CAT:
Dr. Smith, you need to come to my office ASAP. You have a very important visitor who cannot be kept waiting.
I pedaled through the gates of Cambridge’s Devereaux College like the Duracell bunny on speed. My boss Professor Archibald Walmsley’s curt text was making sweat trickle down my forehead and into my eyes. Professor Walmsley did not like me much, in fact I suspected he was looking for any possible way to end my tenure, so whenever he summoned me I tended to go into over-compensation mode – determined to jump through the latest hoop before he could whip it away and then point out yet again I’d failed to jump through it fast enough.
Braking at the side of the redbrick Victorian monolith that housed the faculty offices of the Middle Eastern Studies department, I leapt off the bike and rammed it into the cycle rack, before swiping my brow. Rounding the building, I spotted a limousine with blacked-out windows and diplomatic flags parked in the no-parking zone by the front entrance. My heartbeat kicked up several extra notches – if that were possible.
I recognized those flags.
So that solved the mystery of who had come to visit me: it had to be someone from the Narabian embassy in London. Excitement tightened around my ribs joining the panic already there, making me feel as if I was getting hugged by a boa constrictor as I raced up the steps. My mind raced ahead of me.
A visit from the Narabian embassy could either be very good, or very bad.
Walmsley — who had taken over as Devereaux College’s dean after my father’s death—was going to be furious with me for going over his head and applying for official accreditation for my research into the recent history of the secretive, mineral-rich desert state. But if I got it, even he wouldn’t be able to stand in my way. I’d finally be able to get more funding for my research. My heart thudded against my chest wall in a one-two punch. I might even get permission to travel to the country.
Surely this had to be good news. The country’s ruler, Tariq Ali Nawari Khan, had died two months ago after a long illness and his son, Zane Ali Nawari Khan, had taken over the throne. A darling of the gossip columns as a baby, Zane Khan was half American, the product of Tariq’s short-lived marriage to tragic Hollywood starlet Zelda Mayhew. He’d disappeared from the public eye as a baby when the marriage had ended, then disappeared completely in his teens after his father had won custody of him and taken him to Narabia. But there had been several credible stories in the last few weeks that the new sheikh was planning to open the country up, and bring Narabia onto the world stage. Which was why I’d made my application — because I was hoping the new regime would consider lifting the veil of secrecy. But what if I’d made a major mistake? What if this visit was actually very bad news? What if the diplomat was here to complain about my application? Walmsley could use it as an excuse to finally drop kick me off campus once and for all.
I rushed down the corridor towards Walmsley’s office, breathing in the comforting scent of lemon polish and old wood.
The pulse of grief hit me hard as I took the stairs to my father’s old office. This place had been my whole life ever since I was a little girl, and my father had taken over as the new dean. But Henry Smith had been dead for two years now. And Walmsley had wanted me gone — as a reminder of the man whose shadow he’d lived in for fifteen years — for almost that long. I’d made the application with all that swimming around in my head, and I’d know when I’d finally pressed send on the email to the Narabian embassy, after messing about with the syntax and phrasing for months, that in many ways – whatever happened next – I had also been pushing the self-destruct button on my safe, sheltered life at Devereux.
Buck up, Cat, it’s time. You can’t spend the rest of your life hidden behind these four walls. Or trying to jump through Walmsley’s endless hoops without eventually ending up on your arse anyway.
Turning the corner to Walmsley’s office, I spotted two large men dressed in dark suits standing guard outside the professor’s door. My heart rammed into my throat, the crows of doubt swooping into my stomach like dive bombers.
Why had the Narabian embassy sent a security detail? Wasn’t it a little over the top? Maybe the extent of Walmsley’s negative reaction wasn’t the only thing I had to worry about?
I brushed my hair back from my face and retied the wayward curls to buy time. The snap of the elastic band was like a gunshot in the quiet hallway. Both men stared at me as if I were a felon, instead of a twenty-four-year-old female professor with a double PhD in Middle Eastern studies. They looked ready to tackle me to the ground if I so much as sneezed.
The boa constrictor went into full on squeeze-the-life-out-of-me-mode as the panic won. I forced myself to keep breathing – because collapsing in a heap would just make me look more guilty.
In, out — that’s the spirit.
“Excuse me,” I murmured. “My name’s Dr. Catherine Smith. Professor Walmsley is expecting me.”
One of the man mountains gave a brusque nod, then blanked me completely to lean past me and shove open the office door.
“She is arrived,” he announced, in heavily accented English.
I entered the office, the hairs on my neck prickling alarmingly as Walmsley’s head snapped up.
“Dr. Smith, at last, where have you been?” Walmsley said, his exasperated inquiry high-pitched and tense.
