Propositioned in Paradise

by Penny Jordan

She could feel him watching her. ‘You’d better believe it,’ he told her softly.

  ‘This wouldn’t be some sort of trick to get me to admit that I still love you would it, Simon?’

  He swore briefly and then shook her. ‘Christ, Christy, can’t you differentiate between lust and love? Can’t you tell how I feel about you? Let’s stop fighting and be honest with one another for a change. I love you and I always have. Nothing can change that, Christy, whether you love me in return or not. If you love me, you’re going to have to take me on trust. It works both ways you know,’ he told her wryly. ‘I’ve been hurting like hell myself listening to you saying you merely “want” me; having you throw your relationship with Miles in my face. Finding out that you were still a virgin. How the hell do you think that made me feel? Oh I knew I’d hurt you—I had to, I had no choice, but I never wanted to hurt you to the extent that you’d wall your emotions and feelings completely away.’

  ‘I apologise if my virgin state upset you.’

  She knew her voice sounded tight and strained.

  ‘Upset me! Christ, have you listened to anything I’ve said?’ Simon sounded angry now, really angry. ‘Of course it damned well didn’t upset me. I love you, Christy, and discovering that I would be your first lover was like…oh I don’t know…an alcoholic suddenly coming across a cellar full of vintage wines.

  What upset me was knowing how deeply I’d hurt you, and yet I wouldn’t have been human if part of me didn’t rejoice in the fact that you’d known no other man. I’d have told you I loved you then but you’ve fought me every step of the way…prickly and defensive as a little hedgehog.’

  Christy opened her mouth to speak but he silenced her. ‘Yes. I know you’ve had good reason. I know there’s no reason on earth why you should return my love, and if you turned me down now and told me to get the hell out of your life, it would be no more than I deserved, but I did it partially for you as well. You were too young for marriage then, or at least the sort of marriage I could have given you…but I always intended to come back for you, given half the chance. When I read about you being in India with Miles last year, it took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to go out there and drag you away from him. Come on, gipsy lady,’ he whispered softly, ‘let’s call a halt to the vendetta and be honest with one another.’

  In the half-light Christie looked at him, longing to believe him and yet still half afraid to do so…too much had happened too soon, turning over all her preconceived ideas and beliefs. She reached out to touch him and felt his body clench beneath her hand. For the first time he allowed her to see into his eyes without guarding or shielding his expression, and joy burst gloriously into flower inside her, as she realised that he was telling the truth; that he did love her. Of course there had been signs she had been too blind and stubborn to see…little things.

  ‘Christy…I can’t wait much longer.’ His plea was a husky reminder of what she was withholding from him. She smiled into his eyes and let her fingertips caress him.

  ‘I love you, Simon.’ She whispered the words against his mouth, sensing his tension, feeling it turn into joy. ‘Say it again,’ he muttered against her mouth. ‘Tell me again…’

  ‘I love you, I love you, I love you…’

  ‘Umm. I begin to get the message.’ He pressed her back against the bed kissing her passionately, not seeking to hide from her the effect she had on him.

  He had hurt her, and she had sworn never to forgive him for it with all the vehement passion of a spurned teenager, but what he had said to her tonight had held an unmistakable ring of truth; she had been too young…too young and idealistic to adapt to his way of life which she knew for the last few years had involved constant absences abroad, tours, lectures…long periods when he had shut himself away to write. At eighteen could she have coped with that?

  On a long sigh she admitted inwardly that she could not and that he had perhaps made the wisest decision. And he, too, had suffered. She could see that now, taste it in the taut passion of his kiss; in the way his hands moved over her body as though they could not get enough of her.

  ‘What would you have done if I had denied that I loved you?’

  She felt him smile against her skin. ‘Kept on trying until I was convinced there was no hope left, and I felt sure there was hope; the mere fact that you allowed me to persuade you to come and work for me proved that. Speaking of which,’ he twisted one long curl idly round his finger, tugging gently on her scalp, ‘I heard from the Admiralty today…that jug you brought up from the sea bed is silver-gilt and what’s more it’s engraved… .’

  Excitement spiralled headily inside her. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It says…’ and his mouth was almost against her own. ‘To my beloved husband Kit.’

  ‘Then it’s true…The legend is true…’

  ‘Based on truth at least.’

  ‘And you’ll write the book.’

  ‘Only if you agree to marry me. St Paul’s would make an ideal spot for a honeymoon, don’t you agree?’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Well then I’ll just have to hold you to our contract and take you there anyway. Who knows, given time and an endless supply of seductive tropical nights I might…just might be able to change your mind. I played my last card when I tricked you into agreeing to work for me, Christy,’ he told her more soberly. ‘You had every reason to loathe and resent me I know that, but believe me I did what I did because I thought it was best. Six years ago neither of us had the maturity to build a solid lasting marriage.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I believe we both have, but the decision must be yours. I want it all…marriage…a home…children…but most of all you…you. Sharing my life…my bed…my hopes and my fears. Well?’

  Although he sounded relaxed Christie knew better and her heart ached with love for him. Yes he had hurt her, but he had been hurt himself; he had acted as he thought best, making a decision for them he felt her too young to take. It would have been so easy for him to make love to her and then reject her, but he had not done so. He had left her free to find someone else.

