Their Impossible Desert Match (Mills & Boon Modern) Read online

  ‘Lipstick.’ Athena passed a black tube over and Johara coloured her full lips and then nodded.

  ‘Fine. Let’s go.’

  She didn’t portray a hint of the turmoil she was feeling. Her country stood on a precipice. Everything was new. The old ways must be forgotten. He had been wrong to say hatred would persist. The possibility of peace and safety was too alluring. Surely their people would force themselves to forget the anger and bigotry and come to see the people of Ishkana as their brothers and sisters?

  She was barely conscious of the way servants bowed to her as she walked. It hadn’t been like this in New York but, despite the fact she’d lived there for several years, she had grown up here in Taquul, for the most part, and this sort of respect came part and parcel with her position.

  At the doors of the stateroom, she paused, turning to Athena. ‘You’ll come with me.’

  ‘Of course.’ Athena’s eyes dropped to the marble floor a moment, as though she too was fortifying herself for the night ahead. And that was natural—Athena had served the Taquul royal family since she was a teenager, her sentiments matched theirs.

  Beyond that, she was a friend to Johara. Johara reached out and squeezed Athena’s hand for comfort. ‘Let’s just get it over with.’ She unknowingly echoed Amir’s earlier sentiments. The doors swept open, the noise of their intrusion drawing the attention of all in the room.

  Her eyes naturally gravitated towards her brother’s. His gaze held a warning, as though he expected her to make trouble in some way. From him, she turned to Paris. His smile was kind; she returned it. She might not find him at all attractive but he was sweet and they’d been friends for a long time.

  Someone moved at the side of the room, catching her attention. She turned that way naturally, and missed her step, stumbling a little awkwardly as her eyes tried to make sense of it.

  The man across the room was...unmistakably...the same man she’d made love to in the heart of the maze. His dark robes were instantly recognisable, but it was more than that. Though he’d worn a mask his face was...she’d seen it as they’d kissed. She’d known what he looked like.

  Had he known who she was? Had it been some kind of vile revenge?

  No. Shock registered on his features too, though he covered that response much more swiftly than she was able, assuming a mask of cool civility while her blood was threatening to burn her body to pieces.

  ‘Jo.’ Malik crossed to her but she couldn’t look away from Amir. She saw the way he flinched at her name and wondered why. The world was spinning, and not in a good way. Malik put his hand under her elbow, guiding her deeper into the room, and she was glad for his support. She could hardly breathe. What were the chances?

  He had to have known. He had come to speak to her out of nowhere—why else had he approached her like that? It couldn’t have been random happenstance.

  Except he hadn’t known; she was sure of it. They’d both sought anonymity. It had been a transaction between two people: faceless, nationless, without identity. It had been about him and her, their bodies and souls, and nothing more.

  She dropped her head, almost unable to walk for a moment as the reality of what had happened unravelled inside her.

  He’d use this to destroy her. To destroy her brother. If Malik knew what she’d done... Oh, heck.

  Panic seized her.

  ‘Calm down,’ Malik muttered from the side of his lips. ‘This is to commemorate a peace treaty, remember? He is no longer the enemy yet you look as though you would like to kill him.’

  Startled, she jerked her eyes away from Sheikh Amir of Ishkana and looked at her brother instead. ‘I would.’

  Malik’s expression showed amusement and then he shook his head, leaned closer and whispered, ‘Me too, but my advisors tell me it would be a bad idea.’

  She forced a smile she didn’t feel. Paris moved to them, putting a familiar hand on hers and pressing a kiss to her cheek. It was a simple greeting, one that was appropriate for old friends, but in front of Amir, after what they’d just shared, she felt as though she should distance herself. She needed space. From him, from everyone. But it wasn’t possible. There were far greater concerns than her personal life.

  ‘Amir.’ Malik addressed him by his first name, and it didn’t occur to Amir to mind. In that moment, all of his brain power was absorbed in making sense of what the hell had just happened.

