Kitabı oxu: «The Sheikh's Bought Wife»
The desert king’s outrageous proposal!
Marry a sheikh in return for a hefty financial reward? Shy researcher Jane Smith would normally have laughed in Zayed Al Zawba’s handsome face. Except it’s only for six months and the money will rescue her sister who’s mired in debt...
Sheikh Zayed will do anything to inherit Kafalah’s neighboring oil-rich lands, even wed plain Jane: he’ll never long to consummate a marriage with her! But Zayed hasn’t bargained on Jane’s frumpy clothes hiding delicious curves...or her quick mind and untouched beauty teasing and tempting him beyond his wildest imaginings!
‘Unfortunately the bequest comes with a condition—which is that I must be married in order to inherit. And although the very idea is abhorrent to me I want that piece of land for my people,’ Zayed said, his voice growing deep with fervour. ‘So much so that I’m prepared to marry in order to get it.’
‘Then why not ask one of your many girlfriends?’ Jane questioned archly.
‘Because I don’t want love and I don’t wish to be tied to one woman—at least not until it is time for me to produce an heir. The union I propose with you will be nothing other than a means to an end. A brief union which I intend to be dissolved after six months.’
She looked at him curiously. ‘On what grounds?’
‘Non-consummation, of course.’ He shrugged his powerful shoulders.
Jane nodded, her heart pounding painfully against her ribcage, her mind working over the facts as she pieced together the intention behind his bizarre request. ‘So you decided to pick a woman to whom you were not in the least bit attracted?’
‘Exactly.’ He sat back in his chair, his black eyes lasering into her.
‘And I am that woman?’
‘You most certainly are. I cannot think of a more ideal candidate.’
Wedlocked!
Conveniently wedded, passionately bedded!
Whether there’s a debt to be paid, a will to be obeyed or a business to be saved…she’s got no choice but to say ‘I do!’
But these billionaire bridegrooms have got another think coming if they think marriage will be that easy…
Soon their convenient brides become the object of an inconvenient desire!
Find out what happens after the vows in
Wedded, Bedded, Betrayed by Michelle Smart
Expecting a Royal Scandal by Caitlin Crews
Trapped by Vialli’s Vows by Chantelle Shaw
Baby of His Revenge by Jennie Lucas
A Diamond for Del Rio’s Housekeeper by Susan Stephens
Bound by His Desert Diamond by Andie Brock
Bride by Royal Decree by Caitlin Crews
Claimed for the De Carrillo Twins by Abby Green
The Desert King’s Captive Bride by Annie West
Look out for more Wedlocked! stories coming soon!
The Sheikh’s Bought Wife
Sharon Kendrick
SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition by describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring often stubborn but always to die for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…
Books by Sharon Kendrick
Mills & Boon Modern Romance
A Royal Vow of Convenience
The Ruthless Greek’s Return
Christmas in Da Conti’s Bed
The Greek’s Marriage Bargain
One Night With Consequences
Secrets of a Billionaire’s Mistress
Crowned for the Prince’s Heir
Carrying the Greek’s Heir
The Billionaire’s Legacy
Di Sione’s Virgin Mistress
Wedlocked!
The Billionaire’s Defiant Acquisition
The Bond of Billionaires
Claimed for Makarov’s Baby
The Sheikh’s Christmas Conquest
At His Service
The Housekeeper’s Awakening
Desert Men of Qurhah
Defiant in the Desert
Shamed in the Sands
Seduced by the Sultan
Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.
To the fabulous Janie Heard—super-sharp judge, sublime interpreter of Ottolenghi recipes, musician, most prolific reader in the bookclub and possessor of an earthy sense of humour.
Thanks for all your advice on the legal aspects of marital consummation—which provided an interesting and hilarious correspondence.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Introduction
Wedlocked!
Title Page
About the Author
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EPILOGUE
Extract
Copyright
PROLOGUE
‘SO WHAT’S THE CATCH?’
