CHAPTER ONE
Two months later
The heat was suffocating. Sweat trickled between Evie’s breasts despite the skimpy singlet top and pants she wore. The fan overhead did little but circulate the hot, dry air around the luxurious room. She banged her pillow and rolled over, her eyes focused on the large shuttered windows that framed a view of desert and the blanket of milky stars overhead.
One of the Athalin-aî let out a telltale cry from the trees surrounding the palace and goosebumps danced along her skin. How frightened she’d been when first she’d encountered its deep, musical call! How eerie it had seemed, carried by the winds, telling of sadness and loss.
Perhaps it was a presentiment of fear that kept Evie awake that night; or possibly, since losing Sabra and Dave, she had come to accept that she would never again feel relaxed and at ease.
“Madam?”
Evie pushed up instantly, her eyes swiveling in the darkness to pinpoint the source of the voice. One of the maids who attended her regularly was hovering just inside the door. Her English was excellent; Evie suspected it was the main reason she’d been assigned to her.
“Yes, Amina?” Her voice was croaky. She cleared her throat but didn’t smile. Her intuition was tingling; the hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end. Amina moved deeper into the room, quietly shutting the door behind her.
Impatience flared through Evie. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry, Madam, to disturb you like this.” Her eyes were nervous, they fidgeted in her face, flicking from Evie to the window, then back again.
“It’s fine. What is it?” Evie toyed with the strap of her singlet.
“His Highness is ill.”
“Malakhi?” She frowned, confused by the relevance of this information to her. She had only seen The Man Himself, as she’d begun to think of him, three times since arriving at Ishala. At the formal, state funeral, and at the private ceremony, and then once by accident in the corridors of this private wing of the palace. Each time he had regarded her with the marked disdain of a man who considered himself to be many, many, social rungs above her. As though she were nothing to him beyond a bug under foot. Contrasted to the way they’d touched one another on her last visit to the country, his indifference made her chest hurt.
“No, no. His Highness Kalem,” she corrected, her face etched with worry. “I wasn’t to bother you. The nurse isn’t worried. But I thought … you would …”
“Oh, yes.” Evie’s voice throbbed with emotion. She stood quickly, pulling a robe around her shoulders and cinching it at the waist. “What is it? What’s wrong with him?”
“A fever. His temperature has been high all evening.”
“All evening?” She cast a look of surprise at the younger woman. “Why wasn’t I told?”
“Miss Fatima, madam. She said you should not be involved.”
“Oh, she did, did she?” Evie pursed her lips.
They were at the door when Amina wrapped her fingers around Evie’s forearm. “Shoes, madam.”
“Oh, right.” She cast around the room, frowning.
“Here.” Amina moved swiftly, pulling a pair of cream slippers from somewhere in the wardrobe.
Evie took them before Amina could crouch down and begin fitting them to Evie’s feet for her. Such treatment was enormously embarrassing for someone not used to it.
“Thanks,” she murmured, her cheeks pink as she slipped them on. “Let’s go.”
The private wing of the palace was just big enough to sleep perhaps one’s closest two-hundred family members. It took them several minutes to walk to Kalem’s room. Evie had not approved of this, but the redoubtable Fatima had insisted. Kalem’s room had been used by His Highness Malakhi as a baby, and by his father before him. It was the room for the royal heir.
And that was what Kalem was, Evie had been forced to accept.
She moved quickly through the corridors, and when they reached his quarters she could hear his feverish cry. She swept into the room without knocking, her eyes fixing to her nephew.
Fatima was, at least, cradling him, rocking him in a chair and whispering soothingly in her own tongue. Evie crouched down beside the woman; her fingers flying to his brow. He was warm, but not burning up. His cheeks though were bright pink, his eyes red from crying.
“Darling,” she whispered soothingly, her heart contracting at this blessed souvenir of Dave and Sabra. Their features mingled in his face, begging her to soothe him. “Come here, darling.”