  She was... Johara? The Princess of Taquul? The woman he’d made love to, been so blindsided by that he’d given into physical temptation against all common sense was...a Qadir?

  He wanted to shout: It can’t be! Surely it wasn’t possible. And yet...there was no refuting it. Her dress...she moved and he remembered how she’d felt in his hands, how her body had writhed beneath his. He could close his eyes and picture her naked, her voluptuous curves calling to him, even as she now walked elegantly towards him, her hair neat, her make-up flawless, and he saw only a Qadir princess. Her parents had hated his. Her uncle Johar had killed his parents. Johar... Johara. She’d been named for that murderous son of a bitch.

  Something like nausea burst through him. Hatred bubbled beneath his skin. As she came close, he inhaled and caught a hint of her fragrance, so familiar to him that his body couldn’t help but respond, despite the fact he now knew who she was.

  ‘This is my younger sister, Princess Johara of Taquul.’

  Their eyes met and locked. It was impossible to look away. He saw fear there. Panic. But why? Because of what they’d done? Or because of what she thought he might do next? Did she believe he was going to announce their prior relationship? That he’d do something so foolish as confess what they’d shared? To what end?

  His eyes narrowed imperceptibly and he extended a hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you.’

  He saw the moment relief lit her eyes. Her smile was barely there—a terrible facsimile of the vibrant smiles she’d offered in the maze. She hadn’t known who he was. Neither of them had understood.

  How had he failed to notice the signs though? Her familiarity with the maze. A dress made of spiders’ silk. Both such obvious signs of her place within this family. Yet he’d been blinded by her, and by the attraction he felt. It was the only answer.

  ‘Likewise.’ Her accent. It was so American—naturally he’d assumed she was a foreigner, here in Taquul just for the ball. But now he recalled the biographical details he’d been furnished with prior to this treaty: that her mother had been American, that she’d gone to school in America for some time, and had lived there for several years.

  ‘You look flushed. Do you feel well?’ It was Paris, to her left. Something else flared in Amir’s mind.

  The man my sister is to marry.

  ‘I’m fine.’ At least she had the grace to look ashamed.

  ‘Your Highness? They’re ready.’

  It was a blur. Johara stood between her brother and Paris as the peace accord was announced. Fireworks burst overhead to celebrate the occasion, and answering displays were seen across the countries. Peace had come—she could only hope that it would hold.

  And all the while, those in attendance smiled and nodded with rapt faces, and finally cheered, so Johara smiled along with them and nodded as her brother spoke. But it was when Amir began to address the crowd that everything inside her dissolved into a kind of never-ending tumult.

  ‘For too long we have seen our people die. We have fought over nothing more significant than on which side of the mountains we were born; this war has been a plague on both our countries. Our people were once unified and great, strong in this region, capable of anything. Our prosperity was shared, our might universally known. It is time to set aside the last one hundred years. It is time to forge a peace between our people, a lasting peace—not into the next century, but the next millenium.’ She was captivated, staring at his deep, dark eyes as he scanned the crowd.

  ‘I
t will take work. It will require us to actively forget how we have been taught to feel. We will need to look behind the masks of what we believe our peoples stand for, to see the truth of what is there. A baker in Ishkana is no different from a baker in Taquul. We see the same stars, worship the same god, dance to the same songs, have learned all the same tales. We can be unified once more.’ He turned to look at Malik, but his eyes glanced over Johara, so she was sure he must have seen the effect his rousing speech had on her.

  She couldn’t hide her admiration, she was sure of it.

  ‘Tonight begins a new way of life for us, a life of peace.’

  Silence lasted for several seconds and then applause broke out, loud and joyous. If Johara had been in any doubt as to how desperately the people wished for peace, the proof was right before her now. And for Amir to take what was largely a crowd of Taquul dignitaries and have them eating out of his hand—it showed the magnetism he had.

  Not that she needed any further indication of that.

