Kitabı oku: «The Desert Sheikh's Defiant Queen»

Surrounded by the exotic beauty and

heat of a desert kingdom …

An ordinary woman fights her own desires

and the indomitable will of the handsome

king who has decided he wants her!

Two passionate, sensual novels by favourite

authors Jane Porter and Annie West

THE DESERT
SHEIKH’S
DEFIANT QUEEN
The Sheikh’s Chosen Queen
JANE
PORTER
The Desert King’s Pregnant Bride
ANNIE
WEST

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The Sheikh’s Chosen Queen

About the Author

JANE PORTER grew up on a diet of Mills & Boon® romances, reading late at night under the covers so her mother wouldn’t see! She wrote her first book at age eight, and spent many of her school and college years living abroad, immersing herself in other cultures and continuing to read voraciously. Now Jane has settled down in rugged Seattle, Washington, with her gorgeous husband and two sons. Jane loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at PO Box 524, Bellevue, WA 98009, USA. Or visit her website at www.janeporter.com

Don’t miss Jane Porter’s exciting new novel, A Dark Sicilian Secret, available in May 2011 from Mills & Boon® Modern™.

For my mother-in-law, Jackie Gaskins.

God has a new and feisty angel in heaven.

PROLOGUE

HOW DID A king ask for a favor?

In the palace courtyard, King Sharif Fehr broke the rosebud off the stem and held the half-opened bud in his palm, the blush petals almost pink against his skin. Roses were difficult to grow in his country’s desert heat, which only made them more rare and beautiful.

So how did a king ask for help?

How did a king get what he needed?

Carefully, he answered himself, his thumb stroking a tender petal. Very carefully.

CHAPTER ONE

THE LOW heels on Jesslyn Heaton’s practical navy pumps clicked briskly against the sidewalk as she left the administrative office.

It was the last day of school and mercifully the students had finally been sent home stuffed full of cupcakes and gallons of shocking red punch. All she had to do now was close her room for the summer.

“Going anywhere fun for holiday, Miss Heaton?” a student asked, his thin, reedy voice breaking on her name.

Jesslyn glanced up from the paperwork she’d pulled from her faculty mailbox. “Aaron, you haven’t left yet? School ended hours ago.”

The freckle-faced teen blushed. “Forgot something,” he mumbled, his flush deepening as he reached into his backpack to retrieve a small package wrapped in white paper and tied with a purple silk ribbon. “For you. My mom picked it out. But it was my idea.”

“A present.” Jesslyn smiled and adjusted the pile of paperwork in her arms to take the gift. “That’s so thoughtful. But Aaron, it’s not necessary. I’ll see you next school term—”

“I won’t be back.” His shoulders rose and he hunched miserably into the backpack he’d slung again onto his thin back. “We’re moving this summer. Dad’s been transferred back to the States. Anchorage, I think.”

Having taught middle school at the small private school in the United Arab Emirates for the past six years, Jesslyn had witnessed how abruptly the students—children of ex-pats— came and went. “I’m sorry, Aaron. I really am.”

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “Maybe you could tell the other kids? Have them e-mail me?”

His voice cracked again, and it was the crack in his voice along with the way he hung his head that nearly undid her. These children went through so much. Foreign homes, foreign lives, change the only constant. “I will, of course.”

Nodding, he turned around and was gone, rushing down the empty corridors of the school. Jesslyn watched his hasty departure for a moment before unlocking the door to her deserted classroom with a sigh. Hard to believe that another school year had ended. It seemed like only yesterday she was handing out the mountain of textbooks and carefully printing children’s names in her class register. Now they were gone, and for the next two months she was free.

Well, she’d be free as soon as she closed up her classroom, and she couldn’t do that until she tackled her last, and least-favorite task, washing the chalkboards.

Twenty minutes later her once-crisp navy dress stuck to the small of her back, and perspiration matted the heavy dark hair at her nape. What a job, she thought, wrinkling her nose as she rinsed out the filthy sponge in the sink.

A knock sounded on her door and Dr. Maddox, her principal, appeared in the doorway. “Miss Heaton, you’ve a guest.”

Jesslyn thought one of her students’ parents had shown up, concerned about a grade on a report, but it wasn’t Robert. Heart suddenly racing, she stared stunned at Sharif Fehr. Prince Sharif Fehr.

She convulsively squeezed the wet sponge, water streaming through her now-trembling fingers.

Sharif.

Sharif, here?

Impossible. But he was here, it was without a doubt Prince Fehr standing in her doorway, tall, imposing, real. She stared at him, drinking him in, adrenaline racing through her veins, too hot, too cold, too intense.

Dr. Maddox cleared her throat. “Miss Heaton, it is my pleasure to introduce you to our most generous school benefactor, His Royal Highness—”

“Sharif,” Jesslyn whispered, unable to stop herself.

“Jesslyn,” Sharif answered with a slight nod.

And just like that, her name spoken in his rich, deep voice made the years disappear.

The last time she’d seen him they’d been younger, so much younger. She’d been a young woman in her first year of teaching at the American School in London. And he’d been a gorgeous, rebel Arab prince who wore jeans and flip-flops and baggy cashmere sweatshirts.

Now he looked like someone altogether different. His baggy sweatshirts were gone, and the faded, torn jeans were replaced by a dishdashah or a thoub, as more commonly known in the Arabian Gulf, a cool, long, one-piece white dress and the traditional head gear comprised of a gutrah, a white scarflike cloth, and the ogal, the black circular band that held everything together.

He looked so different from when she’d last seen him, and yet he still looked very much the same, from the piercing pewter eyes to his chiseled jaw to his dark, glossy hair.

Confused, Dr. Maddox glanced from one to the other. “You know each other?”

