The Defiant Princess (7 page)

She thought about it. It sort of made sense. But his suggestion rang warning bells for her. He was getting way too close and much too fast. He'd been here a few hours, yet the connection she felt to him was incredibly powerful. Was it because he represented a link to her past?

Having scrunching the tissue up and stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans, she stilled as he spoke from right behind her and reached around her to take her hand.

“I realise this is all happening very fast for you, yet there is no time for delay.”

She closed her eyes and refused to turn around to look at him. Her lack of vision only sharpened her other senses. She breathed in the undeniably masculine scent of him, absorbed the feel of his slightly roughened fingers on the smooth skin of her hand with greater clarity, heard the raw huskiness of his sensual voice as he murmured, “Come with me to Turastan.”

His deep tones were hypnotic and made his words tempting. The male version of a siren's call, his invitation was suddenly difficult to resist.

The muscles across her shoulders relaxed and her mind began to yield. Her body leaned back toward the source of the voice, craving the heat emanating from his body.

No!
She forced her eyes open and blinked hard. “I need to abdicate.”

She felt his body jerk and he dropped his hand away from her. “No.”

The loss of physical contact with him evoked the same panic a swimmer would feel being cast adrift in stormy waters without a life jacket. It took enormous willpower to face him and try to reason with him. “You and your father have immense influence. I need your help. You must know how I can abdicate, Khalid.”

“I can't allow you to do it.”

Oh God, stop looking at his mouth. Stop thinking about those lips.
“This isn't your decision to make.”

He paced a short distance before turning back to her. “Your life is targeted, but Helen's life is also at risk. Do you want to place her in danger?”

“Surely they wouldn't kill Helen?”

“Mustaf is capable of any heinous crime. If he can't kill you, he could easily kidnap Helen and use her as leverage to get to you. Even your students could be caught in the cross-fire.”

Cold dread leeched into her heart as he played his trump card. No, this wouldn't happen if she handed over the right to rule to Mustaf.

“I need to abdicate quickly,” she said. “Before he can do any of those things, I need to let him know the throne is his.”

The disappointment that flashed through his eyes before his features set in stone, made her want to shake him. The tension in the room was palpable as they stared each other down.

“You're being selfish. You and those you care about are not the only ones Mustaf threatens. In Rhajia, many people live every day in fear for their own lives and the lives of their loved ones.”

She sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands as his words hit their mark. Mustaf was a monster. He'd killed her parents. Did she really have the right to live her normal, peaceful existence when she could depose him? Could she hand over her birthright when there might be the slightest chance she could improve the lives of the Rhajians?

“You can make a difference,” Prince Khalid told her firmly, as though he'd sensed her indecision. “Do it for your countrymen. Do it for your parents and all they sacrificed. Mostly, Sabihah, do it because you know it is right.”

Be brave … One day you will rule our country well.
Her father's words echoed in her head, wracking her with guilt. People were hurting. If she did nothing, they would continue to suffer. She didn't doubt Khalid spoke the truth when he suggested other innocents would be hurt if she didn't return with him.

Another memory assailed her. It was the day she'd first met Prince Khalid. It must've been just after her eighth birthday—mere months before her life would be changed forever. Her mother had dressed her up in beautiful clothes and told her how important it was to be on her best behaviour. The royal family from Turastan were visiting the palace and she was going to meet Prince Hazim Ul-Haq—still a boy in his teens but the one her father had chosen for her to marry.

Sabrina remembered each detail vividly. She'd been so curious about the prince who would be her husband. But the meeting had been a giant disappointment. Home on holidays from Oxford University, Prince Hazim hadn't been at all interested in colouring-in. She'd thought him completely boring. She couldn't understand what all the fuss was about, why all the maids had strained to catch a glimpse of him, and kept telling her how lucky she was.

