LITMIR.BIZ

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His marriage to Johara, along with his future heirs, would have cemented his power and the security of the sultanate as well as the whole of the Arabian Peninsula.

      But now? How would the traditional Bedouin who controlled much of the country’s desert and mountain regions react to an infertile sultan, the line of succession passed to some distant relative who had no training or reputation? His stomach cramped just thinking about it.

      ‘Well?’ Asad demanded as Malik came into the room. ‘What did the doctor say? You have not been adversely affected by the fever?’

      Malik took a deep breath, steeling himself for a conversation he had no desire to have. ‘As it happens, I have been affected.’ He shoved his hands into the pockets of his Western-style trousers; unlike his grandfather, Malik saw the necessity of adopting Western ways and bringing Alazar into step with the rest of the world. He kept his voice even as he clarified, ‘I’m infertile.’

      Asad’s mouth worked for a moment, shock making his eyes bulge. ‘Infertile? But how...?’

      Malik stared at his grandfather’s pale face and felt nothing. But then he hadn’t felt anything in years. He’d been completely focused on his country and his duty; he’d had to be. There had been no room for entertainment or pleasure or relationships. He hadn’t wanted them. ‘Apparently a prolonged high fever can cause infertility.’ He shrugged, the movement negligent, as if it were of little consequence even though they both knew it was not. ‘The how does not matter so much, does it?’

      ‘I suppose not.’ Asad was silent and Malik wondered what the old man was thinking. Where did they go from here? Azim was dead; Malik was the only heir. If he had no son, the sultanate would go to a cousin in Europe who had spent very little time in Alazar. Someone who could not be trusted to maintain the country’s stability. Someone who had not been working towards ruling since he was a boy, who had not, out of necessity, cut off pleasure and leisure and love as Malik had.

      Asad sat back in his chair, his face drawn into a frown, his gaze distant. ‘This presents a problem,’ he murmured, almost to himself.

      Malik let out a harsh laugh. ‘Thank you, Grandfather, for stating the obvious.’

      Asad looked up, his narrowed eyes gleaming with familiar malice. ‘As it happens, there is a solution.’

      Malik stared at him evenly. ‘Which is?’ He could not imagine any solution. He could not magic a child out of nowhere, much as he might want to, and he did not think his grandfather would try to put him aside for some unknown relative. Not after ten years of tireless work and effort.

      Asad took a slow, steadying breath. ‘You have a son.’

      Malik stared at him blankly. ‘What on earth are you talking about? I would know if I had a child.’

      ‘Would you?’ Asad asked shrewdly, his gaze both knowing and sly. Malik didn’t even blink. Yes, he would know. He’d had a mere handful of one-night stands over the last ten years, matters of physical expediency rather than lasting pleasure, and he’d always been careful with birth control. There had been only that one time...

      Malik stilled, suspicion icing in his veins, disbelief coursing through him. ‘What are you saying?’ he asked, a command rather than a question, each word savagely bitten off and flung out.

      ‘The girl in Rome.’ Asad pressed his lips together. ‘She was pregnant.’

      The girl. Gracie. He hadn’t let himself think of her at all in the last ten years, not even for a single, bittersweet second. At first it had been a form of extreme mental self-discipline, bordering on torture, not to allow himself so much as a thought, a tempting fragment of memory to tease his senses and awaken the old, restless ache. After a while the pain had lessened and she’d been like a ghost, sometimes haunting his dreams but never his waking thoughts. She belonged in his past, with the naïve, hopeful boy he’d been then. She had no place in his present, and certainly none in his future. Until now.

      ‘Pregnant,’ he repeated, his tone silkily dangerous. His hands clenched into fists at his sides and he forced himself to relax. ‘She came to you, I presume, with the information? Looking for me?’ He could picture it.

      ‘She sent an email to a government address and it was brought to my attention. I met with her in Prague.’

      ‘For what purpose?’ Rage choked him, made it hard to speak or even breathe. ‘You didn’t think to tell me any of this?’

      ‘You didn’t need to know.’

      ‘I should have been the one to decide that.’

      Asad shrugged, unrepentant. ‘You know now.’

      Malik forced himself to breathe evenly. He knew from far too much experience that arguing with his grandfather served no purpose. There were other ways to best the old man. ‘So what happened in Prague? You sent her away, I presume?’

      ‘I bought her off. Fifty thousand dollars.’ Asad’s mouth twisted in contempt. ‘She took it readily enough.’

      ‘Did she?’ Malik could not assess how he felt about that. He had not thought about Gracie in so long he didn’t know how he felt about any of it. She’d been pregnant. And she’d had no compunction about not letting him know.

      ‘She cashed the cheque the next day,’ Asad continued. ‘And she had the child. A son. I checked.’

      Malik turned away to hide the betraying emotion he was sure would be on his face. A son. He could not even fathom it. Gracie had been raising his son for ten years. ‘How could you keep this from me?’ he demanded in a low, raw voice.

      ‘Don’t be a fool. Of course I had to keep it from you. The publicity would have damaged your reputation as well as the stability of the kingdom. The boy is a bastard, his blood is tainted.’

      ‘He’s mine—’ The words rose up in him, a raw, primal howl of possession that shocked him with its ferocity. He’d never felt anything like it before.

      ‘He is your heir,’ Asad agreed coolly, cutting him off. ‘Now. And for that reason you must secure his future and bring him back to Alazar. Let us hope he has not been too weakened by his lax upbringing. There is time to shape him yet.’

      ‘And what of his mother?’ Malik demanded.

      Asad’s mouth twisted. ‘What about her?’

      ‘She might not agree.’

      ‘She will have to. In any case your heir cannot be a bastard. You will have to marry the woman.’ Asad spoke with distaste, even as Malik felt a pulse of—what? He could not identify the emotion. Excitement, perhaps. Desire. Even after all these years. He pushed the feeling away. He had no time for it now. Any marriage he contracted would be one of expediency, not emotion. He would not be controlled by feelings the way his father had, to his shame and destruction.

      ‘The people might not accept an American bride and heir,’ Malik observed.

      ‘Then you will have to put her away somewhere remote.’ Asad flicked his fingers in a dismissive gesture. ‘Keep her in purdah in one of our distant palaces. Whatever the cost, you must do your duty.’

      ‘You do not need to remind me,’ Malik answered, ‘or tell me what to do.’ He straightened, giving Asad a long, level look. ‘I will make my own choices,’ he said, and walked out of the room.

      Alone in his private office Malik stared unseeingly out at the domes, spires and flat roofs of Teruk’s old city. He had a son, a child he’d never, ever been aware of.

      A shudder escaped him, and he turned from the window. He could hardly believe his grandfather had kept something so monumental from him, even as he acknowledged Asad’s actions, their innate coldness and cruelty, would never surprise him.

      And what of Gracie? For a moment he allowed himself to picture her, the tumbling brown hair, the glinting golden-green gaze, the wide, ready smile. Then he closed his mind to her and all the what-ifs

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