Know? Know? She’d been his, and he’d been hers and their lives had been so intertwined that ending their relationship had ripped her heart to shreds.

“We … we went to school together,” she stammered, cheeks heating as she unsuccessfully tried to avoid his eyes.

But his gaze found hers anyway and held, the corner of his mouth sardonically lifting, challenging her.

They didn’t go to school together.

They weren’t even enrolled in school at the same time. He had been six years older than her, and although he hadn’t dressed the part, he had been a very successful financial analyst in London when they met.

They’d dated for several years, and when she broke it off, she walked away telling herself she would never see him again. And she hadn’t.

That didn’t mean she hadn’t hoped he’d prove her wrong.

Finally he had. But why? What did he want? Because he did want something. Sharif Fehr wouldn’t be in her Sharjah classroom without a very good reason.

“We went to school in England,” she added, striving to sound blasé, trying to hide how deeply his surprise appearance had unnerved her. There were boyfriends in life from whom you parted on good terms and then there were the ones who had changed you forever.

Sharif had changed her forever, and now, despite all the years that had passed, just being in the same room with him made her nerves scream, Danger, danger, danger.

“What a small world,” Dr. Maddox said, looking from one to the other.

“Indeed,” Sharif answered with a slight inclination of his royal head.

Jesslyn squeezed the sponge even tighter, her pulse leaping as she wondered yet again what he was doing here. What did he want?

What could he want with her?

She was still a teacher. She still lived a simple, rather frugal life. She still wore her brown hair at her shoulders in virtually the same style she’d worn nine years ago. And unlike him, she hadn’t ever married, although the man she’d been dating a couple of years ago had proposed. She hadn’t accepted the proposal, though, knowing she didn’t love him enough, not the way she’d loved Sharif.

But then, she’d never loved anybody the same way she’d loved Sharif.

Abruptly turning, she dropped the sponge in the sink, rinsed her hands and used one of the rough paper towels to dry them. “What can I do for you, Sharif?”

“I suppose I’m not needed here anymore,” Dr. Maddox said with a sigh of disappointment. “I’ll head back to my office. Good afternoon, Your Highness.” And with a respectful nod of her head, she left them, gently closing the door behind her.

Jesslyn heard rather than saw her classroom door close, and she drew a quick painful breath realizing they were alone.

Alone with Sharif. After all these years.

“Sit, please,” Sharif said, gesturing for her to sit down at her desk. “There’s no reason for you to stand for me.”

She glanced at her chair but didn’t think her legs could carry her across a room, at least not quite yet. “Would you like a chair?” she asked instead.

“I’m fine,” he answered.

“Then I’ll stand, too.”

His expression never changed. “I’d be more comfortable if you sat. Please.”

It wasn’t a request, though, it was a command, and Jesslyn looked at him, curious as well as surprised. He would never have used such an authoritative tone with her before. He’d never raised his voice or issued commands when she knew him. He’d always been gorgeous, confident, comfortable in his own skin. But he’d never been regal, never formal. He was both now.

Studying him more closely, she realized his face had changed more than she’d initially thought. His face was different. The years had subtly reshaped his features. His cheekbones were more pronounced, his jaw wider, stronger, his chin and brow also more defined.

Not a young man anymore but a man.

And not just any man but one of the most powerful leaders in the Middle East.

“Okay,” she said, her voice suddenly husky, betraying her nervousness, “let me just clean up and I’ll be happy to sit down.”

Turning back to the sink, she quickly tucked the bucket and sponge beneath the sink, wiped the sink down with another paper towel and then threw it away.

“You have to wash the chalkboards yourself?” Sharif asked as she made her way to her desk, stepping carefully around a crate of athletic gear and a stack of books that still needed to be put away in the closet.

“We’re responsible for our own boards.”

“I would have thought the janitor would take care of that.”

“We’re always trying to save money,” Jesslyn answered, kneeling down to pick up a misplaced paperback novel. She’d taught at this school, a small private school in Sharjah for four years now, and her classrooms were always warm, and downright sweltering in May, June and September.

Sharif’s eyes narrowed. “Is that why it’s a hundred degrees in here?”

She grimaced. So he’d noticed. “The air conditioner is on. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to put out as much cool air as warm air.” Taking a seat behind her desk, she prayed she looked more put together than she felt. “Is that why you’re here? To make a list of our school’s needs and then make a contribution?”

“If you help me, I’d be happy to make a contribution.”

There it was, why he was here. He wanted her help. Jesslyn felt a heavy weight in her chest and realized she wasn’t breathing.

Jesslyn forced herself to exhale and then inhale, trying to keep from dissolving into a state of panic. There was no reason to panic. She owed him nothing. Their relationship had ended nearly ten years ago.

Her attempt at cool, calm and collected ended when she caught sight of his expression. He was observing her intently, assessing her from head to toe.

Flushing, she shuffled papers nervously. “What kind of help do you need?”

“The kind you’re good at.” He was walking toward her, very slowly.

She tried to concentrate on what he was saying instead of his proximity, but he was coming too close, moving too quickly. “I’m a teacher, Sharif.”

“Exactly.” He stood over her, tall and imposing.

Had he always been this tall? “It’s been a long time,” she said.

“Nine years.”

“Nine,” she repeated, finding it nearly impossible to tear her gaze from his fiercely handsome features, features that had only grown harder and more beautiful over the years. The handsome prince had become a man. But then, he wasn’t merely a prince anymore. He was Sarq’s king.

With one hand she smoothed her skirt, feeling miserably dowdy, all too aware that her wardrobe and hairstyle were basic, practical, no nonsense. She’d never been a fashionista to start with, and nine years in the classroom had reduced both her wardrobe and her sense of style to nil.

