Extraits

** Extrait offert par Jane Porter **

1.

Jemma Copeland avait appris depuis longtemps à ignorer son environnement direct et ses problèmes personnels pour se concentrer sur son travail.

Ces deux dernières heures, elle s’était donc efforcée d’oublier la chaleur écrasante du Sahara et le nœud qui lui serrait l’estomac. Focalisée sur le photographe, elle ne songeait plus ni à la faim ni à la honte qui ne la quittait plus depuis des mois. Et surtout pas à ce qui se passerait à son retour aux Etats-Unis…

Pourtant, malgré tous ses efforts, elle n’avait pas réussi à ignorer l’homme vêtu de blanc qui l’observait d’un air sombre. Il n’avait pas jugé bon de se présenter, mais c’était inutile. Elle l’avait aussitôt reconnu. Comment aurait-il pu en être autrement ? Le cheikh Mikael Karim n’était pas le genre d’hommes que l’on oubliait facilement. Il était à la fois riche et séduisant en diable.

Ils s’étaient rencontrés cinq ans plus tôt à Greenwich, au mariage de sa sœur. A l’époque, Mikael Karim venait d’être couronné souverain de Saidia.

Son arrivée avait provoqué un certain malaise parmi les membres de l’équipe. Il était censé être à Buenos Aires pour la semaine et non dans le désert, accompagné d’une dizaine d’hommes conduisant des 4x4 aux vitres teintées. Non, vraiment, sa présence n’augurait rien de bon.

Il ne restait plus qu’à espérer qu’il les laisserait terminer la séance photo. Les conditions de travail étaient loin d’être idéales, mais c’était sans importance. Elle avait besoin de cet emploi.

Dieu que les choses avaient changé en un an ! Autrefois, elle faisait partie de la jet-set américaine. Des photographes épiaient ses moindres faits et gestes. Ses parents possédaient des propriétés aux quatre coins du monde. Vraiment, elle menait une vie de rêve.

Tout avait basculé quand la presse avait découvert que Daniel Copeland était impliqué dans une affaire d’escroquerie de grande envergure. Du jour au lendemain, les Copeland étaient devenus la famille la plus haïe du pays.

L’arrestation de son père et le scandale qui en avait découlé avaient brisé sa carrière. Peu importait qu’elle ignore tout de ses activités ou qu’elle ait réussi à se faire un nom en travaillant d’arrache-pied depuis ses dix-huit ans. Aux yeux du public, elle était une Copeland et, en conséquence, aussi coupable que lui.

A présent, elle devait se démener pour trouver du travail. Aussi, quand l’agence lui avait proposé un contrat de cinq jours, n’avait-elle pas hésité une seconde, acceptant aussitôt de se rendre dans le royaume de Saidia, situé au sud du Maroc, entre le Sahara occidental et l’océan Atlantique.

Le consulat de Saidia lui avait refusé un visa, mais elle ne s’était pas laissé décourager. Elle avait fait une nouvelle demande au nom de sa sœur, Morgan Xanthos, et cette fois, elle avait reçu le précieux document.

Usurper l’identité de Morgan n’était pas légal, mais elle n’avait pas le choix. Elle avait des traites à payer, et se trouvait dans une situation désespérée. Ce qui expliquait sa présence, en bottes à talons aiguilles et en manteau de fourrure, au beau milieu du désert…

Relevant le menton, elle fixa le photographe. Ça ne servait à rien de songer au passé. Elle avait une séance à terminer. Peu importait la chaleur du soleil ou la sueur qui s’écoulait entre ses seins. Peu importaient également les regards désapprobateurs du cheikh et de son entourage. Elle ne s’était jamais laissé intimider et n’allait sûrement pas commencer aujourd’hui.

Un sourire aux lèvres, elle cambra les reins et posa les mains sur ses hanches.

— C’est magnifique, ma belle, commenta Keith. Continue comme ça.

Elle enchaîna les poses sexy, mais s’immobilisa soudain en avisant que Mikael Karim s’était approché de Keith. Il était si grand qu’il avait l’air d’un géant à côté du frêle Australien.

Le cheikh croisa son regard et elle ne put retenir un frisson. Il était si beau ! Elle avait voyagé dans des dizaines de pays différents et rencontré nombre de rois et dirigeants, mais aucun n’était aussi séduisant que lui.

Mikael Karim était jeune, musclé et incroyablement viril. Sa djellaba blanche soulignait ses larges épaules et offrait un contraste saisissant avec sa chevelure d’ébène et ses yeux sombres.