Prince Khalid, however, had been a different matter. She'd seen him through the window, astride a magnificent black polo pony. He'd ducked and weaved alongside the best of the Rhajian polo team. He'd been daring, his moves horrifyingly reckless. Khalid had looked superb even back then. Something about him had mesmerised her and she'd wished it was Khalid and not Hazim who would be her husband.

“I remember meeting you after you trained with the Rhajian polo team,” she whispered.

“They were fine men,” he recalled, “but there's no national polo team in your country now, Princess. Mustaf withdrew support for all national sports representation despite the disapproval of the Arab Council.” His hand slashed through the air. “That was minor to the people of Rhajia. Starvation, lack of education and inadequate medical facilities are far more pressing issues you can address.”

“Your brother, Hazim, pressed hard for the Council to intervene in Rhajia's internal affairs.”

“Yes, but even such a magnificent statesman as my brother failed to influence the Council in these matters.”

She nodded, knowing the truth of his words. When she was thirteen years old, she'd typed Hazim's name in an internet search. She'd wanted to know what was happening in Rhajia and Turastan. She'd tried to get to know Hazim by reading articles about the negotiations he was involved in. But she'd needed to force herself to plough through all the stories of Hazim's incredible diplomatic actions. The stories and pictures about Khalid and the glamorous lifestyle he led had been far more enticing.

The younger, twenty-year-old prince had also captured her interest because of his irresistible good looks. Even before his features had matured, his looks had rivalled any of the Hollywood stars and his physique still held centrefold appeal.

Khalid had drawn her like a flame draws a moth. She'd not been able to resist reading any article about him that she came across. Yet the more she'd read about Khalid, the more angry and disdainful she'd become. This prince was photographed in one article after another with gorgeous women on his arm. The list of women he'd dated was endless and included supermodels, actresses and young heiresses. All rich and famous. All stunningly beautiful.

Sabrina had told herself she was fortunate Hazim was the first-born son. Despite Khalid's physical appeal, marriage to a faithless playboy would've been intolerable. As she'd waited for King Hassan or Prince Hazim to come for her, Sabrina had schooled herself to follow the important international alliances Hazim was forging and to put Khalid out of her head. It would be important for her to know as much as possible about Hazim when she became his wife.

The final painful blow struck a year before Hazim's death. His marriage to the beautiful Barika eighteen months ago had made international headline news. As the nation had adopted Christianity during the time of the crusades, Hazim would take only one wife. The last of Sabrina's illusions was shattered. Nobody wanted her. Everyone seemed to accept she'd been lost in the desert and she'd been forgotten. Helen was the only one who cared.

She recognised the familiar torment of emotions from her childhood and teenage years reach out to her with grasping, greedy arms, trying to pull her down toward a turbulent whirlpool of self-pity and despair. Subconsciously she gripped the padded armrest of her chair tightly.

No
. She wasn't a child anymore. Sabrina refused to be that lost individual waiting to be found. Confidence and self-reliance had been hard-won traits she now possessed and she refused to be parted from. She loosened her grip.

A plan began to form in her head.

“Sabihah, you—”

“Wait,” she said. “I'm thinking.”

She ignored the irritated sound he made in response and the agitated tapping of his fingers against the back of a chair. She needed to focus and find a way she could claim the throne, save Rhajia, then return to the life she loved.

Did she dare propose it? There was no guarantee she would escape unscathed if he accepted her terms.

When she raised her head from her hands a few seconds later, she swallowed nervously before she spoke. “You are now the Crown Prince of Turastan.”

He nodded with impatience. “Yes.”

“Then you are the man to whom I'm betrothed—the man I must marry.”

Chapter Four

Marry.

The word brought Khalid's finger tapping to an abrupt halt and ricocheted around his brain like a deadly bullet—severing nerves, paralysing the centre responsible for breathing, and damaging all his powers of comprehension. At least, that was how it felt.

Incredibly, his heart beat on. Blood thundered past his ears. Shock was replaced by suspicion. Sensation returned slowly as he forced himself to unclench his fists. Eventually he regained enough control to inhale and exhale deeply.