She forced her lips into a professional smile. “After nine years, what could I possibly do to help you?”

“Teach,” he answered simply.

She felt a funny flicker of emotion, an emotion that fell somewhere between unreasonable fury and tears. “That’s right. I’m a teacher and you’re a king.”

Sharif’s gray eyes held hers, his expression enigmatic. “You could have been my queen.”

“You were never serious, Sharif.”

A spark flared in his eyes, and explosive tension whipped the room. “Neither were you.”

And just like that they were adversaries, on opposite sides of an insurmountable wall.

“Unfair and untrue,” she said through gritted teeth, anger making her chest too hot and tight. “There was no room for me—” She broke off, unable and unwilling to continue. It was history, so long ago it shouldn’t matter. The fact that they were even discussing events of nine years ago struck her as tragic, especially as she had someone else in her life, someone who mattered a great deal to her. “So what really brings you here, King Fehr?”

His jaw hardened and his narrowed gaze ruthlessly swept her, head to toe. “I’ve told you. You do. I’ve come to offer you a job.”

He was serious, then. This was about a job. Teaching.

Heat rushed through her, heat that left her deeply shaken. Swallowing, she looked up at him, her smile so hard it felt brittle even to her. “I have a job.”

“Apparently not a very good one,” he answered, indicating the old chalkboards and battered room fixtures.

She wouldn’t stoop to his level, wouldn’t let herself be ridiculed, bullied or criticized. “It’s one I like very much, thank you.”

“Would you feel better if I told you the position is just for the summer?”

Her chin tilted even more defiantly. “No.”

“Why not?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she didn’t have to answer to him, she didn’t owe him anything. But that was a pointless exercise. It wasn’t even the past holding her back, it was the future. She had plans for the summer, a wonderful eight and a half weeks of gorgeous, lovely travel—two weeks to beaches in Australia’s Queensland, ski slopes in New Zealand, and lots of museum and theater excursions highlighted by great food in Sydney, Melbourne and Auckland. “Because … no.”

“You’d be back here before school started in September,” Sharif persisted, his tone so cool and smooth and relentless that goose bumps peppered her flesh.

“You remind me of my students when they’re not listening.”

He just smiled, grimly. “You haven’t even considered the proposal.”

“There’s nothing to consider,” she countered, amazed at his arrogance. “I’ve plans that can’t be changed. Not even for you.”

She saw his eyes narrow at her tone. She hadn’t meant to be sarcastic, but there was a definite edge in her voice, an edge due to her discomfort. She didn’t like the way he was towering over her desk, issuing dictates as though he were in his palace instead of her classroom, didn’t like the way he pushed, didn’t like his disregard for her, her feelings or her interests. “I appreciate you thinking of me, and I thank you for the invitation, King Fehr, but the answer is no.”

“I’ll pay you twice your salary—”

“Stop!” Her voice rang out as she slapped a heavy textbook down on her desk. The book thudded loudly, echoing in the classroom. “This isn’t about money. I don’t care about money. I don’t care if you were to pay me two thousand dollars a day! I’m not interested. Not interested. Understand?”

Silence descended, a silence that felt positively deafening.

But it wasn’t her fault she lost her temper, she reminded herself. He wasn’t listening. “I’m going on holiday,” she added, squaring her shoulders, refusing to be intimidated, even as her gaze clashed with his. Their relationship ended years ago, and there was no reason to start anything again— professionally or personally. “I leave tonight.”

His features hardened, his expression so flinty his cheekbones and jaw looked as though they’d been chiseled from stone. “You can go on holiday next summer. I need you.”

Jesslyn couldn’t stifle a hysterical laugh. “You need me? Oh, that’s a good one, King Fehr. Very funny indeed.”

He wasn’t laughing. His brows flattened over glittering gray eyes. “Give me one good reason why you won’t even consider the position.”

“I can give you three,” she answered, impatiently stacking the teacher editions on her desk, one on top of the other. “I’ve just finished a year of teaching and need a break. I’ve planned a wonderful holiday traveling in Australia and New Zealand and everything’s paid for. And last, and perhaps most important, having once been your girlfriend I’ve no desire to be—”

Jesslyn wasn’t able to finish the rest, drowned out by the blare of the school fire alarm.

It was a loud, piercing sound, and for a moment Jesslyn stood transfixed. Normally she’d snag her attendance book and swiftly march the students out, but there were no young charges to lead to safety.

The door to the classroom flew open and two hulking men appeared, dressed in dark clothes, their weapons cocked and ready. One of them spoke quickly, loudly to Sharif who just nodded and looked back at Jesslyn.

“Happen often?” he shouted over the deafening blare.

“No,” she shouted back, reaching for her purse, briefcase and blazer, momentarily taken aback by the quick action of Sharif’s security detail, but not totally surprised as Sharif had security even when they lived in London.

“I imagine it’s a false alarm,” she added distractedly. “One of those end-of-year student pranks the graduating seniors like to pull. But we still have to leave until the fire inspector gives us the okay to return.”

She’d just lifted her blazer from the back of her chair when the ceiling sprinklers came on, drenching the classroom in a torrent of warm water.

Sharif grabbed her briefcase and purse from her desk. “Let’s go.”

The hallway connecting the classrooms was slick with water, and as they dashed down the hall they could hear sirens in the distance and a lot of yelling in Arabic.

By the time they reached the front steps of the main administrative building, the fire trucks were pulling into the parking lot and the rest of Sharif’s security team, another half-dozen men, were on full alert.

As his men spotted Sharif they moved toward him, but Sharif quickly checked their progress.

