by Lynne Graham
Alessio closed possessive arms round her and pressed a whisper of a kiss to the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck. ‘It’s still early. How do you feel about breakfast in bed?’ he murmured wickedly.
Taut with delicious tension, Daisy leant back against his hard length, and then a trio of knocks, loud enough to wake the dead, sounded on the door. Tara peered round the barrier with exaggerated care.
‘Honestly, you two are the limit… it’s only ten in the morning!’ Emerging fully into view, Tara brandished a rather startlingly clad infant for their inspection. ‘Nanny’s doing the packing, so I got Jen dressed.’
Sinking down on the bed with a smile, Daisy opened her arms to receive her two-month-old daughter, Jenny. Soulful dark brown eyes looked up at her mother from below a virulent lime-green baseball cap.
‘What’s she wearing?’ Alessio demanded, apparently transfixed by the garish lime, purple and orange miniature dungarees.
‘Dad, if I have a sister fourteen years younger, it helps if she’s got street cred. Take it from me, this is what the cool baby is wearing this season… not those disgusting embroidered dresses with those weird frilly socks which Mum loves. I took pity on Jen when I was out shopping with my friends yesterday.’
‘That was very thoughtful of you.’ Daisy tried not to laugh as Alessio came down beside her, deftly stole Jenny from her lap and gently lifted the baseball cap in the hope of finding his youngest daughter’s tiny face.
Alessio’s gaze briefly met Daisy’s in a shared instant of vibrant amusement as they watched Tara prowl round the room,’ eye-catching as a bird of paradise in colours that were a remarkable match for her baby sister’s. Their daughter was chattering at length about her plans for the family’s amusement over the weekend. And they were a family, Daisy reflected, a soft sigh of unvarnished contentment escaping her.
Alessio had spent the past year showing her in a thousand different ways just how much he loved her and valued their marriage. Her pregnancy had been a time of real happiness for all of them. Alessio and Tara had both been thrilled to bits and Daisy had been as cosseted as a precious piece of highly breakable china. Jenny had been born a week early and with the bare minimum of fuss. With the assistance of a sensible English nanny, Daisy was thoroughly enjoying motherhood the second time around.
Tara had settled into school, made plenty of new friends and now spoke Italian with enviable fluency. Her outgoing, confident personality had eased her passage everywhere. Her grandparents adored her, and though in the early months of her move to Italy their indulgence had led to Alessio and his daughter having several tussles for supremacy Tara now had a healthy respect for her father and his rules.
‘Right,’ Tara said bossily as she bent down and scooped her baby sister away from the combined attentions of her besotted parents. ‘Jen needs her nap now. We don’t want her being all cross and cranky on the drive down, do we? You two don’t need to hurry downstairs—’
‘We don’t?’ Daisy echoed in surprise.
‘Of course not. Lunch is hours away and even Janet’s still in bed,’ Tara acknowledged carelessly as she made for the door again. ‘You know, three is a nice round number…’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Daisy frowned.
Tara popped her head back round the door, an impish smile on her mobile features. ‘That means you can return to what you were doing when I came in. I’m putting in an order for a little brother. As babies go, Jen’s really cute, but she needs company in her own age group.’
‘Jenny’s only ten weeks old!’ Daisy gasped as the door shut.
A vibrant smile curving his sensual mouth, Alessio lowered his dark head to hers again, wolfish amusement glittering in his intent gaze. He closed two gentle hands round Daisy’s slight shoulders and slowly pressed her back on the pillows. ‘As an excuse to spend a great deal of time in bed, the idea has incredible appeal,’ he confessed with husky satisfaction.
‘I’ll consider it…in about six months,’ Daisy muttered breathlessly, drowning in his dark golden gaze.
‘Dio, piccola mia, I love you so much; how did I ever survive thirteen years without you?’
