Innocent's Desert Wedding Contract

by Heidi Rice

  Karim Khan wasn’t an unloved boy, but a forceful, charismatic and extremely cynical man. Whatever had made him that man hardly mattered now, and she would do well to remember that. This wasn’t a real relationship, despite the chemistry that had flared between them. It was a contract. And to hold up her end of the bargain, persuading everyone here she was the sort of woman Karim Khan, Crown Prince of Zafar, would choose to marry—was going to require an award-winning performance.

  Unfortunately, getting to know more about Karim Khan hadn’t helped at all in that endeavour—all it had done was make her feel even more out of her depth.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘WOULD YOU MIND if I went to the bathroom, Karim?’

  At Orla’s softly asked question, Karim turned from his conversation with a retired French champion jockey. Beneath the manufactured glow of affection, he could see the tiredness in her eyes and the strain around her mouth.

  They’d been at the reception for over four hours, and she had played her role well. He had sensed her nerves at first, but he’d been impressed at her ability to talk with considerable knowledge and foresight about the business of racing. Even though she clearly hadn’t socialised with the major players in the industry as he had originally assumed, she knew her stuff.

  As the evening had progressed, though, it wasn’t her knowledge of racing that had captivated him, but her attempts to appear the lovestruck fiancée. Where most women would have clung to his arm and fawned over him, she had blushed profusely every time anyone congratulated them on their engagement—which only made the story of their whirlwind courtship all the more credible.

  In fact the charade had begun to feel so authentic he hadn’t wanted to let her out of his sight.

  And while the engagement might not be real, their physical connection had only become more tangible. The catch of her breathing every time he touched her and that instinctive shudder when he placed his arm around her waist to introduce her had begun to intoxicate him. But far worse had been the two times they had danced together and he had been forced to cut the experience short because her slender body, pliable and so responsive as she allowed him to lead, had a wholly uncontrollable effect on his as he pictured himself leading her in a very different dance.

  All in all, the effect she had on him had become more disturbing as the evening progressed, making it next to impossible for him to keep his thoughts on what this engagement was actually supposed to achieve. And he wasn’t happy about it, especially after the intrusive conversation they’d shared during the drive here.

  He never normally responded to probing questions about his family—not even from women he was dating. So why had he revealed so much about his relationship with his father? He’d refused to see the bastard in over a decade, refused to return to Zafar for considerably longer. And while he was happy to use his royal title, if it gave him an advantage in business, he had no intention of ever taking up the throne and took no interest in affairs of state. His father had cut him off financially when he was eighteen, after he had refused to marry or produce heirs—so why the hell had he told Orla about a relationship he no longer had any interest in?

  But as Karim had begun introducing Orla as his fiancée, he’d begun to realise why he might have let so much slip in the car… Her frankness had beguiled him, as had the strange look in her eyes when he’d told her the truth about his father’s marriages.

  What the hell did that look even mean?

  Because whatever it meant, he was beginning to appreciate the effect it had on him less and less. Especially as the urge to remain by her side grew, alongside the annoyance as he watched every other man there become captivated by her.

  Since when had he had a jealous streak? Especially for a woman he hadn’t even slept with?

  He lifted his hand from Orla’s waist, annoyed anew by his reluctance to let her out of his sight.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we should leave soon?’ he added.

  Wary surprise crossed her features. ‘I… Yes, Karim,’ she said. ‘If you wish.’

  Perversely, the subdued reply only irritated him more as she headed off through the crowd. Where was the woman who had kissed him with such passion that morning, or argued with him so persuasively in the car? More than a few men tracked her progress, and he felt the familiar surge of possessiveness—bordering on jealousy—that had dogged him all night.

  ‘You are a man of considerable patience, Monsieur Khan,’ the former jockey, whose name Karim had forgotten, remarked wryly.

  ‘How so?’ he asked, his gaze still fixed on Orla as she disappeared into the ballroom.

  ‘If I had such a woman, I would want to keep her in my bed, rather than spend hours allowing other men to admire her charms.’

  Karim swung round, the older man’s comment making the heat—and frustration—he had been trying to control all evening surge. His fingers curled into fists, so he could resist the urge to punch the smile off the much smaller man’s mouth.

  ‘What did you say?’ he snapped.

  ‘There is no need to look so indignant, monsieur.’ The jockey lifted his hands—palms up—in the universal sign of surrender, but the mocking, almost pitying, smile remained. ‘I meant no offence to you or your fiancée.’

  ‘Then what did you mean?’ he growled, knowing he was overreacting, but not quite able to stop the outrage.

  ‘Only that Mademoiselle Calhoun is exquisite—not just fresh and beautiful but also intelligent and accomplished. I am an old man, and I am jealous of you, for having so much to look forward to with such a woman by your side for the rest of your life.’

  Karim frowned at the hopelessly romantic statement.

  Not exactly, she will be gone as soon as she has outlived her usefulness.

  Thanking the man through gritted teeth, he made his excuses and walked away, still furious at the presumptuous comment and the surge of frustrated desire it had caused.