Dr. Maddox, who’d been pacing the school’s front steps, rushed toward them. “I’m sorry,” she said, wringing the hem of her skirt and then her hands. “I’m so terribly sorry about all this. We pride ourselves on our school and yet here you are, absolutely soaked—”

“We’re all soaked,” Sharif said, “and we’ll dry.” He glanced past her to the school where the firemen had gone to do a formal check to make sure there wasn’t a fire anywhere. “Miss Heaton’s classroom was drenched. Are all classrooms that wet?”

“I imagine they are. It’s a new sprinkler system, put in this year on recommendation by our school board. And they work—” Dr. Maddox paused, pushed back wet gray hair from her forehead “—a little too well.”

“But it’s worth it if it’ll save lives,” Jesslyn interjected as she took her things from Sharif. “We can replace books and carpeting, and fortunately the school is insured. With nearly three months before classes resume, there’s time to fix everything.”

“Are you volunteering to give up your holiday, Miss Heaton?” Dr. Maddox asked irritably. “Because to get everything done, someone will have to be here overseeing the repairs.”

“Miss Heaton has plans, I believe,” Sharif answered smoothly, and turning his back on Dr. Maddox he focused his full attention on Jesslyn. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

“I don’t have a car,” she said, shouldering the strap of her purse. “I take a taxi home.”

Sharif frowned. “But you drive.”

“Cars are expensive, and I’m happy taking taxis. No one bothers me.” And no one would, she knew, not in Sharjah.

Jesslyn loved her adopted country. Sharjah might not have the same glittering nightlife of Dubai or the mad hustle bustle of the business world, but it retained a charm and elegance not found so easily in Dubai’s sleek skyscraper-studded skyline and artificial island paradise.

In her mind Sharjah was quieter, smaller, less splash and cash. She adored the stately palm-tree-lined boulevards and the handsome tall buildings in the center. It was always a pleasure to walk or take a taxi to wherever she needed to go. And she didn’t have to worry about the parking, either. She felt welcome here. Welcome and wanted.

“I’ll take you home, then,” Sharif announced, and with a nod toward his guards, he indicated he was ready to leave. “My car is waiting just there.”

Jesslyn had already spotted the limousine and two black escort vehicles, but she wasn’t about to accept a ride. “I’d prefer to hail a taxi,” she answered, with a swift glance at her wristwatch. “And if I leave now, I can just avoid the afternoon rush hour.”

She’s walking away.

Walking away from me.

Incredulous, King Sharif Fehr bit down so hard he felt as if he was choking on his own tongue, but it was that or say something he might regret.

Not that he thought he’d regret it.

In fact, right now he was certain he’d derive a great deal of pleasure from putting Jesslyn Heaton in her place.

“I shall take you,” he repeated, teeth flashing in a barely civil smile. “I insist.”

Her brown eyes lifted, met his. He saw her full lips compress, her mouth a dark rose.

Hot sparks lit her eyes. Leaning forward she whispered so only he could hear. “I do not work for you, King Fehr, nor am I one of your subjects. You can’t insist. I’m afraid you forget, Your Highness, that you have no jurisdiction over me.”

Once again she’d told him no. Once again she’d flat-out rejected him.

He frowned, trying to digest her rejection.

It’d been years since anyone had refused him so absolutely. People didn’t say no to him. People needed him. People came to him wanting favors, assistance, support.

Studying her pale, oval-shaped face, he let his gaze drift from her dark, winged eyebrows to the heat in her warm eyes to the set of her firmly molded chin. He’d never noticed just how firm that chin was until now. He’d never noticed her backbone until now, either.

When he’d first known her she’d been a broken girl, literally broken from the accident that had taken his sisters. Jesslyn had been in the hospital, all white plaster and gauze and pins.

She wasn’t broken anymore.

“You don’t like me,” he said, almost amused. On one hand he was angered by her cool dismissal, and on the other hand he was surprised and intrigued, which was a novelty in and of itself. As king of a Middle Eastern country enjoying its tenth year of peace and economic stability, these days he found himself surprised by little and intrigued by even less.

Jesslyn eyed him steadily, her feelings for him definitely mixed. “Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I don’t trust you.”

“Why on earth wouldn’t you trust me?”

She again shouldered her purse, her damp coat dripping over her arm. “You’re not the Sharif I knew. You’re King Fehr.”

“Jesslyn.” His voice suddenly dropped, turned coaxing. He didn’t like his integrity being questioned. “Obviously, I’ve offended you. That wasn’t my intention. I’ve come to you to ask for help. At least let me explain.”

She glanced toward his limousine and then his half-dozen men who stood at attention, their eyes shielded by dark glasses. “I’m catching a redeye flight tonight, and I’m going to be on that plane.”

“So you’ll let me drive you home?”

She turned her head, looked up at him, her damp dark hair forming soft ringlets around her face. “I’m going to be on that plane,” she repeated.

He liked the way the dark-chestnut curls framed her pale face, liked the stubborn press of her lips and the defiant lift of her chin. “Then let me take you home.”

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER giving Sharif’s driver her address, Jesslyn placed her purse and briefcase on the floor and laid her damp coat on her damp lap as she tried to ignore the fact that Sharif was sitting so close.

Unfortunately, he was impossible to ignore. He was the kind of man who dominated a room, drawing light, attention, energy. And worse, sitting so close to him she could feel his warmth, smell a hint of his fragrance, and it threw her back to the past, filling her with memories of his skin. She loved his skin. He’d always known how to hold her.

Her heart turned over, and her fingers curled into her coat as the strangest pain shot through her.

Sorrow. Grief. Regret.

He was awakening memories and feelings she didn’t want or need, memories and feelings of a past—a life—she’d accepted was gone.

“You don’t look at me,” he said, as the car started.

