‘I can’t see her now. I’ll go and fetch her. Unless—’ Hamid’s smile turned conspiratorial ‘—you’d like a break from the formalities.’
Tradition decreed that the ruler received his guests on the raised royal dais, complete with a gilded, velvet-cushioned throne for formal audiences. Idris was about to say he’d wait here when something made him pause. How long since he’d allowed himself the luxury of doing something he wanted, not because it was his duty?
Idris’s eyes flicked to Ghizlan, easily holding her own with a minor royal and some politicians. As if sensing his regard she looked up, smiled slightly then turned back to her companions.
No doubt about it, she’d make a suitable queen—capable and helpful. Not clinging or needy. Not demanding his attention as too many ex-lovers had done.
Idris turned to Hamid. ‘Lead on, Cousin. I’m agog to meet this woman who’s captured your heart.’
They wove through the crowd till Hamid halted beside the woman in green. The woman with creamy skin and strawberry-blonde hair and a supple, delicate figure. Idris’s attention caught on the lustre of her dress, clinging to her hips and pert bottom.
He stilled, struck by a sensation of déjà vu so strong it eclipsed all else. She said something to his cousin in a soft, lilting voice.
A voice Idris knew.
He frowned, watching Hamid bend his head towards her, seeing her turn a little more so she was in profile.
The conversations around them became white noise, a buzz like swarming insects.
His vision telescoped.
Her lush lips.
Her neat nose.
Her slender, delicate throat.
Two facts hammered into his brain. He knew her, remembered her better than any of the multitude of women who’d once paraded in and out of his life.
And that strange feeling surging up from his gullet and choking his throat with bile was more than surprise or disbelief at the coincidence of meeting her again.
It was fury at the idea she belonged to Hamid.
* * *
‘Here he is at last. Arden, I’d like to present you to my cousin Idris, Sheikh of Zahrat.’
Arden widened her smile, determined not to be overawed by meeting her very first and no doubt last sheikh. Coming to this formal reception, surrounded by VIPs who oozed money and privilege, had already tested her nerves.
She turned, tilting her head to look up, and felt the world drop away.
His face was severely sculpted as if scored by desert winds. Yet there was beauty in those high cheekbones and his firm yet sensual mouth. His nose and jaw were honed and strong. The harsh angle of those beetling black brows intimidated. So did the wide flare of his nostrils, as if the Sheikh scented something unexpected.
Shock dragged at her, loosening her knees till her legs felt like rubber.
His eyes...
Dark as a midnight storm, those eyes fixed on her instinctive movement as she clutched at Hamid for support. Slowly they lifted again to clash with hers, disdain clear in that haughty stare.
A shuddering wave of disquiet rolled through her as she blinked up, telling herself it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.
Despite the frantic messages her body was sending her, she couldn’t know this man.
Yet her brain wouldn’t listen to reason. It told her it was him. The man who’d changed her life.
Heat seared from scalp to toe. Then just as quickly it vanished, leaving her so cold she wouldn’t be surprised to hear the crackle of ice forming along her bones, weighing her down.
Her grip on Hamid’s arm grew desperate as tiny spots formed and blurred before her eyes. She felt as if she’d slipped out of the real world and into an alternate reality. One where dreams did come true, but so distorted as to be almost unrecognisable.
It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. Yet her gaze dropped to his collarbone. Did he have a scar there?
Of course he didn’t. This man was tougher, far more daunting than Shakil. She’d bet he didn’t do easy, charming smiles. Instead he wore royal authority like a cloak.
Yet she could almost hear herself asking, Excuse me, Your Highness, would you mind undoing that exquisitely tailored suit and tie so I can check if you have a scar from a riding accident?
‘Arden, are you okay?’ Hamid’s voice was concerned, his hand warm as it closed over hers.
His touch jerked her back to reality. She slipped her hand from his arm and locked her wobbly knees.
Tonight had revealed, to her astonishment, that Hamid now thought of himself as more than a friend. She couldn’t let him labour under that illusion, no matter how grateful she was to him.
‘I’m...’ She cleared her throat, hesitating. What could she say? I’m reeling with shock? ‘I’ll be all right.’
Yet her gaze clung to that of the man towering before her as if he was some sort of miracle.
It was that realisation that snapped her back to reality. He wasn’t Shakil. If he had been Shakil, he’d be no miracle, just another of life’s tough lessons. A man who’d used her and tossed her aside.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.’ Her voice sounded wispy but she persevered. ‘I hope you’re enjoying your stay in London.’
Belatedly she wondered if she was supposed to curtsey. Had she offended him? His flesh looked drawn too tight and she glimpsed the rigid line of a tendon standing proud in his neck. He looked ready for battle, not a society meet and greet.
For long seconds silence stretched, as if he didn’t want to acknowledge her. She felt her eyebrows pucker into a frown. Beside her Hamid’s head swung sharply towards the Sheikh.
‘Welcome to my embassy, Ms...’
That voice. He had the same voice.
‘Wills, Arden Wills.’ Hamid spoke since Arden’s voice had disappeared, sucked away by the tidal wave of horror that seized her lungs and stopped her breath.
‘Ms Wills.’ The Sheikh paused and she glimpsed what almost looked like confusion in those dark eyes, as if he wasn’t used to pronouncing such a commonplace name.
But Arden was too busy grappling with her own response to Hamid’s cousin. He looked and sounded exactly like Shakil. Or as Shakil would if he’d sloughed off his laid-back, live-for-the-moment attitude and aged a few years.
This man had a thinner face, which accentuated his superb bone structure. And his expression was grim, far harder than anything Shakil had ever worn. Shakil had been a lover not a fighter and this man looked, despite his western tailoring, as if he’d be at home on a warhorse, a scimitar in his hand as he galloped into battle.
Arden shivered, clammy palms skimmed her bare arms as she tried to ease the tension drawing gooseflesh there.
He said something. She saw his lips move, but there was a weird echoing in her head and she couldn’t make out his words.
She blinked, swaying forwards, stumbling and steadying herself, drawn unwillingly by his dark velvet gaze.
Hamid pulled her against his side. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have insisted you come tonight. Your condition is too delicate.’
Arden stiffened in his hold, dimly noting the Sheikh’s sharply indrawn breath. Hamid was a dear friend but he had no right to feel proprietorial. Besides, it was a long time since she’d craved any man’s touch.
‘I’m