AT THE SHEIKH’S COMMAND
Clare Connelly
All the characters in this book are fictitious and have no existence outside the author’s imagination. They have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names and are pure invention.
All rights reserved. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reprinted by any means without permission of the Author.
The illustration on the cover of this book features model/s and bears no relation to the characters described within.
First published 2015
(c) Clare Connelly
Photo Credit: dollarphotoclub.com/nuzza11
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Clare Connelly grew up in a small country town in Australia. Surrounded by rainforests, and rickety old timber houses, magic was thick in the air, and stories and storytelling were a huge part of her childhood.
From early on in life, Clare realised her favourite books were romance stories, and read voraciously. Anything from Jane Austen to Georgette Heyer, to Mills & Boon and (more recently) 50 Shades, Clare is a romance devotee. She first turned her hand to penning a novel at fifteen (if memory serves, it was something about a glamorous fashion model who fell foul of a high-end designer. Sparks flew, clothes flew faster, and love was born.)
Clare has a small family and a bungalow near the sea. When she isn't chasing after energetic little toddlers, or wiping fingerprints off furniture, she's writing, thinking about writing, or wishing she were writing.
Clare loves connecting with her readers. Head to www.clareconnelly.co.uk to sign up to her newsletter, or join her official facebook page.
PROLOGUE
His hands were what she noticed first.
And not simply because he may well have held her life in them.
No. They were, quite simply, the most beautiful hands she’d ever seen. Tanned with long fingers, short nails, they somehow seemed to convey confidence and power despite the fact they were not adorned with jewellery or especially well cared for.
Steph had failed to mention his hands.
Nor had she mentioned the fact that her brother, Sheikh Radiz Zamin, supreme ruler of Fasiya, was absolutely, mind-bendingly, paradigm-inducingly gorgeous.
Miranda pressed her back against the cold clay wall of her jail cell. This was not the time to go ga-ga over Steph’s older brother. It didn’t matter that he was almost Minotauran in size and scale – from the broad shoulders that were set square, to the sheer imposing height of the man. Surely he stood almost seven feet tall. Even dressed as he was, in stately white and gold robes, she imagined his physique to be firm and hard, muscled and strong. His skin was golden brown like toffee, and his hair was the colour of night. His cheekbones were high and pronounced, like two slashes in his symmetrical face. His eyes were rimmed in curling black lashes, and they were a shade of green, flecked with copper and gold.
His expression was unmistakable, for he was fiercely furious.
That was what she needed to focus on.
That, and the situation she now found herself in. Not his perfect skin tone, or even white teeth. Nor his stubbled, square jawline and exotic fragrance
He spoke in his own language, quiet and low. She frowned in confusion. Steph had taught her a few phrases in her native tongue, though it had all evaporated at the precise moment of her arrest.
He hadn’t been addressing her, anyway. A scuttle in the darkened corner of the cell reminded her that she was not alone. The guard with the thick black brows who had looked at her as though she were a hideous mutant was still watching her.
As the servant slipped through the doorway, like a lizard contorting his frame, he paused to give her one last withering glare of complete disdain.
The gate was closed, and the sound of a key in the lock rang through the silence.
Miranda was alone with him.
Locked in a cell.
And her throat seemed to have a lump the size of a lemon lodged in its middle.
She could only watch as he strode purposefully towards her. Somehow, even in the din of the cell, he managed to look utterly regal and pristine.
He stopped just in front of her, his face set in the same angry lines. Up close, he smelled of sandalwood and spices – an intensely masculine fragrance that was making her already overwrought senses work overtime.
“Tell me your name.” His words were accented in a way that Steph’s weren’t. Then again, Steph had lived in London for several years. Miranda had never seen eyes like his before. Green eyes might be uncommon, but they still existed. His weren’t simply green. They were moss and flame and emerald and starlight. She stared into them now, her own expression unknowingly inquiring; sensually inviting as she appraised him with obvious interest.
He exhaled a sigh of barely concealed frustration. “Your name?” He repeated quietly.
Miranda lifted a hand to her blonde plait and toyed with the ends nervously. “M-M-Miranda Hunter.”
He compressed his lips. “British?”
She nodded. The lemon was back. Speech was not possible. And though it was the last thing she should have cared about, she felt embarrassed that she was meeting him like this. While she was dressed in the same crumpled clothes she’d been in for the three days since royal guards had arrested her in the palatial lounge area of Steph’s city apartment.
He wasn’t looking at her black dress, though. His eyes were drawn, by her involuntary movement, to her hair, so pale it was like the sands of the desert on a sun-drenched morning.
He dragged his gaze back to her face; as white as a sheet from fear. Good. She should be afraid. The crime she’d committed was a serious matter. And no one took it more seriously than he. “You do realise you have been arrested on charges of breaking into a royal residence?”
