The Desert King's Blackmailed Bride

‘I am Hakim, Miss Dixon,’ the older man informed her gently as he led her off the terrace. ‘May I call you Polly? Or is it Zariyah?’

With difficulty, Polly recalled her manners. ‘No, my grandmother wouldn’t call me by my birth name. When I was old enough to understand it was my true name, she told me it was foreign and outlandish and she refused to use it, so she gave me the name Polly instead.’

‘That is a great pity but perhaps in time that could be remedied,’ Hakim remarked incomprehensibly above her head. ‘Would you be willing to talk to me? I have something of very great importance to tell you…’

CHAPTER FOUR

HAKIM ESCORTED HER to a room that he described as his office but which more closely resembled an old library.

Polly sank down in a comfortable armchair but sat bolt upright again, eyes wide with astonishment, when Hakim informed her that he was her grandfather.

‘But how could you possibly know that?’ she whispered unevenly.

‘My mother…’ Hakim handed her a creased old photo of a smiling blonde woman. ‘My son, your father…’

Polly peered down in wonder at the photo of the attractive dark-eyed young man in the photograph. ‘Is his name Zahir Basara?’

Hakim gently corrected her pronunciation and regretfully informed her of her father’s death when the palace had been overrun twenty-odd years earlier. Tears stung Polly’s eyes as he broke that news while frankly admitting that he and his only child had been at odds at the time of his demise.

‘He wanted to marry your mother,’ he explained. ‘But I refused to support him. My own parents had a mixed marriage. My mother was the daughter of a Swedish missionary working here. Although my parents stayed together they were not happy. My prejudice blinded me towards the woman my son loved—’

‘I can understand that…but are you really sure that your son was my father? His is the name my mother left me with the ring, but—’

Tears dampened Polly’s cheeks as her emotions spilled over because she felt so horribly guilty for doubting that name now. How much had she let her gr

andmother’s bitterness colour her own attitude towards her mother? Annabel Dixon had not been lying, nor had she been unsure of who had fathered her first child. Her late mother had told her the truth.

‘There can be no doubt because we did a DNA test. A sample was taken from you by the doctor without your permission,’ Hakim confided gravely. ‘DNA samples of the dead were conserved after the coup that killed our King’s family and many others at the palace. I am very sorry that we ordered the test to be done without your awareness—’

‘But why did you order it?’ Polly murmured in bewilderment, too preoccupied by what he had told her to be angry when it had resulted in her finding an actual blood relative of her late father’s. ‘Why would you do such a thing?’

With quiet assurance, he explained that her arrival with both the Hope of Dharia ring and the name of a former queen had roused the suspicion that she could be a child of Rashad’s late father. ‘He was a most unscrupulous man with women. He had many extramarital relationships. We are not aware of any children born from those liaisons but it has always been a possibility. Imagine my astonishment when the computer found a match with my own son…’

Polly was just beginning to adapt to the shattering idea that she was in the company of her actual grandfather, who appeared to be a great deal more warm and pleasant in character than her maternal grandmother had proved to be. ‘It must have been a nasty shock—’

‘No, it was wonderful,’ Hakim contradicted with a wide smile. ‘My wife, your grandmother, wept with joy and cannot wait to meet you. We are strangers but we would dearly love to be considered family…’

At that generous statement, Polly’s eyes flooded with tears again. ‘I think I would like that too. Apart from my sister, I’ve never really had what people call a family. But doesn’t it make a difference to you that Zahir and my mother weren’t married?’

‘But they were married,’ her grandfather countered and he explained.

‘My mother must’ve been devastated,’ Polly commented sickly, trying to imagine the pure horror of marrying the man you loved and losing him again the next day.

‘Dharia was in uproar and naturally Annabel fled home to the UK. There was nothing here for her to stay for. She must also have been aware that Zahir’s family were hostile to her,’ he completed sadly. ‘I was very much in the wrong in the way I dealt with their relationship, Polly.’

A small hand covered his and squeezed comfortingly. ‘You didn’t know. You made a mistake. You wanted the best for your son. You didn’t know what the future held…none of us do,’ she pointed out quietly.

Hakim beamed at her, his rounded face flushed with pleasure. ‘Will you give my wife and myself the opportunity to get to know you?’ he asked humbly. ‘We would be very grateful.’

Polly mumbled that she would be equally grateful. Tears were tripping her up again and she blinked them back in exasperation but her needle-in-a-haystack search for her father had come to an amazing conclusion. Her father was gone, as was her mother, but she had discovered other relatives to comfort her for that loss. It was more, she felt, than she could have hoped for before she set out on her journey.

‘But do not be holding hands with the King again,’ Hakim advised in an undertone. ‘The fault was his, not yours, but I will not have your reputation soiled.’

‘Are relations here in Dharia between single men and women so strict, then?’

‘Only when the King is involved,’ her grandfather admitted wryly. ‘He is a public figure. He must not be seen to resemble his late father by practising any overfamiliarity with a female. Once he is safely married, he will not need to be so concerned about appearances.’

Polly’s right hand tingled and her face warmed while she distractedly recalled what Rashad had done with her finger. She wondered what an actual kiss would have felt like. With her imagination catching fire at the idea, a wanton charge of heat filtered through her lower limbs and filled her with self-loathing embarrassment. ‘Is he planning to get married, then? Has he a wife lined up?’