Ali Ahmed POV "I can't do the state dinner on Tuesday," Ali Ahmed told Omar, his assistant. "Can we send someone else?" Omar gave him a look sharp enough to melt diamonds. "Sheikh Ibrahim, dignitaries from several European countries are coming here to discuss economic cooperation with you. Are you really willing to dishonor them by sending someone in your stead?" "You're right." Ali Ahmed shook his head. He didn't want to cancel any more dinners with Kyra and Omer, especially not after hearing how sad his son was when he didn't show up. But Omar was right. This was an important meeting and it had to be a priority. "What's next?" "A meeting with your advisors Wednesday morning," Omar continued, running his finger across the agenda. "Followed by an appearance at a new university library that was built in your name. After that…" Ali Ahmed tuned out as Omar kept talking. He felt like he was on a hamster wheel these days. He ran and ran but never got where he was going. Sunday had bee

Ali Ahmed POVAli Ahmed couldn't bear to see the love of his life walk away, taking their son with her. He felt like his heart was breaking all over again. All his old hurts, from losing his father and Kyra at the same time, reopened."Kyra!" He hurried after her, reaching for her hand. "Please. Don't go.""I have to." She turned around, her teary eyes full of hurt and unshed tears."Then please, stay one more night. Let me have one more family dinner with you and Omer tomorrow. Let me say goodbye." This time, Ali Ahmed's voice broke and he let it, feeling years of pain behind his words. Years of loneliness. Years of keeping his heart shut. Kyra had every right to go, but he couldn't bear it.Her face softened a fraction at his words and she nodded. "All right. We'll stay for one more day and one more dinner. But after that, we're leaving."This time, when Kyra walked away, Ali Ahmed let her, though he kept watching until long after she'd turned the corner. He knew he couldn't ask her

SIX MONTHS LATER Kyra's POVKyra smoothed her hair, feeling a mixture of nerves and excitement wash through her. Her dress was white and long, with traditional Al Jumeirah embroidery along the hem and sleeves. It was, as Noora had commented that morning, like the dress of a fairy-tale princess. Kyra couldn't help but agree. "Are you ready?" Maryam asked. Kyra glanced over at her soon-to-be mother-in-law, who was wearing a beautiful green dress and had allowed the palace's stylists to weave her hair into a stunning hairdo. "Yes." "I'm so happy for the both of you." Maryam reached out and squeezed Kyra's hand. "I thank my lucky stars every day that Ali Ahmed finally introduced us. I always wanted a daughter. And grandchildren." "I'm so happy that he did, too," Kyra agreed. "Can you believe that it was only six months ago?" "Not at all. If my darling son hadn't taken his sweet time telling me about you, it could have been six years ago!" Both women laughed softly. They still liked

Abdullah Abu Bakir Ibrahim glanced again at the woman by his side. She sat straight and tall, her chin lifted proudly, her pupils dilated with fear.Admiration for the young queen flickered reluctantly through him. Her escape attempt had been reckless and laughable, but also brave, and he felt an unexpected sympathy for her. He knew what it was like to feel both trapped and defiant. Hadn't he, as a boy, tried to escape from his captor, Abdul-Karim, as often as he could, even though he'd known how fruitless such attempts would be? Deep in the desert, there had been no place for a young boy to run or hide. Yet still he'd tried, because to try was to fight, and to fight was to remind yourself you were alive and had something to fight for. The scars on his back were a testament to his many failed attempts.Queen Amira would have no such scars. He would not be accused of ill-treating his guest, no matter what the frightened monarch might think. He intended to keep her for only four days un

Abdullah felt Amira's body tense beneath his touch and wondered why he had chosen to clean the cut himself. The answer, of course, was irritatingly obvious: because he'd wanted to touch her. Because, for a moment, desire had overridden sense.Her skin, Abdullah thought, was as soft as silk. When had he last touched a woman's skin? Seven years in the French Foreign Legion had given him more than a taste of abstinence.Of course, the last woman he should ever think about as a lover was Queen Amira, Omer Ibrahim's intended bride. He had no intention of complicating what was already a very delicate diplomatic maneuver.Kidnapping a head of state was a calculated risk and one he'd had to take. The only way to force Omer Ibrahim to call a national referendum was for him to lose his right to the throne, and the only way for that to happen was to prevent his marriage.His father's will, Abdullah mused, had been a ridiculous piece of legal architecture that showed him the brutal dictator he tr