Royal Weddings: The Sheikh's Princess Bride / The Doctor Takes a Princess / Crown Prince's Chosen Bride
Annie West
Leanne Banks
Kandy Shepherd
About the Authors (#u17b71c3f-2a6a-58fc-bc34-7d79103d8785)
Growing up near the beach, ANNIE WEST spent lots of time observing tall, burnished lifeguards—early research! Now she spends her days fantasising about gorgeous men and their love lives. Annie has been a reader all her life. She also loves travel, long walks, good company and great food. You can contact her at annie@annie-west.com (http://www.annie@annie-west.com).
LEANNE BANKS is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author, who is surprised every time she realizes how many books she has written. Leanne loves chocolate, the beach and new adventures. To name a few, Leanne has ridden on an elephant, stood on an ostrich egg (no, it didn’t break), gone parasailing and indoor skydiving. Leanne loves writing romance because she believes in the power and magic of love. She lives in Virginia with her family and four-and-a-half-pound Pomeranian named Bijou. Visit her website at www.leannebanks.com (http://www.leannebanks.com).
KANDY SHEPHERD swapped a career as a magazine editor for a life writing romance. She lives on a small farm in the Blue Mountains near Sydney, Australia, with her husband, daughter and lots of pets. She believes in love at first sight and real-life romance—they worked for her! Kandy loves to hear from her readers. Visit her at kandyshepherd.com (http://www.kandyshepherd.com).
The Royals
COLLECTION
Royal Affairs – January 2019
Royal Sins – February 2019
Royal Temptation – March 2019
Royal Babies – April 2019
Royal Protector – May 2019
Royal Weddings – June 2019
Royal Weddings
The Sheikh’s Princess Bride
Annie West
The Doctor Takes a Princess
Leanne Banks
Crown Prince’s Chosen Bride
Kandy Shepherd
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-09526-6
ROYAL WEDDINGS
The Sheikh’s Princess Bride © 2015 Annie West The Doctor Takes a Princess © 2011 Leanne Banks Crown Prince’s Chosen Bride © 2016 Kandy Shepherd
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#udb72fd17-2add-59f6-bba5-4973c37e5ae1)
About the Authors (#u5e78e8ee-1ba3-5d00-ade5-9f8eb0c385b3)
Title Page (#ufb617441-934c-5230-a949-51b0b289c11f)
Copyright (#u10bdf66a-a55b-58f0-9fa2-8f502eb18b2d)
The Sheikh’s Princess Bride (#ua79d9169-f3e5-55db-bb17-5e66d98ec04b)
Dedication (#u0045ab60-f882-5308-9169-532aca71172a)
CHAPTER ONE (#ue29207ab-5a9e-5ea9-899e-aec14450dfa1)
CHAPTER TWO (#u5801e4f8-5872-5dbb-9d1c-57f226f350ec)
CHAPTER THREE (#u17bbcdbe-ba38-50bb-b02f-8625c2f3e451)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u1576382a-4986-5519-8128-a02aec968db7)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ub1642b3c-5e47-507b-9b31-978bfffb4f0c)
CHAPTER SIX (#u60d66c82-259d-5f22-8904-44763f5d68cd)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#u7a1ea40e-1948-5ed6-ba19-2b1f788a4444)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ud5ec8c5b-9de9-53d5-9957-f2b1ecacb6f5)
CHAPTER NINE (#ufaacbbd7-73d2-5eb9-bfc2-4606d509f58e)
CHAPTER TEN (#u446170f2-f16a-5473-a749-704c1c7d09ea)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#u4d23e3f2-229b-5dce-bef5-2da26a451c10)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#u13e6ca1d-019e-5216-a8dd-14ebf6d56a64)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#uf2461d0c-9faf-5577-814e-bc9ebd8b9ccb)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#u9194cdbc-4563-5f05-bcaa-551a69d631d3)
EPILOGUE (#ue5da70e5-aef7-520a-ac2e-07fbbdd894a4)
The Doctor Takes a Princess (#u10d35593-b7d9-55eb-a01f-04f2d5f1c95d)
Dedication (#u0d42dc98-cc58-5eaf-be2e-e8db085f867d)
Prologue (#u4b0a6cce-cb1b-591e-a731-f3cc9436e8b4)
Chapter One (#ud1126e67-ded3-51a7-817a-02856f30edc2)
Chapter Two (#u99bab79b-32d4-5041-9f7a-fd27b757782a)
Chapter Three (#u968f9b83-5091-5571-8de6-92ffbf87e68c)
Chapter Four (#u1278152f-af2d-56b7-8b3d-ae75d1df7484)
Chapter Five (#u55a08dbc-b48e-5f64-a0b2-935023887c33)
Chapter Six (#ub490ce80-a62c-5268-ae3e-de7ad19dbfb6)
Chapter Seven (#u33620cbd-00da-5af5-8201-73a98d04ecfa)
Chapter Eight (#u88393a90-a622-5dbc-9d9e-bcaf8e53777a)
Chapter Nine (#u82a21a9f-8b95-59cb-bcd6-cfb602f129a4)
Chapter Ten (#u9d5cb74c-4c50-5ba6-a7c4-d2c8091d9d93)
Chapter Eleven (#u9047b09a-b56d-5407-a104-622d983f0c05)
Chapter Twelve (#ue3b5b206-739f-5c5f-9af7-d808375bbe0f)
Crown Prince’s Chosen Bride (#u5d7a2f0b-9f3d-5411-8152-11c2357a39bf)
Dedication (#u9abe5b7a-4cef-5afd-969d-912d3811812d)
CHAPTER ONE (#u74d8b9aa-9010-5c9f-b41b-2ad777fea7d3)
CHAPTER TWO (#u3dfc54d7-affd-5d30-82be-772b9a9358b3)
CHAPTER THREE (#u5c08afe6-bb40-55a3-8a3d-a228573adc20)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u5b76dd98-cee8-5a2c-8615-f2a3d448d9c1)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u278176a7-b955-5d21-b214-0f4e44c50b06)
CHAPTER SIX (#u52fac001-a50d-5ee4-b366-15eabe13a1ea)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ubc7de003-4fbf-5b40-8c43-c17efebda520)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ua24fdaca-b7a2-5386-9d5f-e56bc849272e)
CHAPTER NINE (#u59dc4fc7-2e7b-5b38-b8e0-14f28cb1a787)
CHAPTER TEN (#u05f57677-6cd0-57d1-9078-ff05d9986f76)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#u8216a67f-809b-5f39-926d-f21afcde92b6)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#uda657111-93d0-587b-8dd6-72dfce936b72)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#u5db2f261-d3b9-5bf2-85a9-868cad372b6f)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#u4f04a092-3e8b-5cbd-8a1f-014bef16d36f)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#u11f92d19-0f91-5afe-9f5b-ff91fe3877e6)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#u7397f654-e667-52cf-b4a7-653ce0504cf1)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#u68f353f6-ac00-546b-9704-032e4cd79eb4)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#u2fce8a28-9cef-5e85-ab88-6ddb592b4e4d)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#uf304f551-e566-5c02-9971-c979662fbdb4)
EPILOGUE (#u616be1e7-eb56-5956-b32a-6a11439a9a37)
About the Publisher (#u2a2b560d-1fe7-554b-8407-867b33aa30b0)
The Sheikh’s Princess Bride (#u17b71c3f-2a6a-58fc-bc34-7d79103d8785)
Annie West
For Dr G,
the original and the best.
Thank you!
CHAPTER ONE (#u17b71c3f-2a6a-58fc-bc34-7d79103d8785)
THE DARK-HAIRED TOTS playing on the far side of the sumptuous hotel lounge held Samira’s gaze. They weren’t loud or boisterous, the middle-aged woman with them saw to that. They were just a pair of ordinary toddlers.
Yet Samira couldn’t drag her eyes away from them. She watched the progress of one little boy as he walked the length of a sofa, his fingers splayed on the silk upholstery for support. He gurgled his delight and grinned at his companion who wobbled along behind him.
Samira swallowed. That hollow feeling was back, worse now, turning into a twisting stab of hurt that knifed all the way from her womb up high under her ribs.
She tried to focus on Celeste’s animated chatter about a new restaurant. Apparently it had unrivalled rooftop views of the Eiffel Tower as well as several Michelin stars and was the new place to eat and be seen.
Samira’s stomach rebelled at the mention of food.
Or maybe it was something else that made her insides clench so hard.
The second toddler landed on his bottom, arms waving, and the woman—grandmother? Nanny?—gathered him up. Samira’s arms twitched then fell, lax and empty, into her lap.
She blinked and turned away.
Empty. That was exactly how she felt.
She would never have a child of her own to hold. The doctor had made that clear.
She’d tried so hard to regroup these past four years, and she’d come so far, but nothing could erase that searing, hollow ache within.
‘I’m so pleased you can attend tonight’s charity auction in person.’ Celeste leaned across their porcelain teacups and Samira swung her gaze back to the pretty Parisienne. ‘Bidders will adore the chance to meet the talented princess behind the gorgeous fashions. Your donation to the auction is sure to fetch a huge price.’