I jumped as the door slammed shut behind me. My anxiety levels were so high now it felt as if the boa constrictor was wrapped around my neck. Why was the dean fidgeting like that with the papers on his desk? He looked nervous, and I’d never seen him nervous before – especially not in my presence, all he’d ever looked was unimpressed.
“I’m sorry, Professor,” I said, trying to read Walmsley’s expression — but his face was cast into shadow by the pale wintry light coming through the sash window behind him. “I was in the library. I didn’t get your text until five minutes ago.”
“We have an esteemed visitor, who is here to see you,” he said. “You really shouldn’t have kept him waiting.”
Walmsley held out his arm and I swung round. The prickle of awareness went haywire. A man sat in the leather armchair at the back of Walmsley’s office.
His face was in shadow. But even seated he looked intimidatingly large, his shoulders impressively broad in an expertly tailored suit. He had his left leg crossed over his opposite knee, one tanned hand clasping his ankle. The expensive gold watch on his wrist glinted in the sunlight. The pose was indolent and assured and oddly predatory – like a large lion in a designer suit waiting to pounce.
He unfolded his legs and leaned out of the shadows, and my wayward pulse skyrocketed into the stratosphere.
Wow!
The few photographs I’d seen of Sheikh Zane Ali Nawari Khan didn’t do him justice. High slashing cheekbones, a bladelike nose and his ruthlessly cropped hair were offset by a pair of brutally blue eyes, the color of his irises the same true turquoise his mother had once been famous for.
He had clearly inherited all the best genes from both sides of his bloodline — his features a stunning combination of his father’s striking Arabic bone structure and his mother’s almost ethereal Caucasian beauty. In truth, his features would almost be too perfect, but for the scar on his chin — and a bump in the bridge of his nose, which marred the perfect symmetry.
My lungs contracted, shrinking to the size of peanuts, while the hairs on my neck felt as if they’d been ripped out at the roots. Then every inch of my skin began to hum with awareness. Needless to say, the boa constrictor was going bonkers, too.
“Hello, Dr. Smith,” he said, in a deep cultured voice, his English still tinged with the lazy cadence of America’s West Coast where he’d grown up until the age of fourteen. He unfolded his long frame from the chair and walked towards me — and I had the weirdest sensation of being stalked, like a gazelle who’d accidentally wandered into the lion enclosure at London Zoo. I struggled to get my breathing back under control before I passed out at his Gucci-clad feet.
“My name is Zane Khan,” he said, stopping only a smidgen outside my personal space.
“I know who you are, Your Highness,” I said, breathlessly, far too aware of my height disadvantage. I was a fairly respectable five foot four, but he had to be at least six three. I had the strange suspicion he was very aware of that discrepancy, or maybe that was just me projecting – because it was impossible to tell what he was thinking, his expression completely inscrutable.
“I don’t use the title outside Narabia,” he said in that same clipped, urbane tone.
Blood rushed to my face and flooded past my eardrums. Then a dimple appeared in his left cheek, and my lungs seized up again.
Seriously, a bloody dimple? Isn’t he devastating enough already?
“I’m sorry, Your High… I mean, Zane.” Heat charged to my hairline, when his lips quirked.
Jesus, Cat. You did not just call the ruler of Narabia by his first name.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry, sir. I mean…” I began to babble, because apparently, I hadn’t made a big enough twat of myself already. “I meant to say, Mr. Khan, sir.”
I sucked in a fortifying breath and the refreshing scent of citrus soap, overlaid with the spicy hint of a clean cedar wood cologne, filled my poor abused lungs. I took an instinctive step back, his scent as delicious as it was disturbing, only to have my bum hit Walmsley’s desk.
He hadn’t moved any closer, but still I felt trapped, and overwhelmed as he continued to study me with that lazy insouciance. My breathing ratcheted up again, as I became so aware of his examination of me, I could have sworn I could feel his gaze touching every inch of my exposed skin.
“Are you here about my request for accreditation?” I managed to mumble. Then immediately felt like even more of a twat.
Why on earth would the ruler of Narabia have come all this way, to tell me about something so insignificant, when one of his staff in the country’s embassy in London could have handled it?
“No, Dr. Smith,” he said. “I’m here to offer you a job.”
ZANE:
I had to resist the unprecedented urge to laugh when Catherine Smith’s captivating chestnut eyes widened even more.
She hadn’t expected a job offer. Then again, I hadn’t expected her. The only reason I’d come in person to this meeting was because I was already in Cambridge today for talks with a tech firm who would be helping to bring internet access to the whole of Narabia. I had, of course, also been furious when I’d received reports from my security team that someone at Devereaux College had been doing research on Narabia without my express permission.