She couldn’t exactly tell him that looking at him made her hurt worse. Made her realize all over again how foolish she’d been when she’d left him. She hadn’t really meant to walk away, not forever. Instead she’d thought he would have come running after her, had hoped he would have pursued her, beg her to reconsider, pledge undying love.

“Endings are awkward. It was awkward then, and it’s awkward now.”

“But you’re happier. Look at you. You’re living your dream.”

Her dream. She inhaled softly, a quick gasp of protest. She’d never dreamed of being single at her age. Her dream had always been to have a family, a family of her own. Having been raised by an elderly aunt after her parents’ deaths—three years apart—made her realize how much she needed people to love and people to love her. Instead here she was still single, and still teaching other peoples’ children.

“Yes,” she agreed, hiding the pain his words caused her. “It’s wonderful.”

“I’ve never seen you this confident,” he added.

Jesslyn glanced out the window and watched the fire trucks and school buildings fall away as the limousine exited the parking lot and pulled onto the street. “It’s not hard being stronger or more confident,” she said after a moment, turning to look at him. “All those years ago I was a different person.”

He knew immediately what she alluded to. His eyes darkened. “It was a terrible accident.”

She nodded, and suddenly the accident wasn’t eleven years ago, but yesterday, and the loss was just as fresh. “I still dream about it sometimes,” she said, knotting her hands, her fingers interlocking so tightly the tips of her fingers shone pink and the knuckles white. “I always wake up on impact. I wake up before I know what’s happened.”

Sharif didn’t speak, and she fought the enormous heaviness bearing down on her chest. “But when I wake I know what happened.”

“You weren’t at the wheel.”

“But Jamila did nothing wrong. No one in our car did anything wrong.”

“That’s why they’re called accidents.”

Tragedies, she whispered in her mind.

“Otherwise, you’ve healed,” he said. “You’re lucky.”

His sisters hadn’t been.

Hot tears stung her eyes, and Jesslyn swiftly reached up and brushed them away before they could fall. It’d been a long time since she’d talked about the accident, and still she carried the grief and loss in her heart. Jamila and Aman had been her best friends. She’d met them when she was ten, and they’d become instantly inseparable.

But the past was the past, she reminded herself, trying to focus on the present. She could only live right now, in the present time, a time where she could actually make a difference. “You’ve changed, too, but I suppose you had to, being a …”

“Yes?” he prompted when her voice faded away without finishing the thought.

Jesslyn shifted uncomfortably. “You know.”

“But I don’t. Why don’t you tell me.”

She didn’t miss the ruthless edge in his voice, and suddenly she wished she’d never said anything at all. “You have to know you’ve changed,” she said, dodging his question even as she looked at him, really looked at him and saw all over again how much harder, fiercer, prouder he’d become. Beautiful silver into steel.

“You don’t like me now, though.”

Her shoulders shifted. “I don’t know you now.”

“I’m still the same person.”

But he wasn’t, she thought, he wasn’t the man she knew. He’d become something other, larger, more powerful, and more conscious of that power, too. “Maybe what I should say is that I don’t see the man anymore, I see the king.” She could see from the hardening of his expression that he didn’t like what she’d said, so she hastily added, “But of course you’ve changed. You’re not a young man anymore. You’re now … what? Thirty-eight, thirty-nine?”

“Thirty-seven, Miss Heaton.” He paused, his voice deepening. “And you’re thirty-one.”

Something in his voice made her look up, and when she did, she stared straight into his stunning silver-gray eyes, eyes she’d once found heartbreakingly beautiful.

Eyes that seemed to pierce her heart now.

The air left her in a rush, forcing her to take a quick breath and then another.

Her prince had become a king. Her Sharif had married and then been widowed. Her own life with him had been a lifetime ago.

“You’re displeased with me, and yet it’s the opposite for me. You’re more than I remembered,” he continued in the same deep, husky voice, “more confident. More beautiful. More of everything.”

Once again her chest tightened, her heart feeling as mashed as a potato.

He made her feel too much. He made her remember everything.

Inexplicably she suddenly wanted to seize all the years back, the nine years she’d buried herself in good works and deeds, the years in higher-education courses and summer school and night school, arduous activities and pursuits designed to keep her from thinking or feeling.

Designed to keep her from regretting.

Prince Sharif Fehr, her Prince Sharif Fehr, her first lover, her only love, had married someone else only months after they broke off.

Shifting restlessly, she glanced out the window, saw they were less than a mile from her apartment and felt confusing emotions of disappointment and relief.

Soon he’d drop her off and be gone.

Soon she could be in control of her emotions again.

Sharif’s gaze still rested on her face. “So tell me more about your school, your current job. Are you happy there? What is the faculty like?”

This Jesslyn could answer easily, with a clear conscience. “I love being a teacher. I always end up so attached to my students, and I still get a thrill teaching literature and history. And yes, the school is very different from the American School in London, and the American School in Dubai where I taught one year, but I have a lot more control over my curriculum here and I get to spend more time with my students, which is what I want.”

“Your students,” he repeated.

She smiled, finally able to breathe easier. Talking about teaching put her firmly back in control of her emotions, and she wanted to keep it that way. She had to keep it that way. “I do think of them as my kids, but I can’t help it. I have such high hopes for each of them.”

“If you love children so much, why don’t you have any of your own?”

Immediately she was thrown back into inner chaos, her sense of calm and goodwill vanishing. Did his mother never tell him? Did he still really not know?

Her fingers balled into fists as she felt anger wash through her, anger toward his cold, manipulative mother, and anger toward Sharif. Sharif was supposed to have loved her. Sharif was supposed to have wanted her.

