The Desert King's Housekeeper Bride. Carol Marinelli

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      At first her chatter had irritated him. Her anxious face peering around the tent each evening as she awaited his return had gnawed at him. Her clumsy ways as she prepared his bath, her tall tales of her mother’s time in the Aristo palace had, at first, irritated him. The way Effie described her mother, she sounded more like a princess than a mere maid.

      Yes, at first it had irked him.

      And yet, now…

      He had come to look forward to it.

      The day dragged on endlessly. It was still hours from sunset, and, though he tried to focus on the problems of the islands, his mind wandered. No matter how much he tried to clear his thoughts it was either his brother’s image that danced before his eyes, or it was her face that drifted into focus…Her scent that seemed to lead him back long before sunset.

      ‘You’re early!’

      Christobel would have been lying on a low sofa, reading trashy magazines, drinking wine, Zakari thought…yet here was Effie, rehanging the coloured drapes around the low cushions on the floor.

      ‘I’m sorry you had to see the place like this, Your Highness.’

      ‘Carry on.’

      ‘I just took them outside to freshen them up,’ Effie explained.

      ‘It is no problem.’ He was frowning slightly, but not because she was working. There was something different about her, something he couldn’t quite place. She was on a small ladder and Zakari watched with more than idle interest as she stretched, her dress lifting, showing creamy, smooth white thighs, and Zakari felt his throat tighten a touch, could see the strain of the fabric over her large breasts, the curve of her round bottom as he stretched out on the cushions.

      ‘So, how was your day?’ She gave a little laugh as she hung the final drape. ‘Not that it’s any of my business.’

      ‘It was…’ Zakari pondered for a moment ‘…less than productive.’

      ‘Oh!’

      Her cheeks were pink from exertion, those blue eyes bluer somehow, like two glittering jewels, and her mouth soft and pretty.

      How, Zakari thought to himself, could he not have seen her beauty?

      And then Zakari felt his heart still for a fraction. As she stretched to arrange the drape Christobel’s ill-fitting dress allowed a revealing glimpse of Effie’s smooth underarms. His eyes once again ran down her legs seeing again the smooth skin there, the sheen of moisturiser now clearly evident. Only now he realised she had been playing with Christobel’s things.

      ‘Can I ask why?’ Her question confused him; he was completely unable to recall what they had been discussing. ‘You said your day had been less than productive.’

      ‘Oh, that!’ Zakari gave a quick nod, relieved she had not sensed his distraction, embarrassed, had he but known it, at almost being caught staring. ‘I seem to be spending a lot of time thinking about my brother.’ He watched her pause, her kind, worried face turning around. Her hair was tumbling out of its tie and long snaky curls danced around her slender neck. ‘Thinking of the man he would be, had he lived.’

      ‘That’s because you spoke of him.’

      ‘It is nice to remember.’ Zakari gave a pale smile. ‘It hurts, but it is good.’

      ‘I’m so sorry for your pain,’ Effie said, and Zakari knew that she meant it, knew that she offered so much more than a platitude. ‘Does it ever lessen?’

      He knew then she was asking for herself, about her own private pain, that she was so much newer on the path of grief than him.

      ‘You learn to live with it. It does not diminish, but you learn to carry the load. And you will too,’ he added.

      ‘Thank you.’ The small grateful smile she gave at his insight warmed him somewhere deep inside. Only Zakari didn’t smile back, just held her gaze for a moment, waiting for her blush to deepen, for her to lower her eyes, for that moment of connection that always came so easily with women—that awareness that told him he was wanted.

      Except it didn’t happen. Instead she gave a wider smile and changed the subject. ‘I will just finish off these, then I’ll draw you a bath, but first I will get some refreshments…’

      He gave a brief nod.

      Lying back on the cushions, his tongue on the roof of his mouth as she worked just inches away from him, for the first time Zakari wondered about a woman.

      Because till now he had always known the answer.

      Always.

      Always a woman wanted him, always there were signs; signs Zakari easily followed. He read women well—calm, neurotic, needy, wanton, he took pleasure in taming them all, interpreting involuntary signals, then homing in and claiming his triumphant prize. Rare was the woman who would refuse a king, yet they were the challenge Zakari relished the most. He loved the dance between a man and a woman, especially if she was unattainable, when he could use his sensuality, his prowess to reduce the most difficult woman to quivering jelly.

      Only Effie was unreadable.

      Was it curiosity that had had her toying with Christobel’s things, or had it been for him?

      ‘Done!’

      As she came down the ladder for a second she was unsteady—well, not really, but it was excuse enough for Zakari to reach out his hand and steady her, to hold her as she took the last two steps.

      ‘Thank you.’

      His hand was on her wrist, her skin soft beneath his fingers, this smell catching him—not a hint of fragrance, just the scent of her alone, combined with the feel of her skin beneath his fingers, and there was his answer.

      Though she seemed outwardly unperturbed he could feel her pulse flickering rapidly beneath his fingers, knew the contact had unsettled her, troubled her, but in the most primal of ways.

      A bird had flown into the palace.

      An ugly, small grey bird that caused momentary chaos.

      Little Zafir was whooping with delight as he chased it, the maids running with brooms as the tiny bird fluttered and panicked, its terrified flapping leading it to the study, where it banged hopelessly against the glass doors.

      Anya shooed the staff away, and told Zafir to quietly sit and observe while she addressed her eldest son.

      ‘When trouble flies in, when people are running and shouting, you, Zakari, must stop the chaos with calm. Do not give in to the first response that comes to mind—do not run and chase along with the crowd. As a king, you must sit a while and observe. See how the palace that is so big to us is tiny and confining to him—see how he struggles to be free, but soon he will give in.’ So they sat and waited till the tiny bird had found its resting place behind some books and slowly Anya parted them.

      ‘He is there, Zakari. He is scared and petrified of you, yet he is still, so now you can help him.’

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