Il refusait de la quitter du regard, comme s’il cherchait à lui faire passer un message. A moins qu’il ne s’agisse d’un avertissement ?

Pour une raison inconnue, elle se mit soudain à trembler malgré le soleil étouffant. Mikael Karim était un homme dangereux, et mieux valait se montrer prudente.

Mal à l’aise, elle resserra les pans du manteau dans l’espoir de cacher sa nudité.

Keith soupira et se redressa.

— Tu as perdu toute ton énergie, bébé. Fais-moi une pose sexy.

Jemma hésita. Mikael Karim avait l’air furieux. Il ressemblait à un fauve prêt à bondir sur sa proie. La tension était telle que son estomac se serra. Il allait se passer quelque chose, elle en était certaine.

Là où il était, Keith ne pouvait malheureusement pas voir l’expression du cheikh.

— Concentre-toi, chérie. On n’a pas beaucoup de temps.

Jemma soupira. Il avait raison. Elle devait finir ce shooting, sans quoi elle ne travaillerait plus jamais.

Inspirant profondément pour se calmer, elle leva la tête et la fourrure tomba sur ses épaules.

— Super, commenta Keith en faisant signe à son assistant d’approcher l’écran réflecteur. C’est parfait. Encore !

Elle secoua la tête et laissa sa longue chevelure caresser le creux de ses reins en exposant le début de sa poitrine.

— Magnifique ! approuva Keith. Tu es si sexy ! Continue comme ça. Tu es parfaite…

Jemma se cambra davantage et offrit ses seins aux rayons du soleil.

Mikael Karim n’approuvait sûrement pas sa conduite, mais elle n’avait pas le choix. Elle était mannequin, c’était son travail.

S’efforçant de ne plus songer à lui, elle se tourna légèrement et laissa la fourrure glisser sur ses bras, révélant ses fesses.

— Génial ! Tu es une vraie déesse, continua Keith, le rêve de tout homme.

Ce n’était pas vrai, mais elle pouvait toujours faire semblant d’y croire. C’était comme ça qu’elle gagnait sa vie et qu’elle avait pu supporter tout ce qui lui était arrivé.

Une vague de tristesse la saisit, mais elle l’ignora. Ce n’était pas le moment de penser à ses problèmes. Elle avait du boulot. Une main sur les hanches, elle se débarrassa de son manteau et se tint fièrement devant l’objectif.

— J’en veux plus, souffla Keith.

— Non, gronda soudain le cheikh.

Il n’avait pas crié, mais le son de sa voix résonna comme un coup de tonnerre au milieu du désert.

Surpris, les stylistes, les maquilleurs et les techniciens se turent et se tournèrent vers lui.

Le cœur de Jemma battait à toute allure. Le cheikh semblait furieux.

— Ça suffit, dit-il en forçant Keith à baisser son appareil. J’en ai assez. Vous avez fini. Quant à vous, mademoiselle Copeland, poursuivit-il en s’adressant à elle, rhabillez-vous et allez m’attendre dans la tente. Je m’occuperai de vous plus tard.

L’équipe la dévisagea comme elle enfilait son manteau, mais elle n’y fit pas attention. Il l’avait appelée Copeland et non Xanthos, le nom qu’elle avait utilisé pour son visa. Il l’avait reconnue après toutes ces années…

— Que se passe-t-il ? demanda-t-elle d’une voix tremblante.

Elle s’en doutait déjà, bien sûr. Il connaissait sa véritable identité et avait visiblement décidé de le lui faire payer cher. La situation était sérieuse, mais elle n’arrivait pas à y croire comme si elle avait besoin de l’entendre dire pour réaliser ce qui se passait.

— Vous le savez aussi bien que moi, répondit-il froidement. Allez m’attendre dans la tente.

— Pourquoi ?

— Je dois vous informer des charges qui pèsent contre vous.

— Je n’ai rien fait de mal, rétorqua-t-elle, au bord de la nausée.

Il serra les mâchoires et laissa son regard glisser sur son corps.

— Vous vous trompez, mademoiselle Copeland, affirma-t-il d’une voix furieuse. Vous avez de sérieux ennuis. J’espère que vous êtes assez intelligente pour comprendre qu’il vaudrait mieux faire ce que je dis, conclut-il d’un air sombre.