“Haven’t met the right person,” she answered tightly, looking into his face, seeing again the hard, carved features, the way his dark sleek hair touched his robe, and the shadow of a beard darkening his jaw.

That face …

His eyes …

Heat rushed through her, heat followed by ice because she could never have been his wife. She could never have been the one he married and cherished. She was, as his mother had put it so indelicately, a good-time girl. Someone frivolous and fun to pass the time with.

“You’ve never married?” he asked.

“No.”

“I’m surprised. When you left all those years ago I was sure there was someone, or something, you wanted.”

No, there was nothing else she wanted, but she hadn’t known how to fight then. Hadn’t known how to keep, protect, what she loved. “We’re almost to my apartment,” she said numbly, gesturing to the street.

“My girls need a teacher this summer. They’re home from boarding school and lagging academically.”

They were so close to her apartment, so close. Just another block and she could get out, run away, escape.

“I’ll pay you three times your annual salary,” he continued. “In ten weeks you could make three times what you make in a year.”

She wanted to cover her ears. She didn’t want to know about the job, didn’t want to hear about his children—children he’d had with his fabulously wealthy and stunningly beautiful princess—or their academic deficiencies. “I’m going on holiday, Sharif. I leave tonight.”

“I thought you cared about children. I thought you wanted what’s best for children.”

But these weren’t her children and she wasn’t going to get involved. “I’ve plans,” she repeated woodenly.

“Plans you could change,” Sharif said so pleasantly that Jesslyn felt a prickle beneath her skin. She didn’t trust Sharif when he used that tone of voice.

But then, she didn’t trust Sharif at all.

Maybe that’s because she didn’t know the real Sharif. The Sharif she’d dated and adored would have never married a Dubai princess just to further his career and kingdom, much less married that princess less than six months after they’d broken up. But that’s what he’d done. His wedding had been covered by virtually every glossy magazine in the UK, and in every article about the wedding, below every photograph the caption read, Prince Sharif Fehr Marries Princess Zulima of Dubai after a Year-Long Engagement.

Year-long engagement?

Impossible. Six months before the wedding Jesslyn was still dating Sharif.

The car had stopped but Jesslyn didn’t wait for the driver to appear. Gathering her things, she flung the door open. “Good luck, Sharif,” she said, sliding her legs out and standing. “Goodbye.”

And Jesslyn rushed to the entrance of her building, racing to the lobby and the entrance as though her life depended on it. And in a way it did, because Sharif would annihilate her if she gave him the chance.

She wouldn’t give him the chance.

In her apartment Jesslyn forced herself to focus on finishing packing. She wasn’t going to think about Sharif, not again, not anymore. She had more pressing things to think about, things like her passport, sunscreen and extra batteries for her digital camera.

Her trip required more luggage than she would normally take, but ten weeks and radically different climates meant swimsuits and shorts for the warmer temperatures in Northern Queensland, slacks and elegant blouses for the big Australian cities, and then down jackets and fleece-lined boots for the ski slopes in New Zealand.

She was just zipping the biggest suitcase closed when her phone rang.

“Hello,” Jesslyn said, answering the phone as she dragged her big suitcase into the hall.

It was Sharif. “I’ve news I thought you’d want to hear.”

She straightened, leaving the suitcase by her door. “I’ve a million things to do before the flight, Sharif—”

“It concerns one of your students.” He hesitated. “Perhaps you’d like to sit down.”

“Why?” she asked suspiciously. “What’s happened?”

“I just had a call from Mahir, my chief of security, and he’s on his way to the Sharjah police station. They’ve arrested one of the school students for vandalizing the campus this afternoon. It was thought that I’d want to press charges.”

She walked into the small living room and leaned against the back of her couch. “Are you pressing charges?”

“Mahir is handling the matter.”

“But what does that mean?”

“It means that Mahir makes those decisions. He’s responsible for my security.”

Jesslyn’s hand shook as she held the phone to her ear. “Which student?”

“Aaron.”

Aaron?

She frowned, bewildered. It couldn’t have been Aaron. Aaron wasn’t like that. Aaron didn’t pull pranks. He was a good kid, a serious kid, almost nerdy. “He didn’t do it,” she said faintly, folding one arm across her chest to fight the icy weakness in her limbs. “He wouldn’t pull the fire alarm. He wouldn’t.”

“They caught him running from the scene.”

“It just … it’s not … it’s not what he’d do …” And then her voice faded as she pictured the small gift Aaron had brought her earlier that day, after school had ended. She could see the white paper, the colorful silk ribbon. She’d left it on her desk when the sprinklers turned on.

“Wait.” Jesslyn chewed on her mouth. “He was on campus after school, but that’s because he had a goodbye gift for me. He’s moving back to the States.”

“Which probably explains his stunt,” Sharif answered. “I may be in my thirties but I remember being a teenager, and kids do things to get attention—”

“So you will forgive him?” she interrupted eagerly.

“If that’s all he did, the punishment would be light. But he didn’t just pull the fire alarm. Apparently he also broke into the vice principal’s office and stole copies of exams from a filing cabinet. Dr. Maddox intends to prosecute.” He paused. “She’s asked me to press charges as well.”

“Don’t,” she whispered.

“It’s not just me, though. The police are involved, as well. Theft is a serious crime.”

Swallowing, Jesslyn felt her heart lodge up in her throat. There was absolutely no way Aaron did what they said he’d done. “Sharif, he didn’t steal anything. He brought me a gift. It’s on my desk. We can go to school, retrieve that—”

“A janitor spotted the boy running away.”

“He was running to get home, not running away!”

“Jesslyn, there’s nothing we can do right now.”

She continued to shake her head. It wasn’t true. She wouldn’t believe it until she talked to Aaron herself. “I must see him. Take me to the jail, Sharif, please take me right now.”

