A Christmas Bride for the King Read online

  ‘So there’s been a caretaker government here since then, until your father passed away?’

  He nodded, and just then a waiter materialised, dressed in a pristine white tunic. The sheikh issued a stream of Arabic too fast for Charlotte to understand, and when the waiter had left he turned back to her.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind—I’ve ordered a few local delicacies.’

  Charlotte narrowed her eyes at him across the table, suspecting strongly that this man would ride roughshod over anyone who let him. ‘Actually, I prefer to order for myself, but I’m not a fussy eater.’

  He sat back, that twitch at the corner of his mouth more obvious now.

  ‘Duly noted, Miss McQuillan. Tell me, is that a Scottish name?’

  He threw her with his question, and Charlotte busied herself unfolding her napkin in a bid not to let him see how easily an innocent question like that rattled her. Because it wasn’t the name she’d been born with. It was her maternal grandmother’s name.

  ‘I...yes. It’s Scots-Irish.’ And then, before he could ask her more questions, she said, ‘I had a tour of the city this morning with Kdal. He was very informative.’

  She stopped when she saw something flash across the sheikh’s face but it was quickly replaced with a very urbane expression, and he said, ‘Please, tell me your impressions—after all, you did say that you thought it had much potential.’

  Charlotte looked at him suspiciously, thinking he was mocking her, but his expression appeared innocent. Well, as innocent as a sinfully gorgeous reprobate could look.

  ‘Well, obviously it needs a lot of work to restore it, but I found it fascinating. I had no idea how far back some of the buildings date. The mosque is breathtaking, and I hadn’t expected to see a cathedral too.’

  Sheikh Al-Noury took a sip of the white wine that had been poured into their glasses. ‘The city has always been a multi-faith society—one of the most liberal in the region. Outside the city limits, however, the country runs on more traditional tribal lines. Tabat used to run all the way to the sea. Jahor, the capital of Jandor, was merely a military fortress until its warriors rose up and rebelled, creating a separate independent state and endless years of war. Tabat is where all the ancient treasures reside. And all the knowledge. We have a library that rivalled the one at Alexandria, in Egypt, before it was destroyed.’

  Another waiter arrived with an array of food as Charlotte responded dryly, ‘Yes, I’ve spent some time in the library this week—it’s very impressive.’

  The sheikh—she still couldn’t think of him as Salim—gestured to the food. ‘Please, help yourself. We don’t really have a starter course.’

  Charlotte felt self-conscious as she picked a little from each plate and added it to her own. She had to admit that she loved the Tabat cuisine as she tried a special bread that was baked with minced lamb, onions and tomatoes. Halloumi cheese and honey was another staple she was becoming addicted to. At this rate she’d have nothing to show for her time here except added inches to her waistline.

  She watched Sheikh Al-Noury covertly from under her lashes, but he caught her looking and she could feel heat climb into her cheeks.

  ‘You’re not drinking your wine?’ he observed.

  She shook her head. ‘I prefer not to when I’m working.’

  He picked up his glass and tipped it towards her. ‘I commend your professionalism. I, however, feel no similar urge to maintain appearances.’ He took a healthy sip.

  Feeling emboldened by his seeming determination to goad her, she said, ‘I heard you have been away for most of the week.’

  He put his glass down and his gaze narrowed on her. ‘Yes. I was invited to the Sultan of Al-Omar’s annual party in B’harani. He’s an old friend.’

  An image immediately sprang into her mind of the sheikh surrounded by beautiful women, and when she replied her voice sounded unintentionally sharp. ‘I’ve heard of them... His parties are renowned for being impossible to get into, and they dominate the gossip columns for weeks afterwards, but there are never any pictures.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, almost wistfully. ‘That was in the good old days. But it’s all changed now that he’s a married man with children.’

  ‘You don’t approve, Sheikh Al-Noury?’ Charlotte asked with faux innocence, almost enjoying herself now.

