Bride Behind The Desert Veil (Mills & Boon Modern) (The Marchetti Dynasty, Book 3)

by Abby Green

  Irish author ABBY GREEN ended a very glamorous career in film and TV—which really consisted of a lot of standing in the rain outside actors’ trailers—to pursue her love of romance. After she’d bombarded Mills & Boon with manuscripts they kindly accepted one, and an author was born. She lives in Dublin, Ireland, and loves any excuse for distraction. Visit abby-green.com or email abbygreenauthor@gmail.com.

  Also by Abby Green

  An Innocent, A Seduction, A Secret

  Awakened by the Scarred Italian

  The Greek’s Unknown Bride

  Rival Spanish Brothers miniseries

  Confessions of a Pregnant Cinderella

  Redeemed by His Stolen Bride

  The Marchetti Dynasty miniseries

  The Maid’s Best Kept Secret

  The Innocent Behind the Scandal

  Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

  Bride Behind the Desert Veil

  Abby Green

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  ISBN: 978-0-008-91386-1

  BRIDE BEHIND THE DESERT VEIL

  © 2021 Abby Green

  Published in Great Britain 2021

  by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

  By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

  ® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  Note to Readers

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  Text to speech

  This is for Ellen Walsh.

  We’ve been best friends since we were

  skinny little nippers running around the back fields

  and cliff ways of Ballybunion.

  I treasure our friendship

  and the roots from which it came.

  Love you lots, always.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Booklist

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  Extract

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  ‘YOUR WIFE MAY now reveal her face.’

  Sheikh Sharif Bin Noor Al Nazar waited with bated breath as his new wife’s attendants came forward to unhook the elaborate face mask that had covered her face for the duration of the wedding ceremony.

  Not even her eyes had been visible.

  Sharif couldn’t care less what she looked like—he had no intention of consummating this marriage; it was to be in name only for as short amount of time as possible—but if she was at least passably attractive that would certainly make things easier for him.

  The delicate chains and gold medallions of the face covering clinked as it was removed and her face was revealed.

  The first thing Sharif noted somewhat dispassionately was that he didn’t have to worry about her being passably attractive—because she was stunningly beautiful.

  The second thing was more of a visceral reaction. Shock, followed quickly by anger. Because his new wife, far from being the stranger he’d expected, was not in fact a stranger.

  Not at all. In fact he knew her intimately.

  One word resounded in Sharif’s head. He wasn’t even sure if he uttered it out loud. ‘You!’

  CHAPTER ONE

  Two weeks ago

  ‘YOU’RE SAYING YOU don’t even know what your bride-to-be looks like?’

  The horrified expression on Nikos Marchetti’s face was almost comical. Sharif Marchetti’s younger half-brother was on a video call from his home in Ireland, where Sharif could see his wife, Maggie, pregnant again, pottering in the background with their eight-month-old baby son, Daniel, on one arm. For some strange reason Sharif found the domestic scene presented before him...distracting.

  Because it was catching at something inside him. A place it shouldn’t be catching. Because he found such domesticity utterly alien and unwelcome.

  He focused on his brother. ‘No, I don’t know what she looks like. I know nothing about her and I’m not interested. I’m marrying her because of a diplomatic agreement between Al-Murja and Taraq that has to be honoured. And,’ he tacked on with studied nonchalance, ‘because settling down appears to be good for business.’

  That was an understatement. Since both his younger half-brothers had recently taken wives—Maks, their youngest brother, had married his wife in a private civil ceremony in London just before Christmas—the Marchetti Group’s stock value had gone through the roof.

  But Sharif knew it could go even higher, reaching a stability and value that would finally bring him close to achieving all he’d set out to achieve when his father had died. When the old man had finally relinquished his control over the company that had been built off the backs of the fortunes of others. Namely, each one of his three wives—Sharif’s mother, and the mothers of Nikos and Maks.

  Maggie’s face, and Daniel’s cherubic one, appeared over Nikos’s shoulder. ‘Al-Murja and Taraq? An arranged marriage? It all sounds so exotic!’

  Sharif wrangled his focus back to the present moment. Nikos was reaching for his son, tucking him competently against his chest while commenting drily to his wife, who had come to perch on his knee, ‘Sharif doesn’t operate at the level of mere mortals. On this side of
the world he’s a Marchetti, and merely one of the world’s most successsful billionaires, but in his mother’s desert home of Al-Murja he’s a royal sheikh and even goes by a different name.’