Zayed detected the faint ripple of unease which ran through his advisors as he shot out his silky question. They were nervous, he could tell. More nervous than was usual in the presence of a sheikh of his power and influence. Not that he cared about their nerves. On the contrary, he found them useful. Deference and fear kept people at a distance and that was exactly where he liked them.
Turning away from the window which overlooked his magnificent palace gardens, he studied the men who stood in front of him—the guileless expression on the face of his closest aide, Hassan, not fooling him for a moment.
‘Catch, Your Most Supreme Highness?’ questioned Hassan.
‘Yes, catch,’ Zayed echoed, his voice growing impatient now. ‘My maternal grandfather has died and I discover he has gifted me one of the most valuable pieces of land in the entire desert region. Inheriting Dahabi Makaan was something which never even entered my mind.’ He frowned. ‘Which leaves me wondering what has prompted this gesture of unexpected generosity.’
Hassan gave a slight bow. ‘Because you are one of his few remaining blood relatives, sire, and thus surely such a bequest is perfectly natural.’
‘That much may be true,’ Zayed conceded. ‘But until recently he had not spoken to me since I was a boy of seven summers.’
‘Your grandfather was undoubtedly touched by your visit as he lay on his deathbed—a visit he must surely not have been anticipating,’ said Hassan diplomatically. ‘Perhaps that is the reason.’
Zayed’s jaw tightened. Perhaps it was. But the visit had not been inspired by love, since love had long departed from his heart. He had gone because duty had demanded it and Zayed never shirked from duty. He had gone despite the fierce pain it had caused him to do so. And yes, it had been a strange sensation to look upon the ravaged face of the old king, who had cut off his only daughter after her marriage to Zayed’s father. But death was the great equaliser, he remembered thinking bitterly as the gnarled old fingers had clutched at his. The stealthy foe from which no man or woman could ever escape. He had made his peace with his dying grandfather because he suspected it would have pleased his mother for him to do so, not because he’d been seeking some kind of financial reward.
‘Nobody gives something for nothing in this world, but perhaps this is an exception.’ Zayed’s eyes bored questioningly into those of his aide. ‘Are you telling me that the land is to be mine, without condition?’
Hassan hesitated and the pause which followed sounded heavy. Ominous. ‘Not quite.’
Zayed nodded. So his unerring instinct had not failed him after all! ‘You mean there is a catch,’ he said triumphantly.
Hassan nodded. ‘I suspect that you will see it as one, sire—for in order to inherit Dahabi Makaan, you need to be...’ nervously, he licked his lips ‘...married.’
‘Married?’ echoed Zayed, his voice deepening with a dangerous note, which made the aides shoot glances of increasing anxiety at each other.
‘Yes, sire.’
‘You know my feelings about marriage.’
‘Indeed, sire.’
‘But just so there can be no misunderstanding, I will reiterate them for you. I have no desire to marry—at least, not for many years. Why tie yourself to one woman when you can enjoy twenty?’ Zayed gave a fleeting smile as he remembered visiting his mistress in New York last week and the sight of her lying on rumpled satin sheets clad in nothing but a tight black basque, her milky thighs open and welcoming. He cleared his throat and willed the hardening in his groin to subside. ‘I accept that one day I will need to provide my kingdom with an heir and that is the moment when I shall take a bride—a pure young virgin from my own kingdom. A moment which will not come for many decades, for a man can procreate until he is sixty, seventy—in some cases, even eighty. And since I believe it is the modern way for young women to enjoy all the expertise of an older lover, it will be a highly satisfactory arrangement for both participants.’
Hassan nodded. ‘I understand your reasoning entirely, sire, and usually I would completely concur with your judgment. But this land is priceless. It is oil rich and of huge strategic significance. Think how much it could benefit your people if it were to be yours.’
