His Queen By Desert Decree. Lynne Graham

to touch her either, but his flirtatious manner and the way he studied her still unnerved her a little and it had been a relief when he’d acceded to her request that one of the embassy staff sit in on their sessions with them.

      Of course, Molly would have been the first to admit that she had very little experience with men and was probably judging the young Prince too harshly. She had had to drop out of her first year on a university business course to come home and look after her grandfather and, during the subsequent four years, life as regards dating, aside of one forgettable boyfriend, had pretty much passed her by. Even so, during that period she had still contrived to pass her Teaching English as a Foreign Language qualification. Nevertheless she had no regrets about the sacrifices she had made for her grandfather because she was painfully aware that, during one of the unhappiest periods of her own life, Maurice had come to her rescue and had disrupted his peaceful retirement to take care of her.

      Molly’s mother had died when she was four and a few years later her father had remarried. His second wife had resented the very existence of her predecessor’s daughter. With her father refusing to intervene to protect her from his wife’s abuse, Molly’s position in their household had gradually become untenable. Molly had gone to her maternal grandfather for support and he had given her a home. When her father had died, his entire estate had gone to her stepmother. That her mother’s jewellery had become hers when she was still a child was only because her mother had specified that in her will.

      As always at the Djalian Embassy that same afternoon, Molly marvelled at how charmingly old-fashioned it was. She gave her lessons in a formal dining room, separated from Prince Tahir by the reassuring width of a banqueting table. The door stayed open, her female chaperone seated in the hallway just outside. Directly within Molly’s view hung a portrait of an eye-catching man. Mr Gorgeous, Molly had labelled him, because he had features that could have given any male supermodel a run for his money. She didn’t want to think about how often Mr Gorgeous had popped up in her dreams. She supposed that what lay in her subconscious and popped up overnight was fairly similar to what many single women dreamt about if they were a little lonely and wondering when their life would finally take off and give them something more exciting to think about.

      A bowing, scraping servant brought in the usual tray of coffee and Molly politely averted her eyes from the display. Clearly the young man opposite her was treated something like a deity by the embassy staff. Such effusive servility made her uncomfortable but she accepted that there were bound to be cultural differences in their lifestyles. Being a royal in Djalia was clearly a licence to inspire awe and admiration, even if Tahir was a royal from another country.

      The Prince was tall enough to tower over her and she had never managed to discover exactly how old he was, stopping asking only because persistence had begun to seem impolite. However, he looked to be in his early twenties. She reckoned that some women would consider him handsome because he was built like a rugby player and had the jaw to go with it, but his lack of maturity made him unappealing to her.

      ‘You look so beautiful today,’ Tahir assured her.

      ‘We are supposed to be making casual conversation, Your Highness,’ Molly reminded him. ‘Personal comments are unwise.’

      He reddened, brown eyes narrowing. ‘Forgive me,’ he declared instantly. ‘I should have said...what have you been doing today?’

      ‘Yes, that is much better,’ Molly told him with a smile and mentioned her visit to her grandfather.

      ‘You are very lucky to have such a man in your life,’ Tahir informed her. ‘The only grandfather I ever knew was a monster.’

      A slight frown line formed between Molly’s brows. ‘That’s still too personal a remark if you are with someone you don’t know very well.’

      ‘I am trying to learn you better,’ Tahir responded with a hint of frustration.

      ‘I am your teacher, not a friend,’ Molly declared. ‘Tell me, what have you been doing since our last session?’

      ‘Nothing.’ Tahir scrutinised the table almost guiltily as the hovering servant inched up on them to pour the coffee and settled a cup and saucer at Molly’s elbow.

      ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Molly responded, reminding herself what she was earning and knowing that she deserved it because trying to teach moody Tahir anything was like trying to push water up a hill. ‘Have you gone out anywhere? You’re in central London. There are so many interesting places to visit.’

      ‘I am not a tourist. I am here only to improve my English,’ Tahir responded with hauteur.

      ‘But if you went out you would have so many more opportunities to practise your English,’ Molly replied gently, reaching for her coffee with an eager hand.

      ‘I have no friend to go out with,’ Tahir told her, regarding her with unconcealed annoyance. ‘I wanted you to accompany me and then I would go many places but you said no.’

      Molly did not want to get into the simple reality that the most senior diplomat in the embassy had advised her not to go out with Prince Tahir because it was not considered safe for him to go anywhere without bodyguards, while the presence of his bodyguards also attracted too much attention to him. Apparently, there were fears that the former overthrown Djalian dictator might have sympathisers in London, who could seek to harm a member of the royal family. That reality aside, however, Molly was grateful that she had not gone on trips with Tahir before she’d realised he was beginning to fixate on her because going any place with him would only have encouraged his interest, and it was not an interest she could reciprocate.

      Molly lifted her coffee and sipped it. It was horribly sweet, which made a change from its normal bitterness. Tahir stared across the table at her, making no attempt to touch his own coffee. Surprisingly he started to talk to her then about his impressions of London. Molly realised that she felt oddly spaced out. Relieved that he was finally making an effort, though, she meant to respond to his comments but somehow her brain was too fuzzy for concentration.

      Her head felt heavy on her neck and she registered that she felt ridiculously sleepy. She propped her chin on her upturned hand. ‘I think I must be very tired,’ she framed, noticing that her voice emerged sounding slurred. ‘Something is wrong with me...’

      ‘Nothing is wrong,’ Tahir told her soothingly.

      With an enormous effort of will, Molly planted her hands down on the surface of the table and pushed upright. Her cup and saucer slid off the edge of the table and tumbled with a crash on the tiled floor and she studied the broken pieces with a detached interest that felt as strange to her as her heavy, paralysed body.

      ‘I’m ill...need help,’ she mumbled on a very sudden flash of fear.

      ‘I will help you,’ Tahir assured her, moving towards her. ‘You will be fine. I promise you.’

      ‘Don’t want your help,’ Molly slurred, stubborn to the last, but her tongue felt too thick for her mouth and the effort it required to even focus her gaze was too much for her. Her eyes slid shut and she slumped down over the table.

      * * *

      Molly woke, feeling wonderfully comfortable. Slowly lifting her head, she opened her eyes and stared in shock at her completely unfamiliar surroundings.

      She was lying on a bed in a room with bare stone walls that looked positively medieval. She sat up, discovering that she was wearing a white floaty cotton garment that did not belong to her, and she leapt off the ornate bed in growing consternation to rush over to the window. The landscape beyond that window made her brain short-circuit for several terrifying seconds. There was a desert outside, an actual desert with towering sand dunes that reminded her of a picture she had once seen of the Sahara. Her mouth ran dry.

      How the heck had she travelled from the Djalian Embassy in London to...? And then she remembered the sweet coffee, her strange symptoms and then what must have been her collapse. She had been drugged. Was that too melodramatic an assumption? Molly was a very down-to-earth young woman and the concept of being drugged and kidnapped initially