I hadn’t bothered to read the file they’d emailed to me about the female academic who had asked for accreditation. I’d simply assumed she would be middle-aged and like academics the world over so obsessed with their field of study they were at best socially inept and at worst deadly dull.
The very last thing I’d expected was to be introduced to someone who couldn’t be much older than a high-school student, with eyes the color of caramel candy. She should have looked like a boy, wearing no make-up, and dressed in battered jeans, a pair of biker boots and a shapeless sweater that nearly reached her knees – but she didn’t. Her wild chestnut hair — barely contained in a crooked ponytail — exuded a refreshingly unconventional, but also very feminine, beauty. But it was her candy-colored eyes which had really snagged my attention. Wide and slightly slanted, giving them a sleepy, just out of bed quality, her eyes were striking, not least because they were so expressive, every one of her emotions since she had first spotted me clearly visible on her face.
“A job doing what?” she said, her directness surprising me when she eased further back against her employer’s desk.
Looking past her, I directed my gaze at Walmsley. “Leave us,” I said.
The middle-aged academic nodded and shuffled out of the room, already well aware his department’s funding was at risk because of this woman’s research.
Her eyes widened again, while her pulse battered her throat above the neckline of her bulky sweater. She was exceptionally wary of me, that much was obvious, but also determined not to show it. Why I found that admirable, I had no clue.
“I require someone to write a detailed account of my country’s history, its people and their culture and customs to aid in the process of introducing Narabia on the world stage. I understand you have considerable knowledge of the region?”
My PR people had suggested the hagiography. It was all part of the process of finally bringing Narabia out of the shadows and into the light. A process I’d embarked upon five years ago when my father had let go of his iron grip on the throne. It had taken Tariq Khan five years to die from the stroke that had left him a shadow of his former self, during which time I had managed to drag the country’s industries out of the Dark Ages, begin a series of infrastructure projects that would eventually bring electricity, mains water and Internet access to the country’s more remote areas. But there was still a very long way to go.
The last thing I needed was for any gossip to get out about my parents’ relationship and the difficult nature of my relationship with the man who had sired me. Because that would become the whole story. In fact, I had already spent a small fortune concealing the truth about my past, but the official history I had planned would be the final nail to ensure that information remained in my father’s coffin with him.
I shrugged, as phantom pain seared my shoulder blades.
This woman’s work threatened to throw the official record I had planned to commission — stressing the country’s adaptability and new modern outlook — into stark relief if she found out anything about exactly how I had come to live with my father in Narabia. But my knee-jerk reaction yesterday – to threaten her with legal action to silence her and shut down her research project – wasn’t the smart response. As soon as she had appeared, that old adage about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer had run through my mind. Plus, I had always been a firm believer in challenging problems head-on. “Never trust anyone” had been one of my father’s favorite maxims — and one of the few harsh lessons I had learned at his hands that I had embraced wholeheartedly.
“You want me to write a history of the kingdom?” she whispered, apparently astonished by the suggestion. I wondered why.
“More of an overview, encompassing several disciplines, and covering the past one hundred years…” My grandfather’s reign, after all, had been a great deal more enlightened than my father’s. “It would mean accompanying me to Narabia,” I added, deciding it made sense to keep this woman very close. While she looked artless and innocent and even easily intimidated, shrewd intelligence also shone in those expressive eyes. “You would have three months to complete the project, but I understand you’ve already spent over a year doing research on the kingdom?” Research I needed to ensure hadn’t already uncovered information I wished to conceal.
She moistened her lips, and my gaze was drawn to her mouth. Even though she wore no lipstick, I became momentarily fixated by the plump bow at the top, glistening in the half-light. The swift kick of arousal was surprising. The women I slept with were usually a great deal more sophisticated and worldly than this girl.
“I’m sorry, I… I don’t think I can accept.”
I tore my gaze away from her mouth, annoyed I’d become fixated on it. And even more annoyed by her response to my proposal.
“I assure you the fee is a lucrative one,” I said.
“I don’t doubt that,” she replied, although I suspected she had no concept how lucrative the fee I would propose was, certainly more than an academic could make in a decade, let alone three months.
“But I couldn’t possibly write a comprehensive account in that time. I’ve only done preliminary research so far. And I’ve never written something like that, my area of specialism is academic observation not reportage. Are you sure you don’t want a journalist instead?”
I stiffened at the idiotic suggestion. No way was I inviting a journalist to pry into my past. That sort of uncontrolled intrusion into my affairs was precisely what this carefully vetted account was supposed to avoid.