  Those blue eyes pierced right through her. ‘I thought I told you to call me Salim. And my friend Sadiq can do as he pleases. Every man seems to fall sooner or later.’

  Charlotte ignored the little dart of emotion that surprised her, at the thought of this man falling for someone. ‘Won’t you have to...fall too? You’ll be expected to take a queen and produce heirs once you are crowned king.’

  Salim surveyed the woman opposite him, in another of those tantalising silk shirts with the damned bow that had haunted his dreams. Maybe she did it on purpose—projected this buttoned-up secretary image specifically to appeal to a man’s desire to see her come undone.

  It irritated him intensely that not one of the many beautiful women at Sadiq’s party had managed to snare his interest. His old carousing friend had slapped him on the back and joked that he was becoming jaded. And then Sadiq’s very pretty wife had joined them and whispered something in her husband’s ear that had made him look at her so explicitly that even Salim, who was pretty unshockable, had felt uncomfortable.

  When they’d made pathetically flimsy excuses and left, he’d silently wished them well in their obvious happy domesticity, while repeating his own refrain that he would never be snared like that. Because to commit oneself to another person was to risk untold pain.

  When he’d lost his sister the grief had been so acute that for a long time he’d wanted to die too. After he’d passed through that dark phase and emerged on the other side he’d never wanted to love anyone again. It was simply too devastating. Loss had eaten away at his soul until there had been nothing left but a need to escape from the world that had brought him such pain and avenge his sister’s death—which he had done.

  Not that it had brought him any peace.

  Angry to find his thoughts straying down this path, Salim said tersely in response to her question, ‘No, Miss McQuillan, I won’t have to fall.’

  He felt an overwhelming urge to unsettle this woman who looked so pristine. So in control. So...unaffected.

  ‘Because,’ he said carefully, ‘I have no intention of being King of Tabat for any longer than absolutely necessary.’

  Shock bloomed across her expressive face, exactly as he’d expected, but it failed to bring any measure of satisfaction and that irritated Salim intensely.

  She sat up. ‘What do you mean? You’re being crowned in two weeks—of course you’ll be king.’

  ‘Not for long,’ he said grimly, regretting having said anything.

  She shook her head, the shining cap of strawberry-blonde hair distracting him for a moment. She was so pale against this exotic backdrop. He imagined his darkness against her pale perfection...

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  Her cut-glass tones enflamed Salim’s arousal instead of dousing it. Only his friend Sadiq and his legal team knew of his plans. He shouldn’t have said anything to this woman, who was still a relative stranger...and yet he relished the easing of a weight off his shoulders.

  ‘I’m going to abdicate and ensure that a far more suitable person takes over as king in my place.’ Even if the signs of finding that person weren’t very encouraging.

  Salim was mesmerised by the play of emotions over her face and he realised that she was quite beautiful. More beautiful for not being showy or wearing layers of make-up. She was obviously struggling to understand. He almost felt sorry for her.

  ‘But...if you’re intent on abdicating then why be crowned in the first place?’

  ‘Because the country isn’t entirely stable at the moment. There are tribal factions who want to see the city restored to a conservatism that hasn’t existed for years. The
y’ve been growing stronger. If I was to walk away now it would create a vacuum, which they would use as an opportunity to storm the city and take over...there is a real danger of warfare.’

  She glanced around them before whispering forcefully, ‘But if you abdicate won’t the same thing happen?’

  Salim shook his head. ‘By the time I abdicate I will ensure that whoever takes my place will be a force for good in the country. Someone who will command the respect of everyone and see the country into the future.’

  She looked unimpressed and sat back, shaking her head. ‘Isn’t that meant to be you? Why would you do this when it’s your destiny?’

  Salim put down his napkin on the table, his skin prickling for exposing himself like this. ‘You call being bred with calculated precision destiny? If it was destiny then my twin sister would be queen—she was born ten minutes before me—but because she was a girl and therefore deemed unsuitable, I was named the heir to the throne of Tabat.’

  She looked at him, her face pale. ‘You have a sister? I didn’t realise...’

