The Defiant Princess (6 page)

“I belong here. Australia is my country now.”

“You need to re-establish contact with your people and see the suffering first hand. Once confronted with the situation in Rhajia, I trust you won't turn your back on your countrymen.”

“Why should I trust you, Prince Khalid? This shooting shows the lengths Mustaf will go to in order to protect his rule. I believe you led him straight here.”

“We have not yet established that.” There was cold denial in each word.

“I'd have to be nuts to think I can rely on you or Turastan for my protection. Helen's right. You put me in jeopardy. No way will I trust you.”

He regarded her steadily. Her eyes flashed a challenge at him. The hands on her hips not only completed the picture of her defiant stance but drew his attention to the narrowness of her waist …

“You will learn to trust me, Princess. You have no other choice.” With that, he turned on his heel and departed to interrogate the shooter.

The thought of spending time with Sabihah wasn't the anathema Khalid had expected. Not only courageous, she was also an incredibly beautiful woman. He berated himself. He didn't need the complication of a reaction to her. This attraction was wrong. They may be legally betrothed in their countries because of their fathers' wishes and Hazim's death, but he had no intention of marrying her. Despite his father's command, he had not ended his relationship with Inaya before he flew to Australia. He cared for Inaya. He couldn't be attracted to Princess Sabihah when he still intended to marry Inaya.

His mission was to take Sabihah back and return her to the throne of Rhajia.

“Your Highness, this is the gunman.”

A police car pulled up at the same time the bodyguard spoke. Convincing Sabihah of her responsibilities would have to be pushed to the back of his mind. Right now, there was a diplomatic mess to sort out.

***

It was early evening by the time the local police sergeant left with the would-be assassin. Sabrina had sent Helen off to bed with some strong pain-killers for her aunt's impending migraine, assuring the older woman she could cope with both the local police officer and Prince Khalid. Now, having seen the way Khalid had dealt with the police officer, she wasn't confident she should have made those commitments to her aunt.

The prince possessed an air of authority which surprised her. It didn't fit the image of him that she'd built up in her mind from the media reports she'd read. Hazim was the prince who had wielded considerable power on the world's political stage. Khalid was the notorious, partying playboy, skilled in the bedroom and on the polo field but not in the art of statesmanship or diplomacy.

Yet the way the prince had handled the situation and the police suggested she might need to reassess his character. He may possess more of his father's qualities than had been reported.

King Hassan's rule was well respected. The Turastani people were given every opportunity to develop their full potential through free education and grants for all manner of research projects. Yes, Hassan Ul-Haq ruled Turastan wisely, but that didn't mean she had to fall in with his latest plans.

“How long do you think it'll be before Mustaf sends the next hitman?” Sabrina demanded of Khalid as she closed the door behind the police officer and sank back against it for support.

“My security guards are stationed all around the house. You're safe for now.”

She lifted her chin. “Your security guards didn't stop the first attempt.”

A muscle pulsed in his cheek. “That's most regrettable.”

He looked genuinely angry. Despite the fact that she felt fragile and wanted to lash out at him, it was too late for recriminations. Nothing said or done would change her situation now—and he had tried to protect her when the shots had been fired. “I guess if you hadn't reacted so quickly, I may not be alive now,” she acknowledged.

His short laugh was rich, masculine and very attractive as he walked down the hall toward the living room. “Whilst I reacted instinctively, I assure you I am not faster than a speeding bullet.”

His use of the phrase associated with Superman made her smile. As she followed him she appreciated his height and broad shoulders. He was certainly built as impressively as the superhero.

“I think it's fairer to assume you're alive because the shooter was off his target,” he said. “But you have every right to be angry. Even though the perpetrator refused to speak, it seems fairly certain Mustaf sent him. I believed every precaution had been taken to ensure my journey here was in secret, but I admit there may have been a leak in our security.”

He stopped in the doorway and ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of annoyance. She followed the movement and was instantly distracted. Her fingertips tingled and she imagined how it would feel if she had access to his thick, dark pelt of hair.

“I did not expect my visit would place you in danger, Sabihah.”

Mentally, she chastised herself for her wayward thoughts and brought herself back to reality. “You say you're sorry for placing me in danger, and yet you want me to return to Rhajia. You don't believe turning up on Mustaf's doorstep and trying to depose him would place me in even greater danger?”

“In Turastan, I could protect you properly. This trip was arranged on very short notice. Such an incident won't happen again.”

“Even with a leak in your security?”

“A possible leak. If one exists, you may be certain it will be identified quickly.”

“Great.” Her lips twisted. Her throat felt thick with the futility of her situation.

“Sit down,” he instructed, ushering her into the living room which his team had cleaned.

If anyone else had made the suggestion, she would have sunk into a chair willingly. She was completely drained after the revelations and events of the afternoon. But this was Crown Prince Khalid and his words had been a command, not an invitation. In defiance, she remained where she was. She needed to wrest back some control and assert herself. He couldn't order her about, and she couldn't let herself become overwhelmed by his physical appearance. She wasn't a teenager anymore, but a grown woman. Surely she'd left behind the silly fantasies she'd woven around this man years ago?

Prince Khalid was her adversary. His presence here and his determination threatened her plans for the future. Every one of her defensive barriers needed to be up.

He reached for her arm. “Please come and sit down, Sabihah.”

Sabrina's mouth dried the instant he touched her. Despite her attempts to stop feeling attracted to him, her heartbeat stuttered as lightning forks of heat speared from his hand up her arm, across her chest and earthed deep at the juncture of her thighs. She only just managed to stifle a groan of need.

Seconds stretched. When she met his eyes she hoped he would not be able to read her reaction to him. “I don't want to sit. You need to go.”