  The official requirements of the evening were at an end. She left the makeshift stage gratefully, giving a brief farewell to Paris before slipping through thick gold curtains that hung along the edge of the ballroom. She moved quickly, desperately needing air, space, a way to breathe. She found her way to a long marble corridor and moved through it until she reached glass doors at the end.

  The cool desert air glanced across her skin as she pushed them open, onto a small Juliet balcony that overlooked the Sheikh’s aviary, where his prized falcons were kept. In the evening, the stark outline of trees was striking. Beyond it, the desert lay, and the light breeze stirred the sand, so when she breathed in she could smell that acrid clay that was so reminiscent of her childhood. How she’d loved to carry bottles of water into the desert and pour it over the sand to make little streams, turning the sand into a malleable substance from which she could build great structures.

  For a child who could barely read, making things with her hands had been her own source of satisfaction.

  ‘Your Highness.’

  She stiffened, curving her hands over the railing of the balcony as his voice reached her ears. Had she known he would follow? No. And yet, she was hardly surprised.

  She turned slowly, bracing for this—or at least attempting to. Nothing could prepare her for what was to come. Without his mask, alone on the balcony, so close she could touch him. And more than that, the coldness in his face. The anger. Oh, he was trying to control it but she felt it emanating from him in waves so she rushed to say, ‘I didn’t know who you were. I had no idea.’

  She knew, even as she spoke the words, that it wasn’t completely true. Their connection had defied logic and sense. Perhaps she might have been able to resist him, but not if he’d set his mind on seducing her.

  ‘So you simply took the chance to sleep with another man behind your fiancé’s back?’

  ‘I...’ She frowned. ‘I don’t have a fiancé.’

  That surprised him.

  ‘There is a man my brother wishes me to marry,’ she stressed, ‘but that’s not quite the same thing. Last time I checked, I still have some say in the matter, so no, I didn’t “cheat” on anyone.’

  He dipped his head forward. ‘I apologise. I was misinformed.’

  She was surprised by the instant apology, and more so how he could deliver it in a way that was both genuine and infused with icy coldness. If she turned to the right, she’d see the edge of the maze. She couldn’t look that way. She’d likely never look at it again, certainly never walk within its verdant walls.

  ‘You’re named for him.’

  She frowned, but only for a second. She should have remembered sooner, the awful, bloody death in her family’s—and his family’s—history. ‘My uncle Johar? Yes.’

  ‘You’re named as a tribute.’

  ‘I was born before he...’

  Amir’s shoulders squared. ‘Murdered my parents?’

  Her eyes swept shut in anguish. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And yet he had knowingly hated them for a long time.’

  ‘You said yourself, hate has been felt by all our people for a very long time.’

  ‘True.’ He crossed his arms over his broad chest. She wished he hadn’t done that. It drew her focus in a way that was dangerous, flooding her body and brain with too many feelings.

  ‘A moment ago, I listened to you implore us to move on from those feelings. To remember that we were once allies.’ She swallowed, not realising until that instant how badly she wanted that to be the case. ‘Let’s not speak of Johar. Not when a new period of peace is upon us.’

  His lips curled into what she could only describe as a grimace of derision. ‘Publicly I must advocate and encourage peace. Privately I am allowed to feel whatever the damned hell I please.’

  His anger and vehemence were palpable forces, rushing towards her. ‘And what do you feel?’

  He stared at her for several seconds and then looked beyond her, beyond the aviary, to the desert planes in the distance, made silver by the moonlight. ‘It’s better not to discuss it with you.’

  ‘If you’d known who I was...’ She let the question hang between them unfinished.

  ‘Would I have allowed it to happen?’ He compressed his lips. ‘No.’

  ‘You think you could have stopped it?’

