PROLOGUE #2
He nodded. “And this surprises you?”
She hadn’t wanted to get caught. She had truly – stupidly – believed it would be an easy matter to retrieve her friend’s items and get back to London before anyone knew the jewels were missing.
Miranda wondered briefly if staying silent was the best approach. Surely the more information she gave this man, the more likely it was that he would find her connection to Steph. Then, whether she wished it or not, Steph’s secret would be discovered.
He flicked another page in the folder. She could see he was now looking at a photocopy of her passport. They had the original. Somewhere. Fear spiked inside of her, at the realisation that she was truly stranded. Without a passport, in a country that was ruled by one man. This man.
“You are twenty three?” He asked, lifting his eyes to her face and scanning her in greater detail.
Beneath his dispassionate assessment, she flushed.
Miranda had grown used to this sort of attention.
Though she was far from interested in her looks, she knew something about her seemed to appeal to men.
She was not tall; nor was she short. Her height was average, but her figure was not.
She lived for sports, and had grown up horse-riding, playing polo, tennis, hiking, and anything that she could squeeze into the short British summers.
The cooler months were spent on indoor sports.
Her skin was fair, her eyes wide-set and blue like lapus lazuli.
Her hair was blonde, her mouth pink and full.
Her cheeks were dimpled when she smiled, though the Sheikh would not know that, for Miranda presently had no reason to smile.
He sighed again, and put his hands on his hips. It drew her attention to his muscular, slim waist. She looked away. “Yes. Twenty three.”
“I see.” He flicked another page. “And when you are not cat-burgling royal apartments, you read old Fasiyan folk tales?”
Her eyes dropped to the page he was now studying – an inventory of her handbag. In amongst the half-used lipsticks and the keys to her apartment was a much-thumbed paperback. “I like the story of Priya.”
He fixed her with a direct stare. “Really?” He was cynical. Disbelieving. And it angered Miranda. It was one of her favourite tales, and had been since she was little.
“The trees at dusk shone as silver; their leaves little bells that kept their secrets safe from the breeze. And their secrets were worthy of protection, for they guarded in their boughs the baby of Priya. An infant who would grow with the expectations of the world on her shoulders; whose very existence must be kept secret for those that would fear her out of a centuries’ old habit. ”
She had recited the opening paragraph perfectly; and he knew the story well, for it was adored in his home. “Why would a thief enjoy such a moralistic tale?” He pondered aloud, once more looking at the slender woman who had tried to plunder millions from his sister.
Her eyes glinted. “Nobody can be defined by one single trait,” she said logically. “A thief is not just a thief. There are more parts to a person than a single act. In fact, a thief, more than anyone, should inspire your curiosity.”
He was curious, he realised with a small frown. More so than he wanted to be. “Why is that?”
“What makes someone steal?” She said with a shrug. “Poverty? Perhaps poverty and love for their child or their parent. A desire to help those who most need it?”
He smiled contemptuously. “Or an absolute disregard for a society’s values and morals?”
“No, it is never so black and white, surely.”
“So what is your reason, then?” He prompted, leaning forward to study her in greater detail.
She’d walked right into that one. In fact, she’d set the trap herself. She moved her shoulders, but stayed silent.
His voice was low and gravelly, his eyes drawn to her lips. “So much to say on the matter of Priya, but you remain silent on your own motives.”
Miranda was rarely silent. Only the fact that she owed it to her friend kept her mouth shut now.
“I…” She cast about for something to say. Something that might placate this man. “I really did have my reasons. Reasons that were… understandable.”
Time seemed to stop moving as he stared at her face.
His eyes moved from her hair, to her long, straight brows, her blue eyes, her button nose, her lips, lower to the way her black dress hung like a shroud about her body.
Finally, he fixed her with a thoughtful gaze of contemplation.
“I do believe you. And I have decided I would like to hear your reasons.”
She closed her eyes. “I understand, your highness. Er, sir. Majesty. But I’m not willing to… I mean… I can’t tell you.”
He nodded gravely, rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin. “It is your decision, of course.”