Zayed felt indignation heat his blood. Didn’t he spend almost all his waking hours thinking about his people and how to do his best by them? Was he not the most successful of all the desert Sheikhs because of his dedication to his land and his determination to be a peacekeeper? And yet Hassan’s words were true. Dahabi Makaan would undoubtedly be a glittering jewel in the crown of his kingdom. Could he really turn his back on such a proposition? His mouth flattened. He remembered his dying grandfather croaking out a plea for him not to leave it too long to produce an heir, so that their bloodline could continue. And when Zayed had coolly remarked that he had no intention of marrying for many years, the old man’s face had crumpled. Had the wily old king decided that the only way to achieve his heart’s desire was to force the issue, by making marriage a condition of the inheritance?
Yet the thought of marriage made Zayed want to recoil. To turn away from its insidious tentacles, which could bind a man in so many ways. He loathed marriage for more reasons than a high libido which demanded variety. He loathed the institution of marriage with all its flaws and baseless promises and the very idea of finding a bride in order to inherit was something which repulsed every fibre of his being.
Unless...
His mind began to pick over the possibilities—because wouldn’t only a fool turn down the chance to be master of a region renowned for the black gold known as oil, as well as its prized position straddling four desert countries?
‘Perhaps there is a way in which the conditions of the will could be met,’ he said slowly, ‘and yet not tie me into all the tedium and inconvenience of a long-term marriage.’
‘You know of such a way, sire?’ questioned Hassan. ‘Pray, enlighten us, oh, knowledgeable one.’
‘If the marriage were not to be consummated,’ Zayed continued thoughtfully, ‘then it would not be legal and, as such, could quickly be dissolved. Is that not so?’
‘But, sire—’
‘No buts,’ said Zayed impatiently. ‘For the idea grows on me with every second which passes.’ Yet he could see the look of doubt on his aide’s face and knew very well what had caused it. Because Zayed was a man known for his virility. A man who needed the regular release of sex in order to sustain him—in the same way that a horse needed oats and exercise in order to live. He doubted there was a woman alive who could resist him in her bed and the idea that he could tolerate a sexless marriage was almost laughable. Yes, there were undeniably obstacles to such a chaste union but Zayed was a man who thrived on overcoming obstacles, and as he stared into Hassan’s perplexed face a brilliant idea began to form in his mind.
‘What if I were to choose a woman who does not tempt me in any way?’ he said slowly. ‘A drab woman who makes a mockery of all that is feminine. A woman who would turn a blind eye if I happened to stray. Surely that would provide the perfect solution?’
‘You know of such a woman, sire?’
Zayed’s mouth flattened into a hard line. Oh, yes. He knew of such a woman. An image swam into his mind as he thought about Jane Smith who, with her mousy hair and the colourless clothes which swamped her figure, fitted the bill perfectly. What was it that the English said about a woman on whom the gods had not gifted much in the way of looks? Plain Jane. Yes, indeed. Never had such a description been truer than of the uptight academic who was in charge of the archives of his embassy in London. For not only was she plain, she was also immune to his charms, some might even say disapproving—a fact he had registered a while back with something approaching incredulity. At first he’d thought she must be playing games with him. That she was using that well-known feminine ploy of affecting indifference towards a powerful man, in the hope that it would stir some interest in his groin and in his heart. As if any part of him could ever be stirred by Jane Smith! He had discovered her attitude to be real and not feigned when he’d overheard someone mentioning his name and, as he had silently rounded the corner of his London embassy, had seen her rolling her eyes. Insolent, foolish woman!
Yet Jane loved his country with a passion which was rare for a foreigner and she knew it better than many of its natives, which was why he hadn’t instantly dismissed her for gross insubordination. She adored every contour of its deserts, its palaces and its rich, sometimes bloody history. Zayed’s heart gave a savage wrench of pain. A pain which had never quite healed no matter how hard he had tried to turn his back on it. Might not it help that healing process if he accepted his grandfather’s bequest and acquired Dahabi Makaan? To close a door on the past and to look beyond, to the future?
‘Prepare my jet, Hassan,’ he said harshly. ‘And I will fly to England to take the wretched Jane Smith as my bride.’
