From One Night To Desert Queen by Pippa Roscoe

CHAPTER ONE

KHALIFINHALEDDEEPLYthrough his nose and out through his mouth. Repeating the action did nothing to dislodge the tension pounding angrily in his temples. He rubbed at his eyes, squinting against his thumb and forefinger.

Five hours.

Five wasted hours he’d sat in that room, while fifteen people stared back at him as coffee grew cold, sweets grew stale and the room had become so stuffy they’d needed to open a window.

Stalking down the corridor, he told himself that he just needed air. Fresh air. He wasn’t running. He just needed a minute to himself. Which was why he was taking the staff routes through the palace, not the main ones. He was not hiding from Amin, his brother’s—no, his own—assistant. He was simply ensuring the longevity of the bespectacled man’s life.

Through the window, across the courtyard, Khalif could see the tourists leaving the exhibition housed in the public areas of Duratra’s palace. The sound of two boys laughing as they were chased affectionately by their mother cut through Khalif like a knife, transporting him back to a time when he and his brother had run rings around the palace guards.

Grief was like a punch to the gut. Swift, harsh, hot and angry. An emotion he could not allow to be seen now that he was first in line to the throne. Three years on from the terrible accident and he still caught himself noting something to tell his brother, wondering what Faizan would think, would advise. But Khalif wasn’t sure what was worse, to do that, or for that to stop.

It was a visceral sense of wrongness. As if that day the world had shifted a few degrees. Grief felt like trying to push the entire world back into place, millimetre by millimetre. And nothing worked. Not even pretending that he didn’t feel like an imposter. A substitute for his brother’s throne, as if Faizan would just appear from around the corner, laughing at him, telling him it was all a joke and taking back the responsibility that he, unlike Khalif, had been taught to manage. But Khalif knew better than to believe in fairy tales and daydreams.

The urge to find the nearest bar and wash away the acrid taste of resentment and grief with a drink was strong. But he’d not touched alcohol or a woman since he’d received the news about his brother. He might have once been the spare, the Playboy Prince loved internationally and equally by women and newspapers alike, but he was now next in line to the throne. And each and every day had been a battle to prove his worth as he forged himself into a ruler that honoured his brother, his father and his country.

He skirted the corridor that ran parallel to the rooms that housed the large public exhibition on Duratrian history and rounded the corner to where the security suite for the public areas was located and came to a halt. All five security staff, two in uniform and three in plain clothes, were huddled round the monitor as if their lives depended on it. Adrenaline crashed through him, his body preparing for fight.

‘What’s going on?’ he demanded as he entered the room, searching the bank of monitors lining the back wall for any sign of threat or danger to the royal family.

The way the men all started and looked as guilty as schoolboys would have been funny if his heart hadn’t still been pounding in his chest, his pulse throbbing painfully in his neck as the adrenaline receded.

‘Nothing.’

‘Sorry, Your Royal Highness, Sheikh—’

‘I know my name, Jamal,’ Khalif ground out. ‘What is it?’

A few more denials hit the air, too many shaking heads and hands, and even if that hadn’t piqued his curiosity a flash of red caught his eye on the central monitor. The one that the men had all been staring at.

‘What is...’

A tourist stood in front of one of the large paintings in the Alsayf Hall. Khalif cocked his head to one side as if that would make the image easier to see. The female figure was respectfully dressed, despite the relaxed attitude towards attire in Duratra, with a sage green headscarf that...

Again, there was the flash of red. The scarf had fallen back a little and a long, thick curl of fiery red slipped forward before the woman quickly tucked it back behind the folds of her hair covering. All this was done with an economy of movement and without taking her eyes from the painting. Without the distraction of the bright red hair, Khalif took in the rest of the woman.

The denim jacket she was wearing covered her arms and was folded back at the cuff to reveal a series of gold and bronze bangles that hung around a delicate wrist. The jacket was cropped at the waist so that the white and green striped dress that dropped all the way to the floor should have been perfectly modest had it not hinted at the mouth-watering curves of her—

He forced his eyes from the screen and looked to the men in charge of his family’s security.

‘Jamal, you’re a married man,’ he scolded as if he hadn’t just been staring at the very same thing. ‘I expected more from you.’

‘It’s not that—’ the guard tried to justify.

‘No, of course not,’ Khalif interrupted with a half laugh, ‘because your wife would have your balls if—’

‘No, Your Highness, it’s really not that... She’s been there for an hour.’

‘And?’ Khalif demanded.

‘No, she’s been there, in front of that painting, for an hour,’ Jamal clarified.

‘Oh.’

