Monarch of the Sands

Frankie swallowed. ‘And what if I told you that I don’t care about my reputation?’

‘Well, you should.’ Her words were the spur he needed and he got out of bed and began to pull on his robes with an economy of movement. ‘Your name is respected in my country and I don’t intend for that to change, Francesca. And if word got out that you were sharing my bed—that is exactly what would happen.’

She nodded as she met the determination which glittered from his black eyes and knew that to object would be pointless. ‘If you say so.’ She yawned as he leaned over the bed and tugged the sheet over her.

‘I do. Now go back to sleep and I’ll see you later.’

And with one last brief and charismatic smile, he was gone, leaving Frankie to drift in and out of sleep before it was time to get up and make her way to the library.

It was an oddly restful place to work. Scented by fragrant roses which stood on her desk and with most of the windows shuttered against the brilliant sunlight outside; she always experienced an immense feeling of peace when she walked into the vast book-lined room each morning.

As happened every day, breakfast had been laid out for her on a table overlooking the palace gardens. Mint tea, a dish of iced oranges and a selection of the very sweet pastries which the Khayarzah people loved.

She ate a little, then went to the desk and pulled out one of the diaries from an inlaid box which was hundreds of years old—something which had stopped being remarkable, because most things in the palace were ancient and beautiful. What was remarkable was how quickly she had settled into such a rarefied existence. Instead of being intimidated by her cloistered desert life, she had quickly settled into the exotic world of Khayarzah as if she had been born to it.

Being surrounded by priceless antiques didn’t faze her—and neither did the presence of the noiseless servants who seemed to haunt the palace rooms and corridors. She’d quickly become used to luxury and comfort and taking long walks in the manicured gardens during the hours of daylight, while Zahid went about his kingly tasks.

And if she spent most of the day alone—she made up for it in the evenings, when Zahid would usually join her for dinner. Afterwards, they would sometimes sit playing cards—just as they’d done all those years ago. Only these days he no longer let her beat him. These days she had to really try in order to win. And that wasn’t terribly easy when sexual tension seemed to sizzle in the air around them.

Sometimes, there were nights when Zahid needed to attend some glittering social function and then she would read up on the history of Khayarzah—curled up on an embroidered sofa in one of the less intimidating salons.

‘You don’t mind being left alone?’ he’d asked her one evening, appearing in the doorway in shimmering robes of muted silver.

Of course she’d minded but, recognising that complaining wasn’t going to get her anywhere, she’d shaken her head. What choice did she have but to put up with it? It simply wouldn’t be done for him to turn up at a formal function with a foreign woman by his side. ‘Not at all. I’m used to my own company.’ And she had seen him nod his dark head with satisfaction, pleased with her reply.

But by night it was a different story. When the moon was high in the star-spangled Khayarzahian sky, he would come to her room and silently ravish her in the warm, scented darkness. Heart hammering like a piston, she would lie awake waiting for him—naked and eager beneath Egyptian cotton sheets as she heard the soft whisper of his clothes sliding to the marble floor. And then he would join her on the bed, his hard, virile body hot and hungry, his kisses full of urgent passion. He would make love to her for most of the night until their bodies were exhausted—slipping away only when the milky light of dawn turned the sky a pale apricot colour.

Leaving Frankie to drift off into a dazed sleep. So that sometimes when she opened her heavy eyes in the morning she would wonder whether perhaps she had dreamt the whole thing.

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The diaries helped. Having a legitimate reason to be in the palace gave her a sense of purpose and stopped her thinking about what she would do when the affair was over. Because the thought of leaving Zahid was too painful to contemplate. She couldn’t imagine it—didn’t want to imagine it. Much better to remember what it felt like when he made love to her, when his clever tongue licked all the way up her thigh and then … then …

Frankie closed her eyes with erotic recall. Memories of his love-making always overwhelmed her, but she was aware of something else happening. Something dangerous, deep inside her heart. Because in tandem with the physical flowering of her body had come a new and unwanted emotion and somewhere along the way she had fallen in love with the hawk-faced king. The caring friendship she’d always felt had grown into something much bigger and infinitely more powerful.

She loved him.

Would he be horrified if he knew how she felt?

Frankie stared down at the diary which lay open on the desk but none of the words registered. Of course he would! He’d be more than horrified. Love wasn’t on the agenda and it never had been. He’d told her that in no uncertain terms. This was all about sex—great sex, it was true—but nothing more than that.

‘I’m not paying you to sit there daydreaming, you know.’

A mocking voice broke into her thoughts as Zahid walked into the library and Frankie looked at him, her heart melting as she stared into the black glitter of his eyes.

‘Sometimes I can’t help daydreaming,’ she defended softly.

‘Abo ut?’

About the way you hold me when your body is deep inside mine. About the way you kiss me when it’s all over. About how much I’d love to stay here, by your side, for ever. But such words could never be uttered. They were forbidden—just as driving was forbidden and showing affection towards each other in public. And being found in bed together. So, with an effort, Frankie scrambled together her thoughts and gestured towards the open leather journal in front of her. ‘About your father’s diary—it’s a fascinating document.’

‘In terms of content, you mean—or just generally?’

‘Both. A diary is better than an autobiography, don’t you think? Much more personal.’

Zahid nodded. ‘An intimate glimpse into someone’s life, you mean—as well as their thoughts?’

‘Well, yes.’ She could understand why nobody outside the family had ever seen them before—for they were almost painful in their intimacy. ‘Things I already knew, I now see differently. It makes me realise how difficult it must have been for you all, with the war and everything.’ She hesitated, wondering whether this was a forbidden subject, too. Perhaps it was, since they had never talked about it. ‘And then, when your mother became ill.’