  His annoyance increased as he acknowledged the twist of regret in his stomach at the thought that Orla wasn’t his. He headed towards the ballroom—where the dance floor was packed with people. Maybe Orla wasn’t his. But he didn’t want to watch any more men ‘admiring’ her charms. As soon as she reappeared they would leave.

  Then perhaps he could calm down enough to figure out how his fake fiancée had managed to complicate a perfectly simple business arrangement, tie his guts in knots, and turn him into a man he hardly recognised, in less than one night.

  ‘Orla, dance with me…’

  Orla barely had a moment to acknowledge the request before a damp palm clamped on her wrist and she was staring into a flushed freckled face she recognised.

  ‘Patrick…!’ She stiffened and reared back, as her former fiancé’s now paunchy belly pressed into hers. But before she had a chance to extricate herself he had locked his other arm around her hips, like an iron band, and manoeuvred her onto the dance floor with him.

  ‘Hello, Orla, don’t you look good enough to eat…’ His pale blue gaze dipped lasciviously to her breasts and his nostrils flared. A drop of sweat rolled down the side of his face to land on her shoulder. Funny to think that look had once made her feel special, when all it did now was make her flesh crawl.

  She struggled, refusing to move her feet as he tried to sway with her in his arms.

  ‘Patrick, let me go, you’re locked,’ she said, the stale scent of beer and whisky underlying the unpleasant smell of sweat.

  She’d seen Patrick earlier in the crowd and had been beyond grateful he hadn’t spotted her. But the truth was, she’d given him no more thought whatsoever, all her energies expended on dealing with the much bigger issue of not messing up the role she was playing for Karim tonight. And not letting any more of the destructive emotions that had assailed her in the car get the upper hand again.

  As it happened, that hadn’t been all that easy. Karim had
remained by her side all night, which had only made her giddy, misguided reaction to him all the more intense and unpredictable. She’d tried to sound smart and authoritative when talking to racing industry figures she knew Karim had hired her to impress, her goal to persuade him she could do the job she’d begged him for the day before. But as the night had worn on and his unsettling effect on her had increased, she’d found it more and more difficult to string anything like a coherent sentence together.

  Their dances together had been nothing short of excruciating. She didn’t know how to dance, she hadn’t socialised at all for five years and he had the smooth, easy grace of a man who was entirely in tune with his own body. The fact she had been far too aware of every spot where their bodies touched had only made her more clumsy. As a result, he’d called a halt, not once but twice in the middle of the dance.

  Not only was she failing at the job he was paying her for but the more attentive—and intense—he became, the more difficult she was finding it to remember this was a job at all.

  The suggestion they leave soon should have brought some relief, but instead it had increased the melting sensation between her thighs and the pulse of panic that they were about to be alone again.

  ‘Don’t be so high and mighty, Orla,’ Patrick said, bringing her sharply back to the present. He squeezed her so tightly she realised he wasn’t just locked, he was loaded too, the outline of an erection pushing against her belly. Nausea rose up her throat, and she began to struggle in earnest to get away from him.

  Sure she didn’t want to create a scene, but Patrick was and had always been a jerk, and it humiliated her to think she had ever fancied herself in love with him.

  Unfortunately, the more she struggled, the more he tightened his grip.

  ‘Patrick, this isn’t funny, you need to let me go.’

  ‘Ah, shut up, now, Miss Priss,’ he said. The old nickname, which she had once thought was affectionate but had become aware was just another way to belittle her, had the spike of temper igniting. ‘Just because you’ve nabbed some foreign royal now.’ His eyes narrowed to slits and his fleshy lips quirked, the cruel smile one she recognised, because it had once had the power to cut her to the quick. ‘Does he know you’re frigid yet?’ he sneered. ‘Or did you finally put out for someone?’

  Anger flowed through her, to cover the cruel cut of inadequacy.

  The urge to slap his face was swift and undeniable.

  She’d be damned if she’d let Patrick Quinn make her feel like dirt again, when he was the one who had cheated on her. But as she jerked her hand loose from his embrace, a roar from behind had them both turning.

  ‘Get your hands off my fiancée.’

  Karim cut through the swathe of dancers like Moses parting the Red Sea. The fury on his face sent a shot of adrenaline through her system so swift it made her light-headed.

  The too tight band of Patrick’s arms released her so suddenly she stumbled.

  Karim grabbed her elbow, his hand firm and dry as he drew her close and prevented her from falling on her face.

  The giddy rush that had been messing with her equilibrium all evening surged up her torso, but as his gaze roamed over her—assessing her well-being as if he actually cared for her—it became even harder to deny, or control.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he demanded, his voice low with barely leashed fury. ‘Did he hurt you? I saw him grab you, but I couldn’t get to you fast enough.’

  ‘No… I’m fine,’ she said.

  Patrick—who had always been a coward—had already fled.

  Was this all part of their act tonight? The possessive Crown Prince, defending the honour of his new fiancée? She tried to convince herself, as she became aware of all the guests staring at them, but her pulse refused to cooperate, the giddy tattoo hammering against her ribcage as his gaze remained focussed solely on her. Almost as if he couldn’t see anyone else. Which was madness, clearly, but no less intoxicating all the same.

