Monarch of the Sands

‘But maybe it’s about time. Such an appointment will show the western world that we do take women seriously. And it will pacify some of the more rebellious females back home in Khayarzah.’

Tariq laughed. ‘There speaks my brother, the King! How completely ruthless you can be, Zahid.’

‘You think so? I prefer to describe myself as a realist.’ Zahid shrugged. ‘And why not capitalise on opportunity when it comes knocking?’

Frankie bit her lip as she heard herself described as an ‘opportunity’.

‘Wine, Frankie?’ asked Tariq.

‘I’d better not—’

‘Nonsense. If Zahid wants to show the world he’s tolerant and open to the ways of the west, then he should let his pretty guest have a glass of wine even if he doesn’t much care for it himself.’

She rarely drank but Frankie suddenly found herself longing for a glass. So many emotional missiles had been hurled at her over the last few days and she still felt a little dazed by it all. Her whole pattern of living had crashed and she hadn’t quite got used to the new, rebooted version. She knew that she should be feeling more pain about the end of her relationship with Simon—but the crazy thing was that she didn’t. And that in turn made her feel guilty. She kept questioning her own judgment and every time she did it filled her with a feeling of failure. A drink might help relax her.

‘Thank you,’ she said, ignoring the narrow-eyed look which Zahid sent shooting in her direction. ‘I think I will.’

The meal was a mixture of glamour and grit. Frankie was aware that she was in a high-octane atmosphere and being served some of the best food in the capital. But she felt strangely removed from it all—as if she was an outsider, looking in.

Maybe that wasn’t so surprising. She was with two members of a royal family and they spent a lot of the evening speaking—and arguing—in their native tongue. Consequently, she found herself sipping at the rich red wine without really noticing and before she knew it she was halfway through a second glass. Her cheeks had begun to burn and Zahid was frowning at her across the table—and suddenly she found herself lost in the judgemental razoring of his gaze. Her tongue snaked out to encircle lips which had suddenly become bone-dry and she could have sworn she saw his eyes darken in response.

‘Don’t have anything more to drink, Francesca.’

She hadn’t been intending to—at least, not until he clipped out that peremptory order. ‘Why, are you rationing me now?’ she questioned. ‘This is only my second glass.’

Zahid felt irritated. It had been bad enough that his younger brother was stubbornly refusing to listen to reason and take his advice—without Francesca suddenly throwing her inhibitions to the wind. Why the hell had Tariq foisted that wine on her—and why had she let him?

‘You’re clearly not used to it. Come on,’ he said abruptly, rising to his feet. ‘It’s time we were going.’

‘But I haven’t had any pudding!’ she protested.

‘Wasn’t the chocolate you were eating earlier enough to satisfy your sweet cravings?’ questioned Zahid acidly.

‘But I only had one—and I missed lunch!’

Dark eyes looked positively frozen now. ‘You can order something from room service when we get back,’ he snapped. ‘And fascinating as this conversation is, I feel we must deprive my brother of any more of it.’

But Tariq was laughing. ‘Oh, please don’t let me stop you—I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sounding quite so domesticated, Zahid.’

Frankie’s feisty mood had evaporated by the time she retrieved her cashmere wrap from the cloakroom, and Tariq slid it round her shoulders with automatic courtesy. Why couldn’t Zahid do a gentlemanly thing like that, she wondered wistfully—instead of glaring at her as if she had suddenly become radioactive? She stepped out into the cold night and the drop in temperature was so dramatic that she stumbled a little until Zahid caught her elbow and steadied her.

She could feel his fingers burning through the fine cashmere of her wrap and she saw his mouth grow taut, before he gently manoeuvred her into the limousine as it slid to a halt beside them.

He turned to his brother, his face tense and his voice low. ‘Just remember what I said. You are now the brother of the sheikh—the heir. You shouldn’t be associated with a woman like that, a woman who is …’

Frankie had been listening intently to their conversation but rather annoyingly he had said the last word in his native language—or rather, he hissed it out like a cornered snake she had once seen at the zoo.

‘Who’s Tariq going out with who you obviously don’t approve of?’ she questioned, after they’d said goodbye and the car was pulling away.

‘Nobody,’ he answered tersely.

‘But I just heard you say—’

‘Well, you shouldn’t have done. You should have blocked the sound out. Don’t you know what they say about eavesdroppers?’

‘If I’m supposed to be working for you, and if you’re supposed to trust me, then don’t I need to know these things?’

‘Not now, Francesca! You will know what I wish you to know and when I wish you to know it. But top of the list of my requirements is an assurance that you do not persist with a line in questioning when your sheikh has expressly forbidden it. Do you understand?’