A Cinderella For The Desert King. KIM LAWRENCE

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      ‘You really don’t need that,’ he’d said offhandedly.

      They had been enjoying a discreet affair for six months and he had never seen her without her make-up. On the admittedly few occasions they had spent the night together she always vanished to the bathroom before he woke, emerging looking flawless, a silent signal there would be no repeat performance that morning as she didn’t want her hair mussed or her lipstick smudged.

      She had turned to him at his words, lipstick in hand and a hardness in her smile he had not seen before. ‘Sweet of you to say but,’ she paused and applied a second layer of red to her lips before standing up and strolling back to the bed, ‘although I was prepared to pretend to like art and opera and even be interested in supremely boring politics for you, I’ve never been prepared to settle for the fresh-faced look you seem to like in your women.’

      The shrillness in her laugh had made him wince, so unlike her usual placating style designed to stroke his ego.

      ‘No-strings-attached sex...did you really believe that was all I wanted? Do you really think we met by accident, that I took that awful pittance-paying art-gallery job because I want a career? Oh, well, at least it wasn’t a complete loss. I certainly never had to pretend with you when we were in bed...’ The concession emerged on a deep sigh. ‘You know, I’m really going to miss this.’

      Zain, still processing the contents of her confession, had not yet reacted as she sat down on the edge of the bed and trailed a red fingernail down his bare, hair-roughened chest, but his lips curled in distaste now at the memory.

      ‘I thought I owed you...’ she paused ‘...well, nothing actually, but I figured one more time, for old times’ sake, wouldn’t hurt. My family are formally announcing my engagement to your brother next weekend, so I’m afraid, darling, we won’t be able to do this for a while. Don’t look so shocked! It is kind of your fault. All I ask is that you try and look a teeny bit heartbroken at the wedding. It would make your brother’s day.’

      Now, alone in the desert, Zain felt his lips curl into a thin-lipped smile. He might not have inherited his father’s physical characteristics but it seemed that he had inherited a genetic predisposition to be blind to women’s faults. Then the smile vanished as he scanned the moon-silvered landscape and pushed away the self-contempt.

      Acknowledging a weakness meant you could guard against it.

      His father had lived the last fifteen years of his life consumed by a combination of self-pity and pathetic hope, not accepting the reality of a situation. It had been the man’s downfall.

      It would not be Zain’s.

      He stared out into the darkness as the scene in his head continued to replay with relentless accuracy.

      ‘Of course, I’d prefer to marry you, darling, but you never did ask, did you?’ Kayla had reproached with a pout, the truth of her anger showing for the first time. ‘And I put so much effort into being perfect for you. Still, once things have settled we can pick up where we left off in bed, at least, so long as we’re discreet. And that’s the beauty of it all—Khalid isn’t...well, let’s just say he’s in no position to object, as I have enough dirt on him to...’

      Zain abruptly closed down the conversation playing in his head.

      People wrote bucket lists of things they wanted to do before they died. At nine, practical Zain had penned a list of things he would never do while he lived. Over the years, some had fallen by the wayside—he’d actually grown quite fond of green vegetables, and kissing girls had proved less awful than he’d thought—but others he had rigidly stuck to. The primary one being that he would never allow himself to fall in love or get married—he was determined never to repeat the mistakes his father had made.

      Marriage and love had not only broken his proud father as a man but also had threatened the stability of the country he ruled and the people he owed a duty to. Watching the process as a youngster, Zain had been helpless to do anything, the love and respect he once felt for his father turning to anger and shame.

      The situation could have had more serious consequences—not that his father would have cared—had the sheikh not been surrounded by a circle of courtiers and advisors loyal to him. Somehow, they had shielded him and managed to maintain the illusion of the strong, wise ruler for the people.

      Zain had not been shielded.

      He shook his head, aware that he was indulging in a pastime that he would have been the first to condemn in others, and he didn’t tolerate those who lived in the past.

      A movement in the periphery of his vision interrupted his stream of thought.

      Head inclined in a listening attitude, Zain turned his head and stared hard through the dark towards where the invisible border between Aarifa and their neighbour Nezen lay.

      He was on the point of turning away, deciding he’d imagined it, when suddenly it was there again...a flash of light that could be a flashlight, or possibly headlights. The light was accompanied this time by a distant sound that drifted across the moonlit emptiness... It sounded like voices shouting.

      This time, lights stayed on. Definitely headlights.

      He sighed, feeling little enthusiasm for rescuing what would inevitably turn out to be some damn idiot tourist—they averaged about ten a month—with no respect for the elemental environment. Zain loved the desert but he also had a healthy respect for the dangers it presented.

      He sometimes wondered if the deep emotional connection he felt with the land of his birth was made stronger by the fact that, growing up an interloper, he’d had to prove his right to belong.

      Things had changed, though sometimes an overheard comment or knowing glance would make him wonder just how much.

      Admittedly, no one called him names these days, no gangs egged on by his brother threw stones, excluded him or simply beat him up, but scratch the surface and the prejudices were still there. His existence continued to be an insult to many in the country, especially those members of the leading Aarifan families.

      He was more of an annoyance than his mother, who at least was living on another continent. It would have been easier in many ways if he had been a bastard, but his parents had married, not letting a little thing like his father’s already having a wife and an heir get in the way of true love.

       Love...!

      A growing noise of distaste vibrated in his throat as, with a creak of leather, he heaved himself back into the saddle and turned the horse. That word again. In his mind it was hard to be sane and celebrate something that people over the centuries used to justify...well, pretty much anything from bad choices to full-scale war!

      Love really was the ultimate in selfishness.

      He didn’t have to look much farther than his own parents to see its destructive power—there was no doubt of his father’s enduring love for his mother, but it was as if their love story had been perfectly designed to increase tabloid turnover.

      The sheikh of a wealthy middle-eastern state—married to a wife who had already given him an heir—had fallen for the tempestuous Italian superstar of the opera world, a diva in every sense of the word... Zain’s mother.

      Despite its progressive reputation, setting aside a wife was not unheard СКАЧАТЬ