The Sheikh Crowns His Virgin. LYNNE GRAHAM

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       CHAPTER THREE

      THE RACKET OF the helicopters nearby unnerved Zoe and she dressed in haste, flinching from the cling of her clothes to her still-damp skin. When a woman entered the bathroom to fetch her, she was grateful she had hurried and she walked out through the main tent, glad to be embarking on her journey home.

      It was a surprise, however, when she was not escorted to the stationary helicopter she had espied earlier and was instead led into another tent, where a group of women were seated round a campfire.

      ‘The King is visiting,’ the woman opposite her explained to her in perfect English. ‘My husband, Omar, can only receive the King in his tent, which is, unfortunately, the one you have been using, which means that you will have to wait here with us.’

      ‘Your husband?’ Zoe studied the attractive brunette, who wore more gold jewellery than she had ever seen on one woman at the same time.

      ‘Sheikh Omar. The King is his uncle. I am called Farida...and you?’

      ‘Zoe,’ Zoe proffered, accepting the tiny cup of black coffee and the plate of sliced fruit she was given with a grateful smile. ‘Thank you.’

      Hopefully she would be on her way home within the hour, she reasoned, munching on a slice of apple with appetite. ‘Where’s Raj?’ she asked curiously. ‘I thought he was in a hurry to leave.’

      ‘Prince Faraj is greeting his father,’ Farida framed with slightly raised brows.

      Zoe coloured, wondering if her familiar use of Raj’s name had offended. ‘I didn’t know he was a prince,’ she said ruefully. ‘He said he was nobody of any importance.’

      Farida startled her by loosing a spontaneous giggle and turned, clearly translating Zoe’s statement for the benefit of their companions. Much laughter ensued.

      ‘The Prince was teasing you. He is the son of our King.’

      Zoe’s eyes widened to their fullest extent and she gulped. ‘He’s the bad-boy Prince?’ she exclaimed before she could think better of utilising that label.

      ‘The bad boy?’ Farida winced at that definition. ‘No, I don’t think so. He is my husband’s best friend and he took a dangerous risk coming here to see us. ‘

      ‘Oh...’ Zoe noticed that Farida didn’t risk translating her comment about Raj being a bad boy and resolved to be much more careful about what she said. According to Raj these people had had nothing to do with her kidnapping and they had looked after her well while she was unable to look after herself. She didn’t want to slight them.

      After all, she knew next to nothing about Raj, had merely read that tag for him on a website she had visited, which had contained the information that he had been sent into exile years ago for displeasing his father, the King.

      ‘Risk?’ she found herself pressing, taut with curiosity. ‘What did he risk?’

      ‘That is for his telling—if he has the opportunity,’ Farida said evasively. ‘But do not forget that the Prince is the King’s only son, his only child in fact. He was born to the King’s third wife when he had almost given up hope of having an heir.’

      Zoe nodded circumspectly, unwilling to invite another polite snub and swallowing back questions that she was certain no one, least of all Farida, would wish to answer. Stupid man, she thought in exasperation. Why on earth hadn’t he told her who he really was? It was not as though she could have guessed that he was of royal blood. She felt wrong-footed, however, and, recalling how she had assaulted him, gritted her teeth. It was his own fault though: he shouldn’t have crept up on her like that.

      An adorable toddler nudged her elbow in pursuit of a piece of apple and Zoe handed it over, waving her hand soothingly at Farida, who rebuked the little girl.

      ‘No, my daughter must learn good manners,’ Farida asserted.

      ‘What’s her name?’ Zoe asked as the toddler planted herself in her lap and looked up at her with eyes like milk-chocolate buttons, set beneath a wealth of wavy black hair.

      Farida relaxed a little then, and talked about her three children.

      * * *

      Accompanied by Omar, Raj strode into his cousin’s tent where his father awaited him, seated by the fire.

      ‘I thought I would find you here,’ his father informed him with a look of considerable satisfaction. ‘You are grown tall, my son. You have become a man while you have been away. Omar, you may leave. We will talk later.’

      Raj’s appraisal of the older man was slower and filled with concern because he could see that Tahir had aged. It was eight years since he had seen his father in the flesh. His parent had been in his fifties when Raj was born twenty-eight years earlier and the agility that had distinguished Tahir then had melted away. From a distance, Raj had watched his father’s slow, painful passage to the tent, recognising that the rheumatoid arthritis, which had struck his parent in his sixties, now gripped him hard in spite of the many medical interventions that had been staged. He was still spry but very thin and stiff, the lines on his bearded face more deeply indented, but his dark eyes remained as bright СКАЧАТЬ