Page 1 of Desert King's Forbidden Temptation

PROLOGUE

THEWATERWASalways darkest near the surface, though that wasn’t how it was meant to be. There, in the inches beneath atmosphere and air, there was supposed to be light, the sun’s warmth permeating the thickness of the sea. Always, the water at the top shimmered. But this wasn’t reality, it was a dream, a nightmare, and the laws of physics need not be obeyed.

He sucked inwards, seeking air, finding only water, drowning, reaching out, touching, feeling, remembering. Something foreign yet achingly familiar, close but always, always out of reach. The nearer he came to remembering, to catching the threads that danced on the periphery of his unconscious, the more they shimmied beyond his reach. A fleeting touch, soft and infinitely comforting, a fragrance—vanilla and persimmon—sunlight dancing on ancient timber floor boards, dust motes and laughter—his, and someone else’s, a voice, a faraway, long-ago voice without a face.

Frustration gnawed and burst him from his dream; a young boy had been drowning, unable to find purchase in the darkness of the ocean’s depths, but now a sheikh awoke, showing not a hint of the nightmare that had taunted him.

There were mysteries in his past, questions that dogged him when he allowed them to slip beyond his defences, but of one thing he was certain: the duty to rule Savisia was his and his alone, and Sheikh Tariq al Hassan would fulfil that destiny with his dying breath. Whatever was required of him, he would offer gladly. He owed this country that much, at least.

CHAPTER ONE

ITWASN’TSOMETHINGshe’d consciously sought, but nonetheless, it was an undeniable fact that Eloise Ashworth had become masterful at studying and understanding people. Like all skills, it had been borne of necessity, and her tumultuous young life, with parents who fought viciously nonstop, then her existence after their deaths, had sharpened already keen powers of observation.

Now, they were impossible to switch off, so she found her eyes lingering on the Sheikh’s face for a moment too long. Where others might have simply glimpsed a look of benign disinterest, Eloise saw beyond it, to the small furrow of his brow, the slight narrowing of his eyes, the very barely noticeable clenching of his jaw, and she wondered—how could she not?—what had happened to frustrate him?

The obvious answer was that he wanted to avoid this marriage. That he didn’t welcome it. Given that his palace had proposed it, three months earlier, that didn’t make much sense. Unless someone else was pulling the strings? Her eyes swept the six men who flanked the powerful Sheikh of Savisia; she discounted the idea almost immediately. For no reason she could put her finger on, she didn’t for a moment believe the powerful Sheikh was someone who could be made to do a thing he didn’t want to. The marriage had been his idea, only he didn’t like it, she was sure of it.

She leaned back a little farther in her seat, studying him quite openly. After all, no one was looking at her. Of the twelve people gathered to discuss the possibility of this match, she was the only woman, and the only attendee who didn’t hold government office. She suspected her opinion and insights weren’t of much value—even her seat was at the far end of the table, and not once had a single head turned in her direction, to ask for her thoughts. Ironic, really, given her best friend in the whole world, Crown Princess Elana of Ras Sarat, had sent Eloise with the sole purpose of determining if the marriage should go ahead. After all, the Sheikh had somewhat of a glittering reputation: he was heroic, intelligent, staunchly patriotic and adored by his people, but that didn’t give any insight into what he was like as a man. In fact, his private life was incredibly well guarded, so repeated internet searches had brought up a heap of photographs at official events but nothing of interest beyond that.

And so, Eloise had been sent to evaluate the man, the potential of the marriage, and to go back to Ras Sarat ready to advise Elana.

It was Eloise alone that Elana would listen to; her counsel the only voice that would matter in determining if Elana would consent to the match. Oh, she wanted to marry Sheikh Tariq—or rather, Elana accepted the necessity of it. The truth, however, was that she didn’t want to marry anyone, and if she’d been a private citizen, she would have grieved for her late fiancé for the rest of her life. Elana had loved deeply, and lost, and she wasn’t likely to ever love again. But that wasn’t what this prospective union was about: theirs would be a marriage of political expediency.

