Bound to Her Desert Captor

He should never have gone to her suite. Never have argued with her and certainly never have brought her fingers to his lips.

He swung hard again, grunting as his gloved fists connected with solid muscle.

From now on she would stay on one side of the palace and he would stay on the other.

His opponent groaned loudly. ‘Either I’m in really poor form, or you’re in extremely good form today, boss-man.’ Zumar winced as he prodded the side of his jaw. ‘If I’m lucky I might get out of this bout still standing.’

Jag rolled his aching shoulders and waited for Zumar to resume his fighting stance. Zumar was six feet six, built like an iron tank, and the head chef in the palace. He?

??d once been a black belt in karate and a kick-boxing champion before injury had forced him into another career as a street fighter. Many years ago Jag had assisted him in a five-against-one street brawl and given him a second chance. Zumar had studied as a chef, and could now run a Michelin-star establishment if he so chose. He didn’t. Instead he’d made a life for himself in Santara and remained loyal to Jag. Loyal until they faced off in the ring during their regular training sessions.

‘Stop complaining,’ Jag growled. ‘I can’t help it if you’re going soft on all those pastries you bake.’

‘Soft, is it?’ Zumar laughed. ‘Bring it on, boss-man.’

Jag did...taking out his pent-up energy and frustration in the ring rather than on the woman currently occupying his garden suite.

He still couldn’t believe how close he’d come to kissing her again last night. The woman did things to his equilibrium he didn’t want to contemplate. Because, for a man who was used to being in the utmost control at all times, it was a sad indictment to admit that when he’d taken one look at her in those cut-off shorts he’d nearly forgotten his own name.

Then there was all her talk of love and happiness...as if they were goals that motivated his life!

What did motivate him was success, position, power. Providing for his country and his family. Making sure everything ran smoothly and that Santara would never be in an inferior political position with its neighbours—Berenia and Toran—again. And if that made him a—what had she called him?—a stubborn, autocratic, overbearing tyrant, then so be it.

Usually steady on his feet, he felt Zumar’s fist connect with his right cheekbone. He staggered sideways and scowled at his chef’s ecstatic expression.

‘Lucky shot,’ he growled.

‘I’ll take it, boss-man,’ Zumar chortled, raising his fists again.

Jag feinted a right hook to his jaw and then did a kick-boxing manoeuvre that brought the other man down.

‘You learn too fast,’ Zumar complained. ‘I’m calling time.’

‘You can’t,’ Jag stated. ‘I’m not finished.’

‘You want to cook your own meal tonight, boss-man?’

Jag grunted, wrapping his gloved hand around Zumar’s and hauling him to his feet. He glanced around the basement gymnasium many of his senior officers also used, to see if there was anyone else who would help him work off some steam.

Regan James might, his recalcitrant libido whispered, though that would be a very different type of workout from this.

Ignoring that unhelpful thought, he tried to catch the eye of a few of his army officers. Unfortunately Jag had never been known to employ idiots and every man in the room kept his gaze averted. It wasn’t hard to sense that their leader wasn’t quite himself right now.

‘What’s up with you anyways, boss-man?’ Zumar asked, wiping the sweat from his brow with a sports towel. ‘This big-deal summit tying you up in knots?’

‘It’s not the summit.’

‘A woman, then.’

‘A woman?’ Jag gave him a baleful look, yanking his gloves off. ‘Why would you say that?’

The Nigerian shrugged. ‘When a man is as worked up as you are it usually means trouble of the female variety.’ He gave Jag a knowing grin. ‘But there is no escape, huh? The heart knows what the heart wants.’

The heart?

‘What about your parents? Were they happily married?’

From out of nowhere, Regan’s unexpected question from the night before dredged up unwelcome memories of his childhood. He still couldn’t fathom how he had become embroiled in a conversation about his family with her. He never talked about his parents, not his father’s death, nor his mother leaving them when they were young. It had happened, he’d dealt with both events and moved on, as was befitting for the as then future King of Santara.