CHAPTER ONE
THE DAY HAD started out badly for Jane and now it seemed it was going to get a whole lot worse. First there had been the phone call—one of the ominous and highly disturbing phone calls which had started arriving daily, leaving her feeling frustrated and scared. Then her train had broken down on her way into work, where she was greeted by complete panic by the time she arrived at the Kafalah Embassy. And the news which awaited her made her heart sink. Sheikh Zayed Al Zawba had decided to pay an unexpected flying visit—quite literally, since he was currently on board his private jet and expected within the next couple of hours. He was a proud and demanding man and the ambassador had been nervously barking out instructions left, right and centre while every female secretary had been grinning as they eagerly awaited the arrival of the desert king, because Zayed was also known for an arrogant charm and sex appeal which made women flock to him like moths to the light bulb. But Jane grimaced when she heard of his impending arrival. She banged her office door shut more loudly than was necessary because she didn’t think he was charming or sexy. She didn’t care that he was a wizard when it came to negotiating trade settlements, or building schools and hospitals in his homeland.
She hated him.
She hated the way his black eyes glittered whenever he talked to you as if he were in possession of some secret he wasn’t going to let you in on. She hated the way women reacted whenever he was around—fawning all over him as if he were some kind of god. A sex god, she’d once overheard someone whisper. She swallowed. Because wasn’t that what she hated most of all—the fact that she wasn’t immune to the undeniable allure of the desert Sheikh, even though he represented everything she most despised—with his legions of lovers and his callous disregard for the feelings of the opposite sex? And yes, she knew he’d had a pretty awful upbringing—but did that give him carte blanche to behave exactly as he liked? How long were you supposed to make allowances for the past?
Hanging up her jacket, she tucked the back of her blouse into her skirt and sat down at her desk. At least her office was hidden away in the shadowed basement of the Central London embassy, far away from the excitement of the gilded upstairs and all the preparations which were being made for Zayed’s arrival. With a bit of luck she could hide herself away down here and not even see him.
Automatically she switched on her computer and the screen immediately lit up with a beautiful screensaver of the famous palace of Kafalah but unusually, Jane saw nothing. For once the blue dome and gilded arches failed to register because all she could think about was the phone call she’d received first thing this morning and the now-familiar voice of the man making it. The message he gave was simple and didn’t vary but the tone of his voice was becoming increasingly hostile. She didn’t know how he’d got hold of her number—all she could think about was the growing note of threat each time she spoke to him. This morning he had got straight to the point.
‘Your sister owes a lot of money and somebody needs to pay. Is that somebody going to be you, sweetheart—because I’m getting kind of impatient?’
The line went dead and Jane could have bent her head down over her keyboard and wept—except she wasn’t the kind of person who ever allowed herself the luxury of tears. Crying was a waste of time and she wasn’t about to start now, because she was Jane the coper. Jane who everyone else turned to when they were in trouble. Jane who could always be relied upon when the chips were down and the world around was dissolving into chaos. Because years ago she’d stumbled upon a certain truth – that if there was a problem then it could be sorted, if only you looked hard enough to find a solution.
Pulling her mobile phone from her handbag, she clicked onto Cleo’s number but it went straight through to the answering service and she got the drawled message which was supposed to be funny—only right now it didn’t sound remotely funny.
‘Hi, this is Cleo. Leave a message and I might call you back. But then again, I might not.’
Jane took a deep breath and tried to keep calm even though her heart was crashing against her ribcage in a way which was making breathing difficult. ‘Cleo, this is Jane and I need to speak to you. Like now. Could you either pick up if you’re listening, or call me back as soon as you get this?’
But Cleo didn’t pick up and, as she cut the connection, Jane didn’t hold out much hope that her sister would call back. Cleo was a law unto herself and lately that law seemed to have no boundaries. As non-identical twins they shared the same birthday—but that was just about all they shared. Jane loved the safety and stimulation of books while Cleo liked dancing the night away. Jane dressed for comfort—Cleo for show. Cleo was beautiful and Jane was not.