For all that Tariq’s kingdom was large and fabulously wealthy, Ras Sarat was small, and decades of mismanagement had left it in a parlous financial and political state. Marriage to a man like Tariq would shore up her government and provide a badly needed influx of money. It would also take an enormous burden off Elana’s shoulders—a burden no one but Eloise understood she carried—and for this reason, Eloise desperately wanted to like the Sheikh. To believe he would be a good husband for her friend, that the marriage would work.

And so she watched him: as he spoke, but also, as he listened, and it was in these moments that she saw the most. The small flex of his jaw when he disagreed with something someone was saying, the inclining of his chin as he considered a point, the tightening around his mouth and eyes. His face remained quite expressionless for the most part, but she read beyond that. She saw the minute body language shifts that caused the air around him to reverberate, silent signals that she alone seemed aware of.

Papers were shuffled, chairs scraped back, and Eloise sat perfectly still, though now, it had less to do with the Sheikh’s responses and more to do with a strange heaviness in her legs that made it impossible to move. She was staring at him to learn what she could of the man but somehow, something had shifted, and now her eyes lingered not for this purpose but rather, out of a selfish desire to see and study. Out of a hunger to look at him.

She was familiar with his appearance thanks to her internet snooping and the security file she and Elana had pored over. But there was something about him that didn’t translate to two dimensional images. Where he was clearly handsome, there was a magnetism and charisma in real life that was impossible to ignore.

He was...spellbinding, and in that moment, for the briefest second, she felt the spell weave around her, ensnaring her exactly where she was.

As if he sensed her momentary weakness, in the flurry of activity as other advisors and diplomats pushed away from the table to take a short recess, his eyes sought the calm of the room, and landed with a thud on her.

They were beautiful eyes. Fascinating and shifting, compelling and magnetic, so that she couldn’t do the wise thing and look away. Instead, her gaze locked to his, sparking something unfamiliar and unwanted in her bloodstream, making her conscious of every breath she took, of the way the hairs on her arms lifted.

He studied her with the same level of scrutiny she’d been regarding him with for the past hour, only this was far more pointed, more obvious. More entitled. He was a sheikh, and even if his personal bearing left anyone in any doubt of that, which it didn’t, the room in which they sat would have served to underscore his incredible wealth and power. Enormous, with ceilings at least three times the normal height and a full wall of windows that overlooked a spectacular garden with pools of water and ancient date palms forming a spiky barrier, the walls were gold, the table a solid marble, and the Sheikh sat at a large chair, only slightly less dramatic than a throne—at its centre, commanding easily. He’d been raised to rule, his duty from birth had been to claim his birthright. With the death of his father, the beloved Sheikh Samir al Hassan, five months earlier, Tariq had taken on the role he’d been groomed for all of his life.

He was adored by his people—he always had been, ever since his parents had assumed the throne and he’d been catapulted into the role of heir apparent.

After that, his birthright had become an imperative—he embodied all the traits his people most admired. He was brave, honourable, strong, fearless. Not only was he Sheikh—he became a teen idol, a heart throb, a celebrity feted and adored by all.

He regarded Eloise now with absolute impunity.

He studied without a hint of apology.

And when finally, Eloise gathered her wits sufficiently to push back her own chair, and reach for her folder with slightly trembling hands, he spoke in a voice that didn’t invite a hint of dissent.

‘You will remain a moment.’

She’d been listening to him speak all morning, so why didthesewords make her bones feel as though they were melting into puddles of nothing?

She lifted a hand and pressed it to her chest, between her breasts. ‘Me?’

She cringed inwardly at the weakness the query showed, but his command had rattled her. Until that second, she hadn’t realised how much she was looking forward to leaving the room and drawing in a deep breath. To looking at somethingotherthan this man.

He dipped his head once then gestured to the chair opposite him. ‘Please.’

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