many years.’
‘I knew there was some sort of rift,’ she said cautiously, ‘which was never really documented, although many historians note that the two families were ruptured when your mother married your father.’
‘The reasons are irrelevant,’ he clipped out. ‘All you need to know is that the rift was healed when I visited him on his deathbed. When all the angers and divisions which life can create count for nothing. He reached out and held my hand and it was strange to see how age had diminished him. I could see regret on his features—more regret, perhaps, than is usual just before the moment of death.’
His throat constricted and for the first time Jane thought she saw emotion on his face—a dark and bitter look which made his features appear almost savage, until he appeared to recover himself and the arrogant mask slipped back into place.
‘As he gripped my fingers,’ he continued, ‘he looked into my eyes and told me he had been watching my sheikhdom from a distance and that he approved of the way I ruled my people. I told him that I was not seeking his approval, that he was not in a position to offer it, since he had rejected his only daughter when she chose to marry my father—and that had broken her heart.’
‘What did he say?’ questioned Jane breathlessly, for the dying king had been a formidable presence in the desert world.
‘He laughed,’ said Zayed. ‘And told me I was strong but reckless.’
‘And was he right?’
‘Of course he was. My strength is legendary.’ His ebony gaze mocked her. ‘And I like being reckless.’
And something whispered down Jane’s spine when he said that. Something she’d never actually experienced before but which was instantly recognisable, because she’d studied enough of the erotic and very explicit literature of his country to recognise desire when she felt it. Inappropriate desire which would never be reciprocated. Desire for the desert king. It whispered over her skin with silken fingers. It spread through her veins like warm honey. Beneath the thickness of her sweater, she could feel her breasts begin to prickle.
Her lips suddenly felt dry and hot and she licked them. ‘I still don’t see where any of this is going. You healed your rift with the King and he bequeathed you a valuable piece of land. I should imagine that must give you cause for much rejoicing, instead of being here when you’d clearly much rather be somewhere else.’
He nodded as if to acknowledge the accuracy of her words before his expression suddenly grew serious.
‘It’s not that simple,’ he said softly. ‘Because, unfortunately, the bequest comes with a condition—which is that I must be married in order to inherit. And although the very idea is abhorrent to me, I want that piece of land for my people,’ he said, his voice growing deep with fervour. ‘So much so, that I’m prepared to marry in order to get it.’
‘Then why not ask one of your many girlfriends?’ she questioned archly. ‘Why not ask the mistress it is rumoured you keep in a luxury apartment in Manhattan?’
‘Because she is in love with me,’ he said simply. ‘As most women I date inevitably are. And I cannot marry a woman who is in love with me because love makes women unreasonable. It makes them start longing for things they can never have.’
She frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Because I don’t want love and I don’t wish to be tied to one woman—at least not until I have reached the age when my hair has grown silver and it is time for me to produce an heir. The union I propose with you will be nothing other than a means to an end. A brief union which I intend to be dissolved after six months.’
She looked at him curiously. ‘On what grounds?’
‘Non-consummation, of course.’ He shrugged his powerful shoulders. ‘I will not be having sex with my new bride.’
Jane nodded, her heart pounding painfully against her ribcage, her mind working over the facts as she pieced together the intention behind his bizarre request. ‘So you decided to pick a woman to whom you were not in the least bit attracted?’
‘Exactly.’ He leaned back in his chair, his black eyes lasering into her.
‘And I am that woman.’
‘You most certainly are. I cannot think of a more ideal candidate.’
‘I see.’ Jane could hardly get the words out she was breathing so heavily. She wanted to shout at him. To ask what right he had to insult her like that. To do something utterly uncharacteristic like picking up her plate and tipping the rainbow rice all over his arrogant head, before storming out of the club with a veiled suggestion about what he might like to do with his offer. Until she reminded herself that she was in no position to do any such thing. Why risk losing the job she loved just because her pride had been hurt?
Because Zayed needed her, she realised.
And maybe she needed him.
Why rail against him for merely stating the truth? She knew her limitations and she’d never been the kind of woman who men hit on. She didn’t dress to attract. She didn’t pore over fashion magazines or experiment with make-up. She’d always relied on her mind and never bothered about her appearance—she’d left that to her mother and Cleo.
Cleo.
Jane’s heart contracted painfully. Cleo, who owed so much money that men with threatening voices had started making sinister phone calls to her. Had she forgotten about that? Forgotten the fear which had fizzed through her veins when she’d spoken to her sister earlier that day and heard her on the brink of fearful tears? She had agreed to this unexpected dinner with Zayed partly because she’d been planning to ask him for a loan, or maybe a pay-rise—but perhaps his outrageous proposition had put her in a much more advantageous position than that. A powerful bargaining position. He wanted her hand in marriage—so why not ask him for something in return?
‘You think I could bear to be married to a man like you for six months?’ she questioned, trying to keep her voice steady.
‘I think you could bear it very well. For a start you would get to visit Kafalah,’ he said, his seductive tone mimicking that of a hypnotist who was dangling a swinging object before his goggle-eyed subject. ‘Why, you’d even get to stay in the famous royal palace.’
His insolent words took Jane’s breath away. So he was manipulative, as well as arrogant! Did he really think she’d be content to endure months of his unbearable company in order to see first-hand some of the antiquities she’d spent most of her adult life studying?
No. Sheikh Zayed Al Zawba was going to have to pay a much higher price than unlimited access to the treasures of Kafalah. She stared down at the pristine white linen napkin which lay neatly over her tweed skirt, aware of needing to choose her words carefully, because once said they could not be taken back. It would be wonderfully satisfying to refuse him outright. To look down her nose at him and tell him that his suggestion was inappropriate and insulting and she could think of no worse fate than being stuck with him for half a year. But she couldn’t afford to turn his offer down. Not if the price were right. It would mean having to tolerate the company of a man who made her hackles rise, even while he managed to make her body ache in places it had never ached before. His presence was infuriating, intoxicating and yet ultimately dangerous to her sense of worth. She suspected that peace of mind would not come easily if she became his bride, yet—if she was being realistic—how much time would she actually have to spend with him, even if they were married?
She knew Kafalahian custom meant the monarch was all-powerful and that these royal marriages were not modern marriages. It wasn’t as if they’d be sharing chores or doing the weekly shop together. Zayed would doubtless be having diplomatic meetings in the palace or charging round the countryside on one of his famous black stallions. They wouldn’t be expected to spend much time together—only to give the appearance of being married—leaving her free to explore the glorious palace and all its gems.
‘If