The Sheikh's Million Dollar Bride & The Billionaire's Ruthless Revenge (Clare Connelly Pairs Book 6)

by Clare Connelly

A first class seat to New York had been reserved for her the following night. Transfer to the airport. Everything.

  Her stomach churned.

  One night.

  She pushed the piece of paper aside and turned her attention back to the box. A pen? She frowned, lifting it out thoughtfully. It took several moments before the significance of that pen took shape in her mind.

  She had loaned it to him, the first night they’d met. It had the name of the bar on it. She groaned softly and lay it down with the itinerary. What did that mean? Why did he have it after all these years? Had he kept it as some kind of shrine to what they were? Of course he hadn’t. If he’d wanted to build a shrine, he could have put her at the centre of it.

  Except she’d been unsuitable. And he’d been engaged.

  Determination strengthened her resolve.

  She looked into the box once more. There was a final item. A photograph.

  She didn’t even need to lift it up to know what it was.

  Her silly, happy, laughing, cross-eyed face, taken at a time when Sarah had known herself to be in love in the most uncomplicated of ways. He had been a man, and she had loved him, with no concept of the torment and pain their future would hold for her.

  He’d taken the photo, and then they’d made love for the first time.

  She closed her eyes on the unwelcome, haunting memories.

  But could she so easily close her eyes on the future?

  5

  I t was so much brighter and bigger than she’d imagined.

  So much more everything than she’d imagined. She stared at the city as it passed in a blur of peaches and gold, as the sun set behind the monoliths, shooting rays of light towards her. People moved as fast as she’d seen, and they were all so different. Some dressed to the nines and dripping with money, others in suits, jeans and shirts.

  She pressed her forehead against the darkly tinted window of the limousine, marvelling at the city she had seen in so many films and televisions shows but that she’d never really been able to fathom.

  Not until that moment, as the car slid through its belly, drawing her closer to … well, she didn’t really know.

  Only that Syed would be there.

  That they would have sex.

  And Sarah also knew herself well enough to know that she was trembling with anticipation and desire. That she had committed to this because she wanted to; because she couldn’t turn up a chance to be with him.

  One last time.

  Maybe it would give her some closure. A much-needed final chapter to the love story that had marred her life.

  No, her sister’s death had done that. Syed had been… what?

  She shook her head, returning her gaze to the beautiful high-rises. As the car travelled, the type of pedestrian shifted almost imperceptibly.

  The people they drove past now were almost all, without exception, visibly moneyed. Women in stunningly glamorous outfits, jeans that had been fashionably torn and tight crops, with heels that looked like they could stab someone clean through. Men in suits that looked made for them.

  The car turned off the road and dipped down, into a driveway that went underground. The parking garage was lit with fluorescent lights and the cars they moved past were a who’s who of luxurious makers. Mercedez, Bentley, BMW, Bugatti, Porsche. The visible wealth was totally new to Sarah, who’d spent almost her whole life in Iron Oaks.

  The limousine stopped at the base of the lift. “Madam.” The driver held the door for her and she stepped out, self-conscious now. The outfit she’d chosen earlier that day had seemed fine. It was one of her favourite dresses, in fact. A simple black with cap sleeves and figure hugging to the knees, she felt it was one of the only pieces she owned that made her look fashionably svelte rather than ungainly and skinny.

  Her shoes were scuffed. And she had only fashion jewellery to accessorise with. She’d added a geometric gold choker and fluffed her hair so that it had a bed-head look.

  But when she caught sight of herself in the reflection of the elevator, doubts overtook her.

  She wanted to click her shoes together three times and go home.

  Home to her comfortable clothes and Lexi snuggles. Home to her worn sofa and late-night TV.

  This was a world in which she didn’t belong.

  The feeling of being out of place and time only grew as the elevator moved upwards, all the way to the top of the Manhattan high-rise. The doors pinged open to reveal a small, anteroom. It was empty. The floor was white marble. The walls painted gold. And the lighting cast by a crystal chandelier that dangled from at least a double-height ceiling.

  The driver, she hadn’t realised until that moment he’d been wearing gloves, pressed a single finger against a button and then stepped back into the lift.

  Alone, Sarah’s pulse went into overdrive. She stared at the door, willing her racing heart to calm down, waiting impatiently.

  She steeled herself to see Syed.

  But it was a servant who opened the door.

  A woman, wearing a dark dress that fell to her ankles.

  “Miss Smith?” The woman smiled, her voice accented.

  “Hello.”

  The woman pulled the door inwards. “Please, come in.”

  Sarah skittled her with an uncertain gaze and then stepped just inside the door. Should she take her shoes off? The servant was wearing shoes. Sarah kept hers on.

  “His Highness is expecting you.”

  Given that he’d organised her trip, that was no surprise.

  “Great,” her smile was over-bright.

  “This way, please.”

  Sarah fell into step just behind the other woman, but as they moved deeper into the apartment, every doubt she’d had blew wide open.

  She had known Syed as Sy. She had believed him to be important and wealthy, but wealthy in a normal way. Successful, middle-class.