“They won’t allow you to see him. They’ve called his parents, but the police must finish questioning him first.”

Jesslyn closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. “You’re telling me they won’t let you in? You’re telling me they won’t let Sheikh Sharif Fehr in to see a child?”

He sighed. “Jesslyn.”

Her heart was racing so hard it hurt. “You can get me in to see him, Sharif.”

Silence stretched over the phone line. “I know how protective you are of your students—”

“Sharif. Please.” Her voice broke. “Please.”

Again silence answered her request, a silence that just grew longer, heavier until she heard him sigh again. “I’ll send my car for you, laeela, but understand this is serious. Understand he’s being formally charged.”

Sharif’s car arrived for her within the hour, and while sitting in the back of the dark Mercedes sedan, Jesslyn replayed the afternoon scene with Aaron in her mind again and again.

He’d been upset when he gave her the gift, touchingly emotional. But had he been acting? Or was it a ruse? The gift of the present an opportunity to cover his crime?

She didn’t know and still couldn’t decide when the car pulled up in front of the station. Sharif was already there, appearing from the police station to meet her at the car.

Jesslyn had changed before the car arrived for her, selecting a conservative, loose-fitting chocolate linen dress with long sleeves and a simple skirt. It was a dress she wore when she didn’t want to draw attention to her figure as she knew both men and women traditionally wore robes to hide the body. Sharif, she noticed, had changed, too.

He offered his hand to her as she stepped from the car. She didn’t want to take it but couldn’t refuse him, not with so many of his men watching.

Reluctantly she put her hand in his, felt his fingers wrap around hers.

“You’re cold,” Sharif said, as she stepped onto the pavement.

“I’m nervous,” she confessed, worriedly glancing up into the sky. It was beginning to grow dark. Her flight would board in a little more than three hours.

His expression sharpened. “You think he did do it, then?”

“No.” She shot Sharif a desperate look. “I’m certain he didn’t, but I’m afraid for him. If his parents have been called they’ll be upset. He’ll be upset.” She shook her head. “Oh, I wish none of this had happened.”

“But it has. Now we just have to see what the situation is.”

They headed for the police station’s entrance, Sharif’s security detail surrounding them. The bodyguards were everywhere tonight—in front of them, behind them, beside them, and while the security had been with them earlier today, it unnerved her tonight.

Or maybe it was Sharif who was unnerving her by walking so close.

Inside the station Sharif was received with great respect. The entire station staff, from desk sergeants to detectives to the chief of police, made a point of welcoming Sharif, and after ten minutes of warm greetings, the police chief and Sharif stepped aside to have a private talk.

Jesslyn waited anxiously for them to return, praying that Sharif could convince the police chief to let her see Aaron. Finally Sharif summoned her. “We have been granted permission to speak to your student, and you may ask him whatever you’d like, but you must understand they’ve a good case against him.” He looked at her, his gray gaze shuttered. “Jesslyn, the consequences would be severe.”

Another one of her fears.

Sharjah was Jesslyn’s second home and she was loath to criticize any of it, much less the government and the very good police force that worked so hard to protect both Western expats and Arab citizens, but there were dangers here, particularly for careless or reckless American teenagers who failed to heed the law.

Fortunately, teenage boys didn’t go to prison for stealing or destroying private property, but the punishment wouldn’t be light and could be emotionally scarring.

“I understand,” she whispered.

They were escorted to a small office, and while they waited for Aaron, Jesslyn nervously twisted the ring on her third finger, a ring given to her by her grandmother when she’d turned eighteen. She’d always called it her good luck ring and she played with it now, praying for good fortune.

The door finally opened and the police chief appeared, escorting young Aaron.

She was devastated that he was handcuffed, but before she could say a word the police chief removed the boy’s handcuffs and pulled out a chair for him.

Aaron tumbled into the chair, his head hung so low he couldn’t see anything but the floor.

“Aaron.” She said his name softly.

His head lifted slightly but she could at least see his face. He’d been crying. His cheeks still bore traces of tears and his nose was red and shiny. “Miss Heaton,” he choked.

Her heart contracted. He’d always been one of her favorite students and to see him like this made her feel absolutely desperate. She didn’t even know what to say.

As if he could read her mind he shook his head. “I didn’t do it, Miss Heaton. I swear I didn’t. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t.”

She wanted to comfort him but didn’t know how, not when she knew she couldn’t reassure him that everything would be fine. It was impossible to promise him anything. “They found you on campus,” she said carefully. “They said they caught you running.”

He groaned. “I was on campus because I’d taken you a gift.”

“But why were you running?”

“I was late getting home. I didn’t want my father to know I’d missed the school bus.”

She bit her bottom lip, bit down to keep her emotions in check. “Apparently someone saw you running from the office—”

“Not me.” He looked at her, eyes brilliant with unshed tears. “And maybe someone was running from the office, and maybe someone had stolen papers, but it wasn’t me.”

Sharif glanced from Jesslyn to the boy. “What do you know about the papers?”

Aaron’s jaw hardened and yet his eyes were filled with pain. “I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t.” And then he dropped his head, his shoulders slumping.

Jesslyn moved forward on her chair. “Aaron, if you know who did it, it would save you from serious trouble.”

“And if I tell you, he’d be in serious trouble and I can’t do that. His mom is already dying—“Aaron broke off on a soft sob. His head hung so low that a tear fell and dropped onto the floor.

Jesslyn inhaled sharply, knowing who he was referring to. Only one boy in the upper grades had a mom dying, and it was Will. Will McInnes. Will’s mother had just been moved to a hospice facility, and Will’s father was coping by drinking too much and then terrorizing the children.