Samira fixed on a practised smile and refused to cringe at yet another reference to her royal status.
As daughter of, and now sister to, the Sultan of Jazeer, she knew all too well that royal rank didn’t guarantee happiness.
Her heart lurched but she kept her gaze on her companion, not letting it stray to the other side of the opulent room.
She reminded herself she was a pragmatist. Her successful design business benefited from the cachet of her aristocratic name. Designs by Samira had taken off these last few years. Her clientele, among the globe’s ultrawealthy, appreciated working with someone who understood their world, who promised absolute exclusivity and confidentiality. She had far more than many women dreamed of: independence, success, wealth.
What right had she to yearn for more?
Yet still that bone-deep ache persisted, no matter how often she reminded herself how lucky she was. For what did the trappings of success mean when deep at the heart of you there was...nothing?
Samira bit her lip. She would conquer this. She would!
‘I’m looking forward to it, Celeste.’ Samira wrenched her thoughts back to tonight’s gala. ‘You and your team have done a marvellous job pulling it all together. How, exactly, will the auction work? What do you want me to do?’
Celeste launched into an explanation of the auction, the exclusive invitation list and the business opportunities tonight’s event would present.
Yet, businesswoman though she was, Samira couldn’t conjure answering enthusiasm. Perhaps because, having been born to status and privilege, mixing with the stratosphere of European society held no thrill for her.
Was this all there was? Long days of work followed by an endless round of society events where she’d mix business, pleasure and occasional philanthropy, and leave feeling alone and empty?
Samira blinked and gave herself a mental shake, refusing to linger on the maudlin thoughts that had edged her consciousness for so long.
She leaned back in her chair, nodding as Celeste emphasised a point, letting her weary body relax for the first time, it felt, in days.
That was it. She was exhausted. No wonder her attention strayed. She’d been in consultation with a new first lady in South America yesterday about a gown for an inauguration ball, then had stopped off in New York to see another client, only arriving in Paris an hour ago.
When she rested she’d be herself, eager to be caught up once more in the challenges of business, and especially the joy of designing.
Movement caught her eye. A tall figure in a dark suit moved through the perfectly arranged seating with a long, quick stride that made her think of her dressmaker’s shears cutting through rich velvet.
She told herself it was a ridiculous comparison but when she turned to focus on him she realised it was apt. Though dressed with the formidable elegance of the best bespoke tailoring, some indefinable air proclaimed he didn’t belong in the luxury of Paris’s finest hotel. He belonged somewhere more vital, where crystal chandeliers and dainty side tables were unnecessary fripperies.
A good head taller than every other man in the vicinity, his shoulders the broadest Samira had ever seen, he nevertheless moved with a fluid, athletic grace that spoke to her designer’s eye.
A squeal of excitement froze her in the act of turning back to Celeste. One of the little, chubby-cheeked boys had spotted him and was scrambling across the sofa towards him.
A low, rumbling chuckle reached her ears as the man bent and scooped up both children, one in each arm, as easily as she’d pick up a couple of cushions. He lifted them high, making them giggle with delight, and held them close as he ducked his head and murmured to each of them in turn. Tiny starfish hands planted on his shoulders and hair in their eagerness to get close and she heard him laugh again, the sound a ribbon of warmth channelling through the chill emptiness inside her.
Just like that, without any fanfare or warning, Samira’s world contracted to the cold void of her barren body and the devastating vignette of a happy family on the other side of the room.
The dividing line excluding her from them had never been more real, or more unbreakable.
Pain juddered through her, making her clench her jaw and grab at the arms of her lounge chair.
There would be no family for her, no children. As for finding a life partner to love... The air hissed between her teeth at the impossibility of that particular fantasy.
‘Samira. Is anything wrong?’
‘Nothing at all.’ Samira turned to Celeste with a dazzling smile that only years of practice in the public eye could muster. Surreptitiously she breathed in through her nose, filling lungs that seemed to have cramped shut. ‘It sounds like tonight will be a huge success. With luck you’ll attract far more than your fund-raising target.’
‘Thanks to you.’ At Samira’s raised brow she shrugged and smiled. ‘And to the rest of the donors.’ She paused, glancing across the lounge. ‘Speak of the devil, there’s one of them now.’ Celeste sat straighter, swiftly smoothing her short skirt and flicking her blonde hair from her face.
She leaned close to Samira and whispered, ‘If only we could auction off a night in his bed we’d make a fortune. I’d bid for that myself and, believe me, I wouldn’t let anyone outbid me.’
Surprised at the change in her companion, Samira turned. Yet she knew which man Celeste referred to. It could only be the hunky father of two who wore his elegant clothes with such casual panache that even her long-dormant libido sat up and slavered.
Yet she wasn’t prepared for the shock that slammed into her solar plexus as she saw him again. For this time he’d turned and she saw his broad, high brow, defined cheekbones and the rough-cut jaw that looked dangerous and sexy at the same time. A long, harsh blade of a nose somehow melded those too-strong features into a whole that was boldly, outrageously attractive.
And familiar.
Samira’s breath hissed sharply as she recognised the man she hadn’t seen in years. The man who’d once been almost as dear to her as her brother, Asim.
A tumble of emotions bubbled inside. Excitement and pleasure, regret and pain, and finally a sharp tang of something that tasted like desire, raw and real for the first time in four years. Amazement at that instantaneous response spiralled through her.
‘Oh, I’d forgotten you must know him, your country and his being in the same neighbourhood.’ Celeste sounded eager. ‘Sexy Sheikh Tariq of Al Sarath.’ She sighed gustily. ‘I’d even consider taking on a couple of kids for the sake of a man like that. Not that I’ll get the chance. They say he hasn’t looked at another woman seriously since he lost his wife. They try but none of them last. Apparently he was devoted to her.’
With one final, lingering look at Tariq and his sons, Samira swung round, putting her back to them, letting Celeste’s chatter wash over her.
She’d once thought Tariq her friend. She’d looked up to him and trusted him. He’d been as much a part of her life as her brother, Asim. But that friendship had been a mirage, as fragile as the shimmer of water on hot desert sands. He’d turned his back on her years ago with a suddenness that had mystified her, making her wonder what she’d done to alienate him or whether he’d just forgotten her in the press of responsibilities when he’d become Sheikh. When she’d been through hell four years previously she’d not heard a word from him.
Strange how much that still hurt.
* * *
Tariq had been in the crowded banqueting hall just three minutes when his sixth sense, the one that always twitched at a hint of trouble, switched into overdrive.
Casually he turned, keenly surveying the glamorous throng even as he returned greetings. He’d been plagued by a sense that something wasn’t quite right all afternoon, since he returned to the hotel, but to his annoyance couldn’t pinpoint any tangible reason. Just a disturbing sense that he’d missed something important.
It wasn’t a sensation he liked. Tariq liked to be in control of his world.
The crowd shifted and through a gap he saw a sliver of deep scarlet. His gaze snagged. Another shift and the scarlet became a long dress, a beacon drawing his eyes to the sultry swell of feminine hips and a deliciously rounded bottom. The woman’s skin, displayed by the low scoop of material at her back, was a soft gold, like the desert at first light. A drift of gleaming dark hair was caught up in an artfully casual arrangement that had probably taken hours to achieve. It was worth it, for it revealed the slender perfection of her elegant neck.
Tariq’s body tightened, every tendon and muscle stiffening in a response that was profound, instinctive and utterly unexpected.
Light played on the sheen of her dress, lovingly detailing each curve.
He swallowed, realising suddenly that his mouth was dry. His blood flowed hot and fast, his heartbeat tripping to a new, urgent rhythm.
It was a rhythm he hadn’t felt in years. Tariq frowned.
The woman turned and he took in the fitted dress that covered her from neck to toe. It enticed a man’s imagination to wander over the slim frame and bounteous curves beneath the fabric.
He’d taken half a pace towards her when his eyes lifted to her face and he slammed to a stop, an invisible brick wall smashing into him, tearing the air from his lungs.
Samira.
Tariq heaved in a breath so deep it made his ribs ache.
Samira.
He breathed out, almost tasting the memories on his tongue.
But this wasn’t Samira as he’d last seen her. This was a different woman: confident, sexy and experienced. A woman who was making her mark on the world.
For a moment he paused, drawn despite himself. Then his brain kicked into gear as he remembered all the reasons she wasn’t for him, despite the tight ache gripping his lower body. He turned to the pretty blonde at his right who was half-wearing a gold sequinned dress. She looked up with wide, hopeful eyes that brimmed with excitement when he smiled down at her.
Minutes later she was leaning into him, her pale hand clutching his sleeve possessively, her eyes issuing an invitation as old as time.
Tariq made himself smile again, wondering if she realised or cared that his attention was elsewhere.
