The Sheikh's Princess Bride

by Annie West

  ‘You withdrew from me!’

  ‘I was a coward. I’d never felt anything like this. It scared me witless. All these months I’ve wanted to hold you close and never let you go, but I but didn’t dare. I was frantic I might lose you.’

  As he’d lost Jasmin. Suddenly she registered that Tariq’s big body was shaking.

  She spun around. Blazing eyes of darkest tourmaline captured her gaze and his raw emotion blasted her. She felt she looked straight into his soul.

  ‘I love you, Samira. I know I haven’t made you happy but give me a second chance. I can’t lose you.’ His voice was uneven and Samira stared, stunned by such vulnerability in this man who was always calm and in control.

  ‘I don’t want to lose you either, Tariq.’ It was hard to swallow over the knot in her throat.

  ‘But you left.’

  ‘I couldn’t bear the rejection any longer. You’d grown so cold. You never wanted to be with me.’

  In a single, swooping movement Tariq wrapped his arms around her and tugged her tight against him. His body was furnace-hot, burning right through the chill that had clamped her. She had to arch her neck to meet his gaze and what she saw there was the most wondrous sight in the world.

  Samira never wanted to move. Her hands splayed across his chest where his heart hammered, its racing beat a match for hers.

  ‘My little love.’ His smile was crooked. ‘I was trying to give you space because I thought I was making you unhappy. You needed to recover from the birth and—’

  ‘What I needed was you to hold me and never let me go.’

  ‘Really?’ Doubt showed in his expression.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I’ve still got a lot to learn about...’ His shoulders rose expressively.

  ‘About love?’ He nodded and Samira breathed deep. ‘You think I don’t? Love was the one thing I’ve tried to avoid as long as I can remember. Especially after Jackson.’

  Tariq’s embrace firmed, pulling her against hard muscle and bone. ‘Don’t talk about him.’

  ‘It doesn’t hurt now.’

  ‘I don’t care. I don’t want his name on your lips.’ In a flash the autocrat was back. She looked up at Tariq’s strong face and elation rose.

  ‘Because you’re jealous?’ It didn’t seem possible that a man like Tariq—proud, powerful and so very dear—could be jealous.

  ‘Of course I am.’ He paused, watching her intently. ‘You haven’t told me how you feel, Samira.’

  Wasn’t it already crystal clear?

  ‘I love you, Tariq.’ It felt so good to say it aloud for the first time.

  The look on his face made her gulp and something in her chest rose and swelled. Joy overwhelmed her and her eyes glazed.

  ‘You don’t look happy about it.’ His voice was gruff.

  She blinked. ‘Don’t you know women cry when they’re happy?’

  ‘You’re happy?’ He traced one finger over her cheek and she sighed at the overwhelming sense of rightness at his touch. ‘You really love me?’

  ‘I really, truly love you.’

  ‘And I wuv you.’ A tiny arm wrapped around her legs and Samira looked down to see Risay, his hair tumbling over his forehead, his pyjamas askew, with his arms around the pair of them. ‘I stay wiv Mummy.’

  No little boy had ever looked more adorable with his big brown eyes and wide smile.

  ‘Bringing in the reinforcements to argue your case, Tariq?’ she said shakily as he bent to lift their son high off the ground.

  Her husband’s answering grin ignited that inevitable spark deep inside. ‘A good general marshals all his forces to win victory.’

  ‘Is that how you feel—victorious?’ She kissed Risay on the cheek and slanted a sideways look at her husband.

  He shook his head. ‘Not victorious. I don’t think I could ever take this for granted.’

  He bent and kissed her full on the mouth, ignoring Risay’s giggles, and Samira clutched him close, her heart welling with tenderness and awe.

  ‘But I’m the happiest man alive. And I intend to make you the happiest woman.’

  EPILOGUE

  ‘SHE’S A DARLING, isn’t she?’ Samira looked at the delicate features of their little daughter as Tariq placed her in the cot and drew up the sheet. The sight of him, such a big, brawny hunk of a man, so infinitely gentle with the tiny, trusting child made her heart turn over.

  He was everything she could ever want in a man and more. Far more.

  He turned, pausing when he saw her expression. Then he reached out, drawing her close. Her breath sighed out as he pressed her head to his shoulder and she felt the strong, steady beat of his heart. She slid her arms around him, squeezing tight.

  ‘She is a darling.’ His voice rumbled up against her ear. ‘Just like her mother.’

  Samira smiled. After two years of marriage, she was complacent, knowing Tariq always spoke the truth to her now. There was nothing but honesty between them and a deep, abiding love that filled her world to the brim.

  Callused fingers tilted her chin up. ‘Thank you, habibti.’

  Her brow knitted as she met his eyes and felt the inevitable snap and sizzle between them.

  ‘What for? I was the one who wanted another baby.’

  ‘And it was a pleasure to let you persuade me.’ Heat gleamed in those mesmerising eyes and Samira’s breath caught.