Fatima perhaps contemplated resisting but, at the sound of Evie’s voice, two plump, tanned arms extended to Evie and his cries softened.
She held him close to her breast, letting her heart comfort his. He was whimpering, and she stroked his back, wishing she could take away whatever pain was troubling him.
“Why has a doctor not been called?” She spoke to Amina, for Fatima’s English was not as reliable.
Amina translated, her own expression showing fear at having contradicted the older, more experienced maid’s edict.
The answer came from Fatima in her heavy accent. “No need. Not needing this.”
“I beg your pardon,” Evie kept her voice level with great effort. “The heir of Ishala is sick and you do not think you should call a doctor?”
Fatima’s expression was wooden. “I do … nothing … is …” She switched to her own tongue, in a hoarse whisper.
Amina translated. “She says she has a lot of experience and that your place isn’t to interfere.” Amina shook her head apologetically but continued. “She says you are nothing to the heir of Ishala. This is not your business.”
Amina shook her head but Fatima continued crossly.
“Go on,” Evie muttered, stroking Kalem’s sweaty brow.
“She says that you should go home.” Amina lowered her eyes. “That your brother is dead and it is time for you to leave.”
Colour drained from Evie’s face but she could not visibly react. She stared at Fatima and nodded. “We’ll just see about that.”
Holding her nephew tight to her chest, she moved towards the door but Fatima forestalled her. “You not take him.”
“Oh, yes. I take him.” And as Fatima lifted a hand, perhaps to hold her physically, Evie looked at her with such furious disapproval that Fatima hesitated.
“Amina? Come with me.”
Amina, who until that night had never defied her superior’s orders, fell into step behind Evie.
“Where is his room?”
“Whose room, madam?”
“Malakhi’s.”
And now Amina stopped walking altogether. “No. We cannot … it is two o’clock.”
“So?” Evie spun around, her eyes showing madness and fear.
“I cannot be a part of this.”
“I need you to show me his room,” she responded through gritted teeth. “I will make sure he knows I forced you.”
Amina swallowed. Admiration flowered in her gut despite a growing certainty that she would soon be out of a job she badly needed. She began to walk again, a smile twitching at the sides of her lips. “It is sweet that you think you would be able to force me,” she said softly.
Evie grinned distractedly. “Hey, I might look small but I pack a punch.”
The royal suites were located up a flight of stairs and then almost directly above Evie’s room. Or thereabouts. It was hard to keep track with so much marble and gold and ancient tapestries along the way.
“It is here,” Amina murmured, nodding towards a set of golden doors.
“Of course it is.” Evie would have rolled her eyes if she’d been less angry. Such ostentatious luxury was befitting of a man such as Malakhi. Although … no. She couldn’t think of his primal, animalistic power in that moment.
She walked towards his suite before she lost her nerve and knocked sharply. When the doors didn’t immediately open she knocked again, then stepped backwards to wait. A noise came from inside. A deep rumble which she recognized as his voice. Shivers danced coldly across her flesh.
Amina, beside her, looked terrified.
The door was opened inwards by a woman. Dressed in a sheer top, her nipples were clearly visible. She wore flowing pants. It took Evie a minute to realize that it was what she had always imagined a traditional harem outfit would be. Disgust and another dark emotion churned her belly.
Her eyes narrowed. “Is Malakhi here?” She asked, refusing to notice the woman’s perfect skin and incredible figure.
“It is the middle of the night,” the woman snapped.
“Is. He. Here?” Evie’s thinly-worn patience was evident in the sentence.
He appeared behind the woman and Evie’s blood began to boil unbearably. Not with anger though. He was wearing a pair of loose pants but they left little to the imagination. His chest, broad, tanned and covered with dark hair, tapered to a slim waist and hips, and beyond that … she gulped and forced her eyes back to his face. That face! How it had tormented her. With his wide-set eyes, almond-shaped and rimmed by curling black lashes, a nose that was crooked half way down, and lips that could have been carved from stone. His cheekbones were high and his brows thick, and though each feature on their own was unique and interesting, the combination of them on this man was stunning.
