Golden Fever

by Carole Mortimer

His jaw tightened even more. ‘What are you trying to do to me?’ he muttered.

  ‘I’m trying, not very successfully I’ll admit, to tell you I love you, that I’ve always loved you.’

  Rourke’s breath caught in his throat at the steady, trusting way she gazed up at him. ‘I don’t understand—’

  ‘Do you love me?’

  ‘Clare—’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘God, yes!’ he groaned, his arms at last coming up about her waist, drawing her closer. ‘I always have. For five years I’ve been haunted by you. You’ve been like a fever in my blood, a golden fever,’ he touched her hair wonderingly. ‘Everything about you glittering and pure. And you ruined me for other women.’

  ‘And Gene thought you had suddenly decided you preferred men,’ she teased, a warm glow spreading through her body at the wonderful things Rourke was telling her, at his possessive hold on her.

  ‘He thought what?’ Rourke exploded.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she chuckled. ‘I soon told him he was mistaken.’

  ‘I should damn well hope so,’ he scowled. ‘I was in love with you, I didn’t want anyone else,’ he revealed candidly. ‘And it was five years of torture.’

  ‘Oh, Rourke,’ she shivered. ‘What did she do to us?’ she groaned.

  ‘She?’

  ‘My mother,’ she said huskily.

  ‘Your mother?’ He stiffened, holding her away from him. ‘Are you telling me she lied to me, that I’ve suffered the tortures of hell for nothing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He seemed to shake with rage, and then he frowned. ‘But you did cry, and you did leave …’

  ‘I cried because I was so overwhelmed by what had happened between us. I—It was beautiful, everything I’d ever imagined, and I just reacted by crying. I couldn’t help myself. As to why I left …’ she paused.

  Rourke’s fingers tightened on her arms. ‘Your mother did something else, didn’t she? Tell me, Clare,’ he ordered.

  She licked her lips. ‘After you left the beach-house to go to work I just wanted to die. I felt—I felt used.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘But I did,’ she shuddered. ‘You left so abruptly, almost as if you couldn’t bear to be near me. I went home. I was numb, and when Gene asked me out I went, to show you you didn’t matter to me either.’

  ‘I didn’t go to work that day, Clare,’ he interrupted quietly. ‘I went to the house in Bel Air. And I got stoned—out of my mind. When I telephoned your home your mother said you were out, with Gene. I must have called half a dozen times throughout the evening. I finally came to the conclusion that your mother was lying to me, so I went over there. I had some crazy idea of finding you if I had to pull the place apart,’ he said ruefully. ‘I got as far as the bedrooms before I passed out on the floor.’

  ‘My mother’s bedroom,’ she put in huskily.

  ‘Was it? I don’t know. I don’t remember a thing after I passed out.’

  ‘You were put in the bed,’ she told him jerkily.

  ‘Oh, I know that. Charles told me—’

  ‘Charles?’ she echoed sharply.

  ‘Mm. Apparently he was the one who put me there.’

  ‘In my mother’s bed,’ Clare said again, more pointedly this time.

  ‘So you said,’ Rourke nodded. ‘But—My God!’ he seemed to pale. ‘She didn’t let you think—She couldn’t have—’

  ‘She did,’ she said dully.

  ‘She told you—You thought—That’s why you went to England?’ he gasped.

  ‘Yes,’ she choked.

  His expression was fierce. ‘She must be sick—’

  Clare shook her head. ‘She wanted you. Even I might go to those lengths to get you.’

  ‘Do you want me?’ he asked huskily.

  ‘Oh yes!’ she answered without reserve.

  ‘Enough to marry me?’

  ‘More than enough.’ Her eyes glowed.

  ‘Sweetheart …!’ he groaned, his mouth claiming hers in a kiss of infinite sweetness.

  Clare kissed him back with all of the love inside her, pouting her disappointment when he put her away from him.

  ‘Not until we’re married,’ he teased, the lines of strain leaving his eyes and mouth.

  She snuggled into his body. ‘Then perhaps we’d better follow Harvey’s example and go to Las Vegas.’

  ‘No.’ Rourke shook his head firmly.

  ‘No?’ she pulled a face.

