“Kyle!” Annie spun around. “How long have you been planning this?”
“Not long,” he assured her. They moved into the apartment but they were not alone for long. Juanita and Adam followed soon after, with a delicious little bundle of eight-month-old perfection.
Annie was unused to competition, but she had to fight Sylvia most of the night for cuddles with the divine Jackson Smith.
“How are you?” She asked Juanita quietly, in an interlude when the baby was being doted on by its grandparents and the two women were alone.
“We’re doing better,” she said simply. “Jackson helps.”
“I’m so sorry,” Annie shook her head, cupping her hand over Juanita’s where it rested on the bench.
“Whatever for? Dearest Annie, without you and Kyle, I hate to think what would have happened. He was on such a downward spiral.”
“But he isn’t now.” Annie smiled reassuringly. “He’s going to meetings every day?”
“Every day,” Juanita nodded. “He’s a changed man. I loved him before, but now? I admire and respect him so much for conquering those demons.”
Annie felt tears sparkle on her lashes and she blinked them away. “I’m pleased for you.”
“Annie? Your parents don’t know a thing about it and Adam would prefer ...”
“Oh, of course. Say no more. Sylvie and Gray would have perfectly timed side-by-side heart attacks.”
Annie cradled her champagne in her hand, staring across the room. Adam and Kyle were deep in conversation, but they were smiling, and her parents were hunched over the swaddled figure of baby Jackson. It was a perfect moment. A perfect birth of something new and special.
“We’re a family,” she said with a shake of her head, wondering at the man who had never known such a thing and yet who had been so skilled at holding hers together. “Excuse me a moment.”
She grabbed the shopping bags from beside the door, where she’d deposited them earlier, and took them into the bedroom. Then, just as Kyle had done, she placed the garments onto hangers and displayed them at the front of her wardrobe.
It was perfect.
With a small smile, she moved back into the lounge room and put a hand on Kyle’s arm. “Sorry, Adam. I need my husband for a moment.”
Adam nodded. “Sure. I’ll see if Win needs a hand.”
“Annie?” Kyle studied her face. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. But I’m bursting out of my skin with impatience. You’re not the only who had a surprise planned for today, you know.”
“Oh?” He walked behind her into the bedroom. “Well, Mrs Anderson? What is it?”
She didn’t say anything, but simply watched as his eyes lifted to the wardrobe and realisation began to slowly dawn. It was followed by disbelief. “Annie? What are you ...?”
She bit down on her lip. “What do you think?”
“You’re ... you’re pregnant?”
She nodded, a sense of excitement bursting through her.
“Since when? Since ... what?”
“I found out ages ago. Or at least it feels like it. But Kyle? I didn’t want to tell you until it was safer. I mean, given my past, we’re still not ...”
“Don’t think about it. You know the doctors told you there’s no reason to think that will happen again.”
“I know.” She smiled brightly. “That’s what I keep telling myself.”
“Annie, I can’t believe this is true.”
“It is.”
“But you don’t look any different,” he laughed sceptically.
“I do too! You just love me too much to see the rapidly expanding waistline.”
“You’re perfect,” he shook his head. “We’re really going to have a baby?”
“A little summer baby.” She wrapped her hands over her stomach. “Our own little love.”
“Do you want to tell them?”
She bit down on her lip and nodded slowly. “But not just yet.” She looked up at him and put her arms around his waist. “I just want to savour this moment a little bit longer.”
“Sounds good to me, Mrs Anderson.”
And he held her tight and he loved her, as he knew he would for the rest of his life.
THE END
Following is an excerpt from THE PRINCESS’S FORBIDDEN LOVER which is released on the 30th August.
THE PRINCESS’S FORBIDDEN LOVER
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 2016
(c) Clare Connelly
Photo Credit: dollarphotoclub.com/
Contact Clare:
http://www.clareconnelly.co.uk
Blog: http://clarewriteslove.wordpress.com/
Email: [email protected]
Follow Clare Connelly on facebook for all the latest.
Join Clare’s Newsletter to stay up to date on all the latest CC news. http://www.clareconnelly.co.uk/subscribe.html
“Rocks and water form sand on the shoreline; just as
hardship and discipline form personality and strength.
Through the ebbs of denial and flows of trial come a character’s
essence of power.”
- The tale of The First Sheikh of Delani, 17 A.D
PROLOGUE
Six months earlier.
“Only you, Will.”
The American tinkered with the toe of his boot, his gaze fixed on the pocked floorboards beneath him. His Royal Highness’s demand was clear and Will understood it. Nevertheless, the journalist within felt compelled to ask, “I work with a photographer ...”
“Just you.” Kiral didn’t raise his voice; such drama was unnecessary for a man to whom absolute power was guaranteed. “Media coverage of my impending nuptials is not something I relish. It is ... crass. But for you, I am prepared to make an exception.”