Khalif returned his attention to the monitor, where the tourist still stood in front of the painting of Hātem Al Azhar, his great-great-great-grandfather. He frowned, wondering what it was about the painting that had enthralled her for an hour. Given that, on average, it took one harassed school teacher to ferry a group of unfocused seven-year-olds a total of fifty-four minutes through the first section of the exhibition on the history of Duratra—a fact he knew only too well since his father had deemed it necessary for him to spend his teenage summers working at the exhibition in an attempt to instil in him a respect for their country’s history and an awareness of the importance of tourism. Instead, all it had done was broaden his pick-up lines to include several more international languages. That aside, it did seem strange that this tourist had spent so much time in front of one painting.

He felt a prickle of awareness across his skin as he realised that the men had regrouped around the same monitor as if drawn by a siren call. He turned to stare at them until they moved out of his personal space, some clearing throats and others grabbing pens to make useless notes on unnecessary bits of paper.

Khalif gave her one last look, trying to ignore the twinge of disappointment as he took his leave. At one time she would have been just his type.

Star looked up at the large painting of the man who had ruled Duratra over one hundred and fifty years ago and smiled. The patrician nose was broad and noble, the jaw line masterful. Even allowing for artistic integrity, Star was thrilled to see the handsome image of the man Catherine Soames had met after her doomed love affair with Benoit Chalendar.

She felt as if she could get lost staring into the deep penetrating eyes of her great-great-great-grandmother’s second love, until the security guard she’d met when she first entered the exhibition that morning cleared his throat. She turned and saw him gesture slightly to the clock on the wall.

‘Wahed, I’m so sorry. I had no idea that so much time had passed!’ She was shocked and annoyed with herself for being such an imposition. The exhibition should have closed fifteen minutes ago and Wahed had been so helpful showing her around earlier. She smiled her brightest and most sincere smile, leaving the room just before she could catch the blush that rose to his cheeks, and drifted towards the exit.

Her first day hadn’t been a failure exactly, she thought as she made her way towards the exit. Yes, they were short on time, Star admitted to herself, but the ache in her heart from a sadly now familiar panic would help absolutely no one, certainly not her mother.

The day after Skye had flown to Costa Rica, Summer had decoded the second part of the hidden messages Catherine had left in her private journals to reveal a description of a special key that could be found in Duratra. The key would unlock the room where Catherine had hidden the Soames diamonds.

With Skye tracking down the map of the hidden passageways, Star felt with every ounce of her being that finding the key was the final step in finding the jewels. When they did that they would have met the terms of their grandfather’s will and they could finally sell the estate and be able to pay for the treatment that would save their mother’s life.

On the plane to Duratra, Star had read and reread the stories of Catherine’s adventures in the Middle East while travelling with her uncle and his wife. Catherine’s father had been convinced that being a companion to her aunt by marriage would keep her out of harm’s way until she was ready to marry someone suitable.

Even now, Star smiled at the thought of what Catherine had managed to get up to under the lazy eye of her aunt, of the poignant relationship that had developed between Catherine and Hātem. A smile that slowly fell as she remembered reading of the heartache of the two lovers as they had been forced apart by duty.

But, despite that, after she had returned to England, when Catherine had reached out to Hātem to ask him to make a key of special design, he had created something marvellous: a key that could be separated into two sections that mirrored each other. When joined, they would open a special lock, but when separate they could each be worn on a necklace. He had sent Catherine one half of the key and the lock, and he—as Catherine had requested—had kept the other. To Star, the fact that Hātem would always have a piece of Catherine with him was, as her sisters mocked her constantly for saying, so romantic.

Her fingers went to the chain around her neck, patting the thick twist beneath the thin material of her dress, reassuring herself it was still there. Tomorrow, she would leave it in the safe of her hotel room. But for this first day she’d wanted it with her, as if perhaps somehow it would draw out its other half. She’d had no idea of its significance when she’d first picked up the necklace from amongst the journals in the hidden recess in the library. Only that she was drawn to it. And now she couldn’t help but feel a little as if it had been fate.

As Star made her way down the brightly lit corridors of the exhibition halls, weaving around obstacles with unseeing eyes, even she had to concede that she might have become a little carried away by the romance of another star-crossed love affair involving her ancestor, but she would never regret coming to Duratra, no matter what.

She had already fallen half in love with the bustling, incredible, beautiful city. In the fifteen-minute walk between her hotel and the palace that morning she had been surrounded by impossibly tall apartment buildings and office complexes and passed sprawling open-air markets before reaching the ancient stone structure of the palace in Duratra’s capital, Burami. It was a clash of modern and ancient, as sleek electric cars glided silently down tiny cobbled streets and animals carried food, silks and spices to stalls that also sold the latest mobile phones and music players.

Star marvelled at the feeling that she was walking in both the past and the present—that her steps filled the footprints left behind by Catherine herself. And whether that worked to add a layer of magic and mysticism to the mundane, Star wasn’t sure that she minded because of how complete and whole that sense of interconnectivity made her feel. Not that she’d say so out loud, and certainly not to her sisters, who would laugh at her when they didn’t think she could hear.