Betrothed?

His teeth were still clamped together and he was aware that a muscle ticked in his cheek as he turned to face Sabihah. His shoulders stiffened even more as his eyes bored into the crystal blue depths of her gaze.

What was she up to? Was he a pawn being played by his father with this woman as his accomplice?

“Well?” she demanded, sitting straighter in the chair.

“Have you spoken with my father about this?”

The tilt to her head conveyed genuine incomprehension. “No. It's just occurred to me.”

Khalid's thoughts were in chaos. None of this visit was going according to his plan. This Rhajian princess wasn't supposed to have any idea of her identity, let alone of their parents' betrothal arrangements.

Unwilling to give her a glimpse of his inner turmoil, he eased himself into the chair opposite her and made his movements deliberately slow as he assumed a relaxed posture. He kept his tone casual as he asked, “How do you know of the arrangement made between our parents?”

The only show of her tension was the way she clutched her hands together firmly in her lap. “Apart from reading about myself on the internet, I remember meeting Prince Hazim as a child.”

Khalid recalled Hazim had been horrified at the entire arrangement. A young man in his first year at Oxford, he'd been introduced to an eight-year-old child, just over ten years his junior, and told she was the girl he was to marry. Khalid had been angry on his behalf, but simultaneously thankful it had been his brother, the heir, who was to sacrifice himself in an arranged marriage.

How things changed. Now Khalid was expected to offer himself up for the good of his nation.

“I remember meeting you, too,” Sabihah continued.

Khalid struggled not to grimace. On the one occasion they'd met, the then chubby little Princess Sabihah had followed him around the palace halls all afternoon. Hazim had been highly amused when she'd tried to capture Khalid's attention and attempt to interest him in playing with her dolls. Hazim had even suggested to their father that it should've been Khalid and Sabihah who were betrothed.

To Khalid's relief, Hazim's plan had fallen upon deaf ears. The betrothal agreement between Hazim and Sabihah had been firmly in place.

Looking at her now, Khalid had to admit that Sabihah was much more interesting as an adult than she'd been as a child. Far from being chubby, she was slender with feminine curves in all the right places. Her traffic-stopping beauty rivalled, and perhaps surpassed, the supermodels he'd dated. Sabihah looked like she belonged on a catwalk rather than as a teacher at a small, outback school. She'd look even better sprawled naked across his bed, languorous and sated after a session of intense lovemaking.

The quiet clearing of her throat refocused him. Instantly, he was disgusted at his loss of control over the direction of his thoughts. He was here with an important national purpose and yet everything about this situation threw him off-balance. Resentment clawed through him, for he was a man used to being very much in control. In the space of an afternoon, this young woman had undermined his control and surprised him more than once. She had the upper hand and it didn't sit well with him.

“Are you married, Khalid?”

Just the mention of the word still made the hairs rise on the nape of his neck. “No.”

Her long, lush eyelashes swept downward for a second, and his attention was caught by the rise and fall of her full breasts against her shirt. His lips parted and he knew an urgent desire to explore her breasts with his mouth. The thought of stripping her naked and suckling on the nipples that peaked so prominently against the fabric covering them was all-consuming. He imagined laving them with his tongue until she was crying out with need. And then he wanted to—

“So, I'm right to assume that now your father has found me, we are betrothed?”

The slightly higher pitch, the breathiness of her voice and the strain in each of her words had him searching her face. He drank in her high cheekbones, pert nose, and flawless complexion. Her generous lips simply begged to be kissed. The blood hurtled to his groin, making him shift in his chair. It was imperative he shut down that part of his brain.

She spoke about betrothal. Where was she headed with this? Surely she must be seeking assurance he wasn't here to claim her as his bride—that he wouldn't hold her to the agreement their fathers had made. A modern young woman raised in a Western country would not wish to marry a stranger.