The Sheikh's Christmas Wish
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THE SHEIKH’S CHRISTMAS WISH
Clare Connelly
All the characters in this book are fictitious and have no existence outside the author’s imagination. They have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names and are pure invention.
All rights reserved. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reprinted by any means without permission of the Author.
The illustration on the cover of this book features model/s and bears no relation to the characters described within.
First published 2016
(c) Clare Connelly
Photo Credit: dollarphotoclub.com/Rido
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PROLOGUE
His Royal Highness Ra’if Alin Fayez, Crown Prince of Dashan, exalted heir to the throne, stared at the portrait and felt as though his heart was breaking all over again. He could only be thankful his younger brother Zamir was not there to witness the unveiling of the spectacular piece of art.
“What do you think?” The artist asked, addressing the twelve year old boy with the deference due to his rank.
Ra’if took a step closer. The painting was enormous. It hung almost from ceiling to floor, showing the four of them as they’d been before.
The likeness was striking. His father had been perfectly captured, his dark skin, intelligent eyes and strong physique that was clothed in the country’s military uniform. The princes were similarly dressed; Zamir in the outfit the naval officers wore and Ra’if in a commander’s regalia, as befitted the boy who would one day be King.
Their mother drew his attention last of all, and he had to brace every fibre of his body in order to look into her piercing green eyes with any degree of composure.
He felt grief – the emotion he kept all to himself – writhe through his gut, stabbing him painfully with each shift and alteration.
“It is like her, no?” The artist asked eagerly, forgetting momentarily that Ra’if was not to be spoken to unless inviting conversation.
Ra’if didn’t answer. He felt no need to assuage the artist’s concerns, nor to indulge his ego, though the likeness was exceptional. Heart-wrenchingly so.
She was smiling in the portrait, as she often had in real life. Her skin was luminescent, her hair shimmering. She wore an emerald green gown, and at her neck, the diamond necklace his father had given to her.
At twelve, Ra’if had carried his grief for six long years.
She was dead.
It was a fact of life that all things died eventually.
He had mourned her death; he had lived with her absence. But he wasn’t sure he would ever truly get used to the hole that had been ripped wide when she’d left him. When she’d died.
“It is good,” he murmured finally, giving the artist the praise he sought. “It hangs with pride,” he added for good measure. “The family thanks you.”
The artist bowed low. “And I thank you, your highness, for the opportunity.”
Ra’if nodded. “Go now.”
He waited until the room had cleared and he was alone before moving closer to the painting. It was one week until Christmas, but that wasn’t why the painting had been commissioned. The timing was just a coincidence.
Ra’if had learned from birth not to express his emotions. Not to express what he felt and thought, but rather to speak only in the best interests of his Kingdom. So it was not difficult for him to look at the painting without the appearance of pain, though it pained him greatly.
Particularly now, so close to the holiday that his mother had always made so special. It was a time of hope, of belief, of love and blind faith.
Ra’if fluttered his eyes closed and made a wish: a wish that one day, he wouldn’t feel this emptiness in his heart. That he would find a way to fill it, forevermore. One day…
CHAPTER ONE
It was the fifth time he’d been in rehab, and he’d lasted the shortest amount of time yet.
Four days.
Four stupid, stinking days.
The tinsel on the desk across from Melinda was sparkling and gay. It was making a mockery of the darkness of her emotions, and she flicked it angrily, her brown hair echoing the movement and swishing against her shoulders.
For five Christmases she’d put Jordan off but now, he wasn’t having it any more.
I want to see him. I want to wake up on Christmas morning with my dad.
Tears sparkled in her eyes and she let a foul curse rip into the deserted real estate offices.
The word reverberated around the space, ringing in her ears with satisfying brutality. She relished it and, in that moment, she almost wished Jordan’s father had just died. Instead of limping his way through his half-life, getting so strung out on whichever drug he was into at the time, living rough, living cheap, and only turning up on her doorstep when he was either desperate for a fix and in need of money, or in the brief periods of health that made him realise how much he’d lost.
She picked up her phone and scrolled down to his name. She waited for it to connect but instead a disembodied voice told her that the number was not in service.
Not in service! What an understatement.
The whole damned mess was ‘not in service.’
Outside the window, snow was dusting in large swirls, swimming in the dark evening sky.
Brent was out there somewhere. Was he safe? High? Dead? Alive?
And could she really bring herself to care any more?
She grabbed her bag up from under the desk and slipped her feet into the heels she’d discarded earlier that day. Checking the heating was off and flicking the lights, she entered the alarm code and locked the front door to their offices.
A man was still working in the adjacent accountants. She smiled at him as she passed, then pushed out of the building. It was dark, and cold, and she was anxious suddenly to be home. Jordan would be out for at least a few more hours, which meant she’d have the apartment to herself. Thoughts of a warm shower and an episode of The Great British Bake Off danced tantalisingly before her.