But Cleo’s lifestyle couldn’t possibly be financed by the money she earned only erratically, though her spending hadn’t taken that into account. Why else would some bailiff-type person have got hold of Jane’s number and started making all kinds of threats if her twin didn’t pay back some of her mounting debts? She decided to phone her after work, maybe even go and see her—and she would stand over her sister until she made an appointment to see her bank manager and sorted out this whole sorry mess.
With an effort, Jane pushed Cleo’s troubles out of her mind as she began to focus on what needed to be done and soon her mind was clear of debt and menace and a world she didn’t want to be part of. That was one of the many things she loved about her work as an academic, specialising in the desert kingdom of Kafalah. You could spirit yourself away into a land rich with culture and history. You could lose yourself in the past. What better way to spend your days than by cataloguing books, or overseeing exhibitions of the fabulous artwork which had emerged from that beautiful country? How much more satisfying than a modern world with which she seemed to have no real connection.
She was completely lost in the translation of an ancient Kafalahian love poem and struggling to find an appropriate word for a decidedly erotic act, when she heard the door open. Making a minor click of irritation beneath her breath, she didn’t even bother lifting her head.
‘Not now,’ she said. ‘Come back later.’
There was a moment of complete silence before a silky male voice spoke.
‘In my country I would not tolerate such a response to the arrival of the Sheikh,’ he said. ‘Do you consider yourself so special and different that you should ignore him, Jane Smith?’
The realisation of just who was speaking broke into her deliberations like ice water being tipped over her head and Jane looked up in horror to see that Zayed Al Zawba had entered her office and was shutting the door behind him, enclosing the two of them together in a too-small space. She knew she ought to rise to her feet and bow her head, because even though she wasn’t one of his subjects his royal status demanded she show some kind of deference even if secretly she objected to it. But her body was refusing to obey the dictates of her mind—maybe because the sight of him was short-circuiting the common sense which usually came to her as easily as breathing. Her mouth dried as his powerful body dominated every atom of space in the room and she cursed him for the way he looked. For the way he made her feel. As if she were clutching onto the edge of a cliff by her fingertips as the unsteady ground beneath began to slip away from her frantic grip.
He was wearing robes. Of course he was. She knew of some visiting sheikhs who adapted their appearance for their time in England by wearing cosmopolitan suits—usually handmade in Italy. But not Zayed. Zayed didn’t try to blend in to his environment. He liked to stand out and he managed it effortlessly. Flowing cream silk hinted at the hard and sinewy body beneath and his only compromise was leaving his dark head bare.
Her eyes travelled reluctantly to his face. His cruel and beautiful face. Jane had studied generations of Al Zawba men during her time as an academic. She had seen their distinctive features staring down from ancient paintings and illustrations and their flashing black eyes, burnished copper skin and hawk-like nose were all too familiar to her. But nothing could prepare you for seeing all that proud and haughty lineage in the flesh and every time she had encountered Zayed, his impact on her had never lessened—if anything it had only increased. Maybe that wasn’t so surprising given his physical magnificence, which she would have been a fool to deny.
But she didn’t like the way he made her feel any more than she liked him. It was highly inconvenient that he had only to look at her and her breasts started aching and all she could do was pray that her cheeks didn’t display the heated blood which was suddenly pumping furiously around her system. She just needed to maintain her cool—the way she did with every other person she came in contact with. To politely enquire why he had arrived in her office so unexpectedly—only not so politely that he might feel he could start making a habit of it. And then, hopefully, to get rid of him as quickly as possible.
Awkwardly she rose to her feet, aware of those flashing black eyes whipping over her as briefly she bowed her head.
‘Forgive me, Your Serene Highness,’ she said. ‘I was not expecting you to walk in unannounced.’
Zayed raised his eyebrows. Was that censure he heard in her soft English voice? ‘Should I perhaps have made an appointment first?’ he questioned sarcastically. ‘Checked up to see whether or not you had time to fit me into your busy schedule?’
The answering gesture of her hand as it encompassed the book-cluttered room was expansive but he noticed that her smile was thin.
‘I would have tidied up first, if I had known that Your Royal Highness was going to grace my office with his presence.’
