‘But I don’t understand. What do they want from me?’ she queried numbly.
‘In a nutshell, they want you to marry their King,’ Rashad replied very drily. ‘A single monarch, a single woman with the name of a famous queen...in their eyes it’s a simple equation.’
‘They want me to marry you?’ Polly cried incredulously.
‘And everything about you plays into their fantasy conclusion,’ Rashad imparted with an edge of bitterness because the more he watched those crowds waving flags in the streets, the more his sense of duty warred with his brain. ‘You are very beautiful. What man would not wish to marry such a beauty? And while you could have followed some inappropriate career as a stripper or a lap dancer, which would admittedly have doused their enthusiasm somewhat—’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Polly exclaimed furiously, jumping upright again.
‘Instead you work in a homeless shelter helping the underprivileged,’ Rashad completed. ‘Yes, our media are every bit as given to spying as your own. You have been framed even in the newspapers as the perfect wife in the eyes of my people.’
Polly bolted out of the shade of the tent to stand by the rail in the golden sunshine, staring out at the lines of the shallow sand dunes gradually shifting into larger ones in the distance. ‘I’m mortified—’
‘I am trapped,’ Rashad traded without sympathy, raging at the fates that had created such a disturbing and difficult situation. When he was crowned he had sworn to do whatever it took to make the people of Dharia secure and happy and he had never once considered that sacrifice of freedom as a personal constraint. Only now when it came to the question of his marriage was he finally appreciating the true cost of that pledge. But it also gave him a great deal to think over, he acknowledged, studying Polly and wondering what it would be like to go with the flow of popular sentiment rather than sit it out and hope it eventually died a natural death.
‘Certainly not by me!’ Polly lashed back at him, one small hand lifting in emphasis off the rail.
Without warning Rashad caught her hand in his, studying the slender bones below the skin that was so pale against his bronzed colouring and the intricate tracing of blue veins at her inner wrist. As if under a compulsion, he bent his proud head and pressed his mouth to that soft, smooth, delicate skin.
Polly studied that down-bent head in complete shock while tiny little tendrils of prickling awareness traversed her entire body. That one little contact was so screamingly sensual she couldn’t believe it. She had had passionate kisses that left her cold as ice but the brush of Rashad’s mouth across her wrist made her nipples tighten almost painfully inside her bra and forced a surge of hot liquid heat to rise between her thighs in a manner that made her rigid with discomfort. She quivered, shaken, aroused, suddenly out of her depth with him in a way she had never been before. When that skilled mouth roved across her palm and shifted to enclose a single fingertip and suck it, her knees trembled and her legs almost gave way beneath her in response.
Mesmerised, Polly looked up into shimmering golden eyes alight with raw sexual hunger.
An urgent burst of Arabic sounded from somewhere behind them and she flinched in surprise while Rashad immediately dropped her hand.
Hakim was outraged by what he had seen. He had trusted his King. He had overlooked the reality that his King was a young man with all the appetites of a young man in the company of a beautiful young woman.
‘This meeting is most improper,’ Hakim informed his granddaughter unhappily. ‘But I do not blame you for it.’
Further exchanges took place over Polly’s head, which was bent because she was seriously embarrassed. After all, she had requested the private meeting and was guilty of disrespecting what appeared to be the cultural norms of Dharia. Rashad had only kissed her hand though, for goodness’ sake, she thought angrily, thoroughly disliking the old man who had intervened and who was contriving to behave as though he had interrupted a raw and shocking sex scene.
‘I am Hakim, Miss Dixon,’ the older man informed her gently as he led her off the terrace. ‘May I call you Polly? Or is it Zariyah?’
With difficulty, Polly recalled her manners. ‘No, my grandmother wouldn’t call me by my birth name. When I was old enough to understand it was my true name, she told me it was foreign and outlandish and she refused to use it, so she gave me the name Polly instead.’
‘That is a great pity but perhaps in time that could be remedied,’ Hakim remarked incomprehensibly above her head. ‘Would you be willing to talk to me? I have something of very great importance to tell you...’
HAKIM ESCORTED HER to a room that he described as his office but which more closely resembled an old library.
Polly sank down in a comfortable armchair but sat bolt upright again, eyes wide with astonishment, when Hakim informed her that he was her grandfather.
‘But how could you possibly know that?’ she whispered unevenly.
‘My mother...’ Hakim handed her a creased old photo of a smiling blonde woman. ‘My son, your father...’
Polly peered down in wonder at the photo of the attractive dark-eyed young man in the photograph. ‘Is his name Zahir Basara?’
Hakim gently corrected her pronunciation and regretfully informed her of her father’s death when the palace had been overrun twenty-odd years earlier. Tears stung Polly’s eyes as he broke that news while frankly admitting that he and his only child had been at odds at the time of his demise.
‘He wanted to marry your mother,’ he explained. ‘But I refused to support him. My own parents had a mixed marriage. My mother was the daughter of a Swedish missionary working here. Although my parents stayed together they were not happy. My prejudice blinded me towards the woman my son loved—’
‘I can understand that...but are you really sure that your son was my father? His is the name my mother left me with the ring, but—’
Tears dampened Polly’s cheeks as her emotions spilled over because she felt so horribly guilty for doubting that name now. How much had she let her grandmother’s bitterness colour her own attitude towards her mother? Annabel Dixon had not been lying, nor had she been unsure of who had fathered her first child. Her late mother had told her the truth.
‘There can be no doubt because we did a DNA test. A sample was taken from you by the doctor without your permission,’ Hakim confided gravely. ‘DNA samples of the dead were conserved after the coup that killed our King’s family and many others at the palace. I am very sorry that we ordered the test to be done without your awareness—’
‘But why did you order it?’ Polly murmured in bewilderment, too preoccupied by what he had told her to be angry when it had resulted in her finding an actual blood relative of her late father’s. ‘Why would you do such a thing?’
With quiet assurance, he explained that her arrival with both the Hope of Dharia ring and the name of a former queen had roused the suspicion that she could be a child of Rashad’s late father. ‘He was a most unscrupulous man with women. He had many extramarital relationships. We are not aware of any children born from those liaisons but it has always been a possibility. Imagine my astonishment when the computer found a match with my own son...’
Polly was just beginning to adapt to the shattering idea that she was in the company of her actual grandfather, who appeared to be a great deal more warm and pleasant in character than her maternal grandmother had proved to be. ‘It must have been a nasty shock—’
‘No, it was wonderful,’ Hakim contradicted with a wide smile. ‘My wife, your grandmother,