She turned to Sharif. “I need to talk to you.” They stepped out of the room and stood in the narrow hall.

She told Sharif everything, about Will and Aaron’s friendship, how Aaron’s parents had done their best to include Will in their family life as Will’s family life unraveled. “Will is barely getting by,” she said, her eyes stinging. “He’s had such a hard year, and the only person who’s really been there for him is Aaron. And now Aaron’s leaving.”

“But why steal?” Sharif replied. “And why pull the alarm? He flooded the school, which destroyed nearly every classroom. He’s going to have a criminal record and his family will have to pay for the damage, damage that will be in the thousands.”

“Then we can’t tell anyone it was Will. We’ll deal with Will ourselves.”

“We will?” Sharif repeated.

“We have to. His dad has a fierce temper. I can’t bear to think what he’d do to Will if he found out about this afternoon.”

“So you’ll let Aaron, who just might be innocent, pay for the crime instead?”

Jesslyn could picture Aaron in her mind, could see his ashen face and the tear that trembled on his lower lash before spilling and falling to the cement in a wet plop. “No. We get Aaron off.”

“Jesslyn.”

She lifted her shoulders. “He didn’t do it, he can’t be punished. Will did do it—”

“So he should be punished.”

“But he’s a child, Sharif, in the process of losing his mother. She doesn’t have long. Not even a month. It’s all about pain management for her now, and imagine what Will is going through, imagine how helpless he feels, imagine his rage.”

Sharif gazed down into Jesslyn’s upturned face.

It wasn’t hard for him to imagine what Will was going through, he thought, nor was it difficult to imagine the grief, the fury, the pain as his children had lost their mother just three years ago. Unlike Will’s mother, Zulima’s death had been sudden, and there had been no time for goodbyes. One moment she was resting in her room after her cesarian section and the next gone, dying from a blood clot.

“My children also lost their mother,” he said roughly. “It’s not fair for children to lose their mother so early in life, but it does happen.”

“But if we can do something, change something, make it more fair—”

“We can’t.”

“We can.” She took his arm with both her hands, pleading. “Please, Sharif. Please help me help these children. Get Aaron released. Help me find Will, let me speak with him. Perhaps we can get the papers back, get them returned.”

“You’re asking for a miracle.”

Her hands gripped his arm tighter. “Then give me a miracle, Sharif. If anyone can make this happen, you can. You can do anything. You always could.”

Sharif stared down into her upturned face, fascinated by the pink bloom in her cheeks and dusky rose of her lips. Emotion lit her features; passion and conviction darkened her eyes.

She looked at him with such faith. She looked at him with all the confidence in the world. She was so certain he could do all this, certain he would.

Her fierce faith in him made his breath catch. Her fire made something in his chest hurt. In all his years of marriage Zulima had never once looked at him that way.

“I’d have to pull a million strings,” he said, even as his brain already worked through the possibilities of getting Aaron released and Will sorted out. It’d be complicated, far from easy, but he did know the right people and he could put in calls …

“Then pull them,” she answered, dark-brown brows knitting.

“It’s more than a snap of my fingers,” he answered, intrigued by this Jesslyn Heaton standing in front of him. This woman was neither naive nor helpless. In fact, this Jesslyn Heaton had grown into something of a warrior and a defender of the young.

“I understand that, but I love these kids and I know these kids. I’ve taught them for years. Will’s acting out and Aaron’s protecting him, and yet in the end, they’re just boys. Just children.”

He’d never heard any other woman but Jesslyn speak with so much feeling, but that was the kind of woman Jesslyn had always been. From the time he met her she wore her heart on her sleeve, and eleven years after first meeting her he realized her heart was still there for everyone to see.

Impulsively he reached out and touched her smooth, flushed cheek. Her skin was warm and surprisingly soft. He dropped his hand quickly and hardened himself to her pleas. “It’d be better to let the boys take the blame and accept the consequences. That way they’d learn from this.”

“Maybe,” she argued, “maybe in other circumstances they would learn. But not now, not when Will’s mom is nearly gone.” She held his gaze, held it long, her expression beseeching. “Do this for me, Sharif, do this and I will do whatever I can for you.”

His pulse quickened. His interest sharpened. “What exactly are you offering?”

Shadows chased through her eyes, shadows of worry and mistrust, and then she shook her head and her expression cleared. “You need me,” she said firmly. “You came to me today because you wanted me for the summer. Well …” her voice wavered for a moment before she pressed on. “Help me sort the boys out, and then I will help you for the next two weeks—”

“No. Not two weeks. The summer.”

The clouds were back in her eyes, and some of the pink faded from her cheeks. “But the trip. My trip …”

“So what do you want more? Your holiday or your children rescued?”

She stared up at him, her lips pressing grimly, and he could see her thoughts, could see her frustration and resentment but also the realization that he alone could do what she needed, wanted, done.

“You love children,” he added quietly, surprised by the sudden tightness in his chest. Pressure and pain. “And my children need you. My children need you as much as these two.”

And still she looked up at him, weighing, judging, deciding. She didn’t trust him, he could see it in her eyes and that alone made him want to drag her back to Sarq. She was the one who had betrayed him, not the other way around. She had no right to mistrust him. He was the one who’d been deceived.

He was the one who was owed not just an apology but the truth. And he’d have the truth. After nine years he was going to have that truth.

Jesslyn touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip. “So, if I give you the summer, you will make this problem go away?”

“The entire summer,” he said.

If Jesslyn felt any trepidation she didn’t show it. Instead her eyes flashed and her chin jutted up. “We have a deal, then?”

His lashes dropped and his gaze drifted slowly across her face. “Your head for his?” He paused, considered her. “I don’t know if it’s fair, but I’ll take it.”