Daisy ran a possessive set of fingers along a long, lean male thigh temptingly and invitingly clad in taut denim. ‘I love you too,’ she sighed. ‘You put your jeans on just so that I could take them off again …’
* * * * *
Now, read on for a tantalizing excerpt of Clare Connelly’s next book,
THE SECRET KEPT FROM THE KING
After a fleeting yet exhilarating affair with Sheikh Sariq, hotel concierge Daisy knows life can’t be ordinary again! She resigns herself to only ever reliving the pleasure in her memory. But then she makes a shocking discovery that will cause chaos for this duty-bound king…
Unable to forget their connection, Sariq is intrigued when Daisy declines his summons to his palace. Yet finding out she’s secretly pregnant demands dramatic action! She’s far from a suitable bride…but for their baby he’ll crown her. If Daisy will accept!
Read on for a glimpse of
THE SECRET KEPT FROM THE KING
CHAPTER ONE
WHEN HE CLOSED his eyes he saw only his father’s, so he tried not to close them much at all. Not because he didn’t want to see the Exalted Sheikh Kadir Al Antarah again; he did, more than anything. But seeing his eyes as they’d been at the end, so clouded by pain and unconscious of the world that swirled around him, so robbed of the strength and vibrancy that had been hallmarks of his life and rule, made Sariq’s chest compress in a way that robbed him of breath and had him gasping for air.
THE KING WAS dead. His father was dead. He was now completely alone in this world, and the inescapable reality he had been aware of all his life was wrapping around him like a cable.
He had been crowned. The job of steering the Royal Kingdom of Haleth fell to him. Just as he’d always known it would, just as he’d spent a lifetime preparing for.
‘Your Highness? Malik has asked me to remind you of the time.’
Sariq didn’t respond at first. He continued to stare out at the glittering vista of Manhattan. From this vantage point, it was easy to pick out the key buildings that were considered the most well-known landmarks of New York. The Empire State building shone like a beacon. The Chrysler with its art deco detailing, and, far in the distance, the spire of One World Trade Centre. And in another direction, not far from this hotel, if he followed a straight line, he’d reach the United Nations, where he’d be expected to make his first official speech since the death of Sheikh Kadir. In the morning, he’d address leaders and delegates from dozens of countries, aiming to assure them that his father’s death was not an end to the peace that had, finally, been established between the RKH and the west.
‘Emir?’
‘Yes.’ He spoke more harshly than he’d intended. He closed his eyes—and there was his father. He returned his attention to the view, his features locked in a grim mask. ‘Tell Malik I am aware of the hour.’
Still, the servant hovered. ‘Can I get you anything else, sir?’
Briefly, Sariq turned to face the servant. He was little more than a boy—sixteen or seventeen perhaps. He wore the same uniform Sariq had donned at that age, black with gold detailing. The insignia indicated he was an ensign. ‘What is your name?’
The boy’s eyes widened.
‘Kaleth.’
Sariq forced a smile to his face. It felt odd, heavy and wooden. ‘Thank you for your attention, Kaleth, but you may go now.’
Kaleth paused, as though he wished to say something further.
‘Tell Malik it was at my insistence.’
This seemed to appease the young officer because he nodded and bowed low. ‘Goodnight, sir.’
He turned back to the view without responding. It was after midnight and his day had been long. Starting with meetings in Washington and then the flight to New York, where he’d had dinner with his ambassador to America—also installed in this hotel while the major
renovations to the embassy were completed. And all day long, he’d pushed his grief aside, knowing he needed to act strong and unaffected by the fact he’d buried his father a little over three weeks ago.
The man had been a behemoth. Strength personified. His absence left a gaping hole—not just for Sariq but for the country. It was one Sariq would endeavour to fill, but there would only ever be one King Kadir.
He moved towards the view, pushing one of the sliding glass doors open so he could step onto the large, private terrace, his eyes continuing to trace the skyline of New York. The background noise of horns beeping, sirens wailing and engines revving was a constant here, and somehow that made it fade into nothing. It was so loud it became a sort of white noise, and yet it made him long for the silence of the desert to the east of his palace, a place where he could erect a tent and be surrounded by silence, and the ancient sands of his kingdom. There was wisdom in those grains of sand: each and every one of them had stood sentinel to the people of his kingdom. Their wars, their famines, their pains, their hopes, their beliefs and, in the last forty years, their peace, their prosperity, their modernisation and acceptance onto the world’s stage.