It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest that she might have tidied up her own person as well as her office, but he recognised that such honesty would do little to further his cause. ‘The untidy state of your office is of no consequence to me at the moment,’ he said impatiently. ‘It is you I have come to see.’
‘Oh?’
She was looking at him with question in her eyes—in a way which somehow managed to be deeply insubordinate, though he couldn’t quite work out why. He wasn’t used to women staring at him like that—as if they would prefer he was anywhere other than here. He was used to adoration and submission—and from women far more beautiful than the one standing in front of him. He had intended to walk in here and tell her that he needed a wife—and quickly—but Jane Smith’s faintly hostile expression was making him reconsider as suddenly the unthinkable occurred to him.
What if she refused?
Zayed’s mind raced. Refusal was something he would not countenance but perhaps he might have to employ a little good old-fashioned diplomacy along the way. And yet wasn’t it slightly ironic that he should have to go creeping around to ask for a favour from a woman like her?
His lips curved as he noticed she wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up and that her brown hair was scraped tightly back into a bun more befitting a woman of fifty than one in her twenties. An ugly blouse was tucked into an equally ugly skirt which fell in an unflattering length to just below her knees and, as always, it was impossible to see what kind of body lay beneath her drab clothes. She was undoubtedly the most unattractive female he had ever set eyes on and thus the perfect candidate for what he had in mind. Could he ever imagine being sexually attracted to a woman like Jane Smith? Not in a million years.
‘I have a proposition to put to you,’ he said.
Her eyes became hooded as she looked at him warily. ‘What kind of proposition?’
Zayed could barely restrain his click of displeasure. How insolent she was! Did she not realise that his power was all-encompassing? Why wasn’t she nodding her head in instant agreement—eager to please him in whatever it was he demanded? The loud clicking of a clock on the wall penetrated his thoughts as he became aware of the street view from the basement window. It suddenly occurred to him that laying out his terms for her brief tenure as his Sheikha might be better done elsewhere—not here in this cluttered office with embassy staff nervously patrolling the corridor outside, waiting for his next command or perhaps listening, with their ears pressed close to the door.
Injecting his tone with a deliberate silkiness, Zayed gave a rare smile, aware of its powerful impact on members of the opposite sex. ‘It might be easier to explain over dinner.’
‘Dinner?’
‘You know?’ His patience was wearing thin. ‘The meal you eat between lunch and breakfast.’
‘You want to have dinner?’ She frowned. ‘With me?’
Now was not the time to tell her that no, he didn’t, not really. That the shared meal would be nothing more than something to be endured while he told her what he had planned for her. But why ruin what was undoubtedly going to be the night of a lifetime for her? Why not dazzle her as women so loved to be dazzled?
‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I do.’
She screwed up her face. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘But you will, Jane. You will. All will be explained in due course. So.’ Lifting his arm so that the fine material of his robe revealed one hair-roughened wrist, he glanced down at the heavy gold timepiece which his father had once worn. ‘You had better leave now.’
She stared at him blankly. ‘You mean, leave work?’
‘Of course.’
‘But I’ve only just got here. And I’m deep into research about a sixteenth century Kafalahian love poem which has just come to light.’ She brightened up at this point. ‘It was actually written by one of your ancestors to the most favoured member of his harem.’
He was beginning to get irritated now. Didn’t she realise the great honour which was being afforded to her? Did she think he asked out women like her every night of the week—and that he would tolerate being turned down so that she could read a poem? ‘You are having dinner with the leader of the country for whom you work—not grabbing a sandwich in a nearby café!’ he bit out. ‘And doubtless you will wish to prepare yourself. For not only is this an honour for a member of my staff, it is also supposed to be a treat.’
‘A treat?’ she echoed doubtfully.
‘Indeed. I don’t imagine you frequent the capital’s high spots every night of the week.’
‘I’m not really a “high spot” sort of person,’ she said stubbornly.
‘No. I can tell.’ Fleetingly, Zayed thought her reaction might be almost amusing if it weren’t so insulting. But she would soon learