Scandal: His Majesty's Love-Child

Did he have a personal interest in Annalisa?

Tahir stiffened. His fists clenched and hot, scathing words hovered on his lips, ready to scare off this upstart.

Till he remembered he had no rights where she was concerned.

The realisation slammed into him so hard he reeled, and almost toppled over as nausea rose.

Finally, summoning the last of his strength, he lifted one leg over the saddle and slithered off. He stood, swaying drunkenly on ground that seemed to roll beneath him. His companion merely watched, arms folded.

‘Your Highness?’ A voice made Tahir turn, frowning.

‘No. I—’

An older man, vaguely familiar, moved forward with a formal bow. For the life of him Tahir couldn’t reciprocate. It was all he could do to stay upright on legs that shook mercilessly.

‘Your Highness, let me express our heartfelt thanks that you’ve been delivered to us safely. We thought your helicopter went down over the coast and we’ve been searching the sea for days.’

At his nod two ambulance officers hurried forward with a stretcher.

Tahir opened his mouth to say he wasn’t anyone’s highness, then realised perhaps he was. With Kareef as king, that made him and their brother Rafiq princes.

The ludicrous notion of the black sheep of the family scoring a royal title pulled him up short. It was so outrageous, so bizarre, he barely noticed when his surroundings blurred around him.

He heard a shout, saw serious faces shift in and out of focus, then the world faded into oblivion.

He had to stop making a habit of passing out. He didn’t have the patience for being sick. There was no amusement in it.

Even the soothing stroke of a soft, feminine hand at his brow lost its attraction when he came to enough to realise he’d dreamed it. What woman would sit patiently worrying at his bedside?

He’d had enough motor racing accidents to know nurses didn’t caress their patients. And Annalisa, the only woman whose touch he desired, wasn’t here. On the contrary, she’d be thanking her lucky stars she’d seen the last of him.

Still foggy from dreaming she was here, still weak enough to be plagued by regret that she wasn’t, Tahir was in a sour mood when he woke.

He wasn’t used to being dependent on anyone. Yet as he stirred he knew a craving for her by his side. He who’d never craved any woman! Who’d been alone so long he couldn’t remember what it was like to wake up with the same woman twice.

He was in no mood to find himself hooked up to all sorts of machines. He was disengaging himself when the doctor arrived.

‘No, sire. Please!’

Tahir ignored his protests. ‘I don’t need all this. I just need to get out of here.’ Not that there was anywhere he wanted to go—unless it was an isolated oasis inhabited by the dark-eyed beauty he couldn’t get out of his head.

The thought made him even more impatient.

There must be somewhere he should be. Something he should be doing. Something to keep him busy.

‘I need to see my brother. I have business at the palace.’ Tahir looked down in disgust at the hospital robe he wore. ‘If you want to be useful, bring me clothes.’

‘But, sire, you can’t—’

Tahir waved aside his protests, ignoring the sharp stab of pain through his chest at the movement. ‘Of course I can.’

‘You don’t understand, sire.’ The doctor stood his ground and reluctantly Tahir focused on him. ‘You need treatment and further observation. I can’t take responsibility for releasing you yet.’

‘I’ll take responsibility. Just hurry up with those clothes.’ Tahir forced himself to sit up and not sink back into the tempting comfort of the pillows. He felt absurdly weak.

‘But, si—’

‘And don’t call me sire,’ he snapped, ignoring the other man’s hand-wringing. ‘Just get me something to wear; that’s all I ask.’

‘Practising your fabled charm on the medical staff, little brother?’ A deep drawl from the doorway drew Tahir’s attention. He stiffened warily.

A tall man stood inside the door, his big frame suave in a hand-made Italian suit. His short black hair was brushed back severely and familiar ice-blue eyes surveyed Tahir.

After a moment Tahir saw the gleam of humour in his expression and the tension cramping his shoulders eased a fraction.

‘Rafiq!’ He hadn’t seen his family in eleven years. Not since his father had banished him. The potent shot of delight that surged through him was a complete surprise.

He’d been so busy getting on with life, pursuing pleasure and business in equal measure, he hadn’t let himself think about family. About resurrecting old ties. Even flying here he’d concentrated on the need to support his eldest brother, Kareef, as he ascended the throne, rather than on reviving personal relationships.