The Secret Heir Of Alazar. Кейт Хьюит

one he had no patience for now. If only Azim had lived, the older brother, the true heir. Over the years Asad had built up Azim into a hero, the fourteen-year-old boy stolen from his youth who would have been the perfect heir, the rightful Sultan, unlike Malik, who was there in proxy, an unwanted second choice, too like his father, according to Asad. Soft. Weak.

      Asad had done his best to mould Malik, sending him to military school, beating duty into him whenever he could. Malik had learned the lessons all too well, but he refused to be cowed now. Not this time. Not ever again. Perhaps that would be the legacy of his one night with Gracie.

      ‘Alas, he did not live,’ Malik said coldly. ‘And there is little we can do to change matters at present, unless you have powers I am unaware of.’

      ‘And if she’s pregnant?’ Asad demanded. ‘Have you considered that?’

      Malik clenched his jaw, hating that his grandfather had caught him out. If Gracie was pregnant... Why had he not considered such a possibility? They’d both been so inexperienced, so overwhelmed by passion.

      ‘The possibility of her pregnancy is extremely unlikely,’ Malik said with more conviction than he actually felt. ‘But if she is, I am sure she will attempt to be in touch and I will handle the matter then.’

      ‘How?’ Asad demanded. ‘By parading your bastard child in front of the press? By polluting a thousand years’ lineage of princes and kings with some American half-blood brat?’

      ‘That is enough,’ Malik snapped. He took a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘I will do what I feel is best.’

      ‘You do realise how this kind of publicity could affect our country?’ Asad demanded in a low voice. At that moment he looked every inch his seventy-six years, uncertainty and genuine fear flickering in his faded eyes. ‘Our trade agreements, our relationships with the Bedouin tribes...everything is built on the bedrock of a stable monarchy. Alazar is a traditional country. They cannot have a sultan who acts like a Western playboy. If you do anything to make people doubt or wonder...’

      Malik nodded, a terse assent of all his grandfather had both said and implied. He knew his duty, and he would fulfil it. He would not shame either himself or his country by chasing after a slip of a woman, even if she had possessed more life and given him more joy than he’d ever known. ‘I will not, Grandfather,’ he said quietly. ‘I will never.’

      * * *

      Rome had lost its magic. Back at the youth hostel where she’d left her bags what felt a lifetime ago, Gracie showered and changed. She shouldered her backpack and paid for her accommodation before heading out into the sultry, suffocating heat of a summer’s day. What had been beautiful and wondrous a day before now looked dirty and crowded.

      A moped sped by her in a gust of diesel and someone pushed her shoulder hard. Gracie stumbled back a few steps before righting herself. Taking a deep breath, she hefted her backpack more securely on her shoulders and started walking towards the Termini rail station.

      By mid-afternoon she was in Venice and had secured a place in a new hostel. She wandered along the Grand Canal, wanting to be captivated by the magic of the beautiful, crumbling city with its many canals of blue-green water and yet utterly unable to. Inside she felt both leaden and numb, filled with the memory of how Malik had pushed her away from him, told her to leave, his expression so cold, almost contemptuous...

      There had been no connection. He probably used that line on every eager woman he saw. And as for his confession that it had been his first kiss? Laughable. She should have seen through that immediately. He’d kissed her with far too much expertise and assurance to be as inexperienced as she was. He’d known how to touch her from the first.

      Added to all that, he was the heir to a kingdom. A man of some significance, he’d called his grandfather. As if. Clearly he’d been doing nothing but amusing himself with an American bumpkin. She was so stupid. Stupid and naïve.

      Gracie trudged through another few weeks of travelling, but the joy and sense of adventure she’d had when she’d started out had left her completely. All she wanted to do was hightail it home, to a place where people knew and loved her. But then the thought of all the triumphant I-told-you-sos from friends and family who hadn’t seen the point of her going at all was enough to stiffen her resolve. She would get over Malik al Bahjat, heir to the throne of Alazar. It wasn’t as if her heart had been destroyed. Just her pride, she assured herself, along with her innocence.

      Then, in a tiny village in Germany, with rain sleeting down over the Black Forest, she threw up her breakfast. She rested her head on the edge of the toilet, her stomach still heaving, the noisy sounds of the hostel echoing around her. Cold sweat prickled on her scalp and she closed her eyes. The last thing she needed was the stomach flu while backpacking through Europe.

      Then she threw up the next morning, and the morning after that, and her breasts started feeling tender, fatigue crashing over her at every opportunity. It took another week for Gracie to realise the appalling, obvious truth: she was pregnant.