She nodded jerkily. She hadn’t broken in, though. She’d had the access codes.
“And that you were discovered with over two million pounds worth of jewellery and bonds on you?”
She nodded again. But she had taken only what Steph had asked her to retrieve. That wasn’t theft; it was stupidity.
He shook his head. “And that these charges carry extremely heavy penalties?”
She nodded miserably. She knew all this. Steph had made it perfectly clear to her before she’d got on the plane. But Miranda, silly, optimistic Miranda; naïve, sympathetic Miranda, had promised she would do whatever she could to help her best friend.
“Have you nothing to say in your own defence?”
Miranda bit down on her full lower lip. What could she say? She’d given Steph her word. Miranda had promised she’d protect Steph’s secret, and she wasn’t about to break that promise just because she now found herself in trouble.
“I’m sorry?” She whispered throatily, her blue eyes wide and bright in her small, pixie like face.
He laughed! A sound of surprised mirth. “You are … sorry?”
She nodded.
“Do you mean to suggest you didn’t know what you were doing?” He stared down his patrician nose at her, his face thoughtful.
“Of course I knew what I was doin
g,” she muttered.
“So you are sorry you got caught,” he interpolated correctly.
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she pressed her perfectly even, white teeth harder into her pillowy lower lip. The Sheikh’s eyes were drawn to the involuntary action. “Yes.”
He dragged his eyes away from her distracting pout. “And had you not been caught?”
She moved her fingers more quickly through her hair, so much so that it unravelled from the bottom of its plait and began to unfurl in loose, pale waves around her shoulders.
He strode to the small table in the centre of the room to put some distance between them. He was in grave danger of embarrassing his position by letting a simple thing like physical attraction distract him from his task.
A grey folder was on the worn, timber top. He flicked it open with disdain and stared at a piece of paper. “You were supposed to be on an aeroplane two days ago. If my guards had not been alerted to your presence in the royal apartment, you would be back in England by now, selling priceless Fasiyan jewels to fund your lifestyle.”
She gulped. He was right. She had organised a buy before flying to Fasiya, because Steph had insisted she couldn’t personally handle the transaction. She’d told Miranda it would be too heartbreaking, to finger family treasures before disposing of them. Much neater for Miranda to complete the transaction and provide Steph with the final sum of money.
Oh, God. Steph. She must have been beside herself with worry. The last thing Miranda had wanted to do was to add to Steph’s worries. But not arriving at the appointed time, or making any kind of contact, would have been an incredible stress to her friend.
“You have nothing to say to explain this?”
She shook her head. Would that she could! Whether it was the lack of sleep, or the lack of food, Miranda was finding it impossible to think clearly. “Can I… Would I be able to… have a glass of water?”
His gold-flecked eyes narrowed. “Do I look like a servant?”
She shook her head. “I just… I haven’t had anything to drink all day.”
She had thought he was furious before, but he seemed now to be radiating a spectacular white-hot rage. “Is this true?”
Before she could answer, he spun away from her and moved to the gate. He spoke quietly and firmly, and immediately a small army of prison staff appeared. She didn’t understand his words, but it was clear that he was very angry.
One of the guards broke from the pack and appeared less than a minute later, brandishing a tray.
“Diet, atta.” The Sheikh said firmly, stepping aside so that the short-in-stature guard could walk deferentially past and place the tray on the table.
Miranda tried not to look too desperate, but the sight of water and food broke through her resolves. She moved quickly to the table and lifted the cup, her eyes silently thanking The Sheikh as she drained it entirely of its contents. She lifted the jug, filled the cup again and once more drank it all.
She placed the cup on the table firmly. Fortified, she was better able to meet his eyes.
“Are you hungry?”
She was. She hadn’t eaten since… she couldn’t remember. They’d brought a sort of spiced gruel the night before, but it had made her feel ill, and so she’d ignored it. She nodded.
“Eat.”
Uncertainly, she reached forward and picked up one of the pastries. “Thank you.” Why was he being kind to her? His reputation preceded him. She knew from Steph, but also general opinion, that he was a tough and intimidating man.
“The jewels you stole were of particular value to me.”
She nodded, her eyes dropping.
“The apartment is heavily secured. The fact that you were able to breech it so well, without tripping any alarms, is…interesting. I would have said this kind of daring intrusion was impossible, but the facts would contradict such certainty.”
He nodded toward a small stool, indicating for her to sit. She didn’t, though she was tired and faint. Her refusal to be at ease earned a grudging flicker of respect in Radiz’s eyes.
Steph had given her all the information she needed to gain entry. She frowned. “Obviously I did something wrong. I mean, I must have tripped something.”
His smile was sardonic. “Are you looking for tips? So that you can avoid the same mistake in the future?”
She startled. “No. I only meant that security arrived just minutes after I got inside.”
He nodded. “And this surprises you?”
