But he’d hurt her too badly. Adeline had locked herself away from him, and she didn’t seem to have any intention of loosening the shield she’d brought over her heart.
She pulled away from him, walking out of the kitchen, so that he had no choice but to follow. She stood at the door, at the end of the hallway, her eyes focused on the white wall straight ahead. Photo frames were propped to her left and he looked at one absent-mindedly, distracted, as he drew near to her.
It was a family photo, taken when Addie was perhaps seven or eight. Her brother looked to be a few years younger. And her parents stood, proudly, in the background, her father’s arm around her mother’s shoulders.
“The night I discovered you weren’t, in fact, Ava Peters,” he said throatily, standing in front of her, willing her eyes to meet his, “I had been about to propose.”
“What?” She blinked up at him, as though she hadn’t understood his statement. As though he’d spoken in a foreign language. “To propose to me?”
“Yes, Addie,” he laughed, though he was far from amused. “Santiago was right to wonder why we weren’t engaged. I told him the day after I met you that I wanted to marry you.” His smile was self-condemnatory.
He could see Addie rejecting the assertion. How strange that her honesty had been their battleground and now his words were being called into question.
“What is it you were so fond of saying to me?” She pretended to consider it. “Oh, yes, that’s right. It doesn’t matter! It’s all ancient history!”
“I was wrong,” he groaned. “Wrong in every single way. I was wrong not to let you explain. I was wrong not to simply help you when you came to me, seeing how terrified you were. I knew, even then, that something big had happened, and I used that to get you back into my life. Think about it, Addie. If I didn’t love you, why would I have concocted a way to spend more time with you?”
“To humiliate me,” she whispered. “To rub the fact you had moved on and I hadn’t in my face?”
“I didn’t move on,” he said.
She arched a brow, her lips curved in a sarcastic rejoinder. “You boasted about how easily you replaced me.”
“My ego lied.”
Her eyes flashed. “You expect me to believe you haven’t dated anyone since me? Slept with anyone else?”
“I swear to you, Addie. I have pined for you. I have hated you to the point of distraction, but only because I loved you so much I couldn’t believe what you’d done. What I thought you’d done,” he amended swiftly. “I was hurt, okay?” He pressed a palm to the wall beside her, bringing his body closer to hers. “I didn’t want to let you explain because I knew that I was this close to just forgetting about the past. To giving you anything you wanted. How much I love you terrified me. It still does.”
Her voice was a husk when she spoke. “I can’t do this anymore. I’d rather be alone than with someone who can hate me like you do…”
“I don’t hate you.”
She grimaced. “My heart was already broken when I met you and then I fell in love and I felt whole for the first time in a long time and you took that all away.” To emphasise her point, she dashed away her tears. “I’ve had enough pain to last a lifetime. You were my refuge from that, but you’re not now.”
She cleared her throat. “Thank you for coming here, for offering to help.” The words were said with an attempt at professionalism that was belied by her inability to meet his eyes. “But I returned the cheque to underscore the fact that we are over.”
“We’re not over, querida.”
Her eyes lanced him with their fury. “Don’t call me that. I’m not your dear. Your darling.”
“You are my everything,” he promised swiftly.
“And you are my agony.”
He groaned, pressing his head forward, his brow touching hers. She didn’t immediately move. He breathed her in, and he ached to kiss her, but he didn’t. “Tell me you don’t love me.”
Addie startled; he felt it.
“Tell me now that you no longer love me.”
Addie’s eyes fluttered shut. “I’m not like you,” she said defensively. “I can’t just switch my feelings on and off.”
“Nor can I, believe me,” he promised throatily.
“I’ve loved you almost a year,” she said with a shake of her head. “I hope one day I won’t, but I have no idea - I’ve never been in love before.” She cleared her throat, the hopelessness of her feelings vibrating deep in her gut. “But I know I can’t be with you.”
“Can you not be with me?” He asked gently. “Can you really live without what we are? Is that what you want?”
“Don’t.” It was a whispered plea. “Don’t make this about what I want.”
“Why not? Don’t you think it matters?”
She jerked her head upwards. “I want,” the word was angry. “To take away all the pain we’ve caused each other. I want to go back to what we were in London, where it was simple and I was so full of love that I felt like I was going to explode. But wanting something doesn’t make it so.”
“Why not?” He grabbed her arms and pulled her to him, and the look in his face was so full of warmth and strength that some of it flowed into her ice-cold body. “I love you and you love me, and I want, more than anything, everything you’ve just described. I am sorry for everything, Addie. Everything. You do not need to fear I will forget what this feels like – nor that I will ever risk hurting you again. Knowing what I have done to you, remembering the things I have said, the words I have thrown at you…” He paled before her. “I am sickened and disgusted by how I treated you. All the time I fought you, I fought what I felt, and I knew I was ruining it, but I didn’t seem able to stop. I will never forget the hurt I have seen in your eyes, and the knowledge that I was the instrument of it. I will spend my life making sure you are never hurt again. With my dying breath I will protect and honor you. With all that I am I will serve you and love you and build you up. I will believe you.”