“We need to talk.”

She couldn't keep looking into those tawny-gold eyes and maintain her fight against him. But when she broke eye contact to look pointedly at where his hand held her arm, she couldn't help notice the strength of his long, tanned fingers. Masculine fingers. And, if his playboy reputation was true, fingers extremely familiar with the female form.

Oh man, she was in trouble. “I think we've said all there is to say. I'm exhausted. Arguing won't do any good.”

He raised his other hand to lift her chin with firm but gentle fingers. She had no choice but to meet his eyes. She struggled to mask the rawness of her emotions.

“I'm not your enemy, Sabihah.”

Sabihah.

Every time he uttered her birth name it was like a sweet, exotic caress. A lover's caress. The sound drew her gaze to his full, sensuous lips. She should suppress her response to him yet she had the overwhelming urge to feel his lips against her own. She knew it was crazy. It was a knee-jerk reaction because of everything she'd been through. His presence, the shooting, his insistence she was a princess with a kingdom to rule. He'd thrown her life out of orbit. Made her vulnerable. Now, due to that vulnerability, she was drawn to the strength he radiated. She craved assurance that everything would be okay. That was all this was. Nothing more.

Her conscious nagged her.
He's the most drop-dead good-looking guy you've ever set eyes on. Isn't that the real reason you want him to kiss you?

Ignoring that thought she said, “If you aren't my enemy, Crown Prince of Turastan, just how do you see yourself in all of this?” The husky quality of her voice took away from the demand she'd meant to issue.

His rich voice seemed to deepen as he answered, “I'm your protector.”

Amazingly the idea of being under his protection held a great deal more appeal than she cared to admit. He'd launched himself at her this afternoon to protect her from a bullet, proving they were not empty words.

“As long as you're with me, you're safe,” he said confidently. “But you will be safer in Turastan.”

“Going to Turastan is not an option.”

Displeasure tightened his lips as he withdrew his touch. Seizing the opportunity, she stepped away from him.

“If I leave you here, it would be as good as signing your death warrant,” he said.

“My life is here.” He needed to go. She needed to get back to reality.

“Sabihah, your life here will change.” His voice was harsh, the reality of his words harsher. “Your true identity has already been revealed to the police. I don't believe the information will remain confidential in this small community. People will regard you differently. News will spread. Imagine the sensation when the media learns that the country teacher who has become a national heroine is actually a Crown Princess? You could be besieged by the world's media within a couple of days. The paparazzi will want the scoop on how the lost princess of Rhajia survived the desert sandstorm. They will pry into every detail of your life.”

She swallowed down her horror. What he said was true. Her life was altered irrevocably. It had been bad enough coping with media interest after the bus accident, but this sort of exposure would be much worse. Images of photographers lying in wait as she left the house and made her way to school filled her brain. This was exactly the sort of story the press would want to expose. Photographers would want shots of her doing the most mundane activities—supposing she survived the shots fired at her by Mustaf's henchmen.

One hand went to her hip. “I've lived the last seventeen years as my mother hoped—in complete anonymity. Now you're trying to force my father's expectations upon me. What about what I want? Why shouldn't I be allowed to abdicate and live my life as I choose?”

He let out an aggravated breath while his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You've been living a lie. You need to face the truth. You can't escape who you really are. The only way to survive is to embrace it.”

“Don't you see? I'm not Sabihah anymore.” A short, sharp movement of her right hand accompanied each word. “I haven't been raised as a royal. I haven't even been raised as a Rhajian.”

With two strides he closed the distance between them. Both his arms extended to rest his hands on her shoulders. Her body wanted to lean toward him. It would be far easier to embrace him than to embrace the truth of her identity.

“I understand how you feel, more than you could know,” he told her quietly. Was there bitterness, a slight resentment she heard in his tone? Before she could question him, he continued. “But there are responsibilities you have by the mere fact of your birth. You might not need Rhajia but Rhajia needs you.”

“I can't deal with that.” She lowered her head.

“You tell me the Rhajians aren't your people, yet you share their heritage. Are you not at all curious to visit the country of your birth? The country you were born to rule?”

“No,” she said, but knew the word was a lie.

The sound he made was dismissive. “These are the people your parents loved so much, they gave their lives to protect them.”

Yes, that was a bitter reminder. Her parents had died for their people. Why hadn't they chosen to escape and live for their daughter?

Without warning, tears ran down her cheeks. He shifted one hand from her shoulder and raised it to wipe them away. Surprisingly, given his obvious frustration with her, his touch was gentle. The gesture made her want to weep harder and take comfort against the solid wall of his chest.

Damn him, he was right
.
No matter how happy she told herself she was with her life, there was a giant void—Rhajia. Part of her could resent what the nation represented—it had robbed her of her parents. Yet still, it called to her. It was her tie to her parents. She may need to return there to achieve closure.

“I lived for years expecting to return to Rhajia,” she told him, focusing on a button on his shirt. “I wanted to go back. I guess I thought it was my destiny. Years ago I would have accepted it. Part of me craved contact with the country my father ruled—the country my mother fell in love with. When nobody came for me, I felt abandoned.” She should move away from him, but she couldn't summon the energy. “I couldn't go on thinking my future lay in a land thousands of kilometres away with people who had forgotten me. I needed to create my own identity. My own life.”

“You have,” he told her as one hand pushed a loose tendril of hair away from her cheek. “From what I've learned about you, you've done very well. But this isn't where you belong.”

His touch was magic. God, she wanted to lean against him. Instead she forced herself to turn away from him, grab a tissue from the box on the coffee table, and wipe her eyes. “I can't go back now.”

“If you felt your countrymen had abandoned you, perhaps you deliberately shut down your desire to return home?”