* * *
Samira watched him from the back of the crowd. Tariq was the obvious choice of speaker for the children’s charity. He was a natural leader, holding the audience in the palm of his hand. Confident, articulate and witty, he effortlessly drew all eyes. Around her men nodded and women salivated and Samira had to repress indignation as they ate him up hungrily.
He was all she remembered: thoughtful, capable and caring, using his speech to reinforce the plight of the children they were here to help, yet keeping the tone just right to loosen the wallets of wealthy patrons.
She remembered a lanky youth who’d always been gentle with her, his friend’s little sister. This Tariq was charismatic, with an aura of assured authority that he’d no doubt acquired from ruling his sheikhdom. She couldn’t drag her eyes from his tall frame and the way it filled out his tuxedo with solid muscle and bone.
Samira gulped, disorientated at the sudden blast of longing that swamped her.
She blinked and looked up at his bold, handsome face, the glint of humour in his eyes, and remembered the way he’d been with his boys: gentle, loving and patient.
In that moment recognition hit. Recognition of what she wanted.
What she needed.
The family she longed for. Children to nurture and love. A partner she could respect and trust to share her life.
Eyes fixed on Tariq, she realised there was a way she could become part of a family. It was the perfect solution to her untenable situation. A solution not just for her, but potentially a win-win for all concerned. If she had the courage to pursue it.
The idea was so sudden, so outrageous, she swayed on her delicate heels, her heart thumping high in her throat, her stomach twisting hard and sharp.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Celeste grabbed her elbow as if afraid she’d topple over. ‘You weren’t yourself this afternoon either.’
‘I’m...’ Samira gulped, swallowing shock at the revelation confronting her. ‘I’m okay, thanks. Just a little tired.’
Celeste nodded and turned back to Tariq. ‘He’s a little overwhelming, isn’t he? Especially in formal dress. I swear, if he wasn’t a king someone would snap him up as a model.’
Samira pressed her hand against her churning stomach, only half-listening.
She stared at the powerful figure on the podium and the voice of self-doubt, the voice that had ruled the first twenty-five years of her life, told her she was crazy. Crazy to think about wanting what she could never have. After all, she and Tariq hadn’t been friends for years. There was no guarantee he’d even listen to her.
But another part of her applauded. The part that had grown stronger in the last four years, nurtured by her family and her determination to drag herself out of the mire of despair and make something of her life. The voice of the survivor she’d become.
She knew what she wanted.
Why not go for it?
Yet instinctively she shied away from such an action. That wasn’t her style. It never had been. The only time she’d defied convention and upbringing and had reached for what she desired, it had turned to dust and ashes, ruin and grief. She still bore the scars.
Yet what had she to lose by trying? Nothing that mattered when weighed against the possibility of winning what she so desperately craved.
* * *
In the mirrored lift, Samira straightened her neat, cinnamon jacket and smoothed her clammy palms down the matching fitted skirt. Her cream blouse was businesslike rather than feminine but this, she reminded herself, was a business meeting.
The most important business meeting of her life.
If only she felt half as confident as at her meetings with clients.
The door hissed open and she stepped out. A few metres took her to the door of the presidential suite and a dark-suited security man.
‘Your Highness.’ He bowed smoothly and opened the door, admitting her into the suite’s luxurious foyer.
Inside, another staff member greeted her.
‘If you’d care to take a seat, Your Highness?’ He led the way to a beautifully appointed sitting room furnished in shades of soft taupe and aubergine. Large windows offered an unrivalled view of Paris. ‘Can I offer you something to eat or drink?’
‘Nothing, thank you.’ Samira couldn’t swallow anything. Her insides felt like they’d been invaded by circling, swooping vultures.
The man excused himself and Samira darted a look at her watch. She was dead on time. It felt like a lifetime had passed since she’d stepped out of her suite downstairs.
Slowly she breathed out, trying to calm her rioting nerves, but nothing could douse the realisation her whole future rested on this interview.
If she failed... No, she refused to imagine failure. She had to be positive and persuasive. This might be unconventional but Samira would make him see how sensible her idea was.
She swallowed hard, squashing the doubts that kept surfacing, and walked towards the windows. Automatically she stretched out a hand to the luxurious silk of the sofa as she passed. It was cool and soft, the lush fabric reassuringly familiar. If she closed her eyes perhaps she could imagine herself in the quiet sanctuary of her work room, surrounded by delicate silks, satins and crêpe de Chine; by damask, velvet and lace.
‘Samira.’
She started and turned, her heart thumping out of kilter as her eyes snapped open. There he was, his powerful frame filling the doorway.
Her breath snared, just as it had time and again that last year. She’d been on the brink of womanhood and suddenly noticed her brother’s best friend as a man. A man who’d evoked disturbing new responses in her awakening body...
Samira dragged in a calming breath, squashing shock at the way awareness prickled the tender flesh of her breasts and belly. She wasn’t the untried girl she’d once been.
‘Tariq.’
How could she have forgotten those eyes, their remarkable colour legacy of marauding ancestors who’d intermarried along the way? Under slashing dark brows those eyes gleamed with the pure, rich green of deep water and were just as unfathomable.
His expression made her hesitate.
Was she welcome or did the hard set of his jaw indicate displeasure? Was he annoyed she’d used their connection to inveigle a meeting at short notice? No doubt he had huge demands on his time but he could hardly reject her request, given the close links between their kingdoms.
Samira’s brow puckered. The Tariq she recalled had been infallibly patient and friendly, even though she’d probably been a nuisance, tagging along behind him and Asim.
‘How are you, Samira?’ He stepped into the room and the air evaporated from her lungs. He seemed to fill the space even though he stood metres away, watching her with that penetrating stare as if he saw behind the practised façade to the nervous woman beneath.
‘Excellent, thank you.’ This time when he gestured for her to take a seat she accepted, grateful to relieve her suddenly shaky legs.
She’d known this would be challenging but Tariq was more unsettling than she’d imagined. Not simply because he had the power to grant or deny what she’d set her heart on. But because that useless, feminine part of her she’d thought long-dormant reacted to him in ways she didn’t like to contemplate.
As if the lessons of four years ago had been completely forgotten. More, as if the years had peeled back further and she was seventeen again, sexually aware for the first time and fantasising over Tariq. Heat washed her.
‘And you? Are you well? You seemed in fine form last night. The crowd responded so well to your speech.’ She snapped her teeth shut before she could babble any more. The last thing she needed was for him to think her a brainless chatterbox.
‘I am. The evening was a resounding success. Did you enjoy yourself?’
He strolled across the room, making her aware of the flex and bunch of taut muscle under the superb suit as he sat down opposite her, stretching out long, powerful legs that ate into the space between them. She wanted to tuck her feet back under her seat but kept them where they were, determined not to show nerves.
She fixed on her most charming smile, the one that worked no matter how stressed she felt. ‘It was a bit of a crush but worth it for the end result.’ Her donation—two gowns to be designed exclusively for the highest bidder—had garnered far more than even Celeste had dared hope.
‘Are you staying long in Paris?’ It was a simple question, a polite conversation starter, yet the keenness of Tariq’s scrutiny invested it with extra significance.
Samira shivered. He could have no idea of her mission here. Suddenly panic hit at the thought of how he’d react when he found out. It would be easy enough to turn this instead into a brief, social catch-up. She could walk out the door with her head high and her secret safe.
But the black void of desolation would be waiting to consume her again. Surely she had the gumption to fight for what she craved, rather than admit defeat so easily?
She was the daughter of generations of warriors. It was time she remembered that.
‘I’m not sure how long I’ll stay.’ She smoothed a damp hand over her fitted skirt, telling herself he couldn’t see how her fingers trembled. ‘It depends.’
He didn’t ask the obvious question, giving her an opening, however tenuous, for her proposition. Nervously she shifted in her seat, then realised what she was doing and stilled.
‘I was very sorry to hear about your wife.’ She’d added her condolences to Asim’s note when Tariq’s wife had died giving birth to their twins, but this was the first time Samira had seen Tariq since it had happened.
It was the first time she’d seen him in twelve years. Since the winter she’d turned seventeen and his sudden departure had devastated her. He’d even missed Asim’s wedding three years ago due to emergency surgery on his appendix.
Now he looked like a stranger, despite those familiar features.
He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘Thank you.’
Silence fell.
‘I saw your boys yesterday in the hotel.’ It wasn’t what she’d meant to say but her carefully rehearsed words disintegrated under his silent regard. ‘They look like a happy pair.’
He nodded. ‘They are.’
‘And full of energy.’
Samira bit her lip. She was babbling again. She had to get a grip.
‘They’re never still, except when they sleep.’ A hint of a smile lurked at the corner of Tariq’s mouth and suddenly he wasn’t a stern stranger but the friend she remembered from years ago.
Friends she could deal with. It was the potently masculine Tariq who unsettled her. The man whose deep laugh and imposing body awoke longings that had no place in her life.
‘They must keep you very busy.’ This time her smile was genuine.
‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
Samira nodded. The Tariq she knew would find time for the demands of his small sons, just as he’d found time for his best friend’s kid sister. He took duty seriously but, more than that, he was kind. He was the sort of man you could trust.