She bit back a sob.
“I will believe you unstintingly. I will be your biggest champion and friend. I will be your husband, the father of your children, and your best friend. If you will only say ‘yes’.”
But Addie shook her head, uncertainty and doubt tumbling through her, even when she knew that he was offering what she needed. “I’ve been so miserable,” she whispered.
“Me too, querida.”
At her look of displeasure he said urgently, “You are my darling, my dear, my heart, my breath. I am incomplete without you. You are not Ava Peters, you are Adeline Scott, but if I have my wish, you will be Addie Rodriguez as soon as we can arrange it. You are my querida, my darling, my dear, no matter what you say. I will always love you.”
Addie’s eyes narrowed and her heart tripped.
“I will always love you,” he repeated emphatically, desperately, urgently.
Addie bit down on her lower lip, her world tilting strangely so that she felt her balance was leaving her, but inside, she was smiling, her heart shining. The tug between brain and blind faith was one her heart had every intention of winning.
She eyed him thoughtfully, and he pressed his forehead to hers. “Please, Addie. I am well aware that I do not deserve you, but I am begging you to let me stay, to be a part of your life. Let me love you as I should have loved you all alone. Let me start now, to make up for the pain I have caused you.”
She sucked in a shaking breath.
“If you give me a chance, I will fix this. I will make you happier than you ever thought possible.”
And though she knew he was speaking the truth, though she could tell how genuine he was being, she met his eyes with a silent challenge. And her words were only slightly weakened by the smile that spread across her face. “Okay, Mr Rodriguez. Prove it.”
Epilogue
IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG for Addie to see that Guy meant what he’d said. For her to remember what it was like to be loved by him. But it was a different kind
of love, the second time around.
They had been through so much together, they had weathered so much, and they had come terribly close to losing the love they shared. The knowledge of that kept them bonded in a way that was unique and robust.
Guy understood what a gift Adeline’s love was, and he knew he would never do anything to risk losing it; he knew that he would respect their connection with all that he was.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Guy leaned across the golf cart, his fingers squeezing Addie’s. Her wedding ring was a simple gold band, at her insistence, and his fingertips grazed the smooth jewel distractedly. I can’t have you thinking I’m marrying you for your money, now, can I? Addie had teased, as they’d strolled through Tiffany & Co in Manhattan, eyeing off rings.
She teased him a lot.
She laughed with him a lot.
She had cried only once, in the two years since they’d married, and they had been happy tears – only six weeks earlier.
She had resisted all of the gifts he’d offered her, except flowers, which she adored.
“Why wait?” She lifted a brow, her meaning clear, and for a moment, Guy’s happiness was tinged with something like grief.
Santiago was ill once more. His time was close. Guy wasn’t sure how he was going to weather the loss of his mentor and beloved grandfather, only he was sure that he would, with Addie by his side.
“Si.” He nodded. “Why wait, indeed?”
A contemplative silence settled between them, as the cart drew closer to the house.
“How is your mother today?”
Addie’s laugh was like a whisper on the breeze. “She is convinced she is a Renoir in the making I think.”
It had been Guy’s suggestion to get Sylvie into art therapy after she came out of rehab. A new obsession to fire her blood. Guy had made all of it so easy – he’d set Sylvie up in one of his properties in France, and though she lived an idyllic lifestyle, his staff kept an eye on her, making sure she was happy and well, and that old habits didn’t reemerge. And they hadn’t. Sylvie had been given a new lease on life, thanks to her daughter’s persistence and Guy’s devotion, and she wasn’t about to gamble it away.
The cart stopped out the front of the house and Guy stepped out first, moving to open Addie’s door for her, then putting an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close.
“He is thinner than you will expect. Paler, too.”
“I know.” She blinked up at him. She saw his pain and kissed him, gently, hoping to take it away. “Let’s go watch the sunset with him, querido.”
Hours later, as the last of the day’s color bled into the night sky, with Santiago on the brink of sleep, Addie told him what they’d come to Acantilados to share. “You’re going to be a great grandfather, Santiago.”
The older man’s eyes fired with renewed life, with pleasure and relief, and for a moment, colour shone in his cheeks. He reached out, placing a hand on Guy’s and a hand on Addie’s and he nodded, as though he had personally ensured their happiness, as though he had played matchmaker in some way.
It was Santiago’s last sunset. He passed away in the middle hours of that night, joining his beloved Rafaela, but he took with him to heaven the knowledge that the family line was to continue, and he was never forgotten. When Guy and Addie welcomed a chubby little boy into the world, months later, they knew, without even speaking on the subject, what he would be called.
“Santiago is every bit as strong as his namesake,” Addie said, as she clutched her newborn son to her breast and his fingers wrapped around her thumb, tight, squeezing her until she laughed.