The silence crackled down the phone line. They both knew this story was the last piece Will would choose to be writing if things had been different. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice thick with frustration. “Just me.” After all, it was hardly likely to involve any great journalistic endeavour. A fluffy article regarding the principal players in the Sheikh’s wedding was dozens of paygrades beneath Will’s usual efforts.
“Good.” Kiral’s relaxation was evident. “You will provide Alain with a list of subjects.”
“Sure.” He nodded. “It will mainly be the family. Your bride, of course.”
“My bride. Yes.” There was a strength of feeling in the Sheikh’s voice which Will attributed to Kiral’s anticipation. After all, this wedding had been planned for many years and was highly coveted by both countries.
“I’ll send Alain the list tomorrow.”
“Fine. And Will?” Another long, charged pause. “I heard about what happened in Lahmnon. I was very sorry for you.”
Will pushed harder at the leather on his shoe, his jaw square as he focused every inch of his being on not remembering that night. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Thanks. I appreciate your saying so.”
“War is a terrible business, my friend,” Kiral murmured. “A needless war such as that even more so.”
Will squeezed his eyes shut. “It didn’t feel needless to the men I was with.”
“No.” Kiral compressed his lips. “It never does to those on the ground. I was ... pleased that you, at least, made it out safely.”
Will didn’t respond. He couldn’t. To admit that he’d been anything but relieved at having made it out unscathed was to do a dishonor to the men and women who hadn’t been so lucky.
“I’ll email the list.”
“Of course. Good night.”
Will disconnected the call, and leaned back in the ancient armchair. It creaked a little as his bulky frame pressed back into the soft upholstery. The noise was in stark contrast to the silence that enveloped him. Here in the country, far from civilization and its uncivilized acts, he sucked in a deep breath and hoped one day he would feel whole again.
Part One
NEW YORK
FIVE MONTHS BEFORE THE ROYAL WEDDING
CHAPTER ONE
In the course of her twenty four years, Her Royal Highness Jalilah Mazroui had completed literally hundreds of interviews. Though she abhorred the public duties required of her, she nonetheless accepted them as a necessary function of her role and took part diligently and with at least the appearance of good grace.
But none of the interviews in her experience had left her feeling wrong-footed in this manner.
It wasn’t that he was gorgeous; though he was. It wasn’t his dark blonde hair and the way it flopped forward over his brow, nor the square jawline that was covered in stubble, nor the dimple in his cheek and the large brown eyes that seemed to look at her as though they comprehended so much more than she wanted him to. Perhaps it was his air of intentional dishevelment – the way he looked as though he was meeting with a friend for coffee rather than the princess of a powerful country.
Where most of her guests dressed in their most formal clothes, this man had selected instead a pair of beige pants and pale blue shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. It was untucked too, though well-fitted so she could appreciate his slim strength as he walked across the apartment to shake her hand.
Against protocol, he’d conformed with the American greeting and his fingers had been long and capable, confident and calloused, as though he’d spent a lot of time outdoors.
Strange, for a journalist.
“Are you sure you won’t have some tea?” She prompted, wrapping her fingers around the delicate pot and lifting it an inch off the table.
“I’m fine,” he demurred, his gaze not faltering from the notepad he had propped carelessly across his knee.
Lilah, teapot in air, tilted it into her own porcelain cup then replaced it onto the table. She clasped the cup with two hands as she settled back into the cream sofa and crossed her legs elegantly. “You are perhaps like my brother; he also does not drink tea.”
His smile didn’t touch his eyes. “You’re close to Kiral?”
Lilah sipped her drink, regarding him over the rim of the pretty cup. Wherever she went in the world, this same porcelain set seemed to travel with her. Years ago, she’d wondered at the logistics of making sure the royal family was catered to in this fashion. Who was responsible for ferrying delicate porcelain dishes? Or were they always on the jet, ready for unpacking as needed? It was a superfluous exercise, for Lilah would have enjoyed her tea out of a tin can.
“Ma’am?” He prompted, when she placed her cup down without responding.
“My parents died a long time ago,” she said, no longer upset by the black and white admission. It was a matter of public record, and she’d had occasion to refer to it many times in the past. “I think this inked a special bond between Ki and me, as with all siblings who have helped raise one another.”
The American nodded, but there was a cynicism in his eyes that sent a needle along the edge of her mind. He continued to stare at her, as though waiting for her to continue. Lilah, not easily discomforted, could feel her pulse churning faster inside of her.
“You do not agree?” She prompted, her voice steady despite the strange lurching feeling sparked by the sardonic dismissal in his gaze.
He crossed his ankle onto his knee and continued to study her. Lilah’s heart trembled.
“It’s not for me to agree or disagree,” he drawled after several weighted moments had passed. “I’m interviewing you. If that’s what you want to say ...”
Now it was Lilah’s turn to arch a brow in disbelief. “You are accusing me of lying?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Your Highness,” he denied with a casual shrug.
