The Desert Princes Bundle
By Sharon Kendrick
The Sheikh’s English Bride
The Sheikh’s Unwilling Wife
The Desert King’s Virgin Bride
Table of Contents
The Sheikh’s English Bride
The Sheikh’s Unwilling Wife
The Desert King’s Virgin Bride
The Sheikh’s English Bride
By Sharon Kendrick
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EPILOGUE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
XAVIER dangled the skimpy pair of panties from an outstretched finger and raised a quizzical black brow at the pouting blonde.
‘Aren’t you forgetting something, cherie?’ he murmured, in the outrageously sexy accent which sometimes caused people to ask whether he did radio voice-overs in his spare time. The answer, of course, was no—Xavier de Maistre did not need to dabble in the media to supplement his already vast income.
Only once had he exploited his sensually beautiful dark face and muscularly hard body—when he had been talent-spotted as a teenager, walking down the Champs Elysées. He had been paid a fortune to advertise an aftershave, but had astonished the world by turning down the many lucrative offers which had followed the campaign’s massive success. Instead, he had taken the money and used it to found his property empire, which was now one of the biggest in the world.
The blonde parted her lips. ‘Don’t you want to play that game any more?’ she questioned huskily.
Xavier’s cool expression did not waver. Did she imagine that nothing had changed since their affair had ended last year, and that he would have stayed the same instead of moving on? That he was turned on by the fact that she had arrived—supposedly for coffee and a ‘catch up’—and then left the most intimate item of her underwear in an exquisite heap on the polished floor of his Parisian apartment?
His mouth curved in derision. Ex-lovers could be so boring. Could anything be less of a turn-on than the thought of having sex with a woman you had tired of?
Yet, when she had telephoned him yesterday, he had readily agreed to a meeting. A year had elapsed, and so he had assumed they’d be able to have the civilised drink she’d suggested. But from the moment he had seen her—the expression in her eyes and the oh-so-obvious way she had sat squirming and drinking coffee—he had guessed what she wanted. He sighed. Some women just never let up
‘I think we exhausted all the possibilities of that game a long time ago, don’t you?’ he replied evenly, his black eyes glinting. ‘Nice try, cherie—but maybe you should replay it with a man who can appreciate you—as you should be appreciated.’
‘Xavier—’
But he stayed her with a slight shake of the head. ‘Didn’t you say you had a plane to catch?’
Xavier could read the momentary indecision which flitted across her lovely face. She was wondering whether he was really turning down the opportunity to have sex. But she was also an intelligent woman, and maybe she recognised that there was no point. That some things were best left unsaid, and at least that way you left with your dignity intact.
So she shrugged and took the panties from him, and began to wriggle them on underneath her pure silk skirt—and at that moment Xavier’s resolve wavered and he almost changed his mind.
It would have been ridiculously easy. There was a bedroom located at the far end of the corridor, with a large bed with crisp Egyptian cotton sheets and views right down to the River Seine.
Xavier owned the entire building, and it housed the offices of his empire—but he maintained a luxury apartment in the penthouse, hence the bedroom. The excuse he used was that sometimes his business deals went on through the night—he needed to have a place to sleep and he wasn’t crazy about hotels.
It was well known in the city that he entertained his women there, and its presence only added to Xavier’s legendary status as lover-extraordinaire. He was a man with a huge appetite for all the good things in life—and he had worked hard to get to just this place.
He turned to look out of the window, where the vast stretch of the river glittered and glimmered in the afternoon light.
From here he could see the boats which glided through the sleek waters, filled with awestruck tourists as they overdosed on the beautiful monuments which lined the river. But Paris had that effect on people. It was a city that infused his blood, his heart and his soul—a place which engaged him more than any woman ever could. He frowned, realising that he couldn’t remember the last time he had made love.
So why turn down this opportunity? mocked a voice in his head.
Maybe because it was too easy. Xavier had never liked anything which came too easily—probably because nothing ever had.
‘I don’t suppose I’m ever going to see you again, am I, Xavier?’
The blonde’s voice broke into his thoughts and his black eyes narrowed as he slowly turned around, acknowledging that her particular appeal had faded for ever and knowing that he shouldn’t be surprised. It always happened. No matter how beautiful or accomplished his lovers, his appetite always grew jaded. Was it that once he had conquered them there seemed nothing left worth staying around for? A challenge, always a challenge—and, once conquered, there was always another just waiting…
‘Who knows, cherie?’ he murmured, with a lazy shrug of his shoulders. ‘Sometimes I am lucky enough to travel to New York. Maybe we could have dinner next time I’m in town?’
They stared at one another, both knowing that this would be the last time they would meet. But what did she expect? She bit her lip. ‘Sure. You’re a bastard—do you know that?’ she said softly.
