Bound to the Sheikh & The Sheikh's Secret Baby (Clare Connelly Pairs Book 2)

by Clare Connelly

  Laurie took a moment to truly observe her father. He was younger looking now than he had been for many years. He was happy. And May had done that. If Laurie had been sceptical in the beginning, she had been proven completely wrong. The love between May and David made it impossible to view either of them as anything other than one half of a devoted pair.

  “Your mother would have been proud, Laurie,” David said, his voice husky. He handed Elon Jr to Afida and then scooped Charlotte off the ground and held her naturally on his hip.

  May appeared as if from nowhere, still as chic and stunning as the night Laurie had first met her. “It is excellent.” She smiled serenely at Laurie and then Afida.

  If the situation was strange for any of them, it certainly didn’t show. There was an easy sociability between them, and it was made possible by the complete devotion of Afida to Laurie and May to David. There was no unrequited love, nor hurt feelings. Everything was just as it ought to be, and that left very little room for doubts or jealousy.

  Laurie was called away to speak to a visiting surgeon, and she went to play her part. As benefactor of the hospital, she had become far more au fait with hospital procedures than she had ever thought she would be. But the work was becoming one of the most meaningful things she’d ever done.

  True, nothing beat her role as Afida’s wife and the mother to Elon Jr, but there was a deep sense of fulfilment from knowing the difference she was making to so many people with serious health issues. The combination of her two roles made her supremely content.

  The opening lasted well into the night, and when finally Laurie had spoken to every guest and donor in attendance, Afida found her. His arms wrapped around her waist, and his eyes were bursting with emotion as he stared down at her.

  “You must hate me,” she said apologetically. “I’ve kept you here far later than I intended.”

  “On the contrary. I love you more every day I know you, and tonight? I have never been so proud.”

  Her chest swelled. She had no words. In the three years since their second adventure at the dunes of Alija, she had come to realise something crucial.

  A divine hand had been at work in bringing them together.

  Fate? Angels? Destiny?

  You may meet someone, one day, who you decide you love, and want to spend your life with. Make sure he is good enough for you before you take that step. For most people, and I cannot tell you how greatly I hope you are one of them, life is a lengthy journey, filled with many twists and turns. With the right person by your side, such as I have had with your father, it is an adventure that will never, even over a thousand years, feel long enough. Most importantly, it is a ride, and you know my philosophy on those – they must be fun!

  Something far beyond rational thought had married them, two souls designed to wander the earth in search of the other. Their love was a force as unstoppable as the desert winds. And together, they would achieve anything. And yes, they’d have fun too. For life was an adventure, and it was one Laurie and Afida would share side by side.

  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

  Contact Clare:

  http://www.clareconnelly.co.uk

  Blog: http://clarewriteslove.wordpress.com/

  Email: Clareconnelly@outlook.com

  Follow Clare Connelly on facebook for all the latest.

  Join Clare’s Newsletter to stay up to date on all the latest CC news. http://www.clareconnelly.co.uk/subscribe.html

  “The baby was more than just that; the infant was Hope.

  A birth of newness and a promise of stability –

  With his arrival came splendour and wealth and the kingdom was blessed once more.”

  - The tale of The First Sheikh of Delani, 17 A.D

  Prologue

  “The wedding is off.”

  Four words, so simple and precise, seemed to reverberate around the ceremonial temple with undue force.

  From where she sat in the front row, Jalilah couldn’t see the response her brother’s statement had wrought.

  But she could feel it.

  Murmured words raced at her like a high-speed train.

  He was upset.

  Not many in the room would be able to discern that fact, but Lilah knew him well.

  His handsome face was grim, his expression intentionally kept blank, but there was something in his eyes that Lilah alone understood. A muscle flexed in his jaw and his shoulders were tense.

  She clasped her hands in her lap and leaned forward subconsciously. What’s happened? She thought the incantation over and over, until his eyes clashed fiercely with hers.

  She stood without meaning to, and as she moved towards him, the room silenced. A simple look from her brother stilled her movement.

  “The wedding is off.” This time, he addressed the words straight at her, before sweeping from the room with the confidence that came naturally to a man such as him. He had been born to power and that power ran through his veins as blood did mere mortals’.

  For as long as she could remember, this wedding had been spoken of. The union between the dashing, powerful Kiral Mazroui and the stunning princess Melania of the distant kingdom of Assing had been planned for almost their entire lives.

  What could possibly have happened to put an end to such a perfect plan?

  1

  ONE WEEK EARLIER

  The sun was completely unrelenting. Just as Abi had imagined it might be. Though the ocean curved around the distant capital city, the monoliths of steel and glass were thick and heavy between her and the sea’s cool relief. There was no refreshing breeze offered here.

  Only sultry sunshine and dust, and the ceaseless din of fevered crowds.

