Modern Romance June 2019 Books 1-4. Кейт Хьюит

she could find on Maraban and had rolled her eyes at the discovery that nobody appeared to know why her grandmother, Princess Azra, had failed to marry the current King, Tahir, as she had been expected to do. The bald truth was that Azra had run off with Stamboulas Fotakis sooner than marry a man who’d already had three wives. Presumably that story had been suppressed to conserve the monarch’s dignity. Luckily, Stam had told her everything she needed to know about his late wife’s background.

      Darkness was falling fast when the limo driver turned off the road and steered between imposingly large gates guarded by soldiers. Zoe strained to see the enormous property that lay ahead but the limo travelled slowly right on past it, threading a path through a vast complex of buildings and finally drawing up beside one. She was ushered out and indoors before she could even catch her breath and was a little disappointed to find herself standing in a contemporary house. A very large contemporary house, she conceded wryly, with aggressively gilded fancy furniture and nothing whatsoever historic about it. A female servant in a long kaftan bowed to her and showed her up a brilliantly lit staircase into an entire suite of rooms.

      Her disappointment that she wasn’t going to be living in the ancient royal palace slowly ebbed as she scanned her comfortable and well-furnished surroundings. It wasn’t ideal that none of the staff spoke her language and that she didn’t speak theirs but miming could accomplish a lot, she told herself bracingly as her companion mimicked eating to let her know that a meal was being brought. And long before she went home again, she should have picked up at least a few useful phrases to enable her to communicate more effectively, she told herself soothingly.

      A maid had already arrived to unpack her suitcases when a knock sounded on the door. Zoe made it to the door first.

      A slimly built young man and a uniformed nurse hovered outside. ‘I am Dr Wazd,’ the man told her stiffly. ‘I have been instructed to give you a vaccination shot. The nurse will assist.’

      Zoe winced because she hated needles and she was surprised because she had had all the required shots for Maraban. But then what she did know that a medical doctor would not know better? She rolled up her sleeve and then frowned as she saw the doctor’s hand on the syringe was shaking. Glancing up at him in surprise, noting the perspiration beading his brow, she wondered if he was a very newly qualified doctor to be so nervous and she was relieved when the nurse silently filched the syringe from him and gave her the injection without further ado. It stung and she gritted her teeth.

      No sooner was that done than a tray of food arrived and she sat down at the table to eat, noting that she was feeling dizzy and woolly-headed and surmising that she was already suffering the effects of jet lag. But while she was eating, she began feeling as though the world around her were slowing down and her body felt as heavy as lead. Feeling dizzy even seated, she rose to go to the bathroom and had to grip the back of a chair to balance. As she wobbled on her heels, blinking rapidly, a suffocating blackness folded in and she dropped down into it with a gasp of dismay...

      * * *

      His Royal Highness, Prince Faraj al-Basara, was in a very high-powered meeting in London dealing with his country’s oil and gas production when his private mobile thrummed a warning in his pocket. Few people had that number and it only ever rang if it was very, very important. Excusing himself immediately, Raj stepped outside, his brain awash with sudden apprehension. Had his father taken ill? Or had some other calamity occurred back home in Maraban?

      Maraban was a tiny Gulf state but it was also one of the richest countries in the world. A terrorist incident, however, would bring the home of his birth to a screeching halt because the security forces were equally tiny and these days Maraban relied on wealth and diplomacy to stay safe. When Raj thought nostalgically of home, it was always of a place of stark black and white contrasts where four-wheel-drive vehicles and helicopters startled livestock in the desert and where a conservative Middle Eastern ethos struggled to cope with the very different mores and the sheer speed of change in the modern world.

      It was eight years, however, since Raj had last visited his home because his father, the King, had removed him from his position as Crown Prince and sent him into exile for refusing to go into the army and for refusing even more vehemently to marry the bride his parent had chosen for him. No, he had not been a dutiful or obedient son, Raj acknowledged with grim self-honesty, he had been a stubborn, rebellious one and, unfortunately for him, there was no greater sin in his culture.

      That said, however, Raj had, since, moved on from that less than stellar beginning to carve his own path in the business world and there his shrewd brain, intuition and ability to spot trends had ensured meteoric success in that sphere. He had also learned how to steer Maraban into the future from beyond its borders, making allies, attracting foreign businesses and investment while constantly encouraging growth in the public infrastructure required to keep his country up to speed with the latest technology. And his reward for that tireless focus and resolve? Maraban, the home that he loved, was positively booming.

      He was pleasantly surprised when he answered his phone and recognised his cousin, Omar’s voice. Omar had pretty much been his best friend since the dark days of the military school they had both been forced to attend as adolescents, an unforgettable era of relentless bullying and abuse that Raj still winced to recall. As Crown Prince he had had a target painted on his back and his father had told the staff to turn a blind eye, believing that it would be beneficial for his only child to be toughened up in such a severe environment.

      ‘Omar...what can I do for you?’ he asked almost cheerfully, relieved of the anxiety that his elderly father had taken ill because Omar would not have been chosen as messenger for that development. That call would only have come from a member of his father’s staff. After all, his mother had died while he was still a boy. The memory made him tense for his mother had died in a manner that he would never forget: she had taken her own life. It had taken a very long time for Raj to accept that her unhappiness had surpassed her love for her nine-year-old son and he had never forgotten his sense of abandonment because, once she was gone, everything soft and loving and caring had vanished from his childish world.

      ‘I’m in a real fix, Raj, and I think you are the only person with sufficient knowledge to approach with this,’ Omar declared, his habitually upbeat voice unusually flat in tone. ‘I’ve been dragged into something I don’t want to be involved in and it’s serious. You know I’m a royalist and very loyal to my country but there are some things I can’t—’

      ‘Cut to the chase,’ Raj sliced in with a bemused frown. ‘What have you been dragged into?’

      ‘Early this morning I received a call from someone at the palace who asked if I would look after a “package” and keep it safe until further notice. And that’s the problem, Raj... I didn’t get delivered a package, I got a woman.’

      ‘A woman?’ Raj repeated in disbelief. ‘Are you joking me?’

      ‘I wish I was. All the women in the tribe are outraged and I’ve been thrown out of my tent to accommodate her,’ Omar lamented. ‘My wife thinks I’m getting involved in sex trafficking.’

      ‘It could not be that,’ Raj pronounced with assurance because the penalty for such a crime was death and his father was most assiduous in ensuring that neither drugs nor prostitution gained ground in Maraban.

      ‘No, of course it couldn’t be,’ Omar agreed. ‘But even though the order came from the very highest level of the palace I should not be asked by anyone to imprison a woman against her will.’

      ‘How do you know the order came from the very highest level?’ Raj demanded.

      His cousin mentioned a name and Raj gritted his teeth. Bahadur Abdi was the most trusted military adviser in his father’s inner circle and could only be acting at the King’s command. That shocking truth shed an entirely different light on the kidnapping because it meant that Raj’s father was personally involved. ‘Who the hell is this woman?’

      ‘You’re not going to like the suspicion I’m developing any more than I do,’ his cousin warned him heavily. ‘But I contacted the palace as soon as I appreciated I