‘Am I?’ he queried. Then the phone began to ring and he turned his back on her to answer it.
‘Oui?’
He frowned as he listened to what his assistant was saying.
‘I have someone down here who would like to see you, Xavier.’
Without an appointment? Xavier stilled, for he had an instinctive distrust of being taken by surprise. And what the hell did Security think they were playing at?
‘Not another damned journalist?’ he snapped—for the building had been practically under seige for a couple of weeks after France’s biggest-selling weekly Bonjour! had published some snatched balcony photos. The pictures of Xavier sleepily buttoning up a pair of faded old jeans seemed to have found their way into the national consciousness, and women were downloading the images off the internet. Given the country’s fierce privacy laws, the matter was currently in the hands of his lawyers.
‘No, it’s no one from the Press,’ said his assistant.
‘Well, who is it, and what does he want?’ he snapped.
‘It’s a she, and she won’t say. She says she wants to speak to you personally.’
‘Oh, does she?’ Xavier lowered his voice. ‘Do I know her?’
‘She says not.’
‘I see.’ Just the fact that his assist
ant had not kicked the unexpected stranger out spoke volumes. Xavier only employed people whose instincts he trusted, and he was always prepared to listen to them.
His gaze flickered over to the blonde, who was still staring at him with a sulky expression, and he wondered how the hell he was going to get rid of her. Maybe this unknown woman was a blessing in disguise—presenting him with a legitimate reason to seamlessly extricate himself from this awkward situation.
‘Tell her to wait,’ he said smoothly. ‘I’ll be down in a little while, when I have finished here.’ He put the phone down.
The blonde turned on him and nodded her head slowly. ‘You’ve got someone else. Of course you have. How stupid of me.’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘Did I somehow imagine that you’d still be available a year later, maybe pining for me, and hoping we could pick up where we left off?’
A shadow passed over his dark face. ‘I never promised you anything, Nancy. I didn’t realise that there was going to be some kind of problem.’
‘That’s just the trouble,’ she said softly. ‘You create the problem because you’re so damned good. Goodbye, Xavier—and thanks for the memory.’ And she walked out of the room with her head held high.
Xavier’s eyes narrowed into ebony slivers as he heard the elevator whirring into action to take her downstairs. Had he acted dishonourably? No, he had not—to have been dishonourable he would have availed himself of her body today and then sent her on her way. He felt the ache of sexual frustration and knew that other men would think him a fool.
But Xavier was careful. He was fastidious in his choice of lovers, and he had only two rules when it came to making that choice: that they must be very beautiful and that there must be no deep emotional attachment or commitment. He made it clear very early on that he was neither interested in love nor marriage, for he had scant experience of the former and no wish to try the latter—and woe betide the woman who attempted to change his mind.
Raking his hands back through his hair, he felt the welcome subsidence of desire. The memory of her would soon be forgotten. He would have his assistant bring him coffee and he would listen to what this unannounced woman wished to say to him.
And then he would go home and take a long, hot shower before going out for dinner. Xavier gave a brief, hard smile at his reflection in the mirror.
Wasn’t freedom the most delicious thing?
Perched on the edge of a scarlet sofa which clashed with the expensive suit she was wearing, which she still wasn’t quite used to, Laura glanced around.
Over the past few weeks she had had a crash-course in expensive luxury, which had culminated in a stay in an ancient palace in a wildly dramatic country. She had thought that such opulence couldn’t be topped—but the offices of Xavier de Maistre came pretty close.
The huge room resembled a luxurious home, rather than the nerve-centre of the successful corporation it undoubtedly was—with cream walls and sumptuous fittings. The chandelier which glistened and danced from the high ceiling looked priceless, and the rather old-fashioned oil paintings of horses and riverbanks gave the place a very traditional and masculine feel.
Carefully, Laura smoothed her fingertips down over her new silk skirt, still getting used to the feel of it. Touching the sensuous material made her shiver—but then these expensive new fabrics felt so different against her skin.
She was scared—or maybe nervous would be a better way to describe it—but she was confident that she was well prepared. Preparation was the number one lesson of being a good lawyer, and although she might not be a great success in other areas of her life Laura had worked very hard to become a good lawyer.
Her mind skated over what she already knew about Xavier de Maistre—international businessman and playboy, and France’s reluctant sex-symbol.
A powerful man, with a powerful reputation. He held a vast property portfolio in Paris—as well as in London and New York—and recently the papers had been speculating that he was soon to start a low-cost airline, operating out of Orly airport.
Which meant, of course, that he might not be impressed by what she was about to tell him—and the money which might soon be his. Money—certainly in Laura’s experience—only really mattered if you didn’t have very much of it.