“My answer was genuine,” she said with a softness to her tone. “I apologise if it’s not the one you were looking for.”
He lowered his intense brown eyes to the paper in his book and scrawled a few notes. His handwriting was large and loopy, and utterly illegible from where she sat.
“And you?” Lilah surprised him by asking, reaching for her cup once more. “My brother speaks highly of you.”
“I’m honoured,” Will said with honesty.
“You should be. He is an excellent judge of character. He has a particular disdain for the media, so you must have done something impressive to overcome that.”
Many people would have regarded her statement as almost an order; a royal decree weakly disguised as a question.
Will apparently did not, and so Lilah phrased her curiosity in a more specific form.
“How did you meet Kiral?”
Will’s eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly, but it was enough to transform his face. Lilah stared straight back at him, wondering at the antipathy she sensed. Far from being offended by it, she was fascinated. After all, having known the man for a sum total of ten minutes, there was no way his reaction could be a reflection of anything she’d done.
“During a treaty signing I was covering.”
“When?” She pushed, enjoying the fact that it was now he who seemed wrong-footed.
His lips formed a deep frown, though not one of displeasure so much as thoughtfulness. “About four years ago.”
“And you became friends?”
He flicked his pen against the edge of his notebook. “We became acquainted.”
Lilah nodded slowly. There was something in this man’s reserved character that reminded her of Kiral. Not as he was with her, but as he was to strangers. There was a guardedness in the journalist’s manner that she instinctively understood.
“You don’t have friends?” She prodded, wondering in the back of her mind at the uncharacteristic line of inquisition she was indulging.
He pinned her with his eyes. Her question had unlocked a vault of feeling within him. “I’m here to interview you, remember?”
She swallowed. Her throat felt dry and thick. She lifted her teacup once more, taking a moment to settle her fluttering nerves. “Go on then.”
“You do this a lot, I presume.”
“Interviews? Or pick up jewels for my brother?”
His smile was a small twist in his lips. “The former.”
She shrugged her slender shoulders and the cream fabric of the dress she wore fell a little. Will’s eyes followed her hand as it lifted and straightened the transparent scarf. She spent a moment readjusting it, so that it hung perfectly around her once more, then focused her steady gaze on him.
Her eyes were very like Kiral’s, but other than that, they were vastly different looking. This woman, Jalilah, was petite and almost-fragile looking. Her lips were curved and her nose lifted a little at the end, making her look younger than her twenty four years. Her dark hair had been braided into a crown that sat tucked around her head. No doubt one of her many servants had arranged it for her.
“It’s part of who I am,” she agreed softly.
“Interviews are a part of who you are?”
She nodded. “Media appearances anyway.”
He leaned back in his chair, and for several long seconds he simply stared at her. “You don’t like it though.”
Her smile was enigmatic. “Don’t I?”
It was rare for Will to be frustrated by his interview subjects. It was rarer still for them to easily side-step his questions. Most people talked like faucets that wouldn’t shut off when given the opportunity.
“No. You find this sort of thing demeaning.”
Demeaning. It was just the word Lilah had thought as she’d dressed for this appointment. Looking forlornly through th
e windows as dusk had settled upon this fascinating city she’d longed to be on the other side of the glass, down on the streets, walking and seeing and tasting and experiencing as an incognito local. To be living without her army of security and the clothes that had cost a small fortune. Instead, she’d dressed with care and waited while her hair was braided and her make up completed, and then she’d presented herself for the demeaning spectacle.
“Are you sure you wish to interview me, sir? You seem to know my answers better than I do myself. Perhaps you could save us both some time and supply all the answers yourself.”
His laugh was spectacular. It cracked around the room like lightning. An unfamiliar frisson spun through her nerves. His entire expression changed under the force of his wry mirth. Though she didn’t know him well, Lilah wondered if it was rare for him to give himself over to it. For some reason, she thought so.
“Am I wrong?” He asked, a smile still hinted at by his broad lips.
“That I find this demeaning?”
“Yeah.”
She swallowed. “I find it intrusive at times,” she said honestly. Her eyes widened and she shook her head. “Though I would prefer you not to relay it. Such a sentiment would seem ungrateful to my people, and I would never wish them to believe that of me.”
“You think you’re ungrateful because you don’t want your inner-most thoughts laid bare for the world to read?”
“My inner-most thoughts are definitely not on the table,” she promised, her voice surprising him with its defiance.
“Just the party line?”
“There is no ‘party line’,” she disputed, crossing her legs neatly in the opposite direction. She was dressed all in cream, and it set off the caramel tones of her skin spectacularly. She was very beautiful, in an untouchable-princess sort of way.
“Do you like your brother’s fiancé?”
The question was completely out of left field. Lilah frowned, tilting her head slightly to one side while she marshaled her thoughts together. “Melania is a lovely woman. She will be an excellent Emira for my country and my people.”
The Billionaire's Ruthless Revenge Page 13
