Postcards From Paris. Sarah Mayberry

       CHAPTER ONE

      CLASPING THE COLD metal railings, Annalina stared down at the swirling black depths of the River Seine. She shivered violently, her heart thumping beneath the tight-fitting bodice of her evening gown, her designer shoes biting into the soft flesh of her heels. Clearly they had not been designed for a mad sprint down the bustling boulevards and cobbled back streets of Paris.

      Oh, God. Anna dragged in a shuddering lung full of cold night air. What had she just done?

      Somewhere behind her in one of Paris’s most grand hotels, a society party was in swing. A glittering, star-studded occasion attended by royalty and heads of state, the great, the good and the glamorous from the world over. It was a party being thrown in her honour. And worse, far worse, a party where a man she had only just met was about to announce that she was to be his bride.

      She let out a rasping breath, watching the cloud of condensation disperse into the night. She had no idea where she was or what she was going to do now but she did know that there was no going back. The brutal fact was she couldn’t go through with this marriage, no matter what the consequences. Right up until tonight she had genuinely believed she could do it, could commit to this union, to please her father and to save her country from financial ruin.

      Even yesterday, when she had met her intended for the first time, she had played along. Watching in a kind of dazed stupor as the ring had been slipped onto her finger, a perfunctory gesture performed by a man who had just wanted to get the deed over with, and witnessed by her father, whose steely-eyed glare had left no room for second thoughts or doubts. As King of the small country of Dorrada he was going to make sure that this union took place. That his daughter would marry King Rashid Zahani, ruler of the recently reformed Kingdom of Nabatean, if it was the last thing she ever did.

      Which frankly, right now, looked like a distinct possibility. Anna gazed down at the ring on her finger. The enormous diamond glittered back at her, mocking her with its ostentatious sparkle. Heaven only knew what it was worth—enough to pay the entire annual salaries of the palace staff, no doubt, and with money to spare. She tugged it over her cold knuckles and held it in her palm, feeling the burden of its weight settle like a stone in her heart.

      To hell with it.

      Closing her fist, she raised herself up on tiptoes, leaning as far over the railings as she could. She was going to do this. She was going to fling this hateful ring into the river. She was going to control her own destiny.

      He came from out of nowhere—an avalanche of heat, weight and muscle that landed on top of her, knocking the breath from her lungs, flattening her against the granite wall of his chest. She could see nothing except the darkness of him, feel nothing except the strength of the arms that were locked around her like corded steel. Her body went limp, her bones dissolving with shock. Only her poor heart tried to keep