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PROLOGUE
Six months earlier.
“Only you, Will.”
The American tinkered with the toe of his boot, his gaze fixed on the pocked floorboards beneath him. His Royal Highness’s demand was clear and Will understood it. Nevertheless, the journalist within felt compelled to ask, “I work with a photographer …”
“Just you.” Kiral didn’t raise his voice; such drama was unnecessary for a man to whom absolute power was guaranteed. “Media coverage of my impending nuptials is not something I relish. It is … crass. But for you, I am prepared to make an exception.”
The silence crackled down the phone line. They both knew this story was the last piece Will would choose to be writing if things had been different. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice thick with frustration. “Just me.” After all, it was hardly likely to involve any great journalistic endeavour. A fluffy article regarding the principal players in the Sheikh’s wedding was dozens of paygrades beneath Will’s usual efforts.
“Good.” Kiral’s relaxation was evident. “You will provide Alain with a list of subjects.”
“Sure.” He nodded. “It will mainly be the family. Your bride, of course.”
“My bride. Yes.” There was a strength of feeling in the Sheikh’s voice which Will attributed to Kiral’s anticipation. After all, this wedding had been planned for many years and was highly coveted by both countries.
“I’ll send Alain the list tomorrow.”
“Fine. And Will?” Another long, charged pause. “I heard about what happened in Lahmnon. I was very sorry for you.”
Will pushed harder at the leather on his shoe, his jaw square as he focused every inch of his being on not remembering that night. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Thanks. I appreciate your saying so.”
“War is a terrible business, my friend,” Kiral murmured. “A needless war such as that even more so.”
Will squeezed his eyes shut. “It didn’t feel needless to the men I was with.”
“No.” Kiral compressed his lips. “It never does to those on the ground. I was … pleased that you, at least, made it out safely.”
Will didn’t respond. He couldn’t. To admit that he’d been anything but relieved at having made it out unscathed was to do a dishonor to the men and women who hadn’t been so lucky.
“I’ll email the list.”
“Of course. Good night.”
Will disconnected the call, and leaned back in the ancient armchair. It creaked a little as his bulky frame pressed back into the soft upholstery. The noise was in stark contrast to the silence that enveloped him. Here in the country, far from civilization and its uncivilized acts, he sucked in a deep breath and hoped one day he would feel whole again.
Part One
NEW YORK
FIVE MONTHS BEFORE THE ROYAL WEDDING
CHAPTER ONE
In the course of her twenty four years, Her Royal Highness Jalilah Mazroui had completed literally hundreds of interviews. Though she abhorred the public duties required of her, she nonetheless accepted them as a necessary function of her role and took part diligently and with at least the appearance of good grace.
But none of the interviews in her experience had left her feeling wrong-footed in this manner.
It wasn’t that he was gorgeous; though he was. It wasn’t his dark blonde hair and the way it flopped forward over his brow, nor the square jawline that was covered in stubble, nor the dimple in his cheek and the large brown eyes that seemed to look at her as though they comprehended so much more than she wanted him to. Perhaps it was his air of intentional dishevelment – the way he looked as though he was meeting with a friend for coffee rather than the princess of a powerful country.
Where most of her guests dressed in their most formal clothes, this man had selected instead a pair of beige pants and pale blue shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. It was untucked too, though well-fitted so she could appreciate his slim strength as he walked across the apartment to shake her hand.
Against protocol, he’d conformed with the American greeting and his fingers had been long and capable, confident and calloused, as though he’d spent a lot of time outdoors.
Strange, for a journalist.
“Are you sure you won’t have some tea?” She prompted, wrapping her fingers around the delicate pot and lifting it an inch off the table.
“I’m fine,” he demurred, his gaze not faltering from the notepad he had propped carelessly across his knee.
Lilah, teapot in air, tilted it into her own porcelain cup then replaced it onto the table. She clasped the cup with two hands as she settled back into the cream sofa and crossed her legs elegantly. “You are perhaps like my brother; he also does not drink tea.”
His smile didn’t touch his eyes. “You’re close to Kiral?”
Lilah sipped her drink, regarding him over the rim of the pretty cup. Wherever she went in the world, this same porcelain set seemed to travel with her. Years ago, she’d wondered at the logistics of making sure the royal family was catered to in this fashion. Who was responsible for ferrying delicate porcelain dishes? Or were they always on the jet, ready for unpacking as needed? It was a superfluous exercise, for Lilah would have enjoyed her tea out of a tin can.
“Ma’am?” He prompted, when she placed her cup down without responding.
“My parents died a long time ago,” she said, no longer upset by the black and white admission. It was a matter of public record, and she’d had occasion to refer to it many times in the past. “I think this inked a special bond between Ki and me, as with all siblings who have helped raise one another.”
The American nodded, but there was a cynicism in his eyes that sent a needle along the edge of her mind. He continued to stare at her, as though waiting for her to con
tinue. Lilah, not easily discomforted, could feel her pulse churning faster inside of her.
“You do not agree?” She prompted, her voice steady despite the strange lurching feeling sparked by the sardonic dismissal in his gaze.
He crossed his ankle onto his knee and continued to study her. Lilah’s heart trembled.
“It’s not for me to agree or disagree,” he drawled after several weighted moments had passed. “I’m interviewing you. If that’s what you want to say …”
Now it was Lilah’s turn to arch a brow in disbelief. “You are accusing me of lying?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Your Highness,” he denied with a casual shrug.
“My answer was genuine,” she said with a softness to her tone. “I apologise if it’s not the one you were looking for.”
He lowered his intense brown eyes to the paper in his book and scrawled a few notes. His handwriting was large and loopy, and utterly illegible from where she sat.
“And you?” Lilah surprised him by asking, reaching for her cup once more. “My brother speaks highly of you.”
“I’m honoured,” Will said with honesty.
“You should be. He is an excellent judge of character. He has a particular disdain for the media, so you must have done something impressive to overcome that.”
Many people would have regarded her statement as almost an order; a royal decree weakly disguised as a question.
Will apparently did not, and so Lilah phrased her curiosity in a more specific form.
“How did you meet Kiral?”
