your quarters.”

      She walked behind one of the sofas heaped with beaded and embroidered silk cushions in mouthwatering orange, lime and dusky rose. Impulsively she leaned over to touch one tangerine-colored pillow, and it gave beneath her hand, the down-filled insert deliciously soft.

      “Oh, lovely,” she whispered, unable to hide her delight. She’d lived such a Spartan existence these past six years, and the luxury here was beyond her comprehension. “This room is fit for a princess!”

      “This was Jamila and Aman’s room.”

      Straightening, Jesslyn turned to face him. “Really?”

      He nodded.

      Pain splintered inside her as she looked at the beautiful room and the fantasy courtyard with fresh eyes. “Maybe I shouldn’t stay here.”

      “It’d be wrong for you not to stay here. My sisters loved you dearly. They’d want you here.”

      Blinking back tears, she drew a quick breath and ran a light hand over the tangerine pillow. “As long as it won’t offend anyone. I don’t want to offend anyone—”

      “No one will be offended.”

      “If you’re sure …?”

      “You doubt me?”

      She didn’t know if she should laugh or cry and she did both, smiling unsteadily as she dashed away a tear. “I’m not normally this emotional and yet ever since yesterday I’ve been a disaster.”

      “It’s a shock seeing each other,” he answered.

      Her head tilted and she looked up at him, her gaze searching his face. “You feel it, too?”

      “How could I not? We were once very close. You knew me better than anyone.”

      A shiver coursed through her, a shiver of remembrance and hurt and pain. But she hadn’t known him better than anyone. His mother had known him better. His mother had known he’d choose his future, and his throne, over her.

      Over love.

      And he did.

      Chilled, she turned, rubbed her arms. “Show me where the books are. I’m ready to look at everything, plan the afternoon’s lessons.”

      “There won’t be any teaching today. Use today to meet the children and settle in.”

      A knock sounded up the stairs on the outer door. “Ah, the children,” Sharif said. “I believe they’ve arrived.”

      Instead Sharif’s personal butler stepped into view at the top of the stairs. “Your Highness, an urgent call.”

      Sharif frowned. “The children aren’t here?”

      “No, Your Highness.”

      “They should have been here over an hour ago.”

      The butler paused, head bowing further. “I believe that is the nature of the phone call.”

      Sharif’s expression didn’t outwardly change, but Jesslyn felt a whisper of tension enter the room. “If you’ll excuse me a moment,” he said to her.

      “Of course.”

      “This shouldn’t take long,” he added.

      “Don’t worry. Take as much time as you need. I can unpack.”

      “I’m sure that has already been done for you, but if you’d like to see your bedroom and ensuite bath, they are just through that door. In the meantime, I’ll send for refreshment,” he said as he started toward the stairs.

      “I’m fine, Sharif. I can wait.”

      He turned in midstep, powerful shoulders shifting, robes swirling, his brilliant gaze locking on her face. “That’s where we disagree,” he said, his voice so rich, so beautifully pitched it pierced her chest, burying deep to beat in time with her heart. “I think we’ve waited long enough.”

      She didn’t know if it was his expression or his tone of voice, but suddenly she couldn’t breathe. “For tea?”

      He paused, considered her, one eyebrow lifting. “If that makes you feel better.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      AS HE LEFT to take the call, Sharif’s thoughts lingered on Jesslyn.

      She’d always been beautiful in that haunting English-beauty sort of way. A heart-shaped face framed by loose, dark curls. Flawless skin. Warm brown eyes. Perfectly arched eyebrows.

      But there was something else different, something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on but made him look and look again.

      Beautiful yes, but more so.

      Changed.

      More reserved. Distant. Closed.

      He’d watched her face, these past few days, as they’d spoken, and she’d treated him the way everyone now treated him—supremely politely. With deference, if not respect. And it didn’t exactly bother him, but he missed the easiness between them. She’d always been the one person who had treated him like a man not a prince.

      She’d teased him, laughed at him, loved him.

      She’d loved him.

      She didn’t anymore. She hadn’t when she’d left him nine years ago. And she hadn’t when she’d begun accepting bribes from his mother.

      But that was to come later. He’d get his answers later. In the meantime he was determined to enjoy her beauty and revel in her softness and take what he could. Just as she’d once taken so freely from him.

      After Sharif left to take the call Jesslyn anxiously paced the sunny living room with Sharif’s parting words played endlessly in her head.

       I think we’ve waited long enough.

      What did he mean by that? What had they waited long enough for? And waited too long for what?

      Was he referring to the girls? Was he wishing he’d taken action to help them sooner? Or …

      Or …

      She gulped a panicked breath, fingers squeezing into nervous fists. Was he referring to something far more personal, something that had to do with them?

      Almost immediately she squelched the thought. Sharif had brought her here for his children. He wanted her for his children.

      But still her heart raced and her body felt too warm and her veins full of fear and hope and adrenaline.

      A soft musical sound in the doorway interrupted Jesslyn’s pacing and turning. She watched a young, robed woman, a woman she guessed to be in her early twenties, descend the stairs carrying a heavy tray.

      “Something for you, Teacher,” the woman said in halting English as she carried the tray laden with food and flowers and a pot of tea into the living room.

      Jesslyn felt some of her tension ease. “Thank you, that’s lovely.”

      The woman smiled shyly as she placed the heavy silver tray on one corner of the low tables next to the cream-covered sofa. “I pour?” she asked, indicating the pot of tea.