So, despite the fact that she hadn’t managed to find any reference to Catherine’s necklace, Star wasn’t discouraged. Instead, she was looking forward to seeing Burami at night and was even more eager to return tomorrow for the next section of the exhibition.

She was so lost in her train of thought that she walked straight into something tall, broad, not very soft but most definitely clothed. And breathing.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Really, so—’ She started apologising before she looked up, which was probably a good thing because her words were cut short by just one glimpse of the impossibly handsome man staring down at her as if he was more surprised than she was.

Star immediately pulled her eyes from his as if somehow that could stop the searing heat flashing over her skin. She blinked a few times, hoping that would clear whatever had come over her. If she’d been asked in that moment what he looked like, she’d not have been able to answer for all the world. But something instinctual told her that she would have known if he’d been within one hundred feet of her. Even now she felt it, the waves of something more...physical than sight. More visceral.

Still unwilling to meet his gaze, and genuinely concerned about the power he seemed to have over her body, she tried to extract herself from the situation. ‘I really am sorry. I genuinely didn’t see you there, which does seem a little implausible given...’ at this point her hand entered the fray and gestured to the rather large entirety of him ‘...all that. You see, I get a little lost in my thoughts sometimes,’ she tried to explain, finally daring to lift her eyes. ‘I’m Star and...’ she resisted the need to look away and ignored the burning in her cheeks ‘...I’m clearly assuming that you speak English, which suddenly feels quite conceited.’

The almost minuscule twitch at the corner of his lips made her think that he might be smiling at her rambling and Star sighed in relief at the indication that he at least seemed to understand what she was saying. ‘I hadn’t meant to be this late, or get this lost. I was in the exhibition,’ she said, looking behind her and frowning, unable to recognise the corridor she was in, ‘and time just...’ She bit her lip, shrugging, wondering why he hadn’t interrupted her yet. Her sisters would have. The teachers she worked with would have smiled vaguely and just pressed on past her. But he was still there. She knew this because she was now staring fixedly at his chest, debating whether Dickens had been onto something with the whole spontaneous combustion thing.

But the longer he stood there, not saying anything, the more aware she became of...him. This was silly. Maybe she was overreacting.

‘Star...’

Her name on his lips drew her eyes upward like a magnet and she was immediately struck by the sheer force of his gaze.

Nope.

She had not been overreacting. He was looking at her as if she had the answer to an unspoken question. She felt as if he were searching for something within her.

She shook her head, severing the strange connection, and slapped him gently on the arm. ‘You do speak English,’ she chided, peering over his shoulder for the exit and missing the look of absolute and complete shock that had entered the man’s eyes, which he’d managed to mask by the time she returned her attention to him. ‘You had me going there for a moment.’

‘Sir—’

Star turned in time to see Wahed, his eyes bright and his cheeks red, rushing towards them, making Star think that she really had overstayed her welcome.

‘Wahed, I’m sorry. I took a wrong turn and bumped into...’ She turned back towards the man she had bumped into, deciding it was safer to look somewhere around the area of his left shoulder. And then became slightly distracted by the way his suit jacket fitted perfectly to the—

‘Kal.’

She jerked her eyes to his briefly, before turning back to Wahed. ‘Kal. Yes. Right. As I was saying, I got a bit turned around and couldn’t find the exit, but I can see it now,’ she said, spotting a green sign with white writing and an arrow that she could only presume to be a sign pointing to the exit.

Looping her arm through the arm of the man mountain she had crashed into, she determinedly dragged him with her as she made her way to the exit. She could not afford to get herself barred from the exhibition and, to avoid any more trouble, she was removing herself and this other tourist from the premises ASAP.

‘Come on, Kal,’ she said, passing Wahed, who looked a little as if he were about to explode.

Khalif was so busy processing the fact that this woman knew the first name of his security guard, whilst simultaneously calculating the number of royal codes of etiquette she had broken simply by touching him, that he did nothing to stop her from marching him halfway towards the fire exit that was for staff use only. But, even if he hadn’t been, Khalif could not be one hundred per cent sure that he would have dislodged her tiny pale hand from his elbow. It was so small and delicate he feared he might break it.

He was still staring at it as they drew closer to Wahed, as if by studying the delicate fingers splayed across his forearm a second longer he’d be able to identify just why it was that something so small was sending enough electric currents across his skin to light the city of Burami for a month. And that was when he realised that it was the first physical contact he’d had with another person in nearly six weeks.

Obviously Khalif had not been under the naïve impression that he’d be able to continue his romantic liaisons while being first in line to the throne, but he’d not expected the strange social distancing effect the position would hold. Where once he’d have been able to slap Jamal on the back as he’d mocked him about his wife, now there was the painfully awkward renegotiation of power that still didn’t quite sit right with him. And where once he’d have been more than able to remove the tiny pale hand from his elbow, now he seemed entirely incapable.