“Oy. You. Give me your money.”
She froze, not sure she’d heard correctly. Her heart accelerated and she spun, her eyes searching for the owner of the rough, cockney accent.
And at once she was afraid, because he looked both wild and unhinged, and in his hand, there was a gun. “I said give me money,” he muttered, taking a step closer and holding the weapon at her face.
“And don’t make a sound.”
“I won’t.” She thought of Jordan and her heart ached. “You can take whatever you want. Please, just don’t hurt me.”
His smile was disgusting; his teeth yellow, his lips chapped. “We’ll see.”
Melinda reached into her bag and pulled out a handful of notes. “Here. Just take this. Please.”
The narrow street was dark. Evidently the council hadn’t prioritised sprinkling festive lights down the tiny side alleys of London Bridge. The buildings above housed offices, and though it was only eight o’clock, most of the workers had gone home. A train whistled in the distance but it was gaining speed; no one would see her as more than a terrified blur. The snow was still falling, though slowly now.
“Please take it,” she said quietly, calmly, wondering if he was on drugs. If he might not be in control of his behaviour. “I don’t want to fight you.”
“Fight me?”
He reached for the bag, and at the moment when she thought the ordeal was almost over, he took another step towards her. His hand curled around her arm, his dirty fingernails digging into her flesh. She screamed on instinct, her whole body racked by fear.
“Shut it,” he shouted, cocking the gun at her head.
Melinda was shaking. Her slender body was reacting without her permission. “Please,” she groaned. “Please just take my bag and go.”
“I got your bag, innit,” he snarled, leaning closer. She could smell alcohol and meat grease on him. Her stomach churned. His hand was lifting, coming towards her and she wretched as his malodour seemed to be soaking through her pores. Suddenly, he fell backwards, his expression one of shock. A sickening noise of flesh on flesh followed and there was another man, much bigger and dressed all in black. He stood over meat-grease, his body tense.
Run, Melinda’s heart was shouting at her to move but she was frozen to the spot, as though cement had been poured through her. She pressed against the wall.
“He’s got a gun,” she stammered through chattering teeth.
The bigger man crouched down, easily taking the gun from the skinny drugged out attacker. “Move and I will hurt you,” he said darkly and for a second, Melinda, still flooded with fear, thought he was talking to her.
Then, for the first time, he angled his face to hers. “Are you okay?”
He was stunning. Even in that moment of total adrenalin-fuelled fear, she couldn’t help but notice the details of his appearance. Apart from his physique, which was take-your-breath-away spectacular, he had eyes that were the colour of honey, skin that was golden like caramel and thick, dark hair. He’d been running, she realised, judging from the sporty clothes he wore and the ear buds tucked around his neck.
The attacker was trying to get up but her saviour pressed a hand to his chest. “Stay where you are.” He reached into his pocket and lifted his phone out. His eyes not leaving the guy’s face, he spoke in a foreign language. The words were like hot sauce. Spicy, dangerous and deliciously addictive. Her heart was pounding and blood was rushing through her, but Melinda couldn’t have said with any confidence if it was because of fear or something else. Something completely inappropriate in that moment.
Less than a minute later, footsteps could be heard coming toward them. Two men in similar running gear surged to the scene, their expressions wary.
One of them, an older man with a lean and lithe figure, went straight to her saviour. He spoke in a foreign language but Melinda understood. He was asking if the hot guy was okay. As if he could ever not be okay.
“Fine,” he switched to English. “Take him to the police.” He stood in one effortless movement, unfurling and pacing towards her.
Melinda was still back against the wall.
“He has torn your shirt.” The man nodded to her shoulder, where her coat had been pushed down and her shirt had, indeed, suffered a rip. He crouched down once more, picking up a handbag. “Yours?”
She reached for it, nodding uncertainly. “Thank you.”
He dipped his head forward in silent concession then fixed her with a stare that made her pulse jump. “What is your name?”
“My name?” She swallowed, blinking, reaching for her shirt and straightening it. She could feel her flesh through the tear. The cold night air rushed her and she sucked it in, hoping it would make her feel slightly more normal. “Melinda.”
“Melinda.” He pronounced it differently to anything she’d heard. Like May-lend.
“Thank you,” she said, belatedly remembering her manners. “You saved me.”
His smile was laconic. “Yes.”
“I don’t know what I would have done …”
He shrugged, but his eyes were carefully watchful. “You do not need to think of that,” he said softly, putting a hand on her shoulder. “It is best you do not think of it, in fact.”
“Well,” she said, pushing up from the wall and testing her legs. They were weak beneath her. “I really do appreciate it.”
“It was no trouble.”