  How long had it been since anyone had looked out for her? Had taken account of her welfare? Had cared enough about her to ride to her rescue as Karim Khan just had?

  ‘Wait here,’ he said, the terrifying moment of connection lost as he let her arm go. ‘I’m going to teach that bastard a lesson he won’t soon forget.’

  ‘No, don’t, Karim,’ she said, grasping hold of his forearm, shocked when the muscle tensed beneath the sleeve of his jacket, sending a heady dart of delirious pleasure into her sex.

  How could she be turned on? When this was a complete and utter disaster? Not only were they making a massive scene, but she was starting to lose her grip on reality. Not good.

  ‘Pat’s not worth it,’ she added.

  The frown became catastrophic again. ‘Do you know that bastard?’

  For a moment she debated lying to him. The last thing she wanted to do right now was talk about the man who had discarded her so callously all those years ago, when this man was making her feel even more needy. But she forced herself to tell him the truth.

  ‘Yes. He’s Patrick Quinn, the man I was engaged to,’ she murmured, averting her face.

  The light-headedness dropped into her stomach and turned her knees to wet noodles. A cold wave of shock mixed with the nerves to make the nausea rise up her throat as the reaction to Pat’s assault set in.

  ‘You’re shaking.’ Karim’s deep voice seemed to come from miles away. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she blurted out.

  ‘To hell with this,’ he murmured, and she was scooped off the floor and into his arms.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she managed, as the scary feeling of being protected, cocooned, cherished wrapped around her torso.

  It’s not real, don’t romanticise it.

  But even as she tried to convince herself, she turned her face into his chest, to escape from the curious glances, the intrusive stares, that reminded her so much of that miserable April day when she’d had to announce to the engagement party her engagement was over.

  ‘Getting us the hell out of here,’ he growled as he marched through the crowd.

  She pressed her nose into his collarbone, clung to his neck, and inhaled to give herself the moment she needed.

  She breathed in his tantalising scent. The seductive aroma of soap and man cleared away the rancid smell of sweat and whisky.

  At last the raging sea of shock and bitter memories calmed down.

  But then his arms tightened around her, and the deep well of misguided emotion swelled into her throat.

  What was she doing? Relying on his strength, even for a moment, would only make it harder for her to rely on her own. And that was one thing getting dumped by Patrick, losing her mother and then getting emotionally abandoned by her father had taught her, before she lost him too. Relying on anyone other than yourself would always lead to heartache.

  So she shifted and tried to wiggle free of his arms. ‘It’s okay, Karim, really, I’m fine, you can put me down now.’

  ‘In a minute.’ Karim bit off the words, the rage still burning in his gut.

  He walked down the steps of The Chesterton.

  Patrick Quinn was going to regret touching her. Quinn and his whole damn family, when he buried their business.

  His hands tightened reflexively, but he made himself place Orla on her feet. Even so he kept a firm grip on her arm as she steadied herself.

  ‘How’s the stomach?’ he asked.

  ‘Good,’ she said, tugging away from him.

  He forced his hand into his pocket to resist the urge to touch her again. And tried to convince himself his fury would be just as strong if Quinn had treated any other woman there the same way.

  ‘It’s okay, Karim, he didn’t mean to hurt me, his hand slipped.’

  A memory flickered at the edges of his consciousness, of his m
other, her face pale but for the livid bruise on her cheek.

  He shut it out, as well as the brutal feeling of impotence and inadequacy that came with it.

  Orla wasn’t his mother. She wasn’t even really his fiancée. She meant nothing to him. And the surge of fury that had assaulted him in the ballroom when he had spotted Quinn dragging her onto the dance floor and seen her stiffen and recoil had not been specific, but rather a natural reaction to the sight of any man treating a woman with such disrespect.

  ‘I’m sorry for the scene,’ she said as she looked down at her toes.

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ he said, more curtly than he had intended, the rage burning under his breastbone again. And feeling more specific by the minute. For a moment there she’d clung to him. And instead of being shocked or annoyed, all he’d wanted to do was hold her.

  He signalled the parking attendant. He needed to calm the hell down.

  This. Is. Not. Personal.

  ‘You’re not responsible for Patrick Quinn’s boorish behaviour,’ he added.

  She met his gaze at last. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘What for?’ he asked, his pulse accelerating again, despite his best efforts. He hated to see the shadows in her eyes. Wanted nothing more than to take them away, even though it shouldn’t matter to him, this much.

  What was going on here? Because he didn’t like it, but he didn’t seem able to stop it.

  ‘For coming to my rescue,’ she said, so simply and with so little expectation, his heart squeezed uncomfortably in his chest. ‘And for not blaming me.’

  ‘Why would I blame you for his actions?’ he asked. Did she think he was some kind of monster? A monster like his…

  He cut off the thought. He didn’t want to think about his father, especially not now—when the woman he had effectively hired to dupe the bastard had somehow duped him into feeling things he did not want to feel.

  The car arrived before she replied, and he took a moment to tip the parking attendant and open the door for her. She climbed into the passenger seat, giving him another flash of her thigh. Her breasts rose and fell—making the glittery fabric of her gown shimmer erratically—and it occurred to him she wasn’t any calmer than he was.