The Secret Heir Of Alazar. Кейт Хьюит

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       CHAPTER ONE

      SHE MESMERISED HIM. Malik al Bahjat, heir to the throne of Alazar, watched the girl from afar. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but that was part of her charm. Golden-brown hair tumbled down her back in a riot of artless, unstyled waves and curls. Her face was freckled, hazel eyes glinting with humour, with hope, with happiness—three things Malik didn’t think he’d ever truly experienced.

      She sat on the arm of a sofa, long, golden legs tucked up, wearing cut-off denim shorts and a billowy white top, a pair of bright purple sneakers on her feet. Men were chatting with her, of course—they couldn’t keep their eyes off her. No one could. She vibrated with life, with the enjoyment of life, every curve of her lithe body vibrant and sinuous. She was so alive.

      And Malik had felt like a walking automaton for years, programmed for nothing but onerous duty. He took one step into the room, towards her. He didn’t usually go to parties. He was in Rome to assist his grandfather in negotiating a new trade deal with the European Union. Alazar had forged strong links with Europe, links that could stabilise his country’s fraught economy as well as the entire region of the Arabian Peninsula.

      These meetings were important, Malik knew that; Asad al Bahjat had certainly drilled that into him. Alazar’s peace and prosperity rested on meetings such as this one. Then out of the blue a friend from his military schooldays had contacted him, inviting him out, and, knowing how rare such opportunities were, Malik had agreed. One night. One evening where he could act as if he were like other men, as if he had control of his own future, were able to shape his own happiness. Surely he could have that. Surely, after so many years of unquestioning obedience, he deserved it.

      He took a step further into the room. Another step towards her. Even though he was still several metres away, she turned, her golden gaze clashing and then tangling with his. It felt like slamming into a wall, leaving him breathless. He didn’t want to so much as blink in case he severed the connection.

      She looked shocked, her gaze wide and surprised, her full pink lips slightly parted. She didn’t blink, either. Malik walked towards her.

      He didn’t know what he was going to say; he had no chat-up lines. His experience with women was woefully limited, thanks to the security precautions that had been put in place for his own safety. He’d grown up in a palace, with every luxury to hand, but in virtual isolation, save for several rigid years at military school, which had presented their own challenges and difficulties. This was, he acknowledged in wry bemusement, the first real party he’d ever attended. Diplomatic receptions and charity benefits didn’t count.

      ‘Hello.’ His voice came in a husky rumble; he immediately cleared his throat.

      Not a great start, but a smile bloomed across her face that warmed him like a golden ray of sunshine. ‘Hello.’ Her voice was low and musical.

      They stared at each other for a long moment; Malik realised he was grinning. It appeared neither of them knew any chat-up lines.

      She let out a soft gurgle of laughter, her eyes alight with humour and mischief. ‘Are you going to tell me your name, at least?’

      ‘Malik.’ He paused, his mind whirling, spinning with delight at simply being in her presence, basking in the glow of her undivided attention. ‘And yours?’

      ‘Grace. But most people call me Gracie. It started when I was a baby and somehow stuck. I tried being Grace for a while, but everyone acted like I was putting on airs. Apparently I’m not the sophisticated type, you know, like Grace Kelly?’ She made a rueful face, with laughing eyes. He was enchanted.

      Gracie. He savoured the syllables in his mind, in knowing even this much about her. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Gracie. And I like your name just as it is.’

      ‘You have an accent.’ She cocked her head, her glinting gaze sweeping over him, affecting him in ways that surprised and unnerved him. She was just looking. But he could feel his libido stir, insistent, unforgotten despite years of being ruthlessly reined in. ‘But you’re not Italian?’ It was offered as a question.

      ‘No.’

      ‘What, then?’

      ‘I’m...’ He paused. Tonight he did not want to be an heir, a sultan-in-waiting. He’d been that, and nothing but that, since he was twelve years old.

      Now that Azim is gone, you must put your childish pursuits aside. You must take his place and be a man.

      ‘I’m from Alazar.’

      ‘Alazar?’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘I’ve never heard of it. Is it in Europe?’

      ‘No, the Middle East. I suppose not many people have heard of it. It is a small place.’ And so he dismissed his country, his upbringing and his entire life with a shrug and in that moment he did not feel even a flicker of guilt. ‘And you, I am guessing, are American?’

      Her eyes danced. ‘How did you know? Was it the awful Midwestern twang? I make myself cringe, so I can’t imagine how you feel.’

      ‘Your accent is charming.’

      She let out a laugh, the sound as rich and full-bodied as the finest wine. ‘Now, that’s a first. I asked someone for directions this morning and they looked appalled.’