  This was a whole new world. There were at least a dozen servants in the corridors as they went – and those same corridors were lined with artworks she recognised as having come from world-famous artists. Some old – impressionists and renaissance masters – some new, post-modern pieces that complemented the classics.

  The corridor opened into a living space that was at least ten times the size of her entire house. The ceilings were, as with the foyer, double height, and two whole walls were comprised of dark glass, showcasing Manhattan at sunset in a glorying display of beauty and glamour. Much like the artwork collected in the corridor, Manhattan was a mix of classic beauty and modern masterpieces.

  Soft music reached her ears. Lilting flute pieces that were as haunting as they were exotic. Her eyes, wide, and so blue they were like an ice lake, travelled over the space, registering the sofas – black leather – the dining table – glass with marble legs, and finally, landing on Syed.

  Only not as she’d ever seen him.

  He stood as a sentinel, backlit by the setting sun, his eyes studying her with an intensity that made her throat thick and her mind numb. He stared at her as though he was mentally undressing her, removing her dress with the burning heat in his eyes.

  And he was wearing, what she could only presume to be, traditional robes of Kalastan. They were a cream colour, with a gold pattern weaved into the collar and the cuffs. They showed the rich tan of his skin to perfection, and he looked somehow bigger and broader in them. He looked spectacular.

  No. That was like saying the earth was large or the moon far away. He was shining with beauty and strength. He was an image of power and passion. He was luminous and he filled her being completely.

  Her stomach lurched.

  She was lost.

  How could she say ‘no’ to him? To any request? She was lost, utterly. Five years be damned. She was as much in his thrall as ever before.

  “Najin,” he said, the word thick with emotions she couldn’t comprehend. He began to move towards her, and said something in his own tongue. Something she didn’t understand.

  But the
servants began to file from the room, leaving them completely alone.

  “You came,” he said with a hint of relief.

  She nodded. Speech was beyond her.

  “I am glad.”

  Another nod. What could she say to that? There was no word to describe her emotions. She was drowning in uncertainty.

  “Please, sit.” He gestured to the table and she saw now that it had been set for dinner. Candles glistened at its centre, and a bottle of champagne was nestled into a golden ice bucket.

  “A prelude before the main act?” She drawled, finally remembering her voice.

  His lips twisted in a sardonic smile. “You are here now. There is no need to rush matters.” And they needed to speak. It was imperative that he explain things to her.

  Except Sarah was burning with need. Impatient now to share what she knew was coming.

  “Champagne?”

  She stared at the bottle. Champagne. She had loved it back then. To Sarah, aspirational and twenty-two, it had represented the highlight of luxuriant fashion. To Sarah at twenty-seven, cynical and no-longer aspiring to anything other than liquidity, it was an irrelevance. She shrugged. “Sure.”

  He reached for the bottle, his fingers curling around the neck and pouring it into the fine-stemmed glasses.

  “So this is what you wear normally?” She asked without realising the question was coming.

  He handed the champagne to her. She took it, careful to avoid brushing fingers. A silly gesture, given the purpose for her trip to New York.

  “These are the royal robes of Kalastan,” he nodded.

  Sarah sipped her champagne, needing no further reminder of his position in life. Royal. A prince. About as separate from destitute as it was possible to get.

  “You are still working at the bar?” He asked, moving closer to her, so that he could clink his glass against hers.

  She nodded, uncertainty making her eyes widen. “Yep. Only a fool would turn their back on that career.”

  The joke fell flat.

  “You were planning to study photography,” he prompted, his eyes scanning her face, reading every detail.

  “True.” Her smile was tight.

  “But you didn’t?”

  She arched a brow. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Her smile was a twist. After he’d left, she’d packed away her camera. She’d folded away her dreams, and the person she’d thought she was. She’d fallen into a dark hole of depression that only Lexi had brought her out of.

  “Lexi happened instead,” she murmured. And then, belatedly recalling the extravagant gifts, she forced herself to meet his eyes. “Thank you for her presents.”

  He tilted his head forward. “It was nothing.”

  “Not to Lexi it wasn’t. She’s never had a toy that wasn’t a hand-me-down or bought at a charity shop. She still has all the boxes,” Sarah added, nerves making her more talkative than normal. “She stacked them at the foot of the bed.”

  His eyes held hers. “A hundred thousand dollars will change all of that.”

  Sarah’s mouth twisted but she didn’t say anything.

  “Why no photography? You had incredible talent.”

  She shook her head. “Not really. I had a very good camera.”

  “And you do not use it?”

  She blinked up at him. “I sold it.”

  Something like anger flashed over his features. “For money.”

  “No, I sold it for ice cream. Of course, for money. It was just gathering dust under my bed. Once Lexi came along, I thought it was better going to someone else.” She didn’t tell him the truth. That apart from a month-old infant daughter, Cameron had left Sarah with ten thousand dollars in credit card debt. Debt that was in Sarah’s name as much as Cameron’s owing to their joint bank account.

  “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  She sipped her champagne, enjoying the way it bubbled against her raw throat.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she lied.

  Her unwillingness to discuss this was obvious. He let the conversation go for the moment. “Where did you meet the father?”