Weirdly though, the kick of arousal blossomed at her surprising show of defiance. I ruthlessly ignored it. However much I might want to devour that cupid’s bow mouth, I was not in the habit of seducing subordinates — especially not ones that looked about eighteen years old.
“How old are you, Dr Smith?” I asked, abruptly changing the subject.
She tensed and I suspected I’d insulted her with the question. Although, surely she must be used to people questioning her credentials — she didn’t look old enough to be in college, let alone to hold two PhDs.
“I’m twenty-four.”
I nodded, relieved. She was young and probably sheltered if she’d managed to gain that much education so quickly, but not so young that my awareness of her artless beauty could be considered inappropriate.
“Then you are still at the start of your career. This is an opportunity for you to make a name for yourself outside the…” My gaze drifted over the worn leather textbooks, the musty academic tomes, all dead history to my way of thinking. “…the world of academia. You wanted official accreditation for your research into Narabia…” Accreditation I would give her once I had final say on the content of her work. “Agreeing to do this project for me is the only way you will get it.”
I waited for her to absorb the offer, and the threat — that if she didn’t agree to my proposition, any chance of getting official accreditation would be lost.
It didn’t take long for the full import of my position to sink in — her face flushing with something akin to alarm.
“I could continue my work without the accreditation,” she said boldly, but then she bit into her bottom lip. The nervous tug sent another annoying jolt of heat to my cock, but also revealed her statement for what it was — a heroic bluff.
“You could. But your tenure here would be withdrawn,” I said, my patience at an end. No matter how attractive or heroic she was, I did not have time to play with her any longer. “And I would personally ensure you were not allowed access to any of the materials you need to continue researching my country.”
Her eyebrows shot up her forehead. The flush on her cheeks highlighted a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. “Are you… Are you threatening me, Mr. Khan?”
Shoving my hands into the pockets of my suit pants, I stepped closer to take maximum advantage of my height and make her that much more aware of the discrepancy in our power dynamic. She was not a stupid woman, and she got the message immediately, pressing even further into the desk at her back.
“On the contrary,” I said, the bite in my tone letting my frustration show. “I’m offering you a chance to validate your work. Narabia is a fascinating and beautiful place — which is about to come out of its chrysalis. And finally fulfill its potential.”
That was the end game here: to turn the country I had come to love into somewhere that could embrace its rich cultural heritage without being held back by the cruel and autocratic decisions of its previous ruler – or scarred by scandals that I intended to ensure were left buried in the past.
“How can you write about a country you’ve never seen?” I goaded her. “A culture you’ve never experienced. And a people you’ve never met? Isn’t that the epitome of Western arrogance, Dr. Smith? That you believe you even have the right to research a place and a people steeped in a history and culture many thousands of miles away – and millions of years older – than the cloistered, sterile world in which you have always lived?”
CAT:
The passion – and contempt – in Zane Khan’s eyes only made the striking cerulean blue of his irises stormier and more spellbinding. And deeply unsettling.
He’s calling you a coward, Cat.
The implication stung, touching a nerve I had spent years cauterizing. But really, how could I dispute his assessment?
Ever since I’d arrived in Cambridge as a little girl, I’d immersed myself in learning because it made me feel safe and secure. But since my father’s death, I’d wanted to spread my wings, to stop being scared of the outside world, frightened of ever taking a risk, to relocate the wanderlust I’d been so careful to control as a child, because it had terrified me when I’d seen what it had done to my mother.
“Don’t be so boring, darling. Daddy won’t know if you don’t tell him. What are you? A Cat or a mouse?”
The image of my mother’s bright, too bright, smile, and her milk-chocolate eyes, full of reckless passion and willful self-indulgence, flickered at the edges of my consciousness like a guilty secret.
Don’t go there. This has nothing to do with her. This is all about you.
I forced myself to meet Zane Khan’s gaze again, dark with secrets my research so far had only hinted at. This man was dangerous to my peace of mind, but why should that have anything to do with my professional integrity? So what if I felt completely overwhelmed and I’d only been in his presence for ten minutes? Surely that was just a by-product of all the things that had held me back for so long. Confidence had to be earned. And that meant facing your fears. Taking a few well-moderated risks… And not being a coward.
“All you must do is believe you can, Cat. Then you will.”
My father’s supportive voice and the encouragement he’d given me when I’d been crippled with anxiety on my first day of primary school, of secondary school, of sixth-form college, of university and then graduate school, echoed through my head.
The wave of excitement rose in my chest. Yes, the thought of this trip was anxiety inducing on some levels because I’d never traveled outside of Europe, and certainly never outside my own comfort zone. But it was way past time I stopped living in my father’s shadow. I was twenty-four years old. And I’d never even had a proper boyfriend. A flush rode up my neck — not that that was remotely relevant to this situation, but it did probably explain why I’d practically passed out when I’d first set eyes on Zane Khan.