* * *

Jemma s’exécuta et faillit se mettre à pleurer en entrant dans la tente. Qu’avait-elle fait ? Elle était entrée illégalement dans le pays pour participer à un shooting qui n’était pas approuvé par le gouvernement. Et pour ne rien arranger, elle avait montré ses seins en public, ce qui était interdit à Saidia.

Tout ça parce qu’elle avait besoin d’argent et refusait d’en demander à sa famille. Elle s’était débrouillée seule depuis ses dix-huit ans et avait bien l’intention de continuer ainsi. N’avait-elle pas prouvé à de nombreuses reprises qu’elle était capable de s’assumer ?

S’efforçant de ne pas céder à la panique, elle se déshabilla et enfila un kimono rose en coton. Puis elle s’assit devant le miroir pour réfléchir à la situation.

Le cheikh avait raison. Elle avait de sérieux ennuis. Avec un peu de chance, il accepterait ses excuses et lui permettrait de s’amender. Elle n’avait jamais eu l’intention de les insulter, lui ou son pays.

Elle se redressa soudain en entendant des voix à l’extérieur de la tente. Plusieurs hommes discutaient avec Mary Leed, la directrice éditoriale du magazine Catwalk. D’un tempérament calme et posé, celle-ci semblait pourtant au bord de la crise de nerfs.

Le cœur de Jemma se mit aussitôt à battre la chamade. Ce n’était pas bon signe. Au contraire…

Oh ! comment avait-elle pu se montrer aussi stupide ? Elle n’aurait jamais dû prendre autant de risques pour un simple contrat. Vraiment, elle avait commis une erreur monumentale. Bien qu’elle n’ait pas eu le choix…

Qu’aurait-elle pu faire d’autre ? Se laisser humilier ou ridiculiser par la presse et le public, renoncer sans se battre ? Non, c’était hors de question.

Elle avait déjà assez souffert à cause de son père. Il n’avait pas hésité à trahir ses clients, ses collaborateurs, ses amis et même sa famille. Il s’était montré incroyablement égoïste et cupide et avait entraîné le reste des Copeland dans sa chute. Ils n’avaient pourtant rien de commun avec lui.

Les mains tremblantes, elle s’attaqua à la fermeture Eclair de ses bottes. Comment avait-elle pu porter ces horreurs ? Elles étaient sexy et provocantes, comme le voulait le magazine.

** Extrait offert par Jane Porter **

Prologue

Furieux, le cheikh Mikael Karim, souverain de Saidia, assistait au shooting les poings serrés. Comment osait-elle ? Ce désert lui appartenait. Cette petite idiote pensait-elle réellement qu’elle pouvait entrer dans son royaume sous une fausse identité sans être inquiétée ? Décidément, les Copeland étaient tous les mêmes…

Bouillant de colère, il s’efforça de patienter. Il n’y en avait plus pour très longtemps. Bientôt, Jemma Copeland découvrirait ce qu’il en coûtait de le défier.

Un roi ne se soumettait pas, il ne se laissait pas impunément insulter et il ne pardonnait pas facilement.

Saidia était certes un royaume de petite taille, mais il était puissant. Les Occidentaux étaient tolérés sur le territoire, mais ils ne pouvaient pas pénétrer dans le pays sans autorisation.

Jemma Copeland se croyait au-dessus des lois… comme son père. Daniel Copeland avait réussi à échapper à la justice, mais il n’en serait pas de même pour sa fille. Jemma Copeland allait payer pour ses crimes. Il y veillerait personnellement…

** Extrait offert par Jane Porter **

Necessity had taught Jemma Copeland to shut out distractions.

She'd learned to ignore the things she didn't want to think about, to enable her to do what needed to be done.

So for the past two hours she'd ignored the scorching heat of the Sahara. The insistent, hollow ache in her stomach. The stigma of being a Copeland, and what it meant back home in the United States.

She'd blocked out heat, hunger, and shame, but she couldn't block out the tall, white-robed man standing just a foot behind the photographer, watching her through dark, unsmiling eyes while a half dozen robed men stood behind him.

She knew who the man was. How could she not? He'd attended her sister's wedding five years ago in Greenwich and every woman with a pulse had noticed Sheikh Mikael Karim. He was tall, he was impossibly, darkly handsome, and he was a billionaire as well as the new king of Saidia.

But Mikael Karim wasn't supposed to be on set today. He was supposed to be in Buenos Aires this week and his sudden appearance, arriving in a parade of glossy black luxury SUVs with tinted windows, had sent ripples of unease throughout the entire crew.