She heard the lift doors slide open and sat up expectantly, but it was not Xavier de Maistre who emerged but a beautiful blonde woman, who gave Laura a look which was halfway between sympathy and envy.
‘Take a tip from me, honey,’ she drawled. ‘He’s great in the sack—but men like de Maistre are bad news!’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Laura politely, though her heart had started hammering, adding to her already nervous state.
Xavier’s cool-looking assistant had scrambled to her feet—as if she was about to rugby-tackle the blonde—but the woman was already flying out of the revolving glass doors, so the assistant gave Laura a can-you-believe-it? shrug and sat down again.
Laura blinked—because to be honest she didn’t usually inhabit the kind of world where women flounced out of sleek offices, giving opinions on the sexual prowess of the man in charge of them!
‘Is this an inconvenient time?’ she questioned awkwardly.
‘But surely you do not care whether it is inconvenient or not?’ challenged a soft, silken voice from behind her. ‘Since you walk in off the street, demanding to see me—as though I am as accessible to you as turning on a tap.’
Laura rose to her feet and turned around, her mouth opening to voice her rehearsed little apology—but the words froze on her lips. Of course legendary playboys were always going to be mouthwateringly good-looking, and his reputation had already preceded him—but the reality of seeing Xavier de Maistre in the flesh for the very first time hit her hard. Harder than she had expected. Laura blinked at him foolishly, like a woman who had never seen a man before. But in truth didn’t it feel a little like that, because she had never seen anyone quite like him?
Legs slightly parted, hands splayed rather arrogantly on narrow hips, he stood like a man with all the confidence in the world—his whole stance one of sexual appeal and authority.
She had seen photographs of Xavier de Maistre—a whole glossy black-and-white set of them—and remembered dispassionately noting a curved beak of a nose and a mouth which was both sensual and cruel. She had known that his skin was darker than most of his race, and now she knew why. But what she had not been expecting was that his physical presence should be so…so…
A peculiar feeling washed over her.
So overwhelming.
His deep olive colouring contrasted against the pale and exquisitely cut suit he wore, which was set off by a silk shirt and silk tie. Yet, although he carried the outfit off with the kind of sensual panache the world automatically expected of a Frenchman, his hard and lean body seemed almost too rugged to be constrained by the expensive clothes. As if he should be wearing something much rougher, and more basic, or…or…
Or he should be wearing nothing at all!
Now, what on earth had made her think that? Laura didn’t do the sudden lust thing—and hadn’t that been thrown in her face as both her strength and her weakness? Her eyes widened. She was shocked at the progression of her thoughts, but unable to tear her eyes away from him.
He seemed to dominate the room with his compelling charisma, but it was his eyes which drew her in the most—brilliant black eyes that had her fixed firmly in their sight, the coldest and cruellest eyes she had ever seen.
‘You do not answer me,’ he observed. ‘I should have thought that someone who had the temerity to walk in off the streets expecting to see Xavier de Maistre would have had a million smooth remarks to make.’ But your eyes are too busy devouring me, he thought, without surprise.
With an effort, Laura dragged her mind back to the real reason she was here. ‘I know this is an unconventional approach,’ she conceded.
So she was English. ‘Such understatement is typical of your country,’ he observed smo
othly. ‘Are you selling something?’
She stared at him, shocked. Did she look like a sales woman in this outfit, which had cost as much as she normally earned in a month? ‘No.’
He was staring at her quizzically, but inside he was racking his brains. Had he met her? Non. He would have remembered. His eyes ran over her in swift assessment—yet he was having difficulty categorising her, and he was perplexed as to what made her seem so…He frowned. So different.
Was it her hair? A deep, dark mass which was lit with red, making her skin look almost snow-white against its intensity? Or was it her eyes—surely the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen? Large and wide, and as green as the most expensive emeralds which were for sale in the jewellery shops in the Avenue Georges V, just along the road.
Her figure was slim, but unfashionably feminine—with rounded breasts and a tiny waist which made the most of the curve of her hips. Clearly she had dressed to suit her shape, for she was wearing a suit—but a suit made of claret-coloured silk, which took the edge off its functional nature. With it she wore a wicked pair of shoes, made of the softest and sexiest suede he had ever seen. Their high heels accentuated the curve of her narrow ankles, and Xavier suddenly got a vivid and erotic image of what it might be like if those ankles were wrapped around his naked back…
He swallowed, and cursed himself for not having satisfied his sexual hunger earlier, when he had had the chance. But he had always prided himself in being able to quell desire at will, and he did it now.
‘Haven’t you heard of the telephone?’ he questioned sarcastically, in an accent as smooth as honey, underpinned with steel. ‘Didn’t it occur to you to try the normal channels to set up a meeting with me?’
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