I’d pored over pictures and artifacts from Narabia, been captivated by the country’s stunningly diverse geography and its ancient culture and rich heritage — but I’d only been able to scratch the surface of its secrets. I already knew I needed to experience the country and the culture firsthand to validate my work. The chance to experience what promised to be a seminal moment in the country’s history too was also tantalizing and unbelievably exhilarating — professionally speaking.
Plus, I would be unlikely to spend much time in Zane Khan’s company while doing my research. The thought helped to calm my nerves, at least a little.
“Would I be able to have full access to the archives?” I asked.
“Of course,” he answered without hesitation.
An anthropological report detailing the country’s rich cultural heritage, its monarchy, and documenting its recent history to shed light on the challenges they were facing – and how they would overcome them – made sense. Zane Khan, though, and his own past were surely at the center of that because he was clearly the driving force behind the decision to make those changes – which meant I could not avoid this man’s presence completely.
“I’d also like to interview you at some point,” I said, before I could chicken out.
I saw the flicker of something brittle and defensive in his eyes and the muscle in his jaw tensed. “Why would that be necessary?”
“Well, you’re the country’s ruler,” I said, not sure why I was having to explain myself. “And also, because you had a westernized childhood — you would have a unique perspective that spans both cultures.”
“I’m sure I can arrange to speak to you at some point,” he said, but his tone was strangely tight and deliberately dismissive. “So do we have a deal?” he demanded, his impatience clear.
I let out a deep breath, feeling as if I were about to jump off a cliff — because in a lot of ways I was… But I’d been waiting for an opportunity like this for two years. A chance to finally break free of all the things that had stopped me from getting an actual life, instead of just living vicariously through my studies.
You can’t be a mouse forever, Cat. And you don’t want to be.
“Okay — you’ve got a deal,” I said, the surge of excitement at my own daring almost overwhelming the rush of panic.
I reached out my hand. But when his long strong fingers closed over mine, I yearned to tug it back. His grip was firm, impersonal, but the rush of sensation which raced up my arm was anything but.
“How long will it take you to be ready to leave?” he asked.
“Umm… I should be able to fly over in a couple of weeks,” I said, grateful when he released my hand. I needed to rearrange my teaching schedule, pack up my flat on campus and give myself more time to make absolutely sure I was really ready to jump off this cliff.
“Not good enough,” he said.
“I-I beg your pardon?” I said, disturbed by the no-nonsense tone, and the sensations still streaking up my arm.
“I’ll have the contract drawn up and delivered to you within the hour. Is five hundred thousand sterling sufficient for your work on the project?”
Half a million pounds! What the hell?
“I… I…That’s very generous of you Mr. Khan but I…” The boa constrictor was back and threatening to cut off my air supply.
“Excellent, then we will leave for Narabia tonight.”
We…? Tonight…? W-what…?
“I… But…”
He held up an index finger, and the feeble attempt at a protest that I couldn’t even articulate got stuck in my throat.
“No buts. We made a deal.” He took an iPhone out of his jacket pocket and walked past me. The two bodyguards and Walmsley, who must have been lurking outside the door, all snapped to attention as he swung the door open.
Good to know Zane Khan didn’t just have that disturbing effect on me. Although the realization was not all that comforting, considering I was the one currently in his firing line.
What exactly had I just agreed to? Because I was starting to feel like a mouse again. A very timid, overwhelmed mouse, in the presence of a large, extremely predatory lion.
“Dr. Smith will be leaving with me on my private jet tonight,” he announced.
Walmsley’s mouth dropped open comically, but I didn’t feel much like laughing.
Khan glanced back at me. “A car will arrive in four hours to take you to the airport,” he said. “Be ready.”
“But that’s not enough time,” I pushed the words out past the boa constrictor still rammed down my throat which had grown to the size of an anaconda. “I have to pack my…”
“My staff will assist you. And anything you need in Narabia will be provided for you,” he announced. He cut off any more protests by lifting the phone to his ear and striding away down the corridor, with the two bodyguards flanking him.
I watched his tall figure disappear as he strode round the corner. He didn’t look back once, making it clear I had already been forgotten. My breath locked in my lungs as the anaconda continued to grow, while my stomach plummeted off the cliff without the rest of me.
Problem was, I hadn’t been given the opportunity to jump off this cliff — because I’d just been shoved off it instead, head first, by a man I had begun to sense might be a whole lot more dangerous than a lion, especially to a mouse like me.