It was his father’s legacy and Sariq would do all that he could to preserve it. No, not simply to preserve it: to improve it. To grow it, to strengthen it, to better his country’s standing and make peace so unequivocal that the trailing fingers of civil war could no longer touch a single soul of his country.
Sariq was not his father, but he was of him, he was cast from his soul, his bones and strength, and he had spent a lifetime watching, learning, and preparing for this.
In the morning, it would begin. He was ready.
* * *
Daisy stared at the flashing light with a small frown on her cupid’s bow lips, then consulted the clock on the wall. It was three in the morning, and the alarm for the Presidential suite was on. She reached for the phone, tucking it under her ear.
‘Concierge, how may I help you?’
It had only been a matter of hours since the delegation from the Royal Kingdom of Haleth had been installed in this five-star hotel’s most prestigious suite—as well as a whole floor of rooms for servants and security guards—but Daisy had already had multiple dealings with a man named Malik, who seemed to coordinate the life of the Sheikh. As the hotel’s VIP concierge, this was her job—she alone was responsible for taking care of every little thing the most prestigious guests wanted. Whether it was organising parties for after their concerts at Madison Square Garden, or, in the case of a Queen from a Scandinavian country, organising a small couture fashion parade in her suite so she could choose what to wear to the Met gala, Daisy prided herself on being able to cope with just about anything that was asked of her.
So when the phone rang, despite the hour, she was calm and prepared. Malik must need something and she would ensure he got it.
What she wasn’t prepared for was the timbre of the voice that came down the line, so deep and throaty, accented with spice and an exotic lilt that showed English was his second language. ‘I would like some persimmon tea.’
The RKH ambassador had been staying in the hotel for three months while the embassy was being renovated. They now had a permanent supply of delicacies from that country on hand, including persimmon tea.
‘Yes, sir. Would you like some balajari as well?’ she offered, the almond and lemon zest biscuits something the ambassador always took with his tea.
There was a slight pause. ‘Fine.’ The call was disconnected and Daisy inwardly bristled, though she showed no sign of that. Very few of the guests she’d hosted in the Presidential suite had exhibited particularly good manners. There were a few exceptions: an Australian actor who’d apologised every time he’d ‘disturbed’ her, a Scottish woman who’d won one of those television singing competitions and seemed unable to comprehend that she’d been jettisoned in the global superstar arena and seemed to want to be treated as normally as possible, and a Japanese artist who had wanted directions to the nearest Whole Foods so she could stock her own fridge.
Daisy called the order through to the kitchen then moved to the service elevator. There was a full-length mirror there—the hotel manager insisted that each staff member check their appearance before going out on the floor, and Daisy did so now, tucking a curl of her blonde hair back into its bun, pinching her cheeks to bring a bit of colour to them, and even though her shirt was tucked in, she pushed it in a little more firmly, straightening her pencil skirt and spinning to have a look over her shoulder at her behind.
Neat, professional, nondescript. Her job wasn’t to be noticed, it was to fly beneath the radar. She was a facilitator, and nothing more. A ghost of the hotel, there whenever she was required, but in an unseen kind of way.
By the time she reached the kitchen in the basement, the order was ready. She double-checked the tray herself, inspecting plates for fingerprints, the teapot for heat, then thanked the staff, carrying the tray on one hand as she pressed the call button for the lift.
The Presidential suite was on the top floor and only she and the hotel manager had a staff access card for it. She swiped it as she entered then moved the tray to both hands, holding it in front of her as the lift shot up towards the sky.
When she’d first started working here, two years ago, the elevator had made her tummy ache every time, but she was used to it now and barely batted an eyelid.
