The Royal House Of Karedes Collection Books 1-12. Кейт Хьюит

      It was as he had thought—a hovel of a place! Lowly and rough—but a place which promised him something which he hungered for. Indeed, his heart’s delight. His gaze flickered over the stable door before returning to the grovelling figure before him.

      ‘Get up, Lakis,’ he ordered.

      Gamal obeyed, rubbing at his back and wincing slightly. ‘May I say how honoured am I to have the most venerable prince partake of my—’

      ‘Cut the smarm,’ snapped Kaliq, with the arrogance he had learned at one of the many international schools he had attended. An arrogance which had been necessary to protect him from the greed and ambition of those who craved royal patronage. His eyes glittered as he tempered his curt reply with the silken charm which his sister Yasmine complained could lure the birds from the trees.

      ‘I have not come for your craven admiration, Lakis,’ he admonished softly. ‘But to play cards with a man—and this I have on good authority—a man who is unbeatable at cards. Are you that man, I wonder?’

      Gamal smirked and puffed up his chest. ‘It has been said, Highness.’

      Kaliq drummed an impatient finger on his riding crop. Was the fool not aware that a commoner should never boast of superiority to a royal prince? Idly, he tossed the crop to one of his bodyguards, who was only now just climbing down from his horse and looking a little shamefaced.

      ‘We shall see how unbeatable you are,’ Kaliq said carelessly. ‘And I am in the mood for good sport tonight—but first I wish to drink. Do you have nothing to offer to quench the parched throats of these travellers, Lakis—for we have ridden long and ridden hard across the desert from our royal palaces?’

      ‘Oh, forgive me, Highness, forgive me,’ stumbled Gamal. ‘You will please enter my humble abode and anything you desire shall be brought to you.’

      The smoke-filled salon was lit by oil-lamps with a bright, spotlight glare over the poker table and Kaliq dipped his head as he entered the room, noting that one of his bodyguards had slipped in before him. The faint scent of incense mingled with the smell of tobacco and the deep voices grew silent as the assembled men sprang instantly to their feet.

      Kaliq’s smile was wolfish as he waved at them to resume their seats. For wasn’t the number one rule of defeating the opposition to first give them a false sense of security? ‘No, no. Tonight you do not stand on ceremony; tonight we are as equals,’ he instructed softly. ‘For the cards cannot be played properly if one insists on hierarchy. Tonight I am not a prince of your land—I am simply a man, just like you, Lakis.’

      Standing just outside the door and summoning up the courage to enter the room, Eleni wondered if her father knew what he was up against. Because as she listened to the prince’s drawled statement, it somehow didn’t ring quite true. As if this powerful prince would ever desire that these ruffians should be his equal!

      ‘Eleni!’

      She was just about to call, ‘Yes, Papa,’ when she heard his next words.

      ‘My servant girl will bring us food and drink! Eleni—come now!’

      In spite of her nerves, Eleni almost smiled. How wily her father was. Not only was he elevating his status in front of the prince by bringing in an extra, female servant—but by using his daughter he would guarantee absolute discretion. As well as not having to pay her anything!

      Sucking in a deep breath, Eleni entered the room, keeping her eyes down and resisting the terrible overwhelming instinct which made her long to look at the prince again, which wasn’t easy since servants were never permitted eye-contact with a member of the ruling family of Calista. She knew too that protocol demanded she make a deep curtsey—not something she was used to doing.

      ‘Your Highness,’ she said softly, and, bending one knee behind the other, she made a sweeping kind of bow—glad that all her years of riding had given her a certain grace. ‘What does my master request that I should bring to his honoured guest?’ she added quietly.

      Kaliq glanced over at her, his antennae automatically alerted by the sound of a woman’s voice. It was soft and soothing, he thought—like cool, running water running through this oppressive and stuffy room. And it was curiously fluent for a servant. His eyes narrowed, but he could not see whether she was plain or beautiful.

      Her head was covered with a veil and the clothes she wore were drab and concealing—and while they were entirely appropriate for a woman of her class and status, he would have preferred to feast his eyes on something attractive. Some buxom young thing with her breasts half spilling out, who would pleasure him with the yearning in her eyes!

      ‘A drink,’ he ordered curtly, forcing his thoughts away from the subject because he was here tonight to play cards—not to lose himself in the delights of a woman.

      ‘You will drink some Zelyoniy with us?’ questioned Gamal hopefully.

      Kaliq suppressed a shudder. As if he could bring himself to drink Zelyoniy! The potent green spirit made from cactus plants was banned in most of the country, though he knew that its use was still widespread in the rougher regions. But might it not assist his game if his partners were partial to hard liqueur? ‘Not for me,’ he answered silkily. ‘But the rest of you must drink what pleases you. Bring me pomegranate juice instead,’ he told the servant girl.

      ‘At once, Highness,’ said Eleni, and hurried off.

      Kaliq leaned back in his chair as the dealer opened the new pack of cards and a familiar excitement began to steal over his skin. He wanted to win, yes, because he loved winning—but more important than victory was the risk involved. He shouldn’t really be here, associating with these low-life racehorse breeders and trainers—but that, of course, only added to the evening’s appeal. The sense of the unknown, the forbidden and the elicit.

      Because sometimes Kaliq grew bored with his privileged life—a life which took him to cities all over the Western world. Cities where he could slip easily into the role of the playboy sheikh—as the international newspapers were so fond of calling him. Impossibly rich from the wealth of his country’s diamond mines, he could have anything he wanted—and mostly he did.

      But sometimes he wanted harsh contrast and that was what brought him to places like this. Where the hardships and toughness of desert life made the flesh-pots of Europe fade into insignificance. As the cards began to be dealt around the table Kaliq felt the familiar thrill of expectation.

      ‘You will take food, Highness?’

      Kaliq glanced up. The servant girl was standing before him and putting a goblet of pomegranate juice before him. He shook his dark head impatiently. As if he would eat with people such as these!

      ‘No. I have no appetite for food.’ And then he glanced at the drink. ‘But my thirst is great. Taste it,’ he instructed the girl.

      Eleni’s heart raced in confusion. Surely the prince did not intend her to drink from his glass? ‘But—’

      ‘I said, taste it,’ he repeated softly. ‘Or I will begin to worry that you are trying to poison me.’

      With nervous fingers Eleni lifted the heavy cup—her father’s best—to her lips and sipped at the sweet, tangy juice, the tip of her tongue automatically removing its sticky trace from her lips. How horrible for the prince to have to live with such terrible fears, she thought, her heart giving an automatic little tug of compassion. Did he have to watch his back, wherever he went, she wondered—afraid that some unknown assassin was lurking in the shadows?

      Aware that his piercing black eyes were fixed on her, she felt as if she had been turned to stone. What was she supposed to do now? And how long did they have to wait to see if she had been poisoned?

      ‘Well?’ Kaliq shot the word out.

      Eleni swallowed as she stared down at the goblet. ‘I think the drink will please you, Highness.’

      ‘Then give it to me,’ he ordered