She hadn’t wanted to get caught. She had truly – stupidly – believed it would be an easy matter to retrieve her friend’s items and get back to London before anyone knew the jewels were missing.
Miranda wondered briefly if staying silent was the best approach. Surely the more information she gave this man, the more likely it was that he would find her connection to Steph. Then, whether she wished it or not, Steph’s secret would be discovered.
He flicked another page in the folder. She could see he was now looking at a photocopy of her passport. They had the original. Somewhere. Fear spiked inside of her, at the realisation that she was truly stranded. Without a passport, in a country that was ruled by one man. This man.
“You are twenty three?” He asked, lifting his eyes to her face and scanning her in greater detail. Beneath his dispassionate assessment, she flushed. Miranda had grown used to this sort of attention. Though she was far from interested in her looks, she knew something about her seemed to appeal to men. She was not tall; nor was she short. Her height was average, but her figure was not. She lived for sports, and had grown up horse-riding, playing polo, tennis, hiking, and anything that she could squeeze into the short British summers. The cooler months were spent on indoor sports. Her skin was fair, her eyes wide-set and blue like lapus lazuli. Her hair was blonde, her mouth pink and full. Her cheeks were dimpled when she smiled, though the Sheikh would not know that, for Miranda presently had no reason to smile.
He sighed again, and put his hands on his hips. It drew her attention to his muscular, slim waist. She looked away. “Yes. Twenty three.”
“I see.” He flicked another page. “And when you are not cat-burgling royal apartments, you read old Fasiyan folk tales?”
Her eyes dropped to the page he was now studying – an inventory of her handbag. In amongst the half-used lipsticks and the keys to her apartment was a much-thumbed paperback. “I like the story of Priya.”
He fixed her with a direct stare. “Really?” He was cynical. Disbelieving. And it angered Miranda. It was one of her favourite tales, and had been since she was little.
“The trees at dusk shone as silver; their leaves little bells that kept their secrets safe from the breeze. And their secrets were worthy of protection, for they guarded in their boughs the baby of Priya. An infant who would grow with the expectations of the world on her shoulders; whose very existence must be kept secret for those that would fear her out of a centuries’ old habit.”
She had recited the opening paragraph perfectly; and he knew the story well, for it was adored in his home. “Why would a thief enjoy such a moralistic tale?” He pondered aloud, once more looking at the slender woman who had tried to plunder millions from his sister.
Her eyes glinted. “Nobody can be defined by one single trait,” she said logically. “A thief is not just a thief. There are more parts to a person than a single act. In fact, a thief, more than anyone, should inspire your curiosity.”
He was curious, he realised with a small frown. More so than he wanted to be. “Why is that?”
“What makes someone steal?” She said with a shrug. “Poverty? Perhaps poverty and love for their child or their parent. A desire to help those who most need it?”
He smiled contemptuously. “Or an absolute disregard for a society’s values and morals?”
“No, it is never so black and white, surely.”
“So what is your reason, then?” He prompted, leaning forward to study her in greater detail.
She’d walked right into that one. In fact, she’d set the trap herself. She moved her shoulders, but stayed silent.
His voice was low and gravelly, his eyes drawn to her lips. “So much to say on the matter of Priya, but you remain silent on your own motives.”
Miranda was rarely silent. Only the fact that she owed it to her friend kept her mouth shut now.
“I…” She cast about for something to say. Something that might placate this man. “I really did have my reasons. Reasons that were… understandable.”
Time seemed to stop moving as he stared at her face. His eyes moved from her hair, to her long, straight brows, her blue eyes, her button nose, her lips, lower to the way her black dress hung like a shroud about her body. Finally, he fixed her with a thoughtful gaze of contemplation. “I do believe you. And I have decided I would like to hear your reasons.”
She closed her eyes. “I understand, your highness. Er, sir. Majesty. But I’m not willing to… I mean… I can’t tell you.”
He nodded gravely, rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin. “It is your decision, of course.”
“It is?” She squeaked, the earth tilting on its axis a little as she realised that the man she’d been terrified of was actually a decent human being.
His smile was laced with sardonic amusement. “It is.” He moved a step closer. Perhaps he meant to intimidate her, but all he achieved was to swamp her senses with awareness. She stepped backwards. Being turned on by her best friend’s brother was a big, fat no-no. Especially when the brother just happened to be a powerful King of a wealthy country. Oh, and that country currently had her locked up in a jail cell.
“And until you decide to confide in me, you will remain my guest.”
Nope. Not so reasonable after all, she thought with a grimace.
“Your guest?” She prompted sceptically.
“My guest.” He turned toward the gate and spoke in his own language once more. The guards came and the door was unlocked. “This accommodation is not suitable. Tonight you will be transferred for holding at my palace.”
At the Sheikh's Command: She Was His Prisoner First, His Lover Next. But Would She Be His Princess? Page 1
