Blackmailed by the Spaniard

by Clare Connelly

  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

  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…

  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.

  For sneak-peeks at new-releases, covers, and to win exclusive members-only content, sign up to the CC newsletter, or follow Clare on facebook.

  To apply to become a CC Advance Reader, and get your hands on e-books ahead of publication in exchange for an honest review, please email [email protected]

  You can also follow Clare on Amazon and BookBub to get alerts for new releases.

  Happy reading!

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and have no existence outside the author’s very-vivid, non-stop imagination. They have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names and are pure invention (mwah-ha-ha).

  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 smokin’ hot model/s and, as gorgeous as they are, bears no relation to the characters described within.

  First published 2018

  (c) Clare Connelly

  Cover Credit: adobestock

  Contact Clare:

  http://www.clareconnelly.com

  Blog: http://clarewriteslove.wordpress.com/

  Email: [email protected]

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  CHAPTER ONE

  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 sign 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?”

  She swallowed; her slender neck moved visibly as she tried to bring moisture back to her mouth. But she turned to face him slowly, anguish thick in her expressive eyes. “He was… not good,” she said honestly. “Why didn’t you tell me?” The question was just a husk, and, damn it all to hell, tears sparkled on her lashes.

  Real tears.

  He hadn’t prepared for this. Seeing Chloe cry. A thrust of guilt – misplaced – dragged down his spine.

  “It would not have made any difference,” Raffa said with a shrug, coldness his defense to feeling anything for his wife. “Unless you are secretly an oncologist or healer of another description?”

  Chloe slashed him with the ice in her gaze. “I know you and Malik have issues,” she said with a shake of her head. “But I believe he would take comfort from my presence.” He could tell she was about to turn away from him, to walk in a different direction.

  Raffa’s pulse ratcheted up a gear and all the intentions he’d had of speaking to her privately on this matter, of cajoling her gently, fled. “There are other ways to comfort a dying King,” he said silkily, reaching his hand out and curving his fingers around her wrist, holding her still lest she decide to flee.

  “Such as?” There was barely concealed anger in the words. When had they decided to hate one another? Perhaps they were always doomed to feel it – two independent, spirited people who had been morally obligated to enter into this farce of an arranged marriage?

  “The country needs an heir, Sheikha. And it rests on you to provide it.”

  *

  Chloe froze. The room swirled around her, people, princes, princesses, so much joy, and her ears were ringing with her husband’s pronouncement.

  “An heir?” She whispered the words, so he was obliged to lean closer in order to hear.

  Raffa compressed his lips in that way he had – the ease with which he could express his disapproval would have been a skill she admired were it not for the fact it was almost the only interaction they ever experienced. She couldn’t remember a time when he’d looked at her with something other than boredom or disdain.

  “A child.”

  “You mean, our child?” She felt all the warmth drain from her face.

  Raffa’s disdain grew, icing Chloe’s heart. “Unless you can think of another way to beget an heir.”

  Raffa was an only child, the sole son of the great Malik, and she, Chloe, was his wife – his only wife. It had been a long time since polygamy had been legal in this country, so there was no chance of suggesting he simply marry another woman with whom he could breed.

  “We said we’d wait,” she reminded him urgently.

  “We have waited.” He drew himself up to his full height, staring at her from darkly brooding eyes.

  “But it’s only been a year. I thought you meant, we’d wait… several years.” She trailed off lamely before regrouping. “I don’t even live at the palace. We haven’t even…” the words tapered off once more, and all the blood that had fallen from her face rushed back, hard and fast, filling her cheeks with an innocent blush.

  “Yes, Sheikha?” He prompted, the words droll, apparently determined to offer her no relief.

  “Well, it’s not something that I’ve even thought about,” she concluded without meeting his eyes.

  “Perhaps it’s time you started.”

  “But Malik…”

  “Needs to know the lineage is preserved. He is not well, Chloe. You’ve seen this for yourself. Do you not want to give an old man some p
eace of mind at the end of his life?”

  Her eyes narrowed and when she spoke, the words were shaky. “You’re using my affection for your father to manipulate me.”

  Her husband laughed, but it was a short, harsh sound. “Am I?”

  “You know I’d do anything for Malik.” Even marry you, she thought bitterly, the words unspoken but not unheard. They both understood the truth of their union – a marriage brought about by her father and his, a marriage that had made so much sense at the outset and that was now a great source of pain for Chloe. At least, it was whenever she had occasion to see her husband.

  For most of the time, living in the capital Qadim, in her own royal apartments, with her own maids and servants, she could focus on what she’d set out to achieve in acquiescing to this plan. She could pour her energy into charity work, championing the causes that were most important to her, instead of simply being Raffa’s Princess. And now, the royal-heir-provider.