The Sheikh's Jewel

Harun smiled—no, he grinned. “Whatever made you think I wanted a wishy-washyYes, dear, of course dearkind of wife?”

In all this time I’ve never seen him smile like that.

Right now, kidnapped and in this strange place, he was all she had—just as she was all he had—and the thought of losing this smiling man, now teasing her and caressing her hand, was unbearable.

“Well, maybe if you’d talked to me about what kind of wife you did want, I could answer that,” she replied, in a light, fun tone. “But right now I’m rather clueless.”

At that, he chuckled. “Yes, you’re not the only one who’s told me that I keep a little too much to myself.”

Fascinated, she stared at his mouth. “In all this time, I’ve never heard you laugh.”

She half expected him to make a cool retort—but instead, one end of his mouth quirked higher. “You think it took being abducted for me to show my true colors? Maybe, if you like it, we can arrange for it to happen on a regular basis?”

Praise for Melissa James

“Melissa James is a fabulous writer who speaks from

her heart straight to the heart of the reader.” —The Best Reviews

“Melissa James seizes the reader by the heart and

leaves her smiling with satisfaction.” — Cataromance

MELISSA JAMES is a born-and-bred Sydneysider. Wife and mother of three, and a former nurse, she fell into writing when her husband brought home an article about romance writers and suggested she try it—and she became hooked. Switching from romantic espionage to the family stories of the Mills & Boon^>® Cherish™ line was the best move she ever made.

Melissa loves to hear from readers—you can e-mail her at [email protected].

To my editor, Bryony Green, with my deepest thanks

for all her help as I tried to make the deadline for this book during an international move.

Sar Abbas, capital city of Abbas al-Din

Three years ago

‘IS THIS a joke?’

Sitting straight-backed in an overstuffed chair, her body swathed in the black of deep mourning, Amber el-Qurib stared up at her father in disbelief. ‘Please, Father, tell me you’re trying to make me laugh.’ But even as she pleaded she knew it was hopeless.

Her father, Sheikh Aziz of Araba Numara—Land of the Tiger—was also wearing mourning clothes, but his face was composed. He’d wept enough the first day, in the same shock as everyone else; but he hadn’t cried since, apart from a few decorous tears at Fadi’s funeral. ‘Do you think I would make jokes about your future, Amber, or play with a decision that is so important to our nation?’ His tone bordered on withering.

Yes, she ought to have known. Though he’d been a kind father, in all her life, she’d never heard her father make a joke about anything relating to the welfare of Araba Numara.

‘My fiancé only died six weeks ago.’ Amber forced the words out through a throat thick with weeks of tears. He’d been the co-driver for his younger brother Alim, in just one rally. The Double Racing Sheikhs had caused a great deal of mirth and media interest in Abbas al-Din, as had the upcoming wedding.

Even now it seemed surreal. How could Fadi be dead—and how could she marry his brother within another month, as her father wanted? How could it even be done while Alim was fighting for his life, with second- and third-degree burns? ‘It—it isn’t decent,’ she said, trying to sound strong but, as ever when with her father, she floundered under the weight of her own opinion. Was she right?

And when her father sighed, giving her the long-suffering look she’d always hated—it made her feel selfish, or like a silly girl—she knew she’d missed something, as usual. ‘There are some things more important than how we appear to others. You understand how it is, Amber.’

She did. Both their countries had fallen into uproar after Sheikh Fadi’s sudden death in a car wreck. The beloved leader of Abbas al-Din had been lost before he could marry and father a legitimate son, and Amber’s people had lost a union that was expected to bring closer ties to a nation far stronger and wealthier than theirs.

It was vital at this point that both nations find stability. The people needed hope: for Araba Numara, that they’d have that permanent connection to Abbas al-Din, and Fadi’s people needed to know the el-Kanar family line would continue.

She swiped at her eyes again. Damn Fadi! He’d risked his life a week before their wedding, knowing he didn’t want her and she didn’t want him—but thousands of marriages had started with less than the respect and liking they’d had for one another. They could have worked it out—but now the whispers were circulating. She’d endured some impertinent insinuations, from the maids to Ministers of State. That much she could bear, if only she didn’t have doubts of her own, deep-held fears that woke her every night.

She’d known he wasn’t happy—was deeply unhappy—at the arranged marriage; but had Fadi risked death to avoid marrying her?

Certainly neither of them had been in love, but that wasn’t uncommon. Fadi had been deeply in love with his mistress, the sweet widow who’d borne his son. But with probably the only impulsive decision he’d ever made, he’d left his country leaderless in a minute. At the moment Alim, his brother and the remaining heir, was still fighting for his life.