  Maggie’s big blue eyes opened wide. ‘Ooh, Sharif, I never knew that. What’s your other name?’

  There was a knock on the door of Sharif’s office in Manhattan. He welcomed it, not liking how this familiarity was impacting upon him. Over the last few months he and his brothers might have developed more of an affinity than they’d ever had before, but they were still far from being truly functional as a family.

  ‘My car is here. I’ll be in touch, Nikos, as soon as I’m back.’

  His brother shook his head. ‘Why are you doing this again?’

  Sharif forced a smile he wasn’t feeling. ‘Because I’m envious of what you and Maks have, brother. I want to be as happy as you.’

  But as Sharif terminated the connection on Nikos’s sharp burst of disbelieving laughter, his deep-seated cynicism rubbed against something raw. Something he knew would only be made less raw when he stood over the dismantled pieces of the Marchetti Group and ground his father’s legacy to dust.

  His conscience pricked as he sat in the back of his chauffeur-driven limousine a few minutes later, thinking of his half-brothers and how they might react if they knew his plans. But he quashed the feeling. They had no more allegiance to their father than he had. And, as much as they might have developed an affinity, he didn’t trust anyone with his plans. Not even them.

  When the time came he would tell them and they would walk away with wealth beyond their means.

  What more could they want?

  One week ago, Taraq

  ‘Why should I let you take your sister’s place for this marriage?’ asked the King.

  Aaliyah Binte Rashad Mansour did her best to stay calm, but she was gritty-eyed from lack of sleep after the frantic journey she’d just taken from England back to her desert home in the middle of the Arabian Peninsula, after an hysterical phone call from her beloved younger half-sister Samara.

  ‘Because I’m your eldest daughter. Samara is only nineteen.’

  And she was in love with the son of the King’s chief aide.

  Liyah’s father said nothing more for a moment, and she pressed on while she had a chance. ‘Samara hasn’t even met this man you want her to marry. Clearly they’re strangers. What does it matter if it’s me and not her?’

  Her sister had told her, ‘He just wants a wife. He doesn’t care who that is, as long as it’s someone from this family.’

  Her father made an indistinct sound. He wasn’t a very tall man. Liyah was almost taller, at five foot ten. She’d always felt that he disapproved of her less than delicate proportions. Among the myriad other things that she’d never understood.

  Her mother had been his first wife, and she had died when Liyah was a toddler. Liyah had only the vaguest memories of being rocked, and a lullaby being sung, but she’d long since convinced herself that was just a weak fantasy to make up for the fact that when her father had married again and had his other children, Liyah had been effectively sidelined and forgotten about. Neglected.

  The only family member Liyah had ever allowed close was Samara who, since she was tiny, had followed Liyah around like a faithful shadow, crashing through all of Liyah’s barriers.

  As soon as she’d known Samara was in distress, and why, Liyah hadn’t thought twice about coming home and offering herself in her sister’s place. But now that she was here in front of her father a sense of panic gripped her.

  ‘Who is he, anyway? And why is he happy to marry a woman he doesn’t even know? I thought we’d moved on from arranged marriages.’

  ‘Don’t be naive, Aaliyah. The best marriages are still primarily the ones that are arranged for the benefit of two parties—in this instance two neighbouring kingdoms that have a long history of enmity.’

  ‘But it’s been years since anything—’

  Her father interrupted. ‘He’s the cousin of the King of Al-Murja and he’s honouring a decades-old diplomatic agreement by marrying into this family and providing a dowry. His mother was meant to marry your uncle, but she took off to Europe and married an Italian playboy instead, giving him her dowry. That marriage fell apart and she came home in disgrace with a baby son. She died when he was still young and his father brought him up.’

  That story rang a few vague bells in Liyah’s head. But her father had stopped pacing and now looked at her. There was a gleam in his dark eyes—very unlike Liyah’s green ones.

  ‘His mother ran off to Europe just as you did. Clearly you share her rebellious spirit, Aaliyah.’

  Indignation made Liyah’s spine tense. ‘It’s hardly rebellious to want to—’

  Her father held up a hand, cutting her off again. ‘No, I think this will work very well, actually. Sheikh Sharif Bin Noor Al Nazar controls a vast luxury conglomerate in Europe. He will not stand for a rebellious wife. He is just what you need to learn some control, Aaliyah. To learn respect.’