That was why she couldn’t shake the outrageous idea that had taken root as she’d watched him last night at the gala. The idea that he held the key to her future happiness.
Samira swallowed hard. She’d known only one trustworthy man, her brother, Asim. The other men in her life, even her father, had let her down terribly. Could she trust Tariq not to do that too?
‘Samira.’
‘Yes?’ She looked up to see him lounging back in his chair, the picture of ease. Yet his eyes were intent.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Her laugh sounded woefully unconvincing and caught her up short. She was stronger than this. Here was her chance to reach out for the one thing she really wanted in life. Surely she wasn’t coward enough to give up without trying?
‘On the contrary.’ She sat forward, projecting an air of certainty she’d mastered in her professional dealings. She could do this. ‘I wanted to see you because I have a proposal to put to you.’
‘Really?’ Interest sparked in his eyes.
‘A rather unusual proposal, but a sound one. I’m sure you’ll see the benefits.’
‘I’m sure I will.’ He paused. ‘When you tell me what it is.’ Those slashing dark eyebrows angled up in query.
Samira leaned closer, suddenly urgent to get this done. She licked her dry lips, holding his keen gaze.
‘I want to marry you.’
CHAPTER TWO (#u17b71c3f-2a6a-58fc-bc34-7d79103d8785)
‘MARRY YOU?’ ANGER SPLINTERED through Tariq that Samira should make him the butt of some jest. He sat bolt upright, hands curling tight around the arms of his chair. ‘What game is this?’
Marriage was an institution to be taken seriously, as he knew first-hand. Sharp talons dragged deep through his chest; claws clutched at what passed for his heart.
No, marriage wasn’t something to joke about, even between old family friends.
Though Samira was more than an old friend, wasn’t she?
At one point he’d wanted much more from her. Long-buried sensations bombarded him—lust, regret, weakness. Above all, guilt. For despite the years apart, even throughout his marriage, Tariq had never completely managed to forget her. His one consolation was that no one, least of all Samira, had known. It had been his secret shame.
‘It’s no game.’ Her voice, uneven before, rang clear and proud. Her gaze, which previously had skittered around the room, meshed with his and Tariq breathed hard as fire heated his veins. Those soft sherry eyes had always been amazing. Now, fixed on him so earnestly, they might have melted a lesser man.
But Tariq’s strength had been forged and tested well. He wouldn’t be bowled over by a beauty’s wide eyes. Even if the beauty was Samira, the most stunning woman he’d ever known, the woman he’d once craved body and soul.
‘What is it, then?’ he barked. ‘If not a joke?’ His initial instinct—to avoid this meeting—had been right.
‘It’s a proposal of marriage.’ Her voice was crisp and even, as if she had no notion how bizarre her words were.
Slowly Tariq shook his head. He couldn’t be hearing this. Asim’s little sister proposing marriage! Didn’t she know it was a man’s place to choose a wife? A woman’s to accept?
What sort of tame lapdog did she take him for? The years since they’d known each other yawned into a fathomless gulf. She didn’t know him at all.
He shot to his feet and stalked across the room, staring blankly at the city beyond the sound-proofed glass. ‘Whatever the game, I don’t appreciate it, Samira.’ He swung round. ‘Does your brother know about this?’
‘It has nothing to do with Asim.’ She folded her hands in her lap, for all the world as if they were politely discussing the weather. As if she hadn’t offered herself to him in marriage.
An image of her last night, svelte and flagrantly feminine in that dark-red dress, filled his head and his temperature soared, his body tightening in all the wrong places. His hands curled into fists as he fought to focus on her words, not her sensual allure. Anger bit deep that, even now, just one look could ignite the fire in his belly.
‘What is this about?’ Savagely he reined in his temper, drawing on years of practice at patient diplomacy.
‘I want to marry you.’
Those brilliant eyes looked up at him and again shock punched him hard in the gut. She looked, and sounded, serious.
For one disquieting moment he felt a quickening in his body, the sharp clench of arousal in his groin, a welling of possessiveness as he took in the pale honey perfection of her features, the sheen of her lush, dark hair and the Cupid’s bow of the sexiest mouth he’d ever known.
When she’d been seventeen that mouth, those eyes, the promise of incandescent beauty to come, had sent him back to his homeland, shocked and ashamed by the hot, hungry thoughts that stirred whenever he’d looked at Asim’s little sister.
He’d known then that she’d be breath-stopping, just like her mother, who’d been one of the world’s great beauties. But the sight of Samira in the flesh, after twelve years of seeing only photos, took his breath away.
He stiffened, forcibly rejecting his body’s response.
She sat there with her ankles primly crossed, her hands folded in her lap, saying she wanted to marry him! It was enough to drive a man crazy.
Tariq cupped the back of his neck, tilting his head and rubbing his skin to ease the tightness there.
‘I have no idea what foolishness prompted this, Samira.’ He paused, telling himself it was impossible that he tasted pleasure at her name on his tongue. ‘But you of all people know royal marriages are carefully arranged. You can’t just come in here and—’
‘Why not?’ She cut across his words and it struck Tariq that no one, not even Jasmin when she’d been alive, interrupted him. As Sheikh, his word was law, his status respected. Except, it seemed, by the Princess of Jazeer.
She stood and his eyes lingered on her delectable body in that figure-hugging suit. ‘Why can’t I arrange my own marriage? My brother didn’t wait for advisors to find him a wife. He found Jacqui by himself.’
‘That was different.’ Tariq gestured with one slashing hand. ‘That was a love match. They’re crazy for each other.’
Seeing his friend in the throes of love made Tariq uncomfortable. He’d thought Asim was like himself, too focused on the wellbeing of his nation to choose a partner because of emotion.
Tariq’s lips flattened. He didn’t do emotion. Not that sort. And especially not now. He had no interest in marrying for love.
The idea ate like acid in his belly.
‘If you want to get married, ask your brother to find you a suitable husband. He’ll do anything to make you happy.’
Tariq was one of the few who understood Asim’s fierce protectiveness of his sister. Their childhood, at the mercy of their parents’ volatile on-again, off-again relationship, had left them both reluctant to trust anyone.
Was that why Samira was still single at twenty-nine? Traditionally, Jazeeri princesses married much younger, but he suspected his friend Asim had been in no hurry to rush his sister into matrimony after those early experiences of a dysfunctional family.
‘I don’t want Asim to arrange a suitable match.’ She jutted her chin. In a woman less gorgeous, he’d call her expression mulish. ‘I know what I want. I want you.’
Again that sudden blast of blistering arousal low in his body. For an instant he was tempted to forget his duty, his dead wife and his self-control, and haul Samira close, teach her the danger of trifling with him.
Only for an instant.
Tariq reminded himself she wasn’t talking about sex. If she had been she’d have used a different approach—soft blandishments and seductive caresses. And she’d have worn something slinky and provocative. His nostrils flared as he sucked in air to tight lungs, imagining that soft mouth on him. Arousal weighted his lower body.
‘And you’re used to getting what you want?’
Abruptly she laughed, shaking her head, and his pulse faltered at the radiance of her smile. ‘Only sometimes.’
‘Yet you think you can have me for the asking?’ Indignation at her presumption clashed with raw, disconcerting lust at the thought of them together and shame at how easily she got under his skin.
She sobered. ‘I thought it couldn’t hurt to ask.’ She hesitated. ‘I know this is unconventional. But we’re old friends. I thought you’d at least hear me out.’
That was how she saw him? As an old friend? Why Tariq bridled at the idea, he refused to consider.
‘Very well. I’ll hear you out.’ He folded his arms across his chest and waited.
* * *
Samira looked at the imposing man before her. He wasn’t in a receptive mood. His crossed arms were all bunched muscles. The tendons in his neck were taut and his mouth a flat line. Even his eyes glittered a warning.
Yet still Tariq was the most breathtaking man she’d ever seen. Her stomach turned to treacle as the afternoon sun caught the solid plane of his jaw and the proud thrust of that impressive nose. She wondered how it would feel if, instead of shutting her out, he opened his arms and hauled her close into that broad chest. If he kissed her...
She blinked, suddenly light-headed.
That was not what she wanted. Sex had made a fool of her once. She refused to let that happen again. This, what she proposed now, was far more sensible.
Planting her feet more solidly, wishing she weren’t quite so dwarfed by him, Samira cleared her throat, mentally flicking through the arguments she’d prepared.
‘It’s an excellent match,’ she began, gathering herself. ‘Our countries already have so much in common. I understand your customs and history. I’m not a complete outsider. And by marrying me you’d strengthen your ties with Jazeer.’
‘Our ties with Jazeer are already strong.’
Refusing to be deflated, she kept her chin up. ‘My background speaks for itself. I was born and bred to royal rank and responsibility. I understand what’s expected of a queen and I’ve got a lifetime’s experience of public functions and diplomacy. I understand royal duty and I won’t shirk it.’
Expectantly she looked at him. Finally he nodded. ‘All useful attributes.’ He paused. ‘But others could say the same. Your own sister-in-law has adapted well to her new role, and she wasn’t born royal.’
Samira exhaled slowly. Had she really expected Tariq to agree instantly? She told herself his wariness was to be expected. He’d adored his first wife and his choice of second wife would affect not only himself but his precious boys and his country. Of course he needed to consider this from all angles.
Yet a small part of her wailed in disappointment that he viewed her so sternly, almost disapprovingly, when her own wayward impulse urged her to close the gap between them. Her very skin felt sensitised, as if longing for his touch.
Did she want him to look at her and want her? Not for her pedigree or her social attributes but for herself? Her wayward body betrayed her. Her flesh tingled as his gaze raked her and a slow, telling spiral of heat eddied low in her belly.
Samira sucked in a stunned breath, sensing danger.
She told herself it was nerves. The shock of seeing him again after all this time. The disconcerting discovery of how very...male he was.
Once the novelty wore off he’d be just as he’d always been—a friend, someone she could trust. Without trust she couldn’t bind herself to any man. Trust had been so lacking in her life, she understood how rare and valuable it was.
The thought gave her renewed energy.
‘I’ll make a good queen,’ she said firmly, locking her hands together. ‘Building my business has given me a chance to step beyond royal boundaries and mix with a range of people, not just wealthy clients. It’s broadened my understanding of the world and improved my people skills.’ Now she was as at home buying a bagel on the streets of New York as she’d been at last night’s A-list gala.
Tariq didn’t say anything so she kept talking, the thread of tension wrapping tighter around her insides. ‘I’d like to continue working on a small scale, not enough to interfere with any royal duties.’ When he remained silent she angled her head higher. ‘I believe it would be a positive thing for people to see their queen with responsibilities and successes of her own.’
‘You see yourself as a role model, then?’
Samira flinched at the steely glint in his eyes and the sharp pang of shame in her belly. Tariq knew as well as she that her past was tainted by that one, awful mistake she’d made. A mistake that would haunt her all her life.
‘No one is perfect, Tariq. Young women in your country could do worse than a queen who’s human enough to have made mistakes, yet has learned from them and built something positive for herself.’
Slowly he nodded and a feather of hope brushed her skin, making her shiver with excitement. She leaned closer.
‘I’ll be a loyal wife and a devoted mother, Tariq. You needn’t worry that I’ll embarrass you by falling for another man after we’re married.’ Bile swirled in her stomach and she tasted its bitterness on her tongue. ‘I’m not my mother, for ever pining for romantic love. I learned from her mistakes, and my own.’
‘You don’t want love?’ His words were sharp, his gaze intense as he leaned forward. His raised eyebrows signalled surprise, perhaps disapproval. She guessed he was used to women falling at his feet.
Samira’s lips twisted. ‘Would I be here if I did? If my mother’s example weren’t enough, my experience with Jackson Brent cured me of any romantic ideas.’
Jackson Brent. The name no one spoke around her. The man who’d taken her dreams and her innocence and had smashed them in the cruellest way.
She read understanding in Tariq’s expression. The whole world knew the story. Samira looked away, pressing her palms to her churning stomach.
Jackson Brent, the sexy film star, had taken one look at Samira, the ridiculously inexperienced princess living away from home for the first time, and decided to have her. Samira, swept off her feet and dazzled by what she thought was love, had believed it a fairy-tale romance come true.
They’d been feted and adored by the press and the public. Until the day Jackson had been found in bed with his beautiful co-star by her vengeful husband.
Samira’s cosy world had blown apart, her dreams shattered as she’d been forced to see Jackson as he really was. Not Mr Right, but a feckless, selfish opportunist who’d played on her longing for love to get himself cheap sex and great publicity.
Guessing at her anguish, the press had hounded Samira to the verge of a breakdown—intruding on her privacy, rummaging through her trash, interviewing her friends and turning her heartbreak into fodder for the masses. Till her brother and the woman who’d later become her sister-in-law had helped her get back on her feet, stronger and determined to put the past behind her.
Was it any wonder, after the misery of a childhood watching her parents’ marriage teeter from one crisis to another, that she’d finally come to her senses and seen she wasn’t cut out for romance? Like her mother, she couldn’t trust herself to make the right choice when her heart was involved.
‘Samira?’
She turned back, her hands falling to her sides as she registered the concern on Tariq’s features.
Instantly she shored up her resolve, locking her knees and straightening her shoulders. She was no longer a victim. She’d dragged herself out of the dark hole of loss and grief that had almost destroyed her.
Tariq didn’t need to know those details. About the baby she’d lost before it had even been born. About the grief she carried in her very pores and always would.
Samira blinked and forced herself to concentrate.
‘If you’re worried about me doing anything scandalous to harm you or your family, don’t. My one brush with notoriety was enough.’ She might have been the innocent party in the Hollywood scandal but it didn’t feel like it, with the press ravenous for every detail.
‘You regret the relationship with Brent? You would change the past if you could?’
Samira caught her breath, her fingers threading tightly together. Tariq’s directness pulled her up short. Everyone else tiptoed around that episode in her life.
‘Oh, yes. I’d change the past if I could. Though...’ she paused, remembering that all-too-short period when she’d carried her precious baby ‘...I can’t regret all of it.’
She set her jaw, reminding herself to move on. ‘I wouldn’t suggest marriage if you were looking for a first wife. But you already have two sons. You can consider taking on a wife who doesn’t quite meet all the traditional requirements.’
‘Who isn’t a virgin, you mean?’
Samira blinked. She couldn’t recall Tariq being quite so blunt. The young man she’d known half a lifetime ago had changed since becoming monarch.
Yet she appreciated his frankness. Honesty was the best policy between them. They didn’t need misunderstandings.
‘All the world knows I once had a lover.’ She swallowed over the tight knot in her throat. ‘Just as it knows you have lovers.’
Tariq had never been short of female companionship. Since his wife had died he’d been again dubbed one of the world’s most eligible men and, according to the whispers Samira heard, there was no shortage of women on hand to ease his broken heart.
‘You’re very direct.’ His eyebrows bunched and she shrugged, refusing to apologise.
‘I thought you’d appreciate my honesty, as I appreciate yours. That’s what I’d expect in a marriage.’
‘Honesty?’
Samira took a half-step forward, drawn by the intensity of his stare.
‘Honesty and respect.’ She licked her dry lips before continuing. ‘I assumed you’d want something similar. That you wouldn’t look for love in a second wife. I thought you’d want someone capable, loyal and committed. Someone who could help raise your sons.’ Samira paused. ‘Was I wrong? Are you looking for romance?’
‘Who said I was looking for anything?’ His stare was enigmatic, giving nothing away.
Samira spread her hands. ‘You have two children under two and a country to run. Your schedule must be manic. But I know you well enough to understand you’ll want the best for your boys.’ She looked straight into his eyes and was rewarded with the slightest of nods.
‘I’m sure you’ve hired the best staff available to help with them.’ Again that infinitesimal nod. ‘But no nanny can replace a caring mother. A mother who’s committed to being there for them all their lives.’
She drew in a quick breath, knowing her breathing was too shallow, her heart racing, now they came to the crux of it all: the reason she’d braved this almost-stranger and proposed marriage.
‘I’ve always loved children; you know that, Tariq.’ Even in her teens she’d taken every opportunity to be with youngsters, getting into trouble for spending too much time playing with the servants’ babies in parts of the palace princesses weren’t supposed to know existed. ‘I’d make a good mother. You can rely on me.’
* * *
Tariq wondered if Samira had any idea how appealing she looked, her dark-honey gaze earnest, her expression serious, her hands clasped in unconscious supplication before her.
Unconscious?
Could any woman so beautiful not be aware of her allure?
Yet Samira wore a conservative suit, not a low-cut dress. Her make-up was barely there, her hair neatly up at the back of her head.
And he knew an overwhelming urge to see her panting and flushed, her rich, dark hair in lush abandon around her shoulders, her body bare and inviting.
Desire hammered him, turning muscle and soft tissue into beaten metal, hard and uncompromising. His lungs bellowed as he hauled in oxygen, fighting for control.
The casual way she’d spoken of his lovers, about her own, tugged at something primitive and deep-seated inside him. Tariq knew if ever he possessed Samira he wouldn’t share her with anyone else.
And her wistful expression when she’d spoken of her ex-lover, admitting she didn’t regret the relationship, even after he’d betrayed her so brutally... Tariq wanted to twist the guy’s neck in his bare hands! Brent hadn’t deserved her.
He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. What was he thinking?
Shame smote him, the knowledge that Samira had always been his weakness, even when his loyalties had lain elsewhere. The last thing he needed was to give in to this ancient folly. Besides, saddling himself with a wife was one complication he didn’t need.
Yet she was right. A roster of nannies was no long-term solution for his boys. He wanted the best for them. Jasmin had wanted that too and he’d promised her before she’d died...