  Her eyes scanned the assortment of people crushed against the palace gates. Beggars in tatty clothing had their slender hands extended in the hope that the royal household would favour them. With money or food, Abi couldn’t have said. She only knew that she would soon be doing exactly the same thing – asking the palace for money – and the thought filled her with despair.

  Oblivious to the fettered crowd of paupers stood tourists like her. Yet not like her. They were smiling happily, selfie-sticks extended high against the backdrop of the crisp blue sky, eyes crinkling as they pulled picture-perfect faces to immortalise a single moment. The palace was the backdrop they all chose. And why not? It was a splendour beyond comprehension.

  Her throat was dry and it had little to do with the temperature, or the fact she’d felt almost unbearably hot since she’d arrived in the capital that morning. No. It was the palace itself, and the man contained somewhere within its sprawling walls.

  Abi had come to Delani with no idea what to expect. How could she have? By the time he’d told her that he was a powerful ruler of a faraway desert kingdom, it had been impossible for Abi to ask him about his country. He had broken the news to her at the same time that he’d broken up with her: in one fell swoop she’d lost the man she’d fallen in love with and realized that he’d never existed.

  Delani, then, was a mystery to Abigail. She had a vague understanding of its geography, and she knew that it was supremely wealthy, but beyond that, she was clueless.

  Now, staring at the palace she’d seen only once before – in the pages of the guidebook the travel agent had excitedly shown her when she’d booked her flight – she was engulfed by a sense of wariness.

  This was going to be a disaster.

  Her nerves bundled inside her chest and her heart ham
mered hopelessly. The guard who’d refused to help her was still at his post, his outfit unmistakably military; his weapon undoubtedly real – and loaded.

  Sweat had beaded around her neck and was running in rivulets between her breasts. She wished, more than anything, she was back in New York in the comfort of her apartment, with Michael in her arms.

  Ordinarily the thought of her adorable son would have brought a smile to her face, but this was not an ordinary day. She’d come to Delani to beg for help from a man she had sworn she would never contact again. Her success was vital. If she didn’t succeed … she couldn’t bear to contemplate what she’d do if he refused her request.

  She couldn’t let any harm befall Michael. She couldn’t! And surely he wouldn’t. After all, Michael was his son too. His responsibility.

  She swallowed.

  The knot of tension was palpable. It was a noose around her mind; a nail in her heart.

  For years she’d avoided this. For years she’d worried about the words she’d use if she ever had to tell him the truth. What would she say to him? How could she explain to one of the most powerful men on earth that their brief union – it hadn’t even been a month – had resulted in a little boy? A son she’d kept from him? She had worried endlessly about that conversation over the years, and yet she’d never imagined that she wouldn’t have it. That she would be prevented from even speaking to him again.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, furious at herself for the foolish miscalculation. He was an Emir, and she’d expected what? That she could just fly into his country, drop this particularly messy bombshell, beg for his help and then fly home again unscathed?

  She cursed herself now for throwing out his business card. He’d given it to her so reluctantly; his expression had been one of cold detachment. It had obviously been a sop. Something he’d aimed to placate her with despite the fact he was leaving her heart broken. And so she’d ripped it up and sworn she’d never, not in a thousand years, think of him again. Of course she hadn’t known then about the tiny little life in her belly.

  How many hours had she been sitting in front of the palace? Several. Her skin, despite its natural caramel colouring, had begun to burn. She looked left, then right, but there was no shade to be had.

  She stood up and ran her hand around her neck before taking another step towards the guard. His eyes flicked to her speculatively. He’d been watching her. This pretty little foreigner who seemed to be demanding an interview with his supreme highness Kiral Mazroui.

  She must have been crazy. He would lose his job if he actually passed her name up the ranks.

  She was just a fan. Perhaps even psychotic. His eyes scanned her again. She was small in size, petite and slim, and nice enough to look at. But there was something in her face – a determination that spoke of true desperation.

  He watched as her eyes scanned the crowd, and she lifted a hand to mop her brow. A small urchin boy approached her from the side, his face covered in dust. The child must have been four or five – only young. Such beggars were common near the palace. The young boy’s hand curled around the bottom of the woman’s shirt and the guard stood a little straighter, preparing to intervene if the child threatened her in any way.

  The woman crouched down, so that her eyes were at the child’s level. She smiled at him gently and nodded, though the guard highly doubted the child had said anything intelligible to a foreigner.

  He caught the sound of her words on the breeze but could not discern what she was saying. Then, she reached into her bag and lifted something out and handed it to the child. The guard had to squint to make out what she was holding: a sandwich and bottle of water.

  The child looked nervous; shy, suddenly, but the woman was insistent and her expression encouraged the child to relax. Finally, he took the proffered food and then ran quickly through the crowd, as though she might change her mind and demand these gifts back.

  The American watched him skip away with a forlorn look on her face and then returned her attention to the palace. Her eyes were focused on the walls, scanning them as though she could intuit facts from the marble that others could not.

