Page 2 of Her Vow to Be His Desert Queen

That had been the start of their friendship, a strange meeting of opposites: the Prince and the scholarship girl. It shouldn’t have worked. She’d been brought up by her working-class aunt, while he’d been brought up a prince. She was quiet and studious, while he was wild, going to all the parties with his friends, and barely attending lectures.

Yet they’d been drawn to each other and had become best friends, staying in contact even after they’d left university.

Or rather, they’d been best friends up until five years ago, when the disaster of that night in Soho had happened, and she’d said those things she should never have said, and he’d walked away from her. Then, a month later, she’d got that email from him telling her that he had no plans to return to England, and that it would better if she didn’t contact him again. He hadn’t given a reason why.

Not that he had to explain. She knew why.

He’d broken her heart that day, but she refused to let it be a mortal blow. Instead, she changed, armouring herself, guarding herself. Becoming a different person. A person who didn’t give her heart so readily to someone who didn’t want it.

She never thought she’d see him again, yet here he was, standing arrogantly in the middle of the pub like a god manifesting before his mortal worshippers, staring around until his black gaze finally settled on her.

All the breath left her lungs. There seemed to be no air anywhere in the room.

Derek started to say something but Khalil was already stalking towards them, the balloon bobbing with every step. It would have been amusing if the expression on his beautiful face hadn’t been suddenly so utterly intent.

Her heart began to race. She was a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car, unable to move, unable to look away.

Five years since she’d seen him and he was still every bit the same mesmerising, utterly compelling man she remembered from their last meeting in London.

He’d been in England on a state visit, and they’d arranged to meet at a too-loud bar in Soho. That was when he’d broken the news to her that his father had died, and he had to return to Al Da’ira to take the throne. He wouldn’t be back for some time, he’d said. Probably years. His country was in trouble, and he needed to be there to help it through the transition in ruler.

She understood. His father had been a terrible king and Khalil’s presence was required for the nation’s stability. But she’d also been upset at the thought of not seeing him for so long, and had had a couple more Cosmopolitans than she should have, making him promise all kinds of ridiculous things.

But it hadn’t been until the time had come to say goodbye, as they’d stood outside the bar in the falling snow, that she’d made that terrible, costly mistake.

In a fit of wild emotion she’d told him she loved him, and as soon as the words were out of her mouth she knew she’d said the wrong thing. Because shock had flared in his dark eyes and then his beautiful face had shuttered, becoming as cold as the snow falling all around them.

He’d been gentle, prying her fingers from where they clutched at his coat, but he hadn’t said a single thing in response.

He’d simply turned on his heel and walked away, leaving her standing there alone, her heart slowly shattering to pieces in her chest.

She’d cried all night into her pillow after he’d gone, castigating herself for ruining things between them, because she quite clearly had. He’d never given her any indication that he felt anything for her but friendship, so why she’d told him that she loved him she still couldn’t understand. It had been the Cosmopolitans maybe, or the stupid promise she’d written on a serviette and made him sign. Or perhaps it had been simply that raw rush of emotion as she’d stood there looking up in his dark eyes and watching the snow settle in his black hair.

She should have known better than to say it out loud, though. Her aunt had always told her she was too needy and demanding, and it was obvious from Khalil’s response to her that he thought so too. Which was confirmed a few weeks later when his email had arrived to tell her it would be easier on both of them if she didn’t contact him again.

So she didn’t. By that stage the charity she’d started up after leaving university was gathering steam and she’d moved to London, and it was easy to immerse herself in work. Easy to bury the remains of her broken heart and become someone else. Someone with purpose and determination and steel. A strong woman. A woman who didn’t cry into her pillow all night because of some man. A woman who needed nothing and no one.

Now, though, despite all of that, her heartbeat was racing the way it always did whenever he was around, and she fought to find the steely determination that had helped her drive her charity to the top, meeting his dark gaze steadily.

It didn’t matter that he was back five years after he’d broken her heart.

It didn’t matter at all.

‘Khalil,’ she began, pleased with how level her voice sounded. ‘What are—?’

‘Get out,’ Khalil interrupted. And there was no doubt about who he was talking to, because Derek was on his feet and through the door before Sidonie could get another word out.

Anger prickled over her skin.

So here he was, presumably for her, since there was no other reason for him to be in Blackchurch, having tracked her down after five years of silence. And the first words out of his mouth weren’t ‘I’m sorry, Sidonie, for walking away’. Or ‘I’m sorry for telling you not to contact me again’. No, they were ‘Get out’ to the one man who’d actually had the decency to take her for a birthday treat.

She wanted to tell him how rude he was and how dared he come here and frighten away the first date she’d had in years? But that would make her sound angry with him. That would make her sound as if she cared, and she didn’t.

She was over him. She’d been over him for years.

So she said nothing as he calmly slid into the booth, taking Derek’s place as if the poor man hadn’t ever been there. He deposited the cupcake on the table before holding the balloon out to her. ‘Happy birthday, Sidonie,’ he said in his dark, deep voice, as if he’d only been away a couple of days and not five years.

For a second she had no idea what response to make, her brain still trying to process the fact that he was here, in England, in this pub, let alone that he’d just wished her happy birthday as if they were still friends. Then, when the reality of his presence finally hit, despite all her assurances to herself, those hot, angry words filled her mouth anyway, and she had to swallow them down to stop them from coming out.

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