  He curled his hand into a fist on the table and forced himself not to look away from that too-direct green gaze. ‘She’s dead. A long time ago.’

  Charlotte felt the sheikh’s—Salim’s—tension. It crackled between them.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know... There was no mention...’

  She was still reeling from what he’d just revealed about his plans as king...or non-plans. And that he’d had a sister.

  ‘How did she die?’

  Salim looked at her for a long moment, but Charlotte had the sense he wasn’t seeing her. Then his focus narrowed to her again and she shivered.

  ‘It doesn’t matter how she died. She did. It’s in the past now.’

  But Charlotte had a very keen sense that it wasn’t in the past at all. To change the subject a little, she pointed out, ‘Your brother seems happy to accept his role.’

  Salim’s hand tightened around his napkin. ‘My brother and I are very different people. I made my life far away from here. I have numerous business concerns around the world... I employ thousands of people. Are they worth any less than the people of Tabat?’

  ‘No, of course not...but surely there is a way to run your businesses while also ruling Tabat?’

  He inclined his head and his mouth tipped up slightly, as if mocking her. Charlotte felt heat rise. He was obviously finding her naive or clueless.

  ‘I’m sure if I wanted to I could find a way, Miss McQuillan, but the truth is that I’m not prepared to make that sacrifice. Tabat deserves a committed and devoted ruler. I am not that man.’

  Why? The word almost fell out of Charlotte’s mouth, but she clawed it back at the last moment.

  Salim sat back then, and said, ‘I’m hosting a party in the palace this weekend. You are, of course, more than welcome. If you’re still here.’

  If you’re still here.

  Charlotte schooled her features, not liking the dart of hurt she felt that he was still intent on getting rid of her. ‘Do you think the prospect of one of your infamous parties is enough to scare me off?’

  He arched a brow. Supremely comfortable. Supremely dangerous. ‘Infamous? Please, do tell me what you’ve heard. I’m intrigued.’

  She cursed her runaway mouth. ‘That they’re a byword in hedonism and last for days. The last party you hosted at an oasis in the Moroccan desert ended with several of the guests being airlifted to hospital.’

  He shook his head. ‘I hate to burst your righteously indignant bubble, Miss McQuillan, but contrary to what was reported the helicopter was for me, to take me to the airport in Marrakech so that I could make a meeting in Paris. Nothing more salacious than that. The party broke up a couple of days later of its own accord, and I can assure you that no one suffered anything more than sunburn and a hangover.’

  Charlotte immediately felt like assuring him that she wasn’t an avid follower of tabloid gossip and that she’d only read about it while researching him and Tabat, but she resisted. ‘I told you, I’ve no intention of reneging on my contract.’

  Salim shrugged and finished his wine. ‘Suit yourself.’

  Struggling to try and find some equilibrium again, some vague sense of being in control, Charlotte said, ‘I really don’t think that a similar party would go down well here—unless it’s part of your plan to deliberately paint yourself in such a negative light that you think it’ll make your abdication welcome.’

  He considered her words for a long moment, and then said, ‘Not a bad idea at all, Miss McQuillan. Are you sure you aren’t in the PR field?’

  Before she could answer he said, ‘As much as your idea has some merit, I’m not as crass as that. The last thing I want is to portray Tabat in an unfavourable light. After all, I’m on a campaign to make it as desirable as possible. So, no, this party won’t be featuring scenes of Bacchanalian debauchery, it’ll be very civilised and elegant.’

  Charlotte felt tight inside, and wasn’t even sure where all this emotion was flowing from. ‘So you’re effectively advertising your kingdom to the highest bidder?’

  His mouth tightened for a moment, before relaxing into its habitual sensual lines. ‘Let’s just say I’m taking an opportunity to showcase its allure and beauty.’

  The waiter came then, and removed their plates.

  When he’d left Salim sat forward and said, ‘As I said, Miss McQuillan, you’re more than welcome to join us. The dress code will be full evening dress.’