  Against his mouth she murmured the words, ‘How soon can we be married? Because this time I don’t intend to let you go.’

  ‘Come on.’

  To her surprise he threw back the covers and started hunting round for his clothes.

  Christy stared at him perplexed. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Getting dressed and so are you. I want to make love to you, but when I do I want to be sure that we aren’t going to be interrupted. You and I are going back to London, and then I’m going to chain you to my side to make sure this time when I wake up I don’t wake up alone.’

  ‘Mum’s going to be surprised when she gets back,’ Christy reflected.

  ‘You think so?’ Simon stopped dressing long enough to grin at her.

  ‘You mean she knew?’

  ‘I had to tell her before she would agree to let me approach you about working for me. It was my last chance. I was scared stupid I would lose you to Miles, and it was the best method of keeping you away from him that I could come up with, but don’t expect me to wait until she comes home to marry you. The three days it takes to get a special licence is more than long enough.’ He took her in his arms and kissed her, frowning slightly when she pulled away, his frown changing to a mocking smile when she asked breathlessly, ‘How long does it take to get back to London?’

  * * * * *

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  PENNY JORDAN,

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  THE SECRET HEIR OF ALAZAR

  The first book in her Seduced by a Sheikh duet!

  Gracie Jones spends one forbidden night with Malik al Bahjat—but he’s called to his duty as heir to the throne of Alazar before she discovers her pregnancy. When Malik learns the truth, he’s intent on crowning Gracie his desert queen!

  Keep reading for a glimpse of

  THE SECRET HEIR OF ALAZAR

  CHAPTER ONE

  SHE MESMERISED HIM. Malik al Bahjat, heir to the throne of Alazar, watched the girl from afar. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but that was part of her charm. Golden-brown hair tumbled down her back in a riot of artless, unstyled waves and curls. Her face was freckled, hazel eyes glinting with humour, with hope, with happiness—three things Malik didn’t think he’d ever truly experienced.

  She sat on the arm of a sofa, long, golden legs tucked up, wearing cut-off denim shorts and a billowy white top, a pair of bright purple sneakers on her feet. Men were chatting with her, of course—they couldn’t keep their eyes off her. No one could. She vibrated with life, with the enjoyment of life, every curve of her lithe body vibrant and sinuous. She was so alive.

  And Malik had felt like a walking automaton for years, programmed for nothing but onerous duty. He took one step into the room, towards her. He didn’t usually go to parties. He was in Rome to assist his grandfather in negotiating a new trade deal with the European Union. Alazar had forged strong links with Europe, links that could stabilise his country’s fraught economy as well as the entire region of the Arabian Peninsula.

  These meetings were important, Malik knew that; Asad al Bahjat had certainly drilled that into him. Alazar’s peace and prosperity rested on meetings such as this one. Then out of the blue a friend from his military school days had contacted him, inviting him out, and, knowing how rare such opportunities were, Malik had agreed. One night. One evening where he could act as if he were like other men, as if he had control of his own future, were able to shape his own happiness. Surely he could have that. Surely, after so many years of unquestioning obedience, he deserved it.

  He took a step further into the room. Another step towards her. Even though he was still several metres away she turned, her golden gaze clashing and then tangling with his. It felt like slamming into a wall, leaving him breathless. He didn’t want to so much as blink in case he severed the connection.

  She looked shocked, her gaze wide and surprised, her full pink lips slightly parted. She didn’t blink either. Malik walked towards her.

  He didn’t know what he was going to say; he had no chat-up lines. His experience with women was woefully limited, thanks to the security precautions that had been put in place for his own safety. He’d grown up in a palace, with every luxury to hand, but in virtual isolation, save for several rigid years at military school, which had presented their own challenges and difficulties. This was, he acknowledged in wry bemusement, the first real party he’d ever attended. Diplomatic receptions and charity benefits didn’t count.

  ‘Hello.’ His voice came in a husky rumble; he immediately cleared his throat.

  Not a great start, but a smile bloomed across her face that warmed him like a golden ray of sunshine. ‘Hello.’ Her voice was low and musical.

  They stared at each other for a long moment; Malik realised he was grinning. It appeared neither of them knew any chat-up lines.

  She let out a soft gurgle of laughter, her eyes alight with humour and mischief. ‘Are you going to tell me your name, at least?’

  ‘Malik.’ He paused, his mind whirling, spinning with delight at simply being in her presence, basking in the glow of her undivided attention. ‘And yours?’

  ‘Grace. But most people call me Gracie. It started when I was a baby and somehow stuck. I tried being Grace for a while, but everyone acted like I was putting on airs. Apparently I’m not the sophisticated type, you know, like Grace Kelly?’ She made a rueful face, with laughing eyes. He was enchanted.

  Gracie. He savoured the syllables in his mind, in knowing even this much about her. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Gracie. And I like your name just as it is.’