  The guard could not afford to lose his job. With four brothers to support, and he the only one old enough to work, his duties were sacred. Yet her small act of kindness had touched something deep within him, for it was a similar kindness that had, at one point, saved his family from ruin.

  With a suppressed sigh, he signaled to one of the guards in the tower and waited until a relief sentry came towards him. Only then was he able to step away from his post and march swiftly towards her.

  “Madam?” His English was poor but his tone was insistent enough to draw her attention.

  “Oh, yes!” She spun around, her small nose covered in beads of sweat and tiny little freckles. “Yes! Thank you! You’re going to help me after all, aren’t you?”

  His expression was lacking conviction, as though even he couldn’t believe what he was about to do. “I do not know yet. But I will let someone else decide. Okay?”

  Her heart hammered. It presented yet another bridge to cross but she wasn’t going to complain. She was one step closer to the most excruciating and essential conversation of her life.

  Michael. She thought of his sweet little body and bright green eyes and straightened her spine. “I must speak to him. It’s imperative. I know he’ll be … glad to see me.”

  The guard wondered if he was signing his own arrest warrant but nonetheless, he nodded slowly. “I cannot promise a thing, Madam.”

  “It’s enough that you’re trying,” she said in a rush, her whole body tense. “Thank you. Whatever happens.”

  He didn’t lead her through the main gate of the palace. That was thronging with tourists. Instead, they walked the length of its fence line and around the corner, and then he paused at a checkpoint. There were four men like him inside, with identical uniforms. Though as they spoke quickly, in their own language, she saw that one of the men had three yellow arrows on his pocket, and he seemed to be speaking most. Apparently, he was in charge.

  She stared at him directly and cut him off mid-sentence. “I need to see His Royal Highness Kiral Mazroui on a matter of enormous importance.”

  The man in charge stared at her with obvious disdain. He didn’t speak, but his eyes seemed to say, “What could you have to say of any importance to our King?”

  “Please,” she whispered, the word barely a breath.

  “He is not available to waste time speaking to tourists,” the man said with a cold sneer. “Perhaps you have not heard, madam, that he is due to be married in a matter of days.”

  Oh, she’d heard. She’d heard about little else since landing in this country of his. How excited his people were to be welcoming a new princess to the royal palace. She hid her hurt well, though her heart was barbing with tiny darts of pain. Pain was nothing new when it came to her relationship with Kiral. There had been pain all along. Pain in the intense pleasure he wrought. Pain in his departure. Pain in his deception. Pain, horrible pain.

  “I’ll wait,” she muttered through gritted teeth. And then, as if remembering she was speaking to the very man who might hold her fate in his hands, she softened her words with an attempt at a gracious smile. “If there’s somewhere to do so.”

  Her original saviour, the guard from the main gate, said something in his own language. Whatever it was, it had more effect on the lead officer. With a look of disapproval and a slow, insulting inspection of Abigail from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, he drawled a few words and then spun on his heel.

  “What did he say?” She whispered, her breath bottled in her chest.

  The original guard swallowed. “He said you may wait. But first, you must go through security.”

  She nodded. She’d expected as much. In other circumstances she might even have made a joke, asking if she looked like the kind of person who might pose a threat to someone like Kiral. But she couldn’t joke. She couldn’t say or do
anything that might jeopardize this very fragile bubble of hope she had.

  And so she waited. She waited in the small, hot room until yet another guard beckoned for her to follow. By the time she stood, she felt almost faint from the heat. She had to put a hand on the wall for support but two more guards immediately moved towards her and began speaking harshly in foreign words. She startled and stood upright.

  “Don’t touch the walls,” the guard she had been following cautioned. But he was kind. She could see a look of pity in his eyes as he took in her appearance. His words were heavily accented. “Would you like a chair with wheels to be brought?”

  She had imagined meeting Kiral again, after all this time, and at no point had she imagined that she would have such a disadvantage. She needed to face him with at least some of her pride in tact. She would have liked to be looking her best, but she was sweaty and covered in a fine layer of dust and sand. She shook her head. “I’m fine,” she lied. Having given her water away, her throat was dryer than it had ever been. She would have drunk water from a camel’s bowl, if they’d offered it.

  Two doors opened seamlessly as they arrived; they led deeper into the interior of the palace. She was so relieved to have crossed this barrier that she didn’t, at first, notice the grandeur of her surroundings. But two steps down the corridor, she couldn’t help but appreciate the overwhelming luxury. Enormous marbled tiles met walls that were glistening white. Everything was white, in fact, and bright. Except where it was gold — and there was a lot of gold. She swallowed as the guard quickened his step. At the end of the first hallway there was a security scanner, the likes of which she was familiar with from the airport.

  “Pass me your shoes and bag, madam,” a separate guard invited, his accent much easier to understand.