Captive For The Sheikh's Pleasure. Carol Marinelli

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СКАЧАТЬ was taken in Zayrinian waters.’ Mahmoud pointed out exactly what Ilyas was thinking. ‘You can even see the palace in the distance. The king promised his people that there would be no more scandal from Hazin.’

      It was his father who was the fool, then.

      Hazin and Ilyas might be similar in certain departments but were completely different in nature. Ilyas simply didn’t deal in emotion and so rarely encountered it that, if he did, it held little sway on his decisions. He was always focused and supremely composed while his brother, on the other hand, ran wild. Hazin was a loose cannon who chose to live the life of a playboy, yet, Ilyas was certain, after the warning he had served his brother prior to his visit, he would not have brought this behaviour home on this occasion.

      Right now, Hazin was aboard the royal jet and heading back to London, oblivious to the latest development in the unfolding scandal.

      â€˜Sit tight,’ Ilyas told Mahmoud. ‘If there is any further contact I am to be informed. Not my father,’ he added.

      He could see Mahmoud’s silent struggle as to whether or not he should brief the king.

      Over and over Ilyas had warned Hazin to be mindful of long-range lenses but these images looked like they had been taken from a phone.

      Probably not a professional, then.

      But, no, he would not be swayed.

      Ilyas again flicked through the photos. Despite his blasé response to Mahmoud, the naked image alone could prove extremely damaging. The people more easily dismissed Hazin’s transgressions while overseas, but, Ilyas knew, they would not be so forgiving if Hazin brought scandal home.

      Then he looked at the woman, uncertain if she was this Suzanne woman or just the lure used to tempt Hazin.

      He could actually see how his brother might have been taken in.

      She was stunning.

      Her long, wavy red hair was swept back by the wind and her body was not the manufactured kind that so often attended parties such as this.

      She was incredibly pale with a dusting of freckles on her arms and thighs. Her body was slender and her curves subtle and very feminine, while in the picture her lips were full and parted in a smile.

      Yet it did not reach her eyes and Ilyas was certain the smile she wore was a false one.

      Yes, she was the smiling assassin indeed.

      â€˜Do nothing without my instruction,’ Ilyas reiterated. ‘And contact me if necessary.’

      â€˜I am going to the hammam.’

      â€˜Your Highness.’ Mahmoud nodded and bowed as Ilyas departed.

      The palace was beyond exquisite.

      The huge, sprawling, ivory marble construction appeared, from an external vantage, to be set on a long red canyon on the edge of the Persian Gulf. It looked down on the bustling city while the westerly wing overlooked the endless desert.

      The palace was a true masterpiece and had been built around a natural oasis that existed to this day. It was vast and contained within it many residences, as well as formal function areas and spaces for worship.

      It held more secrets, though, for it was not just set on the cliff—it had actually been carved from within.

      The tunnels beneath were all lined with ancient drawings and detailed mosaics. Ilyas descended first the carved marble steps, which soon gave way to steps carved into the bedrock.

      Here the air was cooler. Ilyas walked through his private tunnel, the path lit by huge pillar candles. With the sound of cascading water in the distance he hoped the gnawing of concern in his gut would soon melt away.

      The hammam was divine, and certain areas were accessible from several routes but few were allowed to venture where Ilyas did now.

      It was a world few knew existed.

      A natural cave waterfall was the centrepiece and the constant torrent provided a stunning audio-visual backdrop. There were several pools and smaller waterfalls that ran into larger cave pools beneath the hammam. When the light struck right, the entrance to one of the cave pools glowed a deep red from un-mined rubies. By day, occasional shafts of sunlight beamed in and created a natural cathedral; by night it was the stars and moon that showered the waters with their light. It was a royal retreat indeed.

      Ilyas stripped out of his robe and dropped into a deep plunge pool, fully immersing himself. But as he rose to the surface his tension refused to relent.

      Despite his calm reaction in front of Mahmoud, Ilyas was deeply concerned.

      Ilyas knew he appeared as cold and indifferent as his father but he had not been chipped from the same block of ice.

      He did not want Hazin to be disinherited, yet he knew that day was approaching. Despite his best efforts, nothing seemed to be able to divert the train wreck in motion.

      There was nothing he could do except remain vigilant, but for now Ilyas did his best to relax.

      Rarely did he have an entire weekend to do with as he pleased.

      Usually there were several engagements to attend and often he travelled overseas, both forging new relationships and attempting to repair the disastrous ones his father’s rule had created.

      Summoning one of the masseuses, Ilyas walked over to the large marble stone at the centre of the area and lay on his stomach as his skin was rubbed with salt.

      Soon he would get up and rinse off under the waterfall. He looked out to the desert from his privileged vantage point—few even knew it existed, for there was an uninterrupted view of desert sands and sky.

      Later he would make his selection from the harem.

      His father still regularly pushed him to select a bride but Ilyas consistently refused.

      And who could blame him!

      Along one of the tunnels he could hear the distant sounds of laughter from the harem and there was a velvet rope above him that at any moment he could pull. As he lay there, with his head on his forearm and sex on his mind, Ilyas thought of the woman in the photo that Mahmoud had handed him earlier.

      Deft hands were working the small of his back but it was not the skill of the masseuse that had Ilyas shift his position on the cold marble stone.

      It was the thought of the woman and her blaze of red hair and pale freckled skin that had him hardening.

      â€˜Your Highness.’ The sound of Mahmoud’s voice was not in the least welcome. ‘I apologise for disturbing you.’

      Unless Hazin’s plane had crashed or his father had passed, Mahmoud had no business disturbing Ilyas in the hammam. ‘What now?’ he asked angrily.

      â€˜The woman in the photo, the one...’

      â€˜What about her?’ Ilyas snapped. СКАЧАТЬ