  ‘You have an accent.’ She cocked her head, her glinting gaze sweeping over him, affecting him in ways that surprised and unnerved him. She was just looking. But he could feel his libido stir, insistent, unforgotten despite years of being ruthlessly reined in. ‘But you’re not Italian?’ It was offered as a question.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘I’m…’ He paused. Tonight he did not want to be an heir, a sultan-in-waiting. He’d been that, and nothing but that, since he was twelve years old.

  Now that Azim is gone you must put your childish pursuits aside. You must take his place and be a man.

  ‘I’m from Alazar.’

  ‘Alazar?’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘I’ve never heard of it. Is it in Europe?’

  ‘No, the Middle East. I suppose not many people have heard of it. It is a small place.’ And so he dismissed his country, his upbringing and his entire life with a shrug and in that moment he did not feel even a flicker of guilt. ‘And you, I am guessing, are American?’

  Her eyes danced. ‘How did you know? Was it the awful Midwestern twang? I make myself cringe, so I can’t imagine how you feel.’

  ‘Your accent is charming.’

  She let out a laugh, the sound as rich and full-bodied as the finest wine. ‘Now that’s a first. I asked someone for directions this morning and they looked appalled.’

  ‘Then they were both rude and stupid.’ She laughed again, and he loved that he had amused her. The knowledge was heady, intoxicating. He didn’t need anything to drink, not when he was in her presence. ‘What are you doing in Rome?’

  ‘I’m travelling for the summer, before I start college back in Illinois.’ She wrinkled her nose again, her smile wry. ‘I’ve always wanted to see the world, something people back home don’t really understand.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, in fact I think most people back home think I’m crazy.’ She adopted a stronger version of her own American twang. ‘What do you want to go travelling around the world for, Gracie? It’s dangerous out there!’ She threw her head back so her hair, in all of its curls and waves, cascaded down her back in a golden-brown waterfall. ‘Yep. That’s me. Certifiable for wanting to see a little bit of the world.’

  ‘I do not think you are the crazy one.’

  ‘That makes two of us, then.’ She grinned. ‘So what are you doing in Rome?’

  ‘Business with my grandfather. I am afraid it is most dull.’ He did not want to talk about himself. ‘So where are you from in America?’

  ‘Addison Heights. I don’t even know why it’s called heights,’ she added with another laugh. ‘There aren’t any. It’s as flat as a pancake. Wishful thinking, I suppose.’

  ‘You’re different from your friends,’ Malik surmised. It was an obvious statement; she was different from everyone. He’d never met someone who shone with such life. He wanted to stand next to her simply to absorb her excitement, her interest.

  But no, he wanted more than that. He wanted to touch her silky skin, kiss those petal-pink lips. The realisation shocked him. Sexual desire had been something that had been necessarily shelved for most of his life; now, at twenty-two years old, he felt its overwhelming force.

  ‘Hey, Gracie.’ A young man in a wrinkled polo shirt with a pair of beer bottles clutched in one meaty hand shouldered his way towards them. Malik tensed, resenting the intrusion. He was gratified to see that Gracie looked as if she resented it as well, her lips pursing, eyes flashing.

  The man gave Malik a wary sideways glance before attempting to edge him out, half standing in front of him, as he handed a beer to Gracie. ‘Got your drink.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, and took the bottle but not a sip.

  Malik shifted his weight so his shoulder br
ushed the other man’s. The man flinched. At six-three, Malik topped the guy by a good five inches and was heavier and more muscular by several stone. He’d never had to use his size except in training situations, but he discovered he had no compunction about using it now. And neither did Gracie; her eyes glinted again with humour and she smiled, a smile that felt as if it was aimed for him alone, secretive and promising.

  ‘Actually,’ she told the man sweating next to Malik, ‘I’m not thirsty any more.’ She handed him the beer bottle as her gaze swerved to fasten on Malik’s. ‘What I’d really like is some fresh air.’

  ‘As would I,’ Malik returned smoothly. He held out his hand to Gracie, and she slid hers across his palm, causing a tingling, tightening sensation in his midsection.

  ‘Let’s go, then,’ Gracie said, her eyes sparkling, and Malik led her out of the crowded room.

  * * *

  What was she doing?

  Gracie’s insides felt as if they were full of leaping, wriggling fish as she followed Malik outside the town house in Rome’s Trevi district. The June air was warm and balmy, the night full of sounds of city life: the distant buzz of a moped, the clink of glasses and laughter from a nearby café. They stood outside the town house, the air caressing their skin like velvet, the mood expectant and alive.

  Malik turned to face her, still holding her hand. In the night she could only just make out his eyes, the colour of granite, the proud slashes of his cheekbones. He was the most physically arresting man she’d ever seen. From the second he’d walked through the door she hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him. He was tall, commanding, his broad shoulders and muscled torso encased in a crisp white button-down shirt, his long, powerful legs in charcoal-grey trousers. Next to the motley assembly of college grads and twenty-somethings decked out in dirty jeans and T-shirts, he looked magnificent. Regal. And he’d singled her out for his attention.

  A thrill rippled through her. It wasn’t like her to be so forward, so bold. She was Gracie Jones from Addison Heights, Illinois, population three thousand. She’d never had a boyfriend, had gone through high school without even being kissed. She hadn’t minded; she’d always been waiting for something better, for life to really begin.