  ‘I want us to be married here, by the Captain.’

  ‘He can still do that?’ Her eyes lit up with excitement.

  ‘Mm,’ Rourke nodded, love shining in his eyes. ‘They often have weddings on board, in the chapel.’

  ‘I’ve seen it, it’s beautiful.’

  ‘Yes,’ he touched her face with tenderness. ‘Like you. And I want you to have the perfect wedding.’

  * * *

  And they did. The whole film crew was there, Gene accompanying Belinda, the two of them obviously very friendly. Harvey and the lovely Shara were present too, looking ecstatically happy together.

  The chapel looked beautiful, full of white flowers and flowing white ribbons, the small chapel giving the wedding an intimate atmosphere.

  ‘I’m not sure the colour was appropriate,’ Clare said ruefully later that evening once they had retired to their suite for the night, only one of the bedrooms being used tonight. Rourke had kept to his decision that they wouldn’t make love until they were married, and so the anticipation of their night ahead together was two-fold.

  ‘Of course it was,’ he nuzzled into her throat. ‘My only regret is that I can’t see your mother’s face when she finds out we’ve got married despite all her machinations.’

  Her mother hadn’t even been invited to the wedding, in fact it hadn’t even been mentioned that they should invite her. Clare frowned. ‘I’m not looking forward to you working with her,’ she said worriedly.

  His eyes darkened several shades deeper. ‘Believe me, Clare, by that time you’ll be so sure of your own power over me that you won’t feel a qualm. Your mother means nothing to me, she never has.’

  She could feel the arousal of his body for her and knew it was the truth. Rourke was hers as surely as she was his. ‘Did you really cancel Gun Serenade so that you could work with me?’ She traced the outline of his lips with her fingertips.

  ‘I really did,’ he admitted ruefully. ‘I wanted to see you again badly, but I couldn’t just appear, I had to have a valid reason for being where you were. I jumped at the chance of working with you. Although it turned out to be agony. You belonged to Pryce, or so I thought, and all I could do was hurt you with my insulting comments. To my shame I was even brutal about making love to you before, just to save my own pride. After just two days I was wishing I’d never come here.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I’m going to take you to bed,’ he swung her up into his arms, ’and I doubt either of us will sleep until morning.’

  ‘Mm, sounds wonderful!’ Clare leant her head on his shoulder. ‘What are you smiling at?’ she asked suspiciously at the twinkling mischief in his eyes.

  ‘I wonder if any other man has had to do nude scenes for a movie, with his wife, while still on his honeymoon?’ He laughed at her fiery blushes. ‘It could be pornographic!’

  She put her arms up about his neck, kissing her throat, biting his earlobe, the nude scenes they were to do together no longer bothering her. ‘I’ll just have to make sure you’re too exhausted tomorrow to do anything but act.’

  His mouth quirked. ‘I have a five-year thirst to satisfy, it would take more than one night with you to do that. I’m hoping it will take a lifetime.’

  ‘I’ll see that it does,’ she murmured throatily, momentarily touching the gold medallion Rourke had given her from around his own neck in lieu of an engagement ring. The medallion meant more to her than any ring could ever do, signifying that Rourke no longer needed his independence, that he had given his lif
e and happiness into her keeping as surely as she had given him hers. ‘I love you, Mr Somerville,’ she told him with a catch in her throat.

  ‘I love you too, Mrs Somerville. Now would you mind if I made love to my wife?’

  ‘I’d love it!’ Clare gave him a glowing smile.

  ‘And this time, this time,’ he said seriously. ‘Make no mistake about how much I enjoy it, how much I love you. I could never stand to lose you again,’ his arms tightened about her.

  ‘You’re never going to,’ she promised as she arched her body into his, her lips parting for his kiss.

  * * * * *

  Now, read on for a tantalizing excerpt of USA Today bestselling author

  Sharon Kendrick’s new release,

  THE SHEIKH’S BOUGHT WIFE

  Marry for money? Jane Smith would normally laugh in Sheikh Zayed’s handsome face—but her sister’s debts need paying. Zayed must marry to inherit his land—and plain Jane is a convenient choice. But he hasn’t bargained on Jane’s delicious curves…

  Read on to get a glimpse of

  THE SHEIKH’S BOUGHT WIFE

  PROLOGUE

  ‘SO WHAT’S THE catch?’

