“Yes, sire.”
“And my people? My home?”
“No injuries,” the bodyguard replied. “Little damage. A great deal of sand. We brought a doctor for you just in case.”
“I am unhurt. He will check Miss Kouri for injury.”
Faruq glanced at her uneasily, then bowed and backed away. She felt the other bodyguards giving her sideways glances, and her face grew hot.
“The helicopter will return us to the royal palace immediately,” Kareef said. He turned to her, holding out his hand. “Miss Kouri?”
As Kareef escorted her out of the dark cave, lifting her back into the hot white sun, he smiled down at her. And all her sudden anxiety disappeared as if it had never been.
He led her to the waiting helicopter, and she smiled at him, trying to ignore the grim-faced bodyguards trailing behind. They would manage to keep their affair secret for one more day. One more precious day before Kareef would be forced to realize he had no choice but to divorce her, and they each parted to face the separate lives that fate had decreed for them.
One more day, she thought desperately. No one would be hurt by one more selfish day. A single day could feel like a lifetime.
Kareef would find a way to keep it secret. She’d never seen a secret kept at the palace, but he could find a way. He was magic. He was power.
He was king.
Kareef’s shoulders were tight as he stormed through the corridors of the royal palace, scattering assistants in his wake.
Every minute of his schedule since his return to the city had been meticulously dictated by five different assistants and undersecretaries working in conjunction, overseen by the vizier. The king’s duties were endless. Treaties to negotiate. False smiles under cloak of courtesy. Diplomacy. Politics. Saying one thing and meaning another. What did Kareef know of those?
He growled to himself. He was already learning far more than he’d ever wished.
He despised keeping Jasmine a secret.
She’d slept against his shoulder on the helicopter journey from the desert. He could still feel her, somehow still smell her intoxicating scent of oranges and cloves against his body, though he’d showered and changed out of his clothes and into white robes at the royal palace.
The moment he’d set foot back at the palace, he’d wanted to take her to his bedchamber; but she’d demurred, glancing at the endless secretaries and assistants waiting for him in the hallways. “Later,” she’d whispered, and with a sigh, he’d let her go. He’d told himself he’d be able to cut his meetings short and return soon to her little room in the servants’ wing.
That was ten hours ago. His elderly vizier, Akmal Al’Sayr, was still tearing his beard out at the days Kareef had missed. It seemed even being lost and halfpresumed dead in the desert wasn’t enough to excuse a monarch from his duty.
It was now twilight, and he hadn’t seen Jasmine since they’d arrived at the palace. His entire day had been wasted. A day devoted to cold duty in a palace full of hidden corridors and sly whispers of gossip.
His hands tightened. He hated all this secrecy. He had to convince her to give up the marriage. He would smooth things over with Hajjar somehow. Once she agreed to call off her wedding, Kareef would be willing to divorce her. When she agreed to be his longterm mistress.
How could my parents ever hold up their heads in the street, if I let myself be branded as your whore?
The word made him flinch. No. Damn it, no! If any man dared insult her, Kareef would throw him into the Byzantine dungeon beneath the palace. He would exile him to the desert without food or water. He would—
You would kill your own subjects for speaking the truth? He heard the echo of Jasmine’s whisper in the cave. Let me go. Set me free.
Clenching his jaw, he pushed the thought firmly from his mind. He would keep her as long as he desired her—whether that took ten years or fifty. He was young yet, only thirty-one. He would keep her for himself, and put off his own marriage as long as he could.
He quickened his pace down the hall, growling at any servant who dared to look his way.
Was Jasmine awake yet? he wondered. Was she naked beneath the sheets, with her dark hair mussed across the pillow? He felt rock-hard, aching for her. He went faster, almost breaking into a run.
“Sire, a word?”
In the hallway near the royal offices, he saw his vizier hovering in the doorway.
“Later,” he ground out, not stopping.
“Of course, my king,” the vizier said silkily. “I just wanted you to know I’ve begun negotiations for your marriage. You needn’t worry about it. I will present your bride to you in a few weeks.”
Stopping dead in the hallway, Kareef whirled into the reception room and closed the door behind them.
“You will arrange nothing,” he said coldly. “I have no interest in marriage.”
“But sire, these things take time. And you are not getting any younger…”
“I’m thirty-one!”
“After all the chaos caused by your cousin’s abdication, your subjects need the comfort and security of seeing the line of succession continue. A royal wedding. A royal family.” He pulled on his graying beard. “It might be difficult to find the right bride, a young virgin with the correct lineage and a perfect, unsullied reputation—”
“Why must she be a virgin?” Kareef demanded.
“So no one can ever doubt that your children are yours,” he replied, sounding surprised. “You must have an undisputed heir.”
Kareef clenched his jaw. “You will not negotiate a bride for me. I forbid it.”
The vizier returned his look with gleaming, canny eyes. “Because your interests are elsewhere?”
Kareef looked at him narrowly, wondering how much he already knew. The vizier’s spies were everywhere. He cared so obsessively about the security of the country, personal privacy meant nothing to the man. “What do you mean?”
His dark eyes affixed on Kareef. “It would be a grave mistake to insult Umar Hajjar, my king,” he said quietly. “I’ve heard he is returning from Paris tonight.”
Paris. So Kareef’s suspicions had been right. Hajjar had been spending time with his French mistress.
And Kareef was expected to give up Jasmine to a man who did not even care enough to be loyal to her?
Too angry to be fair, he clenched his hands. “I have no intention of insulting Hajjar. He is my friend. He saved my life.”
“Yes. Quite.” The older man cleared his throat. “The royal banquet begins soon, sire. Ambassadors and foreign princes have come from all over the world to celebrate your impending coronation. You will not wish to be late.”
Kareef ground his teeth. Making small talk with people he didn’t care about? “I will attend in my own time.”
The vizier tugged his beard. “It’s just a pity you don’t have your future bride on your arm for such a social event,” he sighed, then brightened. “Princess Lara du Plessis is attending with her father. She is a possibility as well. She’s very beautiful—”
“No marriage,” Kareef barked out. His mind already on Jasmine, he turned to go.
“You will find her in the royal garden,” the vizier