  She froze. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  His expression was impatient but he said nothing.

  “I’m not here to talk,” she said softly. “Nothing can be served by getting to know one another again.” She placed her champagne flute down on the table and willed herself to be brave. To be strong. To stay committed to what she knew. If they talked, and shared thoughts and ideas, her heart was in real danger. Sex was one thing. She was pretty sure she could approach it with a level of emotional detachment. But talking?

  Danger lay there.

  His frown was pronounced. “There is no rush.”

  She laughed, a harsh sound. “Isn’t there?”

  “You want to go to my bed, now?”

  Her heart turned over in her chest. No. She wanted him to love her. She wanted him to look at her as he’d used to. She wanted to pretend they were Sarah and Sy, just as they’d been then.

  But it was a futile hope. Dashed years earlier, and the remnants of those hopes were ashes in her mind. She couldn’t ignore them. “It’s all we have left,” she said with desolate honesty. “Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

  The statement was acid against his flesh. It was an irony that in bed he could prove her wrong. He could remind her there of the depth of the connection they’d shared.

  “If it is your wish,” he said darkly, moving towards her with determined concentration. He stood behind her, and with fingers that were confident and deft, lowered the zip of her dress until it was at the base of her spine.

  “No bra,” he murmured, as he pushed the dress apart and slid it down her shoulders.

  “No need,” she quipped. “Are these windows …”

  “One-way,” he promised. “We are in complete privacy.” She nodded, relieved, because looking at Manhattan as his hands moved over her body was incredibly surreal.

  He slid the dress lower, but once it was on her hips, he paused, turning her within the circle of his arms.

  “You used to fill my hands,” he murmured, lifting his palms to her breasts and cupping them.

  Her cheeks flushed pink. “Puppy fat,” she whispered throatily.

  “Not fat,” he shook his head. “Perfection.”

  “I grew out of it,” she murmured.

  His eyes met hers, and she couldn’t fathom the darkness she saw there. He slid the dress lower, and lower still, until she stood in a pair of scuffed heels and a black thong. A scrap of fabric that was everything his fantasies were made of.

  “You are so beautiful,” he muttered, as though it pained him to admit it. “Different, but no less spectacular.”

  “Spectacular?” She shook her head. “Yeah, right.”

  His fingers dropped from her breasts to her flat stomach. “No marks to show you bore a child,” he observed, moving his hands lower still, to glance across the curls at the apex of her thighs. She groaned huskily at the promise of contact.

  She said nothing, but the truth was in her mouth, and she realised she did want to be honest with him. What was the point in lying? Why not simply tell him that Lexi wasn’t her biological daughter? He wouldn’t care. It had no impact on what he wanted from her.

  “Lexi isn’t…”

  “I do not want to talk or think about your child now,” he said with a lift of his eyes. They slashed through her angrily. “For it leads me to think of the man who enjoyed your body after me. And so soon after me.” He shook his head. “Was I so easy to forget?”

  She felt the sting of tears and shook her head. “No.” It was a brutally honest admission. “I didn’t forget you.”

  He nodded. “No.” His kiss was an assault. Her senses were overtaken by the strength of his command. His tongue lashed hers; it was punishment and power. She succumbed, naked before him, as his hands held her to his hard body. “This is not something either of us could forget.”r />
  And he pushed a hand between them. At first, she feared he was going to set her apart from him, but then she felt the movement in his wrist as he separated the clothes he wore, parting them in the middle and pushing at his pants. He moved quickly; she didn’t want to think about how often he liberated himself – just his arousal – in such a manner. He lifted her as though she weighed nothing, wrapping her legs around his waist as he strode through the apartment. He didn’t go to the bedroom though. He stepped through the lounge area and pushed her against a wall. It was cold and hard and she shivered as it juxtaposed form and texture so completely with his warm responsiveness.

  His fingers dug into the flesh at her hips as he positioned her.

  There was no time for protection. It didn’t even enter Sarah’s head to question it. He entered her swiftly and she cried out, so loud, so desperately, as every bit of her that he’d torn apart immediately shifted back into place. The sense of power and rightness was indescribable. She dug her nails into his shoulders, braced against the wall, as he thrust hard and fast into her again and a primal, desperate need took over.

  She curled her ankles together around his waist and she ground her hips lower, inviting him deeper even as he owned her completely. Even as her muscles were stretched so far, so fast, that she was left reeling.

  His mouth dropped to her breast. It was warm and wet, his tongue swirling her in his need and creating answering waves of desire deep within her. Waves he was already abating with his swift possession of her.

  She cried out again as he took her, hard and fast and the pleasure began to morph into something else. Something like release. A sharp, jagged edge she had become addicted to five years earlier. A release from pent-up sexual need that had started to control her.

  “Please,” she groaned, arching her back only for Syed to push her harder to the wall, pinning her where he wanted her, keeping her still so that his body alone could dance and move to the tune of passion. She was his passenger; her pleasure was at his command.

  And command he did.

  No sooner had he thrust her against the wall, his mouth transferred to the other breast, did she begin to fall apart completely, crying out as relief saturated her.