  Zayed detected the faint ripple of unease which ran through his advisors as he shot out his silky question. They were nervous, he could tell. More nervous than was usual in the presence of a sheikh of his power and influence. Not that he cared about their nerves. On the contrary, he found them useful. Deference and fear kept people at a distance and that was exactly where he liked them.

  Turning away from the window which overlooked his magnificent palace gardens, he studied the men who stood in front of him—the guileless expression on the face of his closest aide, Hassan, not fooling him for a moment.

  ‘Catch, Your Most Supreme Highness?’ questioned Hassan.

  ‘Yes, catch,’ Zayed echoed, his voice growing impatient now. ‘My maternal grandfather has died and I discover he has gifted me one of the most valuable pieces of land in the entire desert region. Inheriting Dahabi Makaan was something which never even entered my mind.’ He frowned. ‘Which leaves me wondering what has prompted this gesture of unexpected generosity.’

  Hassan gave a slight bow. ‘Because you are one of his few remaining blood relatives, sire, and thus surely such a bequest is perfectly natural.’

  ‘That much may be true,’ Zayed conceded. ‘But until recently he had not spoken to me since I was a boy of seven summers.’

  ‘Your grandfather was undoubtedly touched by your visit as he lay on his deathbed—a visit he must surely not have been anticipating,’ said Hassan diplomatically. ‘Perhaps that is the reason.’

  Zayed’s jaw tightened. Perhaps it was. But the visit had not been inspired by love, since love had long departed from his heart. He had gone because duty had demanded it and Zayed never shirked from duty. He had gone despite the fierce pain it had caused him to do so. And yes, it had been a strange sensation to look upon the ravaged face of the old king, who had cut off his only daughter after her marriage to Zayed’s father. But death was the great equaliser, he remembered thinking bitterly as the gnarled old fingers had clutched at his. The stealthy foe from which no man or woman could ever escape. He had made his peace with his dying grandfather because he suspected it would have pleased his mother for him to do so, not because he’d been seeking some kind of financial reward.

  ‘Nobody gives something for nothing in this world, but perhaps this is an exception.’ Zayed’s eyes bored questioningly into those of his aide. ‘Are you telling me that the land is to be mine, without condition?’

  Hassan hesitated and the pause which followed sounded heavy. Ominous. ‘Not quite.’

  Zayed nodded. So his unerring instinct had not failed him after all! ‘You mean there is a catch,’ he said triumphantly.

  Hassan nodded. ‘I suspect that you will see it as one, sire—for in order to inherit Dahabi Makaan, you need to be…’ nervously, he licked his lips ‘…married.’

  ‘Married?’ echoed Zayed, his voice deepening with a dangerous note, which made the aides shoot glances of increasing anxiety at each other.

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘You know my feelings about marriage.’

  ‘Indeed, sire.’

  ‘But just so there can be no misunderstanding, I will reiterate them for you. I have no desire to marry—at least, not for many years. Why tie yourself to one woman when you can enjoy twenty?’ Zayed gave a fleeting smile as he remembered visiting his mistress in New York last week and the sight of her lying on rumpled satin sheets clad in nothing but a tight black basque, her milky thighs open and welcoming. He cleared his throat and willed the hardening in his groin to subside. ‘I accept that one day I will need to provide my kingdom with an heir and that is the moment when I shall take a bride—a pure young virgin from my own kingdom. A moment which will not come for many decades, for a man can procreate until he is sixty, seventy—in some cases, even eighty. And since I believe it is the modern way for young women to enjoy all the expertise of an older lover, it will be a highly satisfactory arrangement for both participants.’

  Hassan nodded. ‘I understand your reasoning entirely, sire, and usually I would completely concur with your judgment. But this land is priceless. It is oil-rich and of huge strategic significance. Think how much it could benefit your people if it were to be yours.’