It was obvious he wasn't happy.

Jemma's gut told her something ugly could happen soon. She prayed she was wrong. She just wanted to get through the rest of the shoot and fly out tomorrow morning as planned.

At least he hadn't shown up yesterday. Yesterday had been grueling, a very long day, with multiple shots in multiple locations, and the heat had been intense. But she hadn't complained. She wouldn't. She needed the job too much to be anything but grateful for the chance to still work.

It still boggled her mind how much things had changed. Just a year ago she had been one of America's golden girls, envied for her beauty, her wealth, her status as an It Girl. Her family was powerful, affluent. The Copelands had homes scattered across the world, and she and her gorgeous, privileged sisters were constantly photographed and discussed. But even the powerful can fall, and the Copeland family tumbled off their pedestal with the revelation that Daniel, her father, was the number two man in the biggest Ponzi scheme in America in the past century.

Overnight the Copelands became the most hated family in America.

Now Jemma could barely make ends meet. The fallout from her father's arrest, and the blitz of media interest surrounding the case, had destroyed her career. The fact that she worked, and had supported herself since she was eighteen, meant nothing to the public. She was still Daniel Copeland's daughter. Hated. Loathed. Resented.

Ridiculed.

Today, she was lucky to get work, and her once brilliant career now barely paid the bills. When her agency came to her with this assignment, a three day shoot with two travel days, meaning she'd be paid for five work days, she'd jumped at the opportunity to come to Saidia, the independent desert kingdom tucked underneath Southern Morocco, and nestled between the Western Sahara and the Atlantic Ocean. She'd continued to fight for the opportunity even when the Saidia consulate denied her visa request.

It wasn't legal, but desperate times called for desperate measures so she'd reapplied for a new visa as her sister, using Morgan's passport bearing Morgan's married name, Xanthos. This time she'd received the needed travel visa.

Yes, she was taking a huge risk, coming here under a false name, but she needed money. Without this paycheck, she wouldn't be able to pay her next month's mortgage.

So here she was, dressed in a long fox fur and thigh high boots, sweltering beneath the blazing sun.

So what if she was naked beneath the coat?

She was working. She was surviving. And one day, she'd thrive again, too.

So let them look.

Let them all look—the disapproving sheikh and his travel guard—because she wouldn't be crushed. She refused to be crushed. The clothes were beautiful. Life was exciting. She didn't have a care in the world.

Despite her fierce resolve, perspiration beaded beneath her full breasts and slid down her bare abdomen.

Not uncomfortable, she thought. Sexy.

And with sexy firmly in mind, she drew a breath, jutted her hip, and struck a bold pose.

Keith, the Australian photographer, let out an appreciative whistle. "That's beautiful, baby! More of that, please."

She felt a rush of pleasure, which was quickly dashed by the sight of Mikael Karim moving closer to Keith.

The sheikh was tall, so tall he towered over Keith, and his shoulders were broad, dwarfing the slender Australian.

Jemma had forgotten just how intensely handsome Mikael Karim was. She'd modeled in other countries and had met many different sheikhs, and most had been short, heavyset men with flirty eyes and thickening jowls.

But Sheikh Mikael Karim was young, and lean, and fierce. His white robes only accentuated the width of his shoulders as well as his height, and his angular jaw jutted, black eyebrows flat over those intense, dark eyes.

Now Sheikh Karim looked over Keith's head, his dark gaze piercing her, holding her attention. She couldn't look away. He seemed to be telling her something, warning her of something. She went hot, then cold, shivering despite the heat.

Her stomach rose, fell. An alarm sounded in her head. He was dangerous.

She tugged on the edges of the coat, pulling it closer to her body, suddenly very conscious of the fact that she was naked beneath.

Sighing with frustration, Keith lowered his camera a fraction. "You just lost all your energy. Give me sexy, baby."

Jemma glanced at the sheikh from beneath her lashes. The man oozed tension, a lethal tension that made her legs turn to jelly and the hair prickle on the back of her neck. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

But Keith couldn't read Sheikh Karim's expression and his irritation grew. "Come on, focus. We need to wrap this up, baby."

Keith was right. They did need to wrap this shot. And she was here to do a job. She had to deliver, or she'd never work again.

Jemma gulped a breath, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin to the sun, feeling her long hair spill down her back as she let the heavy fur drop off her shoulder, exposing more skin.

"Nice." Keith lifted his camera, motioned for his assistant to step closer with the white reflective screen, and began snapping away. "I like that. More of that."