He scraped the back of his neck with one hand, feeling the iron tension there. Hell! He’d imagined this was some simple social visit from Samira since they were in Paris for the same event. He hadn’t expected her to trawl every one of his ‘no go’ subjects.
‘You’ve spoken about what I’d get out of marriage. But you haven’t mentioned why you’re so eager for it. Why do you want this?’ Tariq didn’t know why he was asking. It wasn’t going to happen.
But as he surveyed her delicately flushed cheeks, her sinuous body and the long, taut outline of her thighs beneath that pencil skirt, he realised why he kept the conversation going. Because, once conjured, he couldn’t erase the image of Samira, abandoned and sexy, in his bed.
Years ago he’d walked away from the teenage Samira because she’d been far too young and he’d been too honourable to act on his desire. That decision had haunted him. The fantasy perfection of ‘if only’ had overshadowed too many relationships.
But that Samira was gone. She was an experienced woman now, sensual and provocative in ways that spoke directly to his libido.
For long moments Samira said nothing. Her very stillness conveyed tension, heightening his curiosity. Finally she spoke, her gaze settling on a point near his collarbone.
‘I want a family.’
‘You have family. Your brother and his wife.’ But, even as the words emerged, he realised his mistake.
‘My own family.’ Her words confirmed it.
Tariq frowned. ‘But why me? Why us?’
He had no false modesty. Acquiring lovers had never been a difficulty. His wealth and status, not to mention his power, attracted many women. But Samira hadn’t seemed interested in his royal position, except to prove she was up to the task of being his queen. And as for her being smitten... He narrowed his eyes, watching her steadfastly staring at his collar. She gave no evidence of it.
Annoyance twisted sharply in his belly. He’d grown used to fending off women, not being ignored by them.
He watched her open her lips and found himself wondering if they were as petal-soft as he imagined. The direction of his thoughts sharpened his voice.
‘There must be plenty of eligible men. Why not find one you fancy and start a family together? Why come to me?’
Her mouth tightened and she raised her eyes. For an instant he could swear he read pain in that shimmering, gold-flecked gaze. No, not pain. Anguish. Then she blinked, banishing the illusion.
‘I told you, I’m not going to be swept off my feet again. I don’t want romance.’
Looking down at Samira’s beautiful, earnest face, Tariq suddenly felt ancient, like a greybeard surveying an innocent. Was she really too young to understand that was what women did? They fell in love, even if they then lived to regret it. It was in their nature. The heavy thud of his heart against his ribs tolled out the sum of such regrets. He’d grown intimately acquainted with them.
‘But taking on someone who already has children—’ The expression on her face stopped him midsentence. ‘Samira?’
She looked down at her hands. They were clenched together so hard the knuckles whitened. When she met his eyes again, her own looked desolate.
‘I want children. I’ve always wanted them.’ She breathed deep. ‘But I can’t have any of my own.’
Something lodged in Tariq’s chest. Something heavy that impaired his breathing. He couldn’t imagine the world without his boys so he had some inkling of how bereft Samira felt.
He wanted to reach out and comfort her, pull her in to him and cuddle her, for there was no mistaking her pain. Despite the years since they’d been close, she was still the girl he’d cared for too much.
But he was older and wiser now. At thirty-seven he’d learned there were times when a woman needed her dignity rather than the comfort of an embrace. When nothing he could do would ease the pain.
Memory stabbed hard, slicing through his ribs, tearing at his conscience. Jasmin...
‘You see now why I suggested marriage.’
Her quiet words dragged Tariq from a haze of memory and regret. He forced himself to focus.
‘You proposed marriage because you want my boys?’ Instantly his protective instincts were aroused.
‘Don’t sound so fierce, Tariq.’ She even managed a tiny smile. The sight of it and the sadness in her eyes squeezed his chest. ‘I don’t want to take them from you.’
She took a step forward, then another, and a waft of light scent filled his nostrils: warm cinnamon and sugar, innocently sweet yet improbably alluring.
‘I want to share them with you, look after them, grow to love them and support them.’
‘You want to marry me for my children?’ His mouth firmed. After a lifetime being chased by women, his pride smarted. Was anything designed to puncture a man’s ego as much as that?
Did she have any idea of the insult she offered?
He might be a father but he was a red-blooded male in his prime. A man, moreover, used to being the hunter, not the prey.
Samira stepped closer again, apparently unaware the movement brought her into his personal space. She was so close he felt the warmth of her body, saw the fine-grained perfection of her skin and the tiny shadows beneath her eyes that make-up didn’t quite conceal.
‘Not just the children, Tariq. I want a family. Someone to belong to. And I can’t think of a man I’d rather trust myself with than you. You’re decent and honourable.’
Competing emotions battled in Tariq’s gut. Pleasure at her belief in him. Annoyance that she saw him as some sort of comforting protector who conveniently had the kids she wanted. And a shudder of carnal pleasure at the sound of his name on her lips, which inevitably led him to imagine her crying it out in the throes of passion.
But she was wrong. He sifted all she’d said, realising it wasn’t really him she wanted, but some emasculated version of himself that existed only in her mind.
She didn’t know him, had never really known him.
If she had any idea of the darkness within him, or of the urges he suppressed right now—none of them decent or honourable, all of them primitive and utterly indecent—she’d run a mile.
It was time to stop this.
Tariq looked into her eager, open face. ‘You honour me with your offer, Samira. But the answer is no. I won’t marry you.’
CHAPTER THREE (#u17b71c3f-2a6a-58fc-bc34-7d79103d8785)
SAMIRA HAD STEELED HERSELF for rejection but the reality was harder than she’d imagined.
The force of her disappointment threatened to take her out at the knees. Despite spending a lifetime projecting an image of calm, no matter how traumatic her reality, Samira felt her bottom lip begin to quiver.
She bit it. Hard.
She blinked and locked her knees, grateful her skirt hid her shaky legs.
Another second and she summoned up a semblance of a smile, ignoring the stagnant well of disappointment at the heart of her. She breathed deep, as if her lungs didn’t feel brittle and papery, like they were about to tear apart.
‘Thank you for hearing me out, Tariq.’ There, her voice was even and admirably cool. Not the voice of a woman who felt her last hope of happiness had been snatched away.
It had been an outrageous idea. She’d known it from the start. Foolish of her to pursue it.
‘I knew even as I asked that I wouldn’t suit. You need a much more appropriate wife than I could ever be.’
She glanced around for her bag, only to realise she still wore it over her shoulder. She unclenched her hands and grabbed the thin leather strap for something to do.
‘What do you mean, more appropriate?’ Tariq’s searing gaze pinned her to the spot.
‘Let’s not go there, Tariq. There’s no point.’ Samira stretched her smile wider and her taut facial muscles ached at the strain. ‘It’s time I left. I’ll say goodbye and wish you and your family all the best for the future. Thank you again for making time to see me.’
She was turning away, desperate to be alone, when long fingers closed around her upper arm.
Instantly she stilled as shock waves ripped through her body.
It had been four years since any man, apart from her brother, had touched her. And this was different—as if a channel of fiery liquid coursed under her skin.
Samira frowned, trying to remember Jackson Brent’s touch ever having inflamed such a reaction. But all she could remember were his charming smile, his easy lies and his insistence on kissing her in front of the paparazzi despite her protests.
‘What did you mean, Samira?’
Experimentally she tugged her arm. His hold remained firm.
A glance at his face, now close, confirmed he had no intention of relenting.
She remembered that look of adamantine determination from her early teens. Tariq had been visiting Asim and had somehow found out about her one act of rebellion in an otherwise cloistered, well-behaved life. She’d secretly been slipping out, dune-driving without supervision or a crash helmet. He hadn’t lectured her. It was as if he’d understood her need to escape her miserable home life, just for a few hours. He’d simply said he knew she had more sense than to risk her neck that way again and made her promise never to drive without him or Asim. He’d known her promise would bind her.
But she wasn’t a teenager trying to cope with her parents’ manipulation in their battle for supremacy. Why did he drag this out instead of letting her leave with some dignity intact?
She shrugged. ‘No doubt your advisors wouldn’t approve of you choosing a wife like me.’ She took a step away, only to pull up short when he refused to release her.
‘First, I make my own decisions, Samira, not my advisors; and second, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Samira whipped around, her eyebrows arching in disbelief. ‘Don’t be coy, Tariq. We both know I’m tainted.’ When his face remained impassive she leaned closer, hurt turning to anger that he made her spell this out. ‘“Soiled goods”, isn’t that the phrase?’ Her chin hiked up, but given his enormous height she couldn’t look down her nose at him.
‘In both our countries there are people who disapprove of me, a woman who’s never been married but who had a lover.’ She tugged in a swift breath. Her heart hammered and her chest rose and fell as if she’d just finished an hour’s aerobic workout in the gym. But that was nothing to the distress curling deep inside.
‘I thought that wouldn’t matter to you since you’d already been married to a virtuous woman who gave you heirs. I’d assumed you weren’t hung up on the old ways. But I see I was wrong.’
