Page 27

Chapter Sixteen

L ottie surfaced slowly, lazy and languid in the morning sunshine.

A night of fabulous sex always made her dozy. She stretched her limbs against the coolness of some very expensive cotton sheets and let a very satisfied smile curl her lips.

That was a fucking incredible night.

And here she was still in the Qasira’s bed.

She blinked at an ornate ceiling and felt the gentle breeze from the sea drift in through exquisitely carved lattice windows.

There was a chemical scent on the air—burnt plastics and scorched entitlement—and Lottie suddenly remembered the superyacht.

She chuckled. Another explosive night, and this time her princess hadn’t run—or sent her back to the harem.

Lottie Finch was definitely making progress.

She was alone in the beautiful room, but that wasn’t a surprise.

A woman like Zynara had things to do—a nation to govern in her father’s stead, an international energy summit to head, an heir-to-the-throne to placate.

Lottie snorted. She wished she’d been able to see Malik’s face when the boat had gone up, but being able to comfort the Qasira had been a million times better.

It had been beyond her every wildest, most desperate dream, to tell the truth. Zynara touched her so deep, she’d almost reached Lottie’s heart.

She writhed in the sheets again—a full on wriggly-giggly explosion of happiness that kicked the sheets down to her ankles and exposed her skin to the morning and laid all her secret hopes at fate’s feet.

She was very close to admitting she had a heart. She had the craziest fizzing notion that she wanted to give it to Zynara.

She rolled over—only to find a thick document tied with red legal tape on the pillow beside her.

Her brows lifted. She was accustomed to scrawled notes letting her know she could use the shower and see herself out, but paperwork? That was a first.

She skimmed the front page.

Transfer of Service Agreement.

This looked a hell of a lot more official than the sleazy contract she’d signed with Malik.

The language was cold and legal, repeated in English and in Arabic, and it appeared to terminate all existing obligations with the Qasirim and transfer Lottie’s duties in Ain Zargiers to the direct authority of Her Royal Highness, Zynara bint Idris Al-Hakim Al-Azraqi Ain Zargier, Qasira Al-Noor.

Lottie’s grin blew wide. Sold to the Qasira’s service. That was some kinky shit. It had her squeezing her thighs together, pointing her toes and thinking any number of utterly obscene thoughts. It made her feel amazing.

Her phone buzzed.

She spied it on the floor near her dress.

Once again, she flushed at the memory. Her Qasira had been magnificent when she was domineering and powerful.

She’d been an actual gift from heaven when she’d rested her body against Lottie’s and fallen into the best comfort Lottie could offer her. Lottie loved her both ways.

Bili wanted to know where she was.

—Working, babes. Secret agent life, you know how it is— she typed.

She got the eye roll emoji in return.

— How’s the prince this morning? —

— We’ve all got the day off— Bili replied. — He was raving about eco-terrorists last night. Think he might be pissed—

A knock at the door interrupted their chat and Lottie tossed her phone aside in a second, her heart suddenly racing.

“Zynara?”

A man’s voice answered. “I have your breakfast, ma’am.”

Lottie pulled the sheet over her boobs and sat up straight in the middle of the bed. She floofed out her hair. No one had ever brought her breakfast in bed before.

“Come in,” she called. She felt foolishly regal—and loved it.

A man in a palace uniform carried in a tray laden with fresh fruit, flatbreads, something sizzling under a silver dome, and a pot of rich Zargieri coffee that smelled like heaven brewed on earth.

“The Qasira is working,” he said with a polite bow.

Oh, Lottie could get used to people bowing to her.

“She wishes to know—are you inclined to sign the agreement?”

Lottie thought it over for exactly two seconds. “Absolutely.” She looked at it. “Should I prick my finger and sign in blood, or will pen be fine?”

The servant, bless him, didn’t react. “I will inform her.”

Lottie sprawled back in the ridiculously comfortable bed and polished off the breakfast at a leisurely pace. This was absolutely the life.

Another knock came just as she finished her coffee. She was just gathering her most entitled ‘come in’ when the Qasira strode into the room like she owned the place.

Give it five more minutes and she was going to own Lottie too.