Jemma shook her head, letting her thick hair tease the small of her spine even as the fur fell lower on her breasts.

"Perfect," Keith crooned. "That's hot. Love it. Don't stop. You're on fire now."

Yes, she was, she thought, arching her shoulders back, breasts thrust high, the nipples now just exposed to the kiss of the sun. In Sheikh Karim's world she was probably going to burn in the flames of hell, but there was nothing she could do about it. This was her job. She had to deliver. And so she pushed all other thoughts from mind, except for giving the image they wanted.

Her shoulders twisted and the coat slid lower on her arm, the fur tickling the back of her bare thighs.

"Lovely, baby." Keith was snapping away. "So beautiful. Keep doing what you're doing. You're a goddess. Every man's dream."

She wasn't a goddess, or a dream, but she could pretend to be. She could pretend anything for a short period of time. Pretending gave her distance, allowing her to breathe, escape, escaping the reality of what was happening at home. Home. A sinking sensation filled her. What a nightmare.

Battling back the sadness, Jemma shifted, lifting her chin, thrusting her hip out, dropping the coat altogether, exposing her breasts, nipples jutting proudly.

Keith whistled softly. "Give me more."

"No," Sheikh Mikael Karim ground out. It was just one word, but it echoed like a crack of thunder, immediately silencing the murmur of stylists, make-up artist, and lighting assistants.

All heads turned toward the sheikh.

Jemma stared at him, her stomach churning all over again.

The sheikh's expression was beyond fierce. His lips curled, his dark eyes burned as he pushed the camera in Keith's hands down. "That's enough," he gritted. "I've had enough, from all of you." His narrowed gaze swept the tents and crew. "You are done here."

And then his head turned again and he stared straight at Jemma. "And you, Miss Copeland. Cover yourself, and then go inside the tent. I will be in to deal with you shortly."

She covered herself, but didn't move.

The sheikh had called her Miss Copeland, not Mrs. Xan-this, the name she'd used on the visa, but Copeland.

Panic flooded her veins. Her heart surged. Sheikh Karim knew who she was. He'd recognized her after all these years. The realization shocked her. He, who knew so many, remembered her.

Hands shaking, she tugged the coat closer to her body, suddenly icy cold despite the dazzling heat. "What's happening?" she whispered, even though in a dim part of her brain, she knew.

She'd been found out. Her true identity had been discovered. How, she didn't know, but she was in trouble. Grave trouble. She could feel the severity of the situation all the way down to her toes.

"I think you know," Sheikh Karim said flatly. "Now go inside the tent and wait."

Her knees knocked. She wasn't sure her legs could support her. "For what?"

"To be informed of the charges being brought against you."

"I've done nothing wrong."

His dark eyes narrowed. His jaw hardened as his gaze swept over her, from the top of her head to the boots on her feet. "You've done everything wrong, Miss Copeland. You're in serious trouble. So go to the tent, now, and if you have half a brain, you'll obey."

Jemma had more than half a brain. She actually had a very good brain. And a very good imagination, which made the walk to the tent excruciating.

What was going to happen to her? What were the official charges? And what would the punishment be?

She tried to calm herself. She focused on her breathing, and clamped down on her wild thoughts. It wouldn't help her to panic. She knew she'd entered the country illegally. She'd willingly agreed to work on a shoot that hadn't been condoned by the government. And she'd shown her breasts in public, which was also against Saidia's law.

And she'd done it all because she hadn't taken money from her family since she was eighteen and she wasn't about to start now.

She was an adult. A successful, capable woman. And she'd been determined to make it without going to her family begging for a handout.

In hindsight, perhaps begging for a handout would have been wiser.

In the wardrobe tent, Jemma shrugged off the heavy fur coat, and slipped a light pink cotton kimono over her shoulders, tying the sash at her waist. As she sat down at the stool before the make-up mirror, she could hear the sheikh's voice echo in her head.

You've done everything wrong…

Everything wrong…

He was right. She had done everything wrong. She prayed he'd accept her apology, allow her to make amends. She hadn't meant to insult him, or disrespect his country or his culture in any way.

Jemma straightened, hearing voices outside her tent. The voices were pitched low, speaking quickly, urgently. Male voices. A single female voice. Jemma recognized the woman as Mary Leed, Catwalk's editorial director. Mary was usually unflappable but she sounded absolutely panicked now.