She’d told herself again and again she had nothing to be ashamed of, having chosen to be with the man she loved. Perhaps that would have been true if Jackson had proved himself worthy of her love. But he’d betrayed her brutally, proved her a fool, her judgement and her dream of love fatally flawed. Instead of the luxury of dealing with her pain and disillusionment privately, it had all been blasted across the press. Her loss of innocence had provided fodder for the voracious masses eager for the story of her heartbreak. She’d felt defiled.
Was it any wonder she refused to trust herself to romance again? No man could tempt her with talk of love. The very idea chilled her to the marrow.
This time she yanked her arm so hard in Tariq’s grip it hurt. But still he didn’t release her.
Instead he moved closer, dwarfing her with his height and his massive shoulders. But it was his eyes that held her.
‘Don’t tell me you believe that!’ His brow pleated as he looked down at her.
‘Why not?’ She glared back. ‘You’re seen with a new woman at almost every social event but none of them last. So it’s not as if you’re in a relationship and I’m poaching on anyone’s territory. I’m suitable, more than suitable, in every other way except for that.’
‘Your virginity...’ he paused on the word and the hairs on the back of her neck rose at his tone ‘...isn’t an issue for me. That might have been relevant a generation or more ago but things have changed.’
‘You think?’ Samira’s laugh was bitter. She surged forward into his personal space as unpleasant memories crowded. ‘Tell that to the men who’ve offered to set me up as their mistress! Men who wouldn’t dream of paying court to me as a possible wife. Men whose views haven’t quite galloped ahead into the twenty-first century.’ She paused, catching her breath, telling herself anger wouldn’t change anything. ‘Of course you don’t want to rock the boat when there are so many who still think that way.’
Tariq’s face turned to stone, but his eyes blazed with a heat that almost scared her.
‘Who has insulted you like that?’ His fingers dug into her arm.
‘Tariq! Let me go. You’re hurting.’ Fear trickled through her insides at his fierce expression. She couldn’t recall him ever looking this way. It was like staring into the face of a warrior intent on blood.
‘My apologies.’ The words were stilted but in an instant his hand was gone, the savage light in his eyes muted.
Yet Samira was still trapped. His big frame cornered her, blocking access to the door.
‘Who was it?’ He growled, the sound tracking across her skin and burrowing deep inside. ‘Tell me.’
‘Why? There’s no point.’ Restlessly her fingers slid along the slim strap of her bag. ‘I’m not accepting their offers.’ She shivered. Such an arrangement would destroy her.
‘Does Asim know?’
Samira’s lips twisted. ‘You think I’d tell my brother about that? You have to be joking.’
She’d had enough trouble getting Asim to promise not to lay a hand on Jackson Brent all those years ago. Vengeance wouldn’t help, only inflame the situation. Now here was Tariq, looking like he wanted to take somebody apart limb from limb.
A kernel of heat flared in the cold emptiness of her abdomen. He mightn’t want her but he cared enough to be incensed on her behalf.
Samira sighed; his protectiveness was one of the attributes that would make him a wonderful husband and father.
She straightened to her full height, wishing she’d worn higher heels so she didn’t feel so dwarfed. It wasn’t just his size. He bristled with a furious energy that made her far too aware of the solid muscle and power in that long, strong body of his.
She dragged in oxygen, telling herself she wasn’t overawed by this macho male. Wasn’t her brother another of the same?
Her deep, sustaining breath drew in something new: sandalwood and spice and hot, male flesh. Her nostrils flared eagerly and she stiffened, stunned as a swirl of reaction eddied within.
Samira stepped back, disturbed at the way her body betrayed her.
‘Not so fast.’ Tariq paced with her, hemming her against a sofa. ‘I want to know—’
‘No. You don’t.’ Finally Samira reasserted herself, projecting the composure she gathered about herself when the going got tough. ‘It’s none of your business, Tariq. You’re not my keeper. In fact you’ve just passed up the opportunity to be anything to me but an old friend. An acquaintance.’
His mouth flattened and she sensed his keen brain sifting her words. He didn’t like them but there was nothing he could do.
‘So, once more, thank you for your time and goodbye.’
She didn’t offer to shake hands. The imprint of his touch still burned her upper arm. Not from pain but, she assured herself, because she wasn’t used to being so close to a man. The tremulous little stirrings in her belly—the quickened breathing, the reaction to his skin’s aroma—were proof of that. It wasn’t anything personal.
‘Wait.’
Samira hesitated, then slowly lifted her eyes to his. There it was again, a twinge of something that felt far too much like physical awareness.
‘What is it?’ The words shot out, crisp with challenge.
‘Have you asked anyone else?’
Her eyes widened. ‘To marry me?’ Did he think she’d lined up a list of candidates to interview by the hour?
What sort of woman did he think she was?
Desperate.
The word surfaced despite her efforts to suppress it. And she was. But not desperate enough to do this more than once. Today’s humiliation was enough.
Besides, only Tariq had tempted her to think of marriage. There was no other man she trusted enough.
‘Only you,’ she said at last, daring him to preen at the compliment.
‘And will you ask anyone else?’ He leaned closer, looming over her as if to intimidate.
Except Samira was undaunted. She might have laid herself open to rejection but she had her pride. That and her determination never to give up were what kept her going. She didn’t need his interference or his sympathy.
Anger spiked.
Deliberately she reached out and tweaked the precise knot in his silk tie, twitching it unnecessarily, then patting it in place, ignoring the heat of bone and solid muscle beneath his shirt.
‘It’s kind of you to be interested in my plans, Tariq, but what I do is none of your business. It ceased to be when you rejected my proposal.’ She favoured him with a gracious smile that masked her desire to see him squirm. ‘I’ll give your regards to Asim and Jacqui when I see them, shall I?’
His hand clamped over hers as she made to withdraw it. He pressed her palm against the crisp, body-warmed cotton of his shirt so she caught the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath her touch. It felt too intimate.
She should have known not to play provocative games with Tariq. He had so much more experience than her.
‘Not just yet.’ He paused, his keen gaze roving her features. ‘Come back tomorrow for my final answer.’
Samira stared back, hope and disbelief vying for supremacy, anticipation stirring. ‘You seriously want time to consider?’
His thumb stroked hers in a long sweep, drawing a tiny, jittering reaction through her.
‘You raised some persuasive points.’ He murmured in that dangerously deep voice. ‘It would be premature to reject the idea out of hand.’
Did he hope to delay long enough to go behind her back and contact Asim, hoping her brother would scotch her plans?
As if it mattered. She wasn’t in the market for just any husband. If Tariq turned her down, that was it.
‘You’ve changed your tune.’ Samira narrowed her gaze and pulled her hand from his before the tingling in her fingers spread up her arm.
He shrugged, the movement emphasising his superior size and strength, but she refused to be intimidated. ‘You took me by surprise. I need to think about it.’
Slowly, Samira nodded. She’d give him the benefit of the doubt. What other choice did she have? She smiled, hope rising tentatively, and watched something flicker and intensify in that deep gaze.
‘I understand. It’s not a decision to be taken lightly.’ She hesitated, searching for the right words. ‘You needn’t worry, either, that I’d interfere with your...personal life.’ A flush warmed her cheeks but she ploughed on. It had to be said and it might be a clinching argument in her favour. ‘I know you have a lot of lovers and I don’t expect...’ Samira paused, searching for words.
‘You don’t expect me to give them up? Is that it? You give me carte blanche to play the field?’ Tariq’s tone was harsh and for some reason she didn’t understand why he looked angry.
Samira frowned, wondering what she’d said to stir his temper. Surely she was offering the sort of arrangement any man would appreciate?
She understood his decency, his honour and strength, but after so many years apart he was a stranger in many ways.
‘I’m not looking for love or sex, Tariq.’ Valiantly she suppressed a shudder at the thought of deluding herself with either, making herself vulnerable again. ‘I don’t expect you to pretend you feel for me what you did for your first wife.’ She’d had her fill of pretence from a man. All she wanted was honesty. ‘And it would be unfair to expect you to be celibate. I understand a man like you has needs.’
‘Needs?’ Tariq’s gaze honed to shards of rough-cut emerald.
‘Yes.’ Samira swallowed, refusing to be daunted, reminding herself that she was worldly and experienced. ‘Sexual needs. But it’s companionship I want from you, Tariq. Respect and support. The shared bond of caring for your children. A purpose in life.’
She petered to a stop, feeling she’d revealed too much. ‘I want to be a reasonable wife, Tariq.’
A reasonable wife.
The words echoed with a dull clang in the void where Tariq’s heart supposedly lodged.
He couldn’t believe he was hearing this.
Samira—gorgeous, seductive Samira—was offering herself in marriage and telling him in the same breath she didn’t want to consummate the arrangement?
How did women come to have such twisted, unfathomable minds?
He’d never heard anything so preposterous.
Marriage to Samira but no sex.
Presumably no touching at all.
No kissing either.