The look he gave her was coldly assessing. “What is it?” His eyes were focused on their nephew.
“He’s sick,” Evie said quickly. “And that henchwoman you’ve hired to care for him is doing nothing about it. She won’t even call a doctor.”
He expelled an angry sigh and turned to his companion. His hand curled around her shoulder and squeezed. In his own language, he said, “Go now.”
She smiled up at him and then sent Evie a fierce look before sashaying down the royal corridor.
“You too,” he said to Amina.
Amina’s eyes lifted to Evie’s. “His Highness has asked me to go.”
Evie shook her head. “Wait here.” She kissed Kalem’s sweet little head and passed him gently to the servant. “If he cries or makes any sound, get me. Otherwise, wait here.”
Unused to having his orders usurped, Malakhi fought a wave of outright fury.
“This is a private conversation,” Evie said coldly. “Do you mind if I come into your den of iniquity? I’ll ignore the scene of passion.”
He pulled the door inwards, admitting her to his most private space. But try as she might, Evie was powerless not to see it. The bed, crumpled linen showing signs of passionate abandon. Candles. Wine.
Her cheeks were flushed but she moved to the wall and flicked a light on, killing the romantic mood of the room.
It was a mistake. The light only served to illuminate his masculine perfection further. Hair so dark it was like a raven’s shimmered, not a hint of grey to be seen. His face was harshly angular, not traditionally handsome, but all the more appealing for its geometric balance and determination.
Evie was not alone in her appraisal. Dressed in her pajamas with a only thin robe for modesty, there was no disguising her intriguing curves and petite frame. Malakhi’s eyes lingered on the soft swell of her breasts.
The first time he’d seen her, he’d thought of a desert bird, with her exotic complexion. Skin that was as pale as cream, with tiny little freckles across her dainty nose, those vibrant eyes, and hair … her hair! It was intriguing. Red, but so many shades of red depending on the light that he could never have fixed on the right description for it. Now, in his room, it was the colour of flame, and she wore it in a plait over her shoulder. Only it was not obedient, much like Evie, he imagined, and several wisps had escaped to frame her face.
As for her body, he was intimately acquainted with it. Though she had never dressed in a way that led him to believe she was aware of her feminine perfection, he had never met a woman with quite the same curvaceous sweetness.
“You’re disgusting,” she snapped, resenting his invasive, possessive inspection. She pulled her robe more tightly around her waist.
“You have come to me in the middle of the night dressed like that and you do not think it is an invitation to … appreciate … what you so readily offer?”
“I am not offering you anything,” she snapped in disbelief. “God! Our nephew is sick and you think… your mind … you’re disgusting.”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry, Jamila. I have no interest in married women. Or any woman who has such lax morals as you.”
The insult smarted for so many reasons. She toyed with the wedding ring and his eyes dropped to the betraying gesture.
“So? What is it?”
Should she tell him the truth now?
For what purpose? Believing she was still married was a good thing. It neatly shelved all the issues they hadn’t dealt with two years earlier.
“This is nothing to do with us,” she said distractedly, rubbing her temples. Her robe pulled a little but she didn’t notice. “It’s about Kalem.”
“Malakhi,” he corrected.
“That’s too confusing.” She shook her head. “Kalem. He’s sick. He needs a doctor.”
“What does Fatima say?”
Evie spun around, anger making her features shimmer in a way he found intriguing. “She’s a grump.”
His laugh surprised them both. “That might be. But she is also very experienced.”
“She doesn’t care about him like I do. Nobody does.” A sob welled in her throat. She tried to swallow it but it coated her words with grief. His eyes were heavy on hers.
“Oh?”
“No.” She lifted a slender hand to the column of her throat. The Athalin-aî called across the desert and she shivered. “I love him.”
Malakhi was silent a long moment. “What is wrong with him?”
“He’s got a temperature,” she said, her relief so profound that the words tumbled over themselves. “He’s not himself. He’s in pain. Please. Please call a doctor.”
