Inherited For The Royal Bed. Annie West

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      Sayid pulled off his clothes as he walked, his tension easing as the hand-stitched layers came off. The fine cotton of his shirt masked a jaw-cracking yawn as he tugged it up, over his head, rolling his shoulders in appreciation as he felt cool night air brush his flesh.

      He was about to toe off one boot when something made him pause. He stilled, his weight on one foot, his senses prickling at the certainty something was out of place.

      A lifetime’s training as a warrior, always aware, put him on alert.

      Something was wrong. He was certain in less time than it took to form the thought.

      It would serve him right if he’d dismissed his guard only to find himself under threat in his own chambers. The youngest and shortest-lived Emir of Halarq in all its history. That would be a fine epitaph!

      Keeping his movements easy, Sayid wrapped the cotton of his discarded shirt around his left hand and forearm. The cloth wouldn’t stop a bullet but might deflect a knife in a pinch. He didn’t spare a glance for the long silvered scar running up that arm from his wrist to well past his elbow. It proved a well-honed knife could easily cut through several layers of clothing.

      Slowly he turned, nostrils flared to capture any unusual scent, eyes narrowing as he peered into the darkened corners of the room.

      Nothing. Exhaustion must be interfering with his perception.

      Sayid swung right around towards the bed again and—

      He stiffened, his hand going to the ceremonial but razor-sharp dagger at his hip.

      ‘Who are you?’ The words issued through clenched teeth. ‘What are you doing here?’

      As he spoke the figure in the dark corner beyond the bed rose. A small figure, its outline blurred by a swathe of fabric wrapped around its shoulders and over its head.

      Having risen, the person immediately bowed low in a silent gesture of obeisance.

      Sayid’s senses screamed a warning. What would have happened if he hadn’t noticed that still, silent figure hiding in the corner? Would they have waited till his back was turned in the shower, or he was fast asleep, to slip a knife between his ribs?

      Had he been foolish to write off his dead uncle’s preoccupation with security? The man had been dangerously paranoid and increasingly erratic but he’d been wily.

      ‘Come here!’

      Instantly the figure glided closer.

      ‘Sire.’ A soft, whispery voice feathered his skin like a lover’s caress. Another bow. This time when the figure straightened, it tugged off the enveloping blanket.

      Sayid stared.

      His privacy had been invaded by a dancing girl? He shook his head. Did weariness play tricks with his vision?

      Women in his country didn’t dress like this. Women in Halarq dressed modestly. Some covered their hair but all covered their bodies.

      This one didn’t.

      Heat speared his belly and drilled into his groin as he surveyed her. She wore a low-slung skirt that fell in gauzy folds from the curve of her hips. He clearly saw long slim legs through the fabric. She shifted and a glimpse of toned, honey-coloured thigh appeared through a slit in the skirt.

      His gaze rose to a bare midriff, deliciously curved into a tiny waist, then up to a cropped, sleeveless top of shiny material that clasped her like a second skin. It was cut low, showing off the upper slopes of enticing breasts that rose and fell with her rapid breathing.

      Sayid’s throat closed as if he’d gulped down half the eastern desert. His fingers stretched then curled into fists, bunching at his sides.

      Competing impulses warred.

      To command she cover herself instantly.

       But that wasn’t his first reaction.

      To reach out and touch that inviting body.

       Yes. That.

      To haul her against him and revel in the pleasure a woman’s soft body could afford a man wearied by days, no, weeks of achieving the impossible—first keeping his uncle from invading Jeirut, then, on his uncle’s death, finding a way to ensure a lasting peace between nations that were traditional enemies.

      His gaze rose further, taking in a face of extraordinary loveliness. Dark hair, unbound, was pushed behind her shoulders. Her breasts, pert and high, rose shakily with each breath.

      Imagination told him her skin would be warm silk, soft and pleasurable.

      Sayid, like his uncle before him, was a man of strong desires, with a predilection for pleasure. Yet, unlike his dead uncle, Sayid prided himself on ruling his sensual side. He’d seen what unbridled self-indulgence did to a man. He had no intention of following his uncle down that path. Instead he emulated his father who’d been a warrior prince, bound by an unshakeable code of conduct. A man who channelled strong appetites into a drive to protect and serve his people.

      ‘Look at me.’ The command was overloud. But Sayid’s control over his body was sorely tried.

      Instantly her bowed head tilted up.

      Sayid registered another unseen body blow. This time to his solar plexus. For her eyes were unlike any he’d seen. They were the colour of wild violets in the mountains. Darker than blue, softer than purple.

      He scowled. Not only was she remarkably pretty, she was young—too young to be alone in his room.

      ‘Who are you?’

      ‘Lina, sire.’ Again that low bow, which now, to his horror, made his groin grow tight and hard, for he got an eyeful as she bent forward. It looked as if her breasts might pop free of her top at any moment.

      ‘Don’t do that!’

      She blinked, emotion he couldn’t read flashing across her features. Then it disappeared as she lifted her chin to look somewhere near his shoulder, her hands clasped neatly before her. ‘Do what, sire?’

      ‘Bowing. Don’t do it again.’

      Her brow furrowed. ‘But sire! You are the Emir. It wouldn’t be seemly—’

      ‘Let me be the judge of seemly.’ Sayid raised a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing at too-tight muscles.

      ‘Yes, sire.’ Yet her brow twitched as if in disagreement and he’d swear she bit her lip as if to stop herself saying more.

      ‘Don’t call me that, either.’ His uncle might have enjoyed constant reminders of his status as ruler of the nation, but Sayid had heard the title too often from too many toadying courtiers trying to ingratiate themselves. It grated.

      He’d give a lot to talk with someone who didn’t bow and scrape. He scrubbed a hand over his face, knowing fatigue shortened his temper.

      His mouth kicked up at the memory of his tense negotiations СКАЧАТЬ