His gaze lingered on the plump bow of her ripe lower lip and a groan rose in his throat, to be savagely repressed. The whole idea was a recipe for madness. He should squash it now before she got her hopes up.
But it was too late. Those stunning eyes shone brighter and she watched him expectantly.
As if at any moment he’d thank her for denying himself the one thing he really wanted. The one thing he’d wanted since he’d seen her again. If he were truthful, that he’d wanted for far too long. Samira. Samira up against the wall of last night’s venue, with her long skirt rucked up around her waist as he pleasured her. Samira in his bed, sharing his shower, or breathless beneath him on the long couch just behind her. He’d pictured her on it since he’d walked into the room and saw her caressing it. She was so tactile, a true sensualist.
Samira any way he could get her.
Breathe. Deeper. Slowly.
How could any woman be so naive? Especially a woman with such natural sensuality? It was there in her walk, her love of texture, the way her eyes lingered with that hint of longing that belied the words emerging from her lips.
How could she think of denying them such pleasure?
Yet she thought she was being reasonable, generous, even.
In his years of marriage to Jasmin he’d never considered straying. His word was his bond and he was traditional enough to believe marriage was about loyalty.
‘That’s noble of you, Samira.’ He paused, scarcely believing the words emerging from his mouth. ‘I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.’
* * *
Twenty-six hours later Tariq halted in the doorway to the twins’ playroom in the luxury hotel suite. A crisis in Al Sarath had disrupted his schedule and he’d missed his meeting with Samira. She couldn’t possibly have waited this long for him.
He’d told himself it was just as well. Yesterday he’d found himself arranging to meet her again, driven by the need to prevent her propositioning someone else.
The thought of her with another man, offering to marry him, even with that crazy ‘no sex’ stipulation, gouged a chasm through his belly.
He wasn’t her keeper.
He didn’t want a wife. The thought of replacing Jasmin with Samira made him break out in a sweat. He might lust after her but how could he sign up to another marriage?
Yet for twenty-six hours he’d imagined little else. Her saner argument for marriage—to provide a loving, stable environment for his boys—made sense. Too much sense.
Tariq had put off for too long the need to find a mother for the twins. A warm, gentle woman who’d nurture them. A caring woman who’d love them as Jasmin would have.
A shiver scudded down his spine and the old blackness fringed his vision.
His boys deserved a mother. Already he realised he had to provide more than he could now with his taxing schedule. His wasn’t a job he could set aside when family commitments demanded. His country, his people, relied on him.
Now, standing in the shadow of the half-open door, he confronted the most compelling reason yet for action—their happiness. He’d thought Samira had left hours before, but no, she was there, to the delight of his boys.
At the centre of the room his sons sat astride plush cushions filched from the lounge, enthusiastically jogging up and down to the rhythm of Samira’s lilting voice. She had a clear contralto voice that tugged at long-forgotten memories of early childhood.
She sang a made-up song about Adil and Risay riding, one on a camel and one on a horse. Each time the boys heard their names they giggled and jogged faster, urging on their imaginary mounts, till at last the song ended.
With a sigh Samira sank back on the carpet, as if exhausted. Instantly the toddlers scrambled off their cushions and across to her. Adil snuggled up at her side and her arm automatically wrapped around him. Risay, more energetic, climbed onto her legs, ready for another ride. Instead of scolding, she laughed before scooping him close.
The three of them lay there. His boys and Samira.
She wore a dress the colour of amethyst that complemented the warm tone of her skin. The flaring skirt with its silky sheen looked indulgently feminine and expensive but there was a dark smear near the waist and a matching mark on her cheek. She’d kicked off her shoes. Her bare feet and legs looked tantalisingly sexy.
Something somersaulted in Tariq’s chest as he took in the three of them, his precious sons and the woman who cared less for her expensive clothes than she did for them.
In the far corner of the room Sofia, the nanny, folded clothes, her back turned. The fact that the boys’ fierce protector, who’d been with them since the day they’d lost their mother, was relaxed enough not to watch the newcomer like a hawk, told him everything he needed to know. Samira and the boys had clearly bonded.
All that remained was to decide how he felt about that.
For somehow in the last twenty-six hours, her proposal had turned from outrageous to possible.
* * *
Samira sighed and cuddled them close, breathing in the smell of baby powder and little boys.
Even if Tariq refused her, these couple of hours had been wonderful. The boys were a delight.
Her heart felt lighter, not just because she’d spent time with two such adorable toddlers but because she’d contributed, helping out while Sofia had packed, keeping the boys constructively amused.
Celeste would tell her she contributed with her fashion designs and charity donations. But there was something innately satisfying about the simple act of caring for this little family.
She breathed deep, knowing it was time to move. The boys were ready for bed and the longer she stayed the harder it would be to leave. What had begun as a simple invitation to wait for Tariq and meet his boys in the meantime had turned into something far more complex, at least for her eager heart.
She opened her eyes to find Tariq standing over her. He didn’t smile and his look was intent, as if he saw right inside her, to longings and regrets she kept strictly private. She felt caught out, at a disadvantage sprawled on the floor, her unguarded emotions too close to the surface.
Abruptly her heart leapt in her breast. Her pulse fluttered as he bent, his hands briefly brushing her as he scooped up Adil, now fast asleep, then left the room with the nanny following.
The gleam in Tariq’s clear green gaze unravelled something within her. Something she didn’t want to feel. It made her feel too vulnerable. She was still grappling with that, her breath coming too fast, when he returned, lifting a sleepy Risay and taking him to the bedroom.
Quickly she sat up, twisting up her hair into some semblance of order, frantically scanning the floor for her shoes.
‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting so long.’ Tariq’s low voice came while she was on her hands and knees, peering under a settee.
Abruptly she sat back, feeling flushed and dishevelled, especially when Tariq looked just as debonair as ever. A lot of big men couldn’t pull that off, appearing either too lean and lanky or so heavy-set you knew they’d run to fat with age. By contrast Tariq was perfectly proportioned and frighteningly attractive.
Samira’s heartbeat skidded into a kick start. It was as well he hadn’t agreed to marry her—that was clear from his carefully neutral expression. She didn’t like the way her body behaved when he was around.
Samira scrambled to her feet, brushing down her dress, noticing for the first time sticky patches where the boys had shared their food.
‘No doubt you had more important business to attend to.’ More important than declining her proposal. Her mouth tightened.
Only sheer doggedness had made her wait despite the lengthy delay. She was determined to make him say the words to her face, despite the temptation to avoid further embarrassment and slink away. She tilted her chin. She was a princess of Jazeer. She would see this through.
‘You don’t understand.’
‘There’s no need to explain.’ He’d already made his position clear. ‘I understand perfectly.’
‘There’s a crisis in Al Sarath. I’ve been dealing with it long-distance.’
Samira froze. ‘A crisis?’
‘One of the provinces has been hit by severe flash flooding in the mountain ravines. It’s wiped away whole villages.’
Samira sucked in her breath, indignation fading as the import of his words hit. The mountain provinces were the poorest in his country. She remembered adobe houses perched in arid gullies so steep they became death traps on the rare occasions distant mountain rains brought unaccustomed water.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Guilt pierced at her petty indignation. No wonder he was late! ‘You must be wishing you were there.’
He nodded, his expression sombre. ‘We fly out soon. I need to be on the ground.’
‘Then I won’t keep you.’ Relief filled her as she spied her shoes beneath a jumble of wooden blocks.
‘You don’t want to hear my decision?’
His voice stopped her as she bent, reaching for her discarded heels. Slowly she straightened. There was no chance Tariq would change his mind. He’d been dead set against the idea, even outraged. And now... She looked up into a penetrating stare that gave nothing away. He didn’t look like a man about to grant her wish.
He was so stern, as if she represented a problem he had to tackle.
Again she wondered if Tariq would go behind her back to her brother, warning him she was going off the rails.
The idea almost made her smile. Asim had worried about her for too long—not because she was wildly kicking over the traces, but because she buried herself in her work instead of ‘embracing life’. She knew he secretly feared she hadn’t fully recovered from what had happened four years before. Surely propositioning his best friend counted as embracing life?
‘Of course I want to hear. That’s why I’m here.’ But she refused to feel even a scintilla of hope. He’d given her no encouragement, not even a smile.
She almost began to be thankful. It had been a lunatic idea. Imagine her and Tariq...
He closed the space between them with one long stride, making her more aware than ever of their physical differences. Barefoot, she scarcely came up to his shoulder.
One large, warm hand closed around hers, lifting it high. Tariq bent his head, the light catching the blue-black sheen of his thick hair. Samira felt the press of surprisingly soft lips on the back of her hand as he made a courtly gesture that sent a shocking thrill right through her body.
Her breath was a sudden hiss, her lungs pumping like bellows as he lifted his eyes to hers. This time his expression wasn’t grim or guarded. It was full of anticipation.
‘You honour me greatly with your proposal, Princess Samira.’ He smiled and the world tilted around them. ‘I accept with pleasure. We’ll be married as soon as it can be arranged.’
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