“If this was so, Fatima would have called a physician,” he said with a shrug. “She has nursed dozens of infants.”
“She’s got no heart!” Evie snapped. “How can you ignore what I’ve said?”
“What experience have you with children?” He asked, his eyes narrowing as the unpalatable image of her growing round with another man’s baby filled his mind.
“With other children? None. But before … before …” she closed her eyes. “Before they came here, I spent almost as much time with Kalem as his parents did. And since … since the accident, I have been with him every day. I know when he’s not right. Something’s …”
He expelled an angry breath and lifted a hand.
“He’s a good sleeper. He always has been. From three weeks old he slept through the night. He doesn’t get fevers unless something’s wrong. Please, Mal.” The name Sabra had always used when speaking of her brother slipped out and she shook her head. “Malakhi,” she corrected.
He crossed the room and pressed a gold button recessed into a panel on the wall. He spoke in his own language then moved with his trademark athleticism across the room. “Take the child back to his nursery. A doctor is on his way.”
Surprised by the relative ease of the encounter, Evie smiled up at him. “Thank you.” She moved quickly but as she neared the door he shut it again.
“Not you.”
“What do you mean?”
“The servant will deal with this.”
Evie’s nerves jangled beneath her skin. “I don’t want to leave him.”
“He is fine. If Fatima is not concerned then you do not need to be.”
“How can you speak of that woman with such affection?” Evie demanded. “The things she’s said to me …”
“Yes?” He prompted, crossing to the glasses of wine and lifting one to his lips. He kept his eyes locked to her face as he took a long drink.
Evie shook her head. She wasn’t sure she wanted to involve him in her quarrel with the other woman. As much as she loathed the maid, ratting on a person to their absolute boss was not her style.
“Never mind.”
The air around them crackled with awareness. Evie felt as though an invisible thread was pulling at her, urging her to close the distance.
He lowered the glass to the table leaving his lips free to stare at. How it had felt when he’d kissed her. It had been so much more than a kiss. He had dominated her. His body had pressed hers against the wall while his tongue had punished hers. His mouth had made her his prisoner and his hands had felt her curves with all the promise of explosive satisfaction.
“How is your husband?”
Malakhi can never know about your divorce. He will disapprove. He might even ask me to move home. Besides, why does he need to know?
“Fine,” she lied, Sabra’s words all the more impossible to dislodge now that she was dead. Simple requests had taken on a new meaning: they were death-bed requests. All of them.
“Fine?” He shook his head.
The betrayal of that night had seared her soul for a very long time. She had thought of it often with shame and regret.
“Malakhi …”
“Does he make you happy, Jamila?”
“Happy?” She shook her head, clinging to her anger rather than the seductive inquiries he was launching. “Why does that matter?”
“You’re right. It doesn’t.” He shrugged.
The insouciance hurt. “And that woman? Does she make you happy?”
“To whom do you refer?” He asked, lifting his arms above his head in a stretch. While it might have been perfectly natural, it served to draw her gaze to his rippling muscles. She looked away quickly, her eyeballs supercharged by desire.
“That supermodel who just teetered out of here when I arrived.”
“The woman you scared off with your middle-of-the-night intrusion?”
Chastened, she spun away, lifting her fingers to her lips. “Is that how it would have been for us?”
He was across the room but the desert winds carried his touch to her.
“What is it you mean?”
“I mean if I hadn’t stopped what happened between us. Would I have been some woman you slept with and then dismissed?”
The question was loaded and it caught her completely off guard.
“What would you have wanted?” He returned noncommittally. “You were engaged. Another man was owed the pleasure of your body, not me. If you hadn’t stopped me, we would have slept together and I would have forbidden you from marrying him.” Now he was right behind her, his words brushing her hair. “Do you realize how close we were?” His hands curled around her arms, spinning her to face him.
“It would never have happened …”
He swore in his own tongue. “Of course it would have.” His eyes devoured her face. “If I kissed you now it would happen still.”