  Zayed felt indignation heat his blood. Didn’t he spend almost all his waking hours thinking about his people and how to do his best by them? Was he not the most successful of all the desert Sheikhs because of his dedication to his land and his determination to be a peacekeeper? And yet Hassan’s words were true. Dahabi Makaan would undoubtedly be a glittering jewel in the crown of his kingdom. Could he really turn his back on such a proposition? His mouth flattened. He remembered his dying grandfather croaking out a plea for him not to leave it too long to produce an heir, so that their bloodline could continue. And when Zayed had coolly remarked that he had no intention of marrying for many years, the old man’s face had crumpled. Had the wily old king decided that the only way to achieve his heart’s desire was to force the issue, by making marriage a condition of the inheritance?

  Yet the thought of marriage made Zayed want to recoil. To turn away from its insidious tentacles, which could bind a man in so many ways. He loathed marriage for more reasons than a high libido which demanded variety. He loathed the institution of marriage with all its flaws and baseless promises and the very idea of finding a bride in order to inherit was something which repulsed every fibre of his being.

  Unless…

  His mind began to pick over the possibilities—because wouldn’t only a fool turn down the chance to be master of a region renowned for the black gold known as oil, as well as its prized position straddling four desert countries?

  ‘Perhaps there is a way in which the conditions of the will could be met,’ he said slowly, ‘and yet not tie me into all the tedium and inconvenience of a long-term marriage.’

  ‘You know of such a way, sire?’ questioned Hassan. ‘Pray, enlighten us, Oh, knowledgeable one.’

  ‘If the marriage were not to be consummated,’ Zayed continued thoughtfully, ‘then it would not be legal and, as such, could quickly be dissolved. Is that not so?’

  ‘But, sire—’

  ‘No buts,’ said Zayed impatiently. ‘For the idea grows on me with every second which passes.’ Yet he could see the look of doubt on his aide’s face and knew very well what had caused it. Because Zayed was a man known for his virility. A man who needed the regular release of sex in order to sustain him—in the same way that a horse needed oats and exercise in order to live. He doubted there was a woman alive who could resist him in her bed and the idea that he could tolerate a sexless marriage was almost laughable. Yes, there were undeniably obstacles to such a chaste union but Zayed was a man who thrived on overcoming obstacles, and as he stared into Hassan’s perplexed face a brilliant idea began to form in his mind.

 
‘What if I were to choose a woman who does not tempt me in any way?’ he said slowly. ‘A drab woman who makes a mockery of all that is feminine. A woman who would turn a blind eye if I happened to stray. Surely that would provide the perfect solution?’

  ‘You know of such a woman, sire?’

  Zayed’s mouth flattened into a hard line. Oh, yes. He knew of such a woman. An image swam into his mind as he thought about Jane Smith who, with her mousy hair and the colourless clothes which swamped her figure, fitted the bill perfectly. What was it that the English said about a woman on whom the gods had not gifted much in the way of looks? Plain Jane. Yes, indeed. Never had such a description been truer than of the uptight academic who was in charge of the archives of his embassy in London. For not only was she plain, she was also immune to his charms, some might even say disapproving—a fact he had registered a while back with something approaching incredulity. At first he’d thought she must be playing games with him. That she was using that well-known feminine ploy of affecting indifference towards a powerful man, in the hope that it would stir some interest in his groin and in his heart. As if any part of him could ever be stirred by Jane Smith! He had discovered her attitude to be real and not feigned when he’d overheard someone mentioning his name and, as he had silently rounded the corner of his London embassy, had seen her rolling her eyes. Insolent, foolish woman!

  Yet Jane loved his country with a passion which was rare for a foreigner and she knew it better than many of its natives, which was why he hadn’t instantly dismissed her for gross insubordination. She adored every contour of its deserts, its palaces and its rich, sometimes bloody history. Zayed’s heart gave a savage wrench of pain. A pain which had never quite healed no matter how hard he had tried to turn his back on it. Might not it help that healing process if he accepted his grandfather’s bequest and acquired Dahabi Makaan? To close a door on the past and to look beyond, to the future?

  ‘Prepare my jet, Hassan,’ he said harshly. ‘And I will fly to England to take the wretched Jane Smith as my bride.’

  Copyright © 2017 by Sharon Kendrick

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