Page 21 of Desert Prince’s Defiant Bride

She glanced at the coffee cup and newspaper next to his seat. ‘I was told I might find the family here. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.’

Dark eyes swept her from head to toe. ‘Think nothing of it. If only all interruptions were as charming. But I regret the family have already breakfasted. However, I am here.’ He squeezed her fingers once before letting go at last. ‘And I am failing in my duty as stand-in host. Have you eaten? Please...’ he indicated the seat next to his ‘...join me.’

He called the servant, ordered breakfast for her, then waited politely for Lily to sit before seating himself.

‘I understand you are here to explore Nabhan. Have you decided where you’ll begin?’

Of course not. As Khaled had so graphically informed her, this was no holiday. How did she answer?

‘I’m fascinated by the country’s history.’

‘Excellent. Well, we have extraordinary treasures here. Dating back millennia. And, conveniently, I happen to know the Minister of Antiquities. I’d be happy to organise a private tour of our National Museum.’

George’s gaze was intense. His attentions equally so. Lily was grateful for the jug of fruit juice that arrived at that moment. She busied herself with pouring a glass.

‘Once your stepbrother has arrived, of course,’ he said. ‘Is he expected soon? The family seemed a little vague on the matter.’

His expression was bland. The question felt anything but.

‘I think so. Nate heads off around the world so often it’s hard to keep up.’ She hoped she sounded convincing.

‘Ah, yes. The intrepid Nathaniel Marchant.’

For ‘intrepid’ she could infer any number of insults, judging by the man’s tone.

‘It’s a shame he’s not here with you,’ he continued. ‘Of course in the meantime you have the protection of the Crown Prince himself.’

And what on earth did that mean?

She was saved from this increasingly disconcerting conversation as a breakfast tray was set down beside her.

‘Bon appétit,’George said, smiling, and returned to his newspaper, leaving her to eat in peace.

The tray held a paprika-spiced omelette, served with plump tomatoes. There were diminutive chapattis, the size of her palm, and an engraved silver pot of sweet, cardamom-scented tea.

She’d taken her last sip when a servant approached. Khaled wished to speak with her.

She glanced at her companion, about to make her apologies, but he was already on his feet.

‘Don’t worry about me, my dear Miss Marchant. You must not keep His Highness waiting. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon. In fact I’ll make sure of it. But for now, goodbye.’

This morning there was no waiting in themajlis. Lily was taken directly into Khaled’s private office.

He was behind his desk, on the phone, speaking in Arabic. He glanced at her, nodded once, then continued his conversation.

It was left to his aide to offer a more polite welcome. ‘His Highness will be a moment, Miss Marchant. I am Sabir, his secretary. May I bring you some refreshments while you wait?’

Lily declined, but for this man who had at least shown some manners she offered up her best smile. Blushing, Sabir departed to his own workstation in an anteroom.

Khaled’s frowning gaze watched his secretary’s hasty retreat, then swung back to her, glaring, as if she’d deliberately discomfited his staff.

She stared right back, one brow raised, until he returned to his call.

Free to look about her now, Lily was surprised to see none of the grandeur of themajlis. The room was merely businesslike. She would have expected something that spoke of Khaled’s status, but apart from a long, leather sofa and a sideboard set back against the wall, there was only an austere wooden desk and two chairs facing it, one of which she occupied.

No antique furniture, no fancy artwork—barely any individual touches at all except for a framed picture on his desk. She couldn’t see the subject. His parents, perhaps? His sisters? Or...she bit her lip at the comical idea...a favourite horse?

By far the most striking feature of the room was the wall behind Khaled’s desk. Lined from floor to ceiling with books. Hundreds of them. In English, Arabic, French, and on every imaginable subject. A cursory glance took in volumes on history, economics, engineering. There were political biographies and classical works from ancient Greek and Roman authors, and those were just the English titles she understood. All his? She was awed by the hours of reading those shelves represented and the fierce intellect of their owner.

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