Wahed hadn’t taken his eyes from Khalif, eyes that had grown rounder and wider the closer they came, sweat breaking out on the man’s forehead as he clearly tried to figure out how to get his country’s Prince out of the hands of this flame-haired pixie-sized bombshell.

‘Goodnight, Wahed,’ Star said as they drew level. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she stated.

The look of panic increased on Wahed’s features and Khalif had to look away in case he laughed and shamed the man even more.

‘Tomorrow?’ the guard asked weakly.

‘Oh, yes, I’ve only covered the first part of the exhibition. I have three more parts to explore over the next three days,’ she said, throwing the words over her shoulder.

‘You’re going to explore the exhibition for three more days...?’

Khalif couldn’t be sure, but he was half convinced he’d heard an actual whimper from Wahed, who was now staring after them as Star continued to guide him towards the exit.

Unable to help it any more, Khalif allowed the tug on his lips to form a full grin and his chest filled with the need to laugh. It bubbled up, filling his lungs and pushing outwards, and he felt lighter than he had in weeks. Months even. Years... The thought was a pin pressed into a balloon as he realised it was how he had felt before. Before his brother had died.

‘Did you like it?’ she asked, having turned around, looking up at him and squinting in the late afternoon sun. She’d managed to get them out into the staff courtyard, where he saw Jamal peering at them through the window of the security suite.

‘Like what?’ he said, shaking his head to Jamal to signal that he didn’t need their help.

‘The exhibition,’ she said, laughing again, as if she were half laughing at him and half with him. That sound, so light, so carefree, caught him like a physical blow. He was almost jealous of it. Her hand was still at the crook of his arm and he knew that he really needed to remove it, but he just couldn’t bring himself to yet.

‘Well, I don’t want to give anything away. You still have quite a bit to cover.’

Rather than being disappointed by his answer, she seemed excited.

‘Perfect! Please don’t. I like surprises.’

Her face, upturned to the lazy yellow lowering sun, was a picture. Despite the expectation of green suggested by the red hair that was still just about tucked behind her headscarf, her eyes were blue—the dark blue of dusk.

‘Star,’ he said, understanding dawning on him.

‘Yes?’

‘No, sorry. I...’

I am never tongue-tied.

Pull. Yourself. Together.

‘It’s an unusual name,’ he clarified.

She looked at him as if she could tell that wasn’t what he’d intended to say. As if she could somehow sense things about him that he didn’t want to share. That strange dusky blue of her irises seemed almost prescient. The dusting of freckles across her nose fanned out over her cheeks as if she’d been flecked with gold. He found himself leaning down towards her as if subconsciously trying to take a closer look, as if he was trying to count the freckles, as if there was something he was trying to work out about her but didn’t know what.

‘Yes. Even in England. And Kal?’

‘It’s...an old nickname.’ It had only been used by his brother and Samira. He’d not said it or heard it for three years.

If she’d noticed that he hadn’t answered her implied question and revealed the whole of his name she didn’t seem offended by it. She turned to look beyond the railings surrounding the staff exit to the palace and frowned.

‘I think perhaps this wasn’t the exit,’ she said as she finally let go of his arm and took a step towards the road that ran the length of the capital city.

‘Do you know where you’re going?’ he asked. There was no way he could leave her in the middle of Burami—she seemed entirely capable of bringing about some kind of massive accident that would be sure to bring his country to a grinding halt for months.

She raised her hand to her eyes and looked out beyond the railings. He followed the direction of her gaze and clenched his jaw. In the distance he could see his father’s sleek black motorcade making its way back to the palace and he felt the tightening of the steel bands of duty around his wrists.

‘Yes. I can see the café there on the corner. That’s the road my hotel is on. It’s a...’ She turned to look up at him. ‘It’s a nice café. If you’d...’ She shrugged as if hedging her bets as to whether to finish the sentence or not.

He looked away, hiding just how much he wanted to say yes, from both her and himself. He smiled sadly and by the time his gaze had returned to those eyes understanding had dawned in them. ‘Please take a car to your hotel. You are safe in Duratra. But perhaps Duratra is not safe from you,’ he said. It was meant to be a tease, a light exchange before he left, but it had come out differently. It had been a warning from a man who was the embodiment of his country.

Dusk descended in her eyes and for a moment it was as if she had understood. And then the smile was back in place, the one that had hypnotised all the palace staff she had encountered—and he could see why.

She nodded and he watched her walk away, just as a gust of wind pressed the white-and-green-striped dress against the back of her legs, causing an explosion of erotic thoughts until Khalif’s father’s car turned the corner and grim reality intruded.