  ‘You didn’t take much persuading.’

  ‘What can I say?’ Tariq smoothed his palms down her back and she arched into him. ‘I enjoy your persuasion so much.’

  Her heart skipped a beat at the look he gave her. Sometimes she couldn’t believe how lucky she was.

  ‘Not every man would agree to adopt.’ But she’d had to ask. The little orphaned girl, born in one of the mountain villages and destined for an orphanage, had stolen her heart.

  ‘Then I’m happy not to be every man.’ Tariq’s words dragged her back to the present. ‘Not every man is fortunate enough to marry his soul mate.’

  He bent and pressed a gentle kiss to her brow, the tender salute melting her insides, making her cling tight.

  ‘Thank you, my sweet, for your generosity in naming her Jasmin. Not many women would do that.’

  Samira shook her head, smiling. Secure in Tariq’s love, she no longer felt jealous of his first wife. ‘She was a special person. Look at the sons she produced.’

  It had been a chance symbolically to lay the ghost of Tariq’s guilt to rest. The shadows had gone from his eyes now that he’d stopped looking back to the past, too focused on the present and his growing family.

  ‘You’re a woman in a million, Samira.’ He cupped her face and brushed his firm lips across hers, stealing her breath.

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’

  ‘Oh, I know so.’ Something glittered in his eyes and Samira had no trouble identifying it now.

  Love. Love that he didn’t bother to mask.

  As ever, her pulse pounded in response, joy making her mouth curve in a smile that came straight from her soul.

  An instant later he’d scooped her up in his arms, holding her high against his chest as he strode out the door and back through their suite.

  He didn’t stop in the sitting room where his official files and her latest sketches awaited them. Instead he kept going into the bedroom.

  ‘Tariq! You told me you had work you wanted to finish tonight.’

  He stopped at the foot of the wide bed, slanting a knowing look her way. Instantly heat eddied deep inside.

  ‘It can wait,’ he growled, his gaze tracking over her body. ‘Besides, I’m being a supportive husband, showing an interest in my wife’s career.’ His mouth kicked up at one side in a hungry smile that made her breath hitch. ‘Take
off that wrap and show me the new nightgown you’ve designed.’

  Samira leaned in and pressed a kiss to the bare skin at his collarbone, tasting the salt tang of his warm flesh, feeling her pulse riot inevitably in response.

  ‘Of course, Your Highness.’ She sent him a sultry look that made him groan. ‘Your wish is my command.’

  * * * * *

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  CHAPTER ONE

  ALYSE HAD ALMOST given up on her plan, and was on the verge of deciding that the whole thing was a crazy, downright dangerous idea, when she saw him. She was actually thinking about leaving before this dazzling charity ball had really got started, suffering second and even third thoughts about the wild scheme she had come up with when the crowd before her parted slightly, forming a pathway that led straight from her to the tall, dark male on the opposite side of the room.

  Her breath caught, and she knew that her eyes had widened even as she pushed back a fall of golden-blonde hair so as to see him better. He was...

  ‘Perfect...’

  The word slipped past her lips, escaping her control and actually whispering into the overheated air.

  The man on the far side of the room looked so different, alien almost. He stood out as vividly as a big black eagle in the middle of a bunch of glorious, sparkling peacocks. Of the same species but somehow totally unlike everyone else.

  And that difference was what caught her eyes and held them, finding it impossible to look away. She even froze with her champagne flute halfway to her lips, unable to complete the movement.

  He was stunning. There was no other word for it. Tall and strong with a lean, powerful physique encased in the sleek sophistication of formal clothes in a way that somehow made him look dangerously untamed in contrast to the elegant silk suit, the pristine white of his shirt. His tie had been tugged loose at some point by impatient, restless hands, and it now dangled limply around his throat where the top button of his shirt had been wrenched open too, as if he needed space to breathe. The fall of his black hair was worn longer than any other man’s there, like the mane of a powerful lion. High slashing cheekbones were etched above the lean stretch of his cheeks, long dark lashes concealing the burn of his eyes as he stared out across the room, the faint smile on his sensual mouth one of cold derision rather than any real sign of warmth.

  And it was that that made him perfect. The faint but obvious sign that, like her, he didn’t quite belong here. Of course, she doubted that he’d been pushed out into the public world as she had. Her father had insisted that she come here tonight, when she’d much rather have stayed at home.

  ‘You need to get out after spending your days stuck in that poky little art gallery,’ he’d said.

  ‘I like my days in the gallery!’ Alyse had protested. It might not be the job in fine art she’d hoped for, but she earned her own money and, if nothing else, it gave her a break from the stresses at home when the demands of her mother’s illness seemed to throw a black cloud over everything.

  ‘But you’ll never meet anyone unless you socialise more.’

