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.”
Hewascurious, 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.