  His eyes shifted back to hers and she saw it—what she’d been conscious of and yet not fully understood before. He was a king. Born all-powerful to a mighty people. Born to rule and fully cognisant of what the world required of him. His natural authority was exactly that. She’d perceived it from the outset and she felt it now. She shivered involuntarily, a whisper of cold seizing her core.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Courage was failing her, but she wouldn’t allow what they’d shared to be lost completely. ‘You’re wrong.’ She moved forward, putting a hand on his chest, but he flinched away from her, his eyes holding a warning. Pain lashed her. She had to be brave; he couldn’t deny that what had happened between them was real. That it held meaning. ‘There was something about you, and me, that needed us to do that.’

  He made a noise of disagreement. ‘It was a mistake.’

  Hurt pounded her insides. She shook her head in disagreement.

  ‘Let me be clear.’ His voice was deep and authoritative. She stayed where she was, but her body was reverberating with a need to reach for him, to touch him. ‘If I had known you were a Qadir I would not have touched you. I would not have spoken to you. I will always regret what happened between us, Johara.’ And her spat her name as though it were the worst insult he could conjure. ‘Tonight, I betrayed myself, my parents, and everything I have always believed.’

  Pain exploded in her chest. She blinked at him, uncertain of how to respond, surprised by how badly his words had cut her. ‘I’m not my uncle. I’m not my parents and I’m not my brother.’ She spoke with a quiet dignity, her voice only shaking a little. ‘You cannot seriously mean to hate me just because of the family I was born into?’

  His eyes pierced her. ‘I’m afraid that’s exactly what I mean, Your Highness.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘IT’S IMPORTANT.’

  ‘It’s dangerous.’ Paris spoke over Malik in a rare sign of anger. Johara watched the two of them discussing her fate with an overarching sense of frustration. As though where she went and why came down to what they said.

  ‘The peace is already fraying, and only eight weeks after the accord was signed. We need to do something more to underscore our intent that this be meaningful.’ He turned to Johara, frowning. ‘I hate to ask it of you, Johara, but you know that it’s time.’

  She said nothing, simply lifting a brow in a silent invitation for him to continue. ‘You’ve avoided your obligations for years, and I’ve allowed it.’ Inwardly she bristled. Malik crouched before her. ‘Because you’re my
sister and I love you—I want you to be happy. But I need you now. Someone has to go and do the sorts of visible politicking I don’t have time for.’

  She ignored the way her brother so easily relegated the responsibilities he was trying to foist on her as though it were just glad-handing and smiling for cameras, rather than wading into enemy territory and attempting to win the hearts of the Ishkana people.

  ‘You should go.’ Paris spoke quietly, addressing Malik, his eyes intense. ‘For a short visit.’

  ‘It’s not possible.’ Malik sighed. ‘You know there are matters here that require my urgent attention.’

  Paris expelled a breath. ‘Then send someone. A diplomat. A cousin.’

  ‘No. It can’t be a snub, nor a regular visit. This has to have meaning to his people, the way his visit did for ours.’

  ‘It can’t have meant that much,’ Paris pointed out, ‘for the skirmishes to be continuing.’

  ‘Sheikh Amir is right. We have to be unified in this.’ Johara spoke above both of them, standing with innate elegance and striding towards one of the windows that framed a view of the citrus gardens. Their formal layout was designed as a tribute to a French palace, each tree surrounded by bursts of lavender, white gravel demarcating the various plantings.

  Paris and Malik were silent; waiting.

  ‘I hate the idea of going to Ishkana.’ She did, but not for reasons she could ever share with either man. She had tried to forget everything about Sheikh Amir and his hateful kingdom since they’d spoken on the balcony; to be sent there now as a guest of the palace? She trembled at the idea, and with outrage, nothing more!

  ‘So don’t go,’ Paris murmured.

  ‘I have to.’ She turned to face him, her smile dismissive. He was a good friend but the more time she’d spent back in Taquul, the more certain she’d become that she could never marry him. There was no doubt in her mind that he had her brother’s best interests at heart, and yet that wasn’t enough. She would speak to him about it, put the idea from his mind once and for all. His concern was worrying because it suggested he cared for her in a way that went beyond duty to the Sheikh, and the last thing she wanted to do was hurt Paris.