She could well believe it. The strength of this man – he’d easily disabled her would-be attacker.
“You live near here?” He asked, scanning her face.
“No.” She swallowed. “I was on my way home.”
“Where is home?”
She bit down on her lower lip. “Putney.”
“Fine.” He looked over his shoulder. His men and the criminal had disappeared. “Let’s go.”
“Go?” She skimmed her eyes over his face then down the alleyway. “Go where?”
“To get you home.”
“Oh. I’m okay. I’m fine.” She wasn’t. Her chest was hurting, her head was swimming and she felt like she might be sick. “I’ll just grab a cab.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it. Come.” He spoke with the authority of a man who was used to being obeyed. Melinda’s mind, swamped by the bizarre turn of events, began to focus on processing the appearance of this stranger.
“Who are you?” She asked, not moving from her position near the wall.
“My name is Ra’if,” he said smoothly, slowly, as though he knew she was only barely holding on.
“Who were those men?”
“They work for me,” he said with a tight smile. “Melinda? You are shivering. You need to get warm.”
“Am I?” She looked up at the sky and a snowflake landed on the tip of her nose. She blinked. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually this wishy washy. I just …”
“You’ve just been mugged,” he said gently. “I’m quite certain you aren’t yourself.”
“It’s not that.” A frown drew her brows together and she looked at the ground, where her attacker’s body had just been lying. “Do you think he was on drugs?”
A muscle jerked in Ra’if’s cheek. “Yes.”
She nodded. “Me too.”
Was Brent attacking women? Was he mugging in the streets to get cash for his next score? Was the father of her child going to end up in prison? And was that her problem?
I want to wake up Christmas morning and hug my dad. I want him to give me a present, and I want him to come to Church with us.
“What will happen to him?”
“He’ll be taken to the police.” He shrugged. “In my country he would end up in prison for what he did to you. Here?” His expression showed disapproval. “He will probably be given a warm meal and then turfed back onto the streets.”
Her heart was squeezing. “You would want him to be in prison?”
His expression shifted minutely and she thought, for a moment, that she saw sympathy in his features. “Not necessarily. But nor do I think the streets are a good home for someone like him. It isn’t a solution.”
“No.” She sucked in a deep breath. “Honestly, I’m fine. You should just keep running.”
His laugh filled the night air with the kind of magic that she thought only Christmas could induce. “You’ve just met me, but I feel I ought to save you some trouble. I’m not a man whose mind can easily be changed. I will be making sure you get home safely, and that you have something to eat.”
The flutter in her heart was stupid. He was just being a Good Samaritan, and he deserved better than to have her getting distracted by the perfection of his face and the strength of his body.
“You’ve just met me, but I feel I ought to save you some trouble. I’ve been on my own a really long time and I can take care of myself.” She forced her legs to carry her a few steps down the street. “I’m glad you came along when you did, but I would have been fine.”
The man’s eyes narrowed and then he laughed again. “Fine, fine. Have it your way. At least allow me to buy you dinner. To be sure you are okay before you go on your way.”
She opened her mouth to object but he shook his head. “It’s a compr
omise.”
Melinda expelled a sigh. She was trying to sound annoyed but she suspected she came across as spoiled instead. “There’s a pub just down that street.” She lifted her phone from her bag. “But I only have an hour.”
“An hour is good.” He fell into step beside her, adjusting his long stride to match her shorter one.
“Do you live around here?” Melinda asked, after several moments of silence had prickled between them.
“I’m not from England,” he said after a pause. “I’m just here for a few months.”
Well, that was good. Good to know. Because Melinda could never be interested in someone who wasn’t going to stay around.
Interested in someone? Jeez! This poor guy was doing a good deed and she was sizing him up for marriage already. She had literally known him for all of ten minutes. What was wrong with her?
The pub, when they arrived, was warm. It glowed amber through the windows and there was a buzz of conviviality coming from within the walls. Christmas lights were strung across the street, giving the whole area a glow that had been noticeably absent from the alley.
“Here?” He compressed his lips but she caught the hint of distaste.
“Yes,” she said defiantly. “Is there something wrong with it?”
He opened his mouth as if to enumerate its failings and then thought better of it. “It will do.” He grabbed the door and held it open for her. “After you.”
“Thanks.” She stepped into the room and inhaled the smell of safety. Normality. The usual and banal.
He scanned the restaurant and shook his head. “I presume I order at the bar?”
“Yeah. I’ll get it though. It’s the least I can do after you came to my rescue.” She reached into her bag for her wallet but he put a hand over hers. Sparks shimmered over her skin. His touch was terrifying for the instant effect it had on her body. She jerked her eyes to his face just in time to catch speculation there.
“Buying you dinner is part of the service,” he said simply. “I insist.”