  A million things bubbled in Liyah’s blood, chief of which were a very familiar hurt and the need to defend herself, but she forced herself to swallow it all down and ask, ‘So does this mean that you’ll let me take Samara’s place?’

  Her father looked at her for a long moment. There wasn’t a hint of warmth or approval in his eyes. Just the cool disdain that had become so familiar. Then he said, ‘Yes, you will be the one to marry Sheikh Sharif Bin Noor Al Nazar. And you will use this as an opportunity to redeem yourself in the eyes of this family.’

  Liyah’s relief was tempered with panic at what she’d just done, but she couldn’t back out now. Not when Samara’s happiness was at stake. She would do anything for her sister.

  Her father was turning away from her, clearly done with the conversation, and shock that he could dismiss her so easily after all but handing her over to a complete stranger for the rest of her life made Liyah blurt out, ‘Why do you care for me so little, Father?’

  He stopped. He faced her again, and for the first time in her life Liyah saw something flicker to life in his eyes. Incredibly. It was only after he spoke that she realised what it was: acute pain.

  He said, ‘Because your mother was the only woman I loved and you look exactly like her. So every day that you’re alive and she isn’t is a reminder of what I have lost.’

  Yesterday

  Sharif saw the falcon first. A peregrine falcon. Mature. He guessed at least ten years old. Magnificent. Feathers reflecting golden tints in the dying rays of the sun. Its grace and seemingly lazy circles in the air didn’t fool Sharif. It was looking for prey and would swoop and kill within a split second.

  He was about to find his binoculars to have a closer look when he heard the sound of a horse’s hooves. One horse.

  He shrank back into the shadows of the trees around the natural pool at the oasis where he’d set up camp for the night, en route to the palace at Taraq. His team had gone on ahead. He needed some time alone in the desert. It never failed to ground and recharge him, and he knew the coming weeks would require all of his focus...

  A horse and rider thundered into the small but lush oasis, shattering the peace. In an instant Sharif assessed the young man to be an expert horseman, his body moving as one with the horse. The enormous stallion came to an abrupt halt under a twitch of the reins, nostrils flaring, body sheened with a light film of sweat. He’d been ridden hard.

  The young man slid off athletically, patting the horse’s neck and leading it over to the pool where it drank thirstily. He looped the reins around a nearby tree, tethering the horse.

  Sharif wasn’t sure why he stayed hidden in the shadows, but some instinct was compelling him to remain hidden for now. He sensed the stranger’s desire to be alone. Like him. Also, he presumed the rider would move on once the horse had drunk and rested for a moment. />
  He couldn’t make out the man’s—the boy’s face. He had to be a boy. He was tall, but too slight to be a man. His head and face were covered in a loose turban.

  The falcon swooped low at that moment and Sharif saw the rider lift up his right arm. The bird came to rest on a leather arm-guard. So it was a pet falcon. Impressive.

  The stranger fed the bird what looked like a piece of meat out of a pouch at his hip and then, with a flick of his arm, let the bird fly off again.

  The young man stood at the edge of the pool. A sigh seemed to go through his slender frame. And then he lifted his hands to undo his turban.

  Sharif moved to announce himself, but stopped in his tracks when the turban fell away and a riotous mass of dark unruly curls was unleashed, tumbling down a narrow back. Narrow back. Long hair. Curls.

  It hit Sharif. This wasn’t a young man—it was a young woman, and as he watched, struck mute and unable to move, she started to take off all her clothes.

  The gallop to the oasis had only taken the smallest edge off Liyah’s turmoil—a potent mixture of anger and helplessness. It was the eve of her wedding and she was hopelessly trapped. And she’d put herself in this position for the sake of her sister, which only made her feel even more impotent. It wasn’t as if she was being forced into this. She could have ignored her sister’s call. Stayed in Europe.

  Yet, she couldn’t have. She adored her sister—the only family member who had ever shown Liyah love and acceptance. Liyah would do anything to secure Samara’s happiness. Even this.

  And, after extracting a promise from her father that he wouldn’t stand in the way of Samara marrying her sweetheart, Javid, at least Liyah’s sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain.

  But it wasn’t even that sacrifice that was uppermost in her mind. She was still reeling from what her father had revealed a week ago. That he’d loved her mother. And that Liyah reminded him of her.