The doors pinged open into a small service corridor with a glossy white door on one end. In the presidential apartment, the door was concealed by wall panelling. She knocked discreetly and, despite the absence of a greeting, unlocked the door and pushed into the suite.
The lights were out but several lamps had been turned on, giving the apartment an almost eerie glow.
She loved these rooms, with their sumptuous décor, their stunning views, the promise of luxury and grandeur. Of course, she loved them most of all when they were empty, particularly of the more demanding and disrespectful guests who had a tendency to treat the delicate furniture as though it were cheap, plastic tat.
The coffee table in the middle of the sofas was low-set and a shining timber. She placed the tea tray down on it, then straightened to look around the room. At first, she didn’t see him. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkened room. But then, the silhouette of a man stood out, a void against the Manhattan skyline.
The Sheikh.
She’d caught a glimpse of him at a distance, earlier that day, and he was instantly recognisable now. It wasn’t just his frame, which was tall and broad, muscled in a way that spoke of fitness and strength. It was his long hair, dark, which he wore in a bun on top of his head. She was used to dealing with powerful, important people and yet that didn’t mean she was an automaton. In moments like this, a hint of anxiety always bristled through her. She ignored it, keeping her voice neutral when she addressed him.
‘Good evening, sir. I have your tea.’ A pause, in which he didn’t speak, nor did he turn to face her. ‘Would you like me to pour it for you?’
Another pause, a silence that stretched between them for several seconds. She waited with the appearance of impassivity, watching him, so she saw the moment he dipped his head forward in what she took to be a nod.
Her fingertips trembled betrayingly as she reached for the teapot, lifting it silently, pressing down on the lid to avoid any spills, filling the tea to near the top of the cup, then silently replacing the pot on the tray.
She took a step backward then, preparing to leave. Except he still didn’t move and something inside her sparked with curiosity. Not just curiosity: duty. He had asked for tea; her job was to provide him with it. She moved back to the coffee table, lifting the teacup and saucer, carrying them across the room towards him.
‘Here you are, sir,’ she murmured at his side. Now, finally, he did turn to look at her, and she had to grip the teacup and saucer more tightly to stop them from shaking. Her fingers felt as though they’d been filled with jell
y. She’d seen him from a distance and she’d seen photographs of him, when she’d been preparing for his visit, but nothing really did justice to his magnificence. In person, he was so much more vital than any still image could convey. His features were harsh, symmetrical and almost jagged. A jaw that was square, cheekbones that appeared to have been slashed into his face at birth, a nose that had a bump halfway down its length, as if it had been broken at some point. His eyes were the darkest black, and his brows were thick and straight. His skin was a swarthy tan, and his chin was covered in stubble. Yes, up close he was quite mesmerising, so she forced herself to look away. Being mesmerised wasn’t part of her job description.
‘It’s supposed to help you sleep.’ His voice was unlike anything she’d ever known. If you could find a way to bottle it, you’d be a millionaire.
‘I’ve heard that.’ She nodded, crisply, already preparing to fade into the background, to disappear discreetly through the concealed doorway, feeling almost as though her disappearing now was essential to her sanity.
‘Have you tried it before?’
‘No.’ She swallowed; her throat felt quite dry. ‘But your ambassador favours it.’
‘It is very common in my country.’
His eyes roamed her face in a way that set her pulse firing. Escape was essential. ‘Do you need anything else?’
A small frown quirked at his lips. He looked back towards the view. ‘Malik would say I need to sleep.’
‘And you have the tea for that.’
‘Scotch might work better.’
‘Would you like me to organise some for you?’
He tilted his head to hers again. ‘It’s after three.’
His words made little sense.
‘It’s after three and you’re working.’
‘Oh, right. Yes. That’s my job.’
He lifted a brow. ‘To work through the night?’
‘To work when you need me,’ she said with a lift of her shoulders. Then, with a swift correction, ‘Or when any guest of the Presidential suite requires me. I’m assigned to this suite exclusively.’