Jemma's heart fell all over again. Bad. This was bad.

She swallowed hard, her stomach churning, nerves threatening to get the better of her.

She shouldn't have come.

She shouldn't have taken such risks.

But what was she to do otherwise? Crumble? Shatter? End up on the streets, destitute, homeless, helpless?

No.

She wouldn't be helpless, and she wouldn't be pitied, or mocked, either.

She'd suffered enough at the hands of her father. He'd betrayed them all; his clients, his business partners, his friends, even his family. He might be selfish and ruthless and destructive, but the rest of the Copelands weren't. Copelands were good people.

Good people, she silently insisted, stretching out one leg to unzip the thigh-high boot. Her hand was trembling so badly that it made it difficult to get the zipper down. The boots were outrageous to start with. They were the stuff of fantasy, a very high heel projecting a kinky twist, just like the fashion layout itself.

They would have been smarter doing this feature in Palm Springs instead of Saidia with Saidia's strict laws of moral conduct. Saidia might be stable and tolerant, but it wasn't a democracy, nor did it cater to the wealthy Westerners like some other nations. It remained conservative and up until two generations ago, marriages weren't just arranged, they were forced.

The tribal leaders kidnapped their brides from neighboring tribes.

Unthinkable to the modern Western mind, but acceptable here.

Jemma was tugging the zipper down on the second boot when the tent flap parted and Mary entered with Sheikh Karim. Two members of the sheikh's guard stood at the entrance.

Jemma slowly sat up, and looked from Mary to the sheikh and back.

Mary's face was pale, her lips pressed thin. "We've a problem," she said.

Silence followed. Jemma curled her fingers into her lap.

Mary wouldn't meet Jemma's gaze, looking past her shoulder instead. "We're wrapping up the shoot and returning to the capitol immediately. We are facing some legal charges and fines, which we are hoping to take care of quickly so the crew and company can return to England tomorrow, or the next day." She hesitated for a long moment, before adding even more quietly, "At least most of us should be able to return to England tomorrow or the next day. Jemma, I'm afraid you won't be going with us."

Jemma started to rise, but remembered her boot and sat back down. "Why not?"

"The charges against you are different," Mary said, still avoiding Jemma's gaze. "We are in trouble for using you, but you, you're in trouble for…" Her voice faded away. She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to.

Jemma knew why she was in trouble. What she didn't know was what she'd be charged with. "I'm sorry." She drew a quick, shallow breath and looked from Mary to Sheikh Karim. "I am sorry. Truly—"

"Not interested," he said curtly.

Jemma's stomach flipped. "I made a mistake—"

"A mistake is pairing a black shoe and a blue shoe. A mistake is forgetting to charge one's phone. A mistake is not entering the country illegally, under false pretenses, with a false identity. You had no work permit. No visa. Nothing." Sheikh Karim's voice crackled with contempt and fury. "What you did was deliberate, and a felony, Miss Copeland."

Jemma put a hand to her belly, praying she wouldn't throw up here, now. She hadn't eaten much today. She never did on days she worked, knowing she photographed better with a very flat stomach. "What can I do to make this right?"

Mary shot Sheikh Karim a stricken glance.

He shook his head, once. "There is nothing. The magazine staff must appear in court, and pay their fines. You will face a different judge, and be sentenced accordingly."

Jemma sat very still. "So I'm to be separated from everyone?"

"Yes." The sheikh gestured to Mary. "You and the rest of the crew, are to leave immediately. My men will accompany you to ensure your safety." He glanced at Jemma. "And you will come with me."

Jemma Copeland avait appris depuis longtemps à ignorer son environnement direct et ses problèmes personnels pour se concentrer sur son travail.

Ces deux dernières heures, elle s’était donc efforcée d’oublier la chaleur écrasante du Sahara et le nœud qui lui serrait l’estomac. Focalisée sur le photographe, elle ne songeait plus ni à la faim ni à la honte qui ne la quittait plus depuis des mois. Et surtout pas à ce qui se passerait

à son retour aux Etats-Unis…

Pourtant, malgré tous ses efforts, elle n’avait pas réussi

à ignorer l’homme vêtu de blanc qui l’observait d’un air sombre. Il n’avait pas jugé bon de se présenter, mais c’était inutile. Elle l’avait aussitôt reconnu. Comment aurait-il pu en être autrement ? Le cheikh Mikael Karim n’était pas le genre d’hommes que l’on oubliait facilement. Il était à la fois riche et séduisant en diable.