  For ‘anyone’ read Marcus Kavanaugh, Alyse thought wryly. The man who had made her life hell recently with his unwanted attentions, his persistent visits and determination to persuade her to marry him. He’d even started turning up at the ‘poky little’ art gallery so that she had no peace from him. Then just recently, for some reason, Alyse’s father seemed to have decided that the marriage would be a match made in heaven.

  ‘He might be your boss’s son and heir, but he’s just not my type!’ she’d protested, but it was obvious that her father wasn’t listening. He wasn’t actually pressing her to accept Marcus’s proposal but, all the same, it was plain that he thought it was unlikely that she’d do better with anyone else.

  In the end, exhausted by feeling harassed and oppressed, she’d resolved to come to the ball tonight and use the event as a way to break out of the predicament in which she found herself. Which was where the stranger across the room came in.

  Of course, this man obviously wasn’t slightly out of his depth like her. His height, stature and the fine cut of his clothes were the match of anyone here, and his expression showed that he wouldn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him. Which gave him an added advantage as the necessary partner in what she had hoped for tonight.

  Her partner in crime, as it were.

  It was as that thought crossed her mind that it seemed it had reached out and touched the man opposite. Because he stirred as if something had alerted him. That leonine head swung round, and his eyes clashed with hers.

  It seemed that in the moment her eyes met his the world suddenly tilted, lurching dizzily, so that she actually reached out a hand to press against the wall beside her and keep herself upright.

  Danger.

  The word seemed to flash wildly inside her head, making her bite her lip in a sort of a panic, but one that was mixed with excitement too. She’d wanted a way to put an end to Marcus’s over-persistent pursuit; it would be great if she could have a little fun as she did so. If fun was the way to describe the fizz this man put into her body.

  She’d started slightly in that moment of fierce contact, jerking her glass so that drops of the pale sparkling liquid splashed out of it, landing on the rich blue silk of her dress and marking it with damp, spreading patches.

  ‘Oh, no!’

  She had a tissue in her tiny silver clutch, but reaching for it with one hand while trying to balance the glass with the other only made things so much worse. The delicate stem of her glass flute was clutched between her fingers, the bag almost tumbling to the floor. Her desperate grab to stop it escaping made it slip dangerously in her grasp, slopping more wine onto the tops of her breasts exposed by the scooped neckline of her dress.

  ‘Allow me.’

  It was a cool voice, calm and smooth as silk, powerfully soothing. Alyse had barely enough time to recognise that it was deep, masculine and beautifully accented before a pair of hands—long, strong, bronze-skinned—reached out and took the vulnerable glass, the silver clutch from her, depositing them on a nearby table. Then he snagged up an immaculate white napkin and shook it loose before pressing it against her waist, padding at the spill that stained her dress.

  ‘Th-thank you.’

  The foolish weakness in her legs was still afflicting her, so she fought for the control she needed. But, in spite of her efforts, she still swayed awkwardly on the ridiculously high heels she was unused to wearing.

  ‘Steady.’

  That voice was closer, almost in her ear. Or perhaps that had something to do with the way he had stopped mopping her dry and now that powerful hand had closed around her own, holding her upright.

  ‘Thank you.’

  To her relief, her voice was stronger now, firmer, and she felt her balance return. She could stand upright at last, bring her head up, look him in the eye...

  And almost lost all that hard-won stability when she looked up into the bluest eyes she had ever seen, deep and clear and bright as a Mediterranean oc
ean in the sun at the height of the day.

  The man who had been on the opposite side of the room now stood at her side, big and dark and disturbing. His tall frame blocked out the light, the sight of everyone else in the ballroom. The heat of his body seemed to reach out to enclose her, and the scent of his skin, mixed with some tangy cologne, was like a warm enchantment all around her so that inhaling it made her head spin in sensuous intoxication.

  ‘You.’

  This time she had enough thought left to twist her hand from under his and grab at the strong arm that was near to her. She felt the hardness of bone, the power of muscles bunch and tighten under the silk suit and knew a rush of heat and flame that seared along her nerves, threatening to melt her strength away in the same moment that she rediscovered it.

  ‘Me...’ he confirmed, the uneven smile that accompanied the single word strangely ambiguous.

  He took the napkin from the hand that still held hers, freeing it for use again.

  ‘Better get this dried off fast,’ he murmured, ‘before it ruins your dress completely.’

  ‘I—yes...’

  What else was there to say? And who else to say it to? It seemed that they existed in a private, closed off bubble, a world of their own while the buzz of conversation went on around her unabated.

  That proud dark head was bent, the brush of his waving hair soft against her cheek as he concentrated on the task of cleaning up the mess of wine. He was so close that she felt he must hear the unexpected thunder of her heart, see the way her breathing had sped up, bringing a rush of colour to her skin. That napkin was now moving over the edge of her neckline, crossing the point where blue silk met creamy flushed skin, stroking over the sheen of wine on the tops of her breasts.

  It was soft, delicate almost, but in the same second it felt like an invasion, far too intimate for the moment and their surroundings. Too intimate from him.