“Don’t.” She shook out of his grip. “Yuck. You’ve just been with her. As if I would touch you!”
“How interesting.” He lifted his thumb to her lip and padded it along the flesh. “You thought of Leilani before your own husband.” He dropped his hand to her wedding ring and pressed down on it so that a sensation of pain travelled along her arm. “Is your marital bed so cold that you give it such little consideration?”
He was so close to the truth that she went on the attack. “You have no idea. As if sex is the only thing that matters.”
His eyes, oh, his eyes. They saw too much. He studied her as though every secret she held was written on her face. “It is not the only thing to matter.”
She was powerless to look away.
“Yet you have been here two months. You buried your brother. Where was he? Your husband?”
Her cheeks burned. “He couldn’t make it. He’s too busy.”
“To come to such an important event?” His condemnation was scathing.
“Yes.”
“And now?” His body was only an inch from hers. She felt its inviting hardness and had to call on every ounce of willpower not to close the distance between them.
“Now?” The word husked in her mouth.
“It has been months since you were with a man. You do not crave it?”
“No,” she lied, her stomach churning painfully.
“Liar,” his laugh was thick. “I have felt your desire. I know how much it moves in you.”
Only for you.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she murmured, but her body swayed closer.
“What are we doing?” He asked slowly. “I am simply talking to you. Is that not allowed?”
“You know what I mean.” She was breathless.
“No.” And he dropped his mouth, closer to her ear. “I am not saying that I want to peel your clothes from your body and take you against the wall, though I am thinking it. I am not telling you that I want to roll your nipples in my mouth. I am not saying that I want to taste every bit of you, but mostly your essence.” He lifted his head, so that his eyes warred with hers. “But I am thinking it. And I have been dreaming it.”
“Stop,” she moaned, but her hands were lifting, aching to touch him. She was tentative at first, feeling the strength of his muscles slowly. She ran her fingers down his body, until they encountered the waistband of his pants. She moved inside, wondering at her daring, but at the same time accepting the fatalism of what she was doing.
When her hands met his length she made a sound of relief. Or was it him? Wetness slicked her insides. A hunger that had never been quenched burned her whole.
“But talking is all we can do,” he said softly, pulling away from her and marking their separation with a full stride. “I will not have a married woman in my bed, no matter how I want her.”
He can never know. Malakhi disapproves of divorce. He’s very old-fashioned. He would see your divorce as a shame to our entire family. I would be tainted by association. You know I support you completely but Mal is just different.
“I …”
“You wear his ring and touch my cock? How dare you?”
Evie wanted, so badly, to tell him the truth. The words were fully formed in her mouth. She was close to issuing them: I am not married. I was never his. Please. Please, take me.
But the sound of a shrill ringing interrupted them and he spun, as though completely unaffected by their conversation.
The conversation was completed in Malakhi’s language and, try as she might, Evie had learned only simple phrases so far.
“He is fine. It is teething pains. Nothing more.”
Relief, stupidity and regret mingled in her gut. All of this had been for nothing.
Should she tell him still? Would he welcome the news? Or had Sabra been right?
“Thank you,” she said stiffly and walked towards the door.
“Evelyn?” She stopped walking, her back ramrod straight, but she didn’t turn to face him.
“Make an appointment to see me tomorrow. We need to speak.”
“We can speak now …”
“No. Not now.” His words were thick with an emotion she didn’t comprehend. But there was a darkness there too. “Nothing I would say to you now would be particularly constructive.”
“Mal …” She spun to face him. It was a mistake. His eyes were glittering with fury.
“Do not call me this. Only Sabra had that right, and she is dead.” Evie sucked in a breath as though he’d thrown a cement brick at her. “And do not ever touch me again without invitation.”
Evie’s eyes blinked in her expressive face. “Isn’t that what you did? Didn’t you invite me to touch you, Your Highness?”
“You are a married woman,” he responded coldly. “If you want to screw someone to satisfy your hormones, get your husband to visit. You are his problem. Not mine.”