Zynara was in an outfit that made Lottie’s jaw drop to the floor.

Gone were the Western-style suits that had had Lottie drooling over the past few days.

This was more traditional, yet infinitely more powerful.

Loose-fitting tailored pants in a deep midnight blue were topped by a high collared shirt of gold.

The V of her shirt plunged unbuttoned to a point low between her breasts where it tucked into a wide embroidered belt.

Over the whole ensemble, a flowing coat swept the ground where she padded on bare feet.

If this was how royalty schlepped around the palace in the mornings, Lottie was in an enormous amount of trouble. The woman looked kingly, cool and composed, and it made Lottie pull the sheet tighter around her own breasts and wished she’d dressed in something—anything—to meet her elegance.

Zynara’s gaze swept over her and the very corner of her lips twitched in a tiny smile.

She flicked her fingers and a man entered carrying a briefcase.

A lawyer. The contract signing was swift and Zynara didn’t offer any unnecessary words.

She was purely businesslike. Lottie, being the consummate professional she definitely wasn’t , resisted the urge to wink at her as she scrawled her name.

The lawyer collected his papers and disappeared. Zynara didn’t.

Instead, she inclined her head ever so slightly, and another figure entered, this person carrying something far more interesting. Lottie sat up straighter in her sheet.

Clothing. And not just any clothing—a beautifully embroidered Amazigh robe in a blue to match the Qasira’s, shot through with gold thread.

There was a selection of shawls and scarves, all edged with beads and coins and the most exquisite craftsmanship.

A matching belt and—incongruously—sturdy desert boots.

Practical, elegant, and absolutely nothing like the skimpy clubwear Malik stuffed his harem into.

Zynara’s expression was marble. “It will be a long day,” she murmured. “Taja here will help you dress accordingly.” She flicked two long fingers at Lottie’s hair. “You will need to cover that.”

“Traditional Ain Zargieri sensibilities?” Lottie asked.

“Sand.”

Zynara gave nothing else away.

Lottie traced a finger along the exquisite embroidery and felt something twist low in her stomach. They were really doing this. Zynara being possessive and controlling like that was making her simmer. She tried to be patient and wait for the boil.

“As you wish, Qasira,” she grinned.

There was a split second as Zynara flashed her an eye roll, then the aloof princess act snapped back into place and the Qasira swept from the room.

The robe was oddly comfortable. It was lighter than Lottie expected, with loose-fitting pants beneath, airy yet protective, and the fabric moved easily as she twisted experimentally. The belt cinched at her waist, and the boots were the softest leather.

The Qasira met her at her door as she emerged.

“How do I look?” Lottie asked, spinning with a flourish and her best bedroom eyes.

Zynara gave her a once-over—so subtle most people wouldn’t notice, but Lottie wasn’t most people. She saw the Qasira’s nostrils flare. She saw the tiniest flicker of amusement and exasperation.

“Adequate.” There was a slow nod.

“High praise, princess.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“My apologies, Qasira.”

Zynara’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You may think of this as your room. I’ll have the rest of your things brought up from my brother’s house today while we’re out—”

“We’re attending the summit dressed like this—?”

“We are not attending the summit. If you could learn some patience along with some manners—”

“Never going to happen.”

The Qasira cursed under her breath in Arabic.

Lottie was delighted. “Was that a ‘God help me’? Because you know what they say about asking for divine intervention…”

Zynara narrowed her eyes. “I forgot you spoke Arabic.”

Lottie simply waited.

Zynara surrendered. “What do they say?”

“Oh, just that it usually means you’re dying to do something sinful.”

The jaw clench and the steel in the Qasira’s gaze was a complete giveaway. “If you’ll follow me,” Zynara murmured.

“Thought so,” Lottie crowed.

She followed Zynara through the palace pavilions, fully aware they were skirting the edge of the vast complex.

Nevertheless, it was the kind of luxury Lottie had only ever seen in magazines—the kind that felt impossibly far away from the dodgy flats and shady backrooms where she’d spent most of her life.

Now she was strolling through royal corridors, signed into official service to a woman who might actually become queen—if Lottie could get her head out of the clouds and complete her mission.

It was absurd.