  Charlotte could well imagine the haute couture finery at one of his parties and thought of her one very classic, but boring black evening-dress that would only reinforce whatever negative impression he’d already formed of her. She forced a fake smile. ‘Unfortunately I don’t have any such clothes with me. I’ll have to decline your generous invitation.’

  Salim stood up to leave. ‘That’s too bad, Miss McQuillan. I rather like the idea of seeing you dressed in something less...formal.’

  That bright blue gaze dropped lazily down her body and back up again.

  For a moment Charlotte couldn’t breathe. A wave of heat scorched her from the inside out. And then humiliation swiftly doused the heat. Seeing her in a dress would have zero effect on him. He was mocking her. Toying with her.

  She stood up unsteadily. He held out a hand to indicate that she should precede him, but when she went to move her foot slipped out of her shoe. The heel was stuck in the soft ground.

  She let out a gasp and hopped on one foot, bending down to get her shoe, but before she could do so a large hand was plucking it up.

  She looked at Salim, who was now straightening up and holding her very staid court shoe. It had never looked less sexy.

  That burn was back inside her. Mortification mixing with awareness.

  To Charlotte’s shock he went down on one knee before her, and his expression was far too innocent when he looked up and said, ‘Let’s see if it fits, shall we?’

  She was no Cinderella and he was not Prince Charming.

  Her face was burning as she took a quick glance around the wadi. Thankfully there was no one to be seen. She looked down at Salim and hissed, ‘I can put it on myself.’

  He sighed. ‘Miss McQuillan, I have no doubt you can put on your own shoe, but I am offering to do it for you—and, believe me, I don’t make a habit of helping women dress. It’s usually the reverse, so this is a novelty. Humour me.’

  She would have happily strangled him right then. She put her foot out reluctantly and waited. She tensed herself, not even sure what she was tensing herself against, and when he cupped her heel in his other hand she wobbled precariously.

  Because his touch will destroy you, a small voice said.

  He looked up at her and his eyes seemed to have darkened, but she told herself it was her imagination. Feeling ridiculous and exposed, she tried to pull her foot away but his hold tightened. He slowly let her heel slide into the shoe, and to Charlotte’s eternal embarrassment it was the single most
erotic thing she’d ever experienced. Electric tingles went all the way up her bare legs, straight to her groin. Her nipples tightened.

  Just when she thought she would be free he didn’t let her go. His hand was warm on her calf, and for a crazy moment Charlotte imagined it travelling up her leg to the back of her thigh, where—She abruptly pulled her foot free of Salim’s hands—successfully this time—horrified at where her mind had gone. She stood back and watched as he rose fluidly to his full height.

  It must be second nature for him to toy with women as if they were playthings. And none better than her—gauche, and as far from his usual women as could be possible.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said tightly. ‘But it was completely unnecessary.’ She picked up her bag, avoiding his eye, and made her way out from under the shade of the tented structure. Staff appeared, bowing to their future king.

  Little did they know, Charlotte thought to herself.

  The man who had taken the horse away reappeared now, leading the huge animal. Instinctively Charlotte moved away—but then she felt a hand on her lower back and stopped dead. Salim was beside her, wicked devilry dancing in his eyes.

  ‘I could offer you a ride back to the palace, if you like? It’s a beautiful way to see the country.’

  Charlotte imagined sitting in front of him on this horse, with his hand splayed across her belly, her bottom tucked far too close between his legs, and a tsunami of fresh awareness sizzled through her body.

  She moved aside jerkily, out of his reach. ‘No, thank you. I’m sure Kdal isn’t far away, and he will take me back.’

  ‘As you wish, Miss McQuillan. If you change your mind about the party do let me know. I’m sure we can find something suitable for you to wear.’

  Inexplicably—because right then Charlotte was telling herself that one of his parties was the last place she’d ever want to be seen—she found herself yearning to be the kind of woman who could walk into a crowded room and have this man stop in his tracks because he was so captivated by her...

  She cursed herself. What was wrong with her today?