“And every bit as perfect as his mother.”
Their ruse to fool an old man had turned out to be only the absolute truth – and all that was left was to live happily ever after, which they both had every intention of doing.
The End
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FOLLOWING IS AN EXCERPT FROM THE SHEIKH’S BABY BARGAIN, BOOK ONE IN THE BESTSELLING ‘THE EVERMORE SERIES’.
THE SHEIKH’S BABY BARGAIN
THE SHEIKH’S
BABY BARGAIN
BOOK ONE
IN
THE EVERMORE SERIES
CLARE CONNELLY
THE EVERMORE SERIES is here. Star-crossed lovers, passion and fate, these stories will centre on couples whose love seems almost pre-destined. Star-filled nights, candle-lit seduction, ancient betrayals and the kind of love that sets your soul on fire…
About the Author
Clare Connelly is the internationally best-selling author of over fifty romance novels available digitally and in print, including novels in the Harlequin Presents/Mills & Boon Modern and Dare series.
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Excerpt
1
THE ROOM WAS FULL of guests, dripping in expensive jewels, wearing the brightly coloured fabrics this region of Ras el-Kida was known for. Dusky pinks, turquoise, purple and vibrant blue, and from the corner of the ornately decorated space, beautiful guitar music was filling the ‘golden room’ of the palace – so called because every wall was covered in gold paper, the floor was tiled in gold and the chandeliers had been cast of gold and bronze, with diamonds inlaid in the centre of each. Even without the glittering attendees, this room was spectacular, but now, it was like a living, thriving river of stars.
Every person who’d been invited seemed to be present. Except one.
Where the hell was his wife?
Sheikh Rafiq Al-Khalil’s eyes ran across the crowd, noting many familiar dignitaries and guests, the usual crowd at royal functions, and yet her royal highness was nowhere to be seen.
Impatience zipped at his gut. How long had it been since last they’d met? Several months, at least. Six? Could it be so many?
Something shifted inside of him – frustration. Six months since he’d called upon her to serve in her capacity as Sheikha and still she could not manage to arrive on time?
His lips compressed with impatience, his handsome face unknowingly stern, so that several people nearby had occasion to turn away, lest the ruler’s rage fall upon them.
He was not an unkind King, but he had great power, as had all the men who’d come before him, and there were some who feared how that power might manifest.
“Your highness.” The softly-voiced greeting, tinged with an American accent, came from behind him and he straightened his back, every fibre of his being tensing in alert of what he might see.
Six months.
Slowly, he spun around, his back straight, his broad shoulders squared, his jet-black eyes landing on his wife’s face with an air of sardonic disapproval.
He allowed his eyes to roam her face first, noting the combative set of her chin, cheeks that dimpled when she smiled – though it had been a long time since he’d seen that aimed at himself, full pink lips, shaped like cupid bows; eyes that looked as though they’d been cast from powdered bluebells and iris; hair that was the colour of the desert sands beyond the old city.
She’d dressed in a traditional Fas’r – the long, flowing robes princesses had worn for generations. Bright red with gold embellishments, it wrapped tightly around her, showing the curve of her breasts and the neatness of her stomach, but it flowed to the floor so he had to imagine how her bottom might look, and her legs, too.
“How kind of you to grace us with your presence,” he said eventually, the words cold, his smile a grim acknowledgement of civility rather than a genuine si
gn of welcome or affection.
“I know my duty, sir,” she said, batting her lashes in a way that made a mockery of the statement. “When you send a curt note beckoning me to the palace, heavens, I’d better come running.”
Raffa’s eyes sparked with something dangerously close to amusement. “And yet still you managed to be late.”
“Oh, don’t blow a gasket.” She rolled her eyes and then added, as a reluctant mark of deference, “Your highness.”
Now, Raffa did laugh, a short, but nonetheless melodious sound that was like sunshine on a winter’s morning.
“Not at all. I was just thinking of the disrespect you show our people with your tardiness.”
“Disrespect?” She glared at him. It was just like Raffa to insult her by implying she was anything less than devoted to this Kingdom of his. An irony indeed, given that she spent almost all her time and energy working towards its betterment. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been here almost an hour.”
“Where were you then?” He asked, his disbelief understandable. After all, not much happened within the walls of Qasr Alnujum, this ancient palace, without Raffa’s knowledge.
“With Malik,” she said softly, sweeping her eyes shut for a moment and angling her head away, so Raffa had a view of her elegant neck, her beautiful face unable to hide the grief she felt.
He knew it to be genuine. Her love and affection for his father was the one thing he knew about her – since she was a child, she’d adored Malik, and even now, when she avoided her husband like the plague, she made time for the dying King. “And how was my father?”
Claiming his Secret Baby & Blackmailed by the Spaniard (Clare Connelly Pairs Book 4) Page 36