It was also the best thing that had ever happened to her.

She looked at the taut shoulders of the Qasira walking ahead of her. She had an effortless authority Lottie both admired and really wanted to mess with. What would happen if she slipped her hand into Zynara’s?

She skipped a few steps to catch up and bumped their shoulders together. “Are we going somewhere in particular?”

Zynara looked proud, resigned and a little bit jazzed all at the same time. “You make me want to run away from it all,” she admitted.

“I do?”

“Run away with me, Lottie Finch?”

“Hell, yes!” Lottie grinned and she caught Zynara’s hand.

She was thrilled when the Qasira slotted their fingers together.

Lottie wasn’t sure what kind of vehicle she’d been expecting, but the sleek, silver Aston Martin DB5 was not it.

“Oooh yeah,” she breathed. “James Bond, eat your heart out. I have always wanted to drive one of these.”

Zynara arched a brow. “Get in. You are not driving.”

“No futuristic flying machine today? What year is this beautiful thing? 1965?”

The Qasira looked impressed. “Precisely.”

“I know my cars.” Lottie climbed into the passenger side, secretly delighted.

“Just so you know, I’m an excellent driver.

Cut my teeth on grand theft auto. All my jobs made it to their destinations in one piece—” She gave a yelp when Zynara pressed a button to turn the car on—and revealed the whole machine had been re-manufactured to modern standards complete with modular electric powertrain.

“What have you done to it? This is blasphemy!”

There was a chuckle. “It’s my father’s—”

“We’re blowing off the summit and jacking your old man’s car?!”

Zynara pulled the vehicle out of the garage with the distinct look of someone who was having second thoughts. There was another dark stream of muttered Arabic.

“Did you just call me a pain in the arse?”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“You love my arse. That could be the sexiest thing you’ve said to me.”

“ Sometimes it is just nice to drive, to just—”

Lottie had mercy. She glanced sideways at her poor Qasira and wondered how much time the woman actually got to herself.

As an international figure her every move was scrutinised, everything from her science, her policies, her money, her family and her fashion was free game for the rest of the world to cast judgement on.

When did she get to relax? Did she have to tie a woman down with contracts and lawyers just to have a bit of fun?

Lottie switched on the radio—a vintage thing with proper buttons which was the only aspect of the car aside from the exterior that hadn’t been updated. A traditional Ain Zargieri folk song filled the cabin. Incredibly, Lottie recognised it. Memeti had hummed it when she was a kid.

She leaned back against the plush leather. Zynara’s thigh was right there. She rested her palm on it and failed completely to hide a smile when Zynara’s hand landed on top of hers.

Squeezed.

“Where are we going?” Lottie whispered, in her softest tone, no tease at all.

Zynara finally smiled. “Shh,” she whispered back. “Just— shhh.”

The roads through the city were smooth as silk, lined with towering palms and cedars, and bursts of jasmine spilling over low stone walls. The fragrance drifted through the open window and Lottie relaxed back into her seat and breathed it in.

Zynara drove with confidence, one hand on the wheel, her long fingers resting on it idly, her other hand still on Lottie’s. They shot past affluent suburbs, then the suburbs stretched out. Lottie wasn’t so relaxed that she forgot her craft.

“Did you know we’re being followed?” she said idly.

Zynara’s eyes flicked to the rearview. “Black Range Rover? That’s my security detail.”

“And do they know about the white Toyota Land Cruiser five cars back on the left?”

The Qasira frowned. “I’m sure they do.”

Lottie would have felt better if she’d had some of her gear with her.

The suburbs thinned out to rolling fields of olive groves and vineyards. Picturesque villages clustered in the green foothills of the Tell, white houses with terracotta roofs and courtyards brimming with the deep green of fig trees.

They climbed higher into the Atlas Mountains, the highway flying over breathtaking valleys, the snow-capped peaks soaring above them.

They dove into tunnels carved through sheer rock, which swallowed them whole before spitting them back out, alone and unfollowed, onto roads that curled like ribbons along the cliffsides.

And then the mountains fell away and before them stretched a world transformed—the rocky, barren dust of the desert, rippling with distant dunes, endless under the sun.