“It is?” She squeaked, the earth tilting on its axis a little as she realised that the man she’d been terrified of was actually a decent human being.
His smile was laced with sardonic amusement.
“It is.” He moved a step closer. Perhaps he meant to intimidate her, but all he achieved was to swamp her senses with awareness.
She stepped backwards. Being turned on by her best friend’s brother was a big, fat no-no.
Especially when the brother just happened to be a powerful King of a wealthy country.
Oh, and that country currently had her locked up in a jail cell.
“And until you decide to confide in me, you will remain my guest.”
Nope. Not so reasonable after all, she thought with a grimace.
“Your guest?” She prompted sceptically.
“My guest.” He turned toward the gate and spoke in his own language once more. The guards came and the door was unlocked. “This accommodation is not suitable. Tonight you will be transferred for holding at my palace.”
“Your palace?” She squeaked, moving to follow him.
She was so distracted by his statement that she didn’t even realise she was walking through the security gate until a guard, acting on instinct, grabbed her by the shoulders and forcefully threw her back into the cell.
She cried out in surprise and pain as an old tennis injury in her shoulder was aggravated by his violent touch.
Radiz eyed the man with cold fury and pushed past him, moving back into the cell.
He stood in front of Miranda, his expression dispassionate at first. But as he saw the way she was biting down on her lower lip in an attempt not to cry, he felt a pang of something unfamiliar to him.
A sort of sympathy that he hadn’t known was in his spectrum of emotions.
“You are hurt.”
She shook her head. “No.” Her tremulous voice was brave.
“Yes.” He denied firmly as he lifted a hand. “May I?”
She nodded, her throat constricted. He pushed his fingers gently against her dress, lowering the shoulder so that he could see her skin. It was bruised where the guard had grabbed her.
“It’s fine,” she assured him. “I injured it a few years ago, that’s all. It’s a little sensitive.”
He raised himself to his full height.
“You will come with me now.”
His eyes glared at the guard as he swept past, one arm around Miranda’s waist. It all happened so fast. One minute she was in a dark, grimy cell, and the next she was in the blindingly bright sunshine, being led to a glistening grey helicopter.
Later, she wondered why she hadn’t objected.
Demanded to be taken to her embassy. But at the time, she was so confused and overwhelmed that she simply fell into step beside the powerful ruler and followed him to the chopper.
She did ask one question, though. “Why… are you doing this?”
His eyes seemed to glow with emotion. “I believe a ruler is defined by his country. And a country is defined by the treatment of its prisoners.” He reached over and clipped her seatbelt into place, waving away one of his security guards who would otherwise have undertaken the task.
“Tell me, Miranda Jones, how would you characterise your treatment so far?”
She focussed her gaze on the barren desert outside the window of the chopper.
Concrete seemed to sprawl for hundreds of meters, and then it gave way to sand and little clumps of faded green grass.
“I would characterise it as no different to what – probably – thousands of other people are currently enduring,” she pointed out with a critical lift of her brow.
She continued to stare out of the window as the chopper lifted into the sky, and so she didn’t see the way his expression shifted into one of grudging amusement. He was not used to being addressed so frankly.
“So why me?” She wondered aloud, once they were high in the air and heading away from the city.
“Why my sister’s residence? My sister’s jewels?
” He leaned forward, his expression concealing so very much.
His voice though was sharp and thick. His suspicions were acute and, as it happened, correct.
“You are the same age as Mastepha. You herald from London, where she is currently studying. And you broke into her apartment without setting off an alarm. Which leads me to believe she aided you in some way. And for some reason. Knowing my sister, she has twisted your arm to partake in some kind of scheme on her behalf.”
Miranda’s face showed her surprise at his accuracy, though she quickly regained control of her expression. “You’re mistaken. I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
His smile was without mirth. “Perhaps this is the truth. Though I do not believe so. However, for the sake of argument, let us say that I am wrong. That you do not know Mastepha. That your age, location and the target of your crime are all random coincidences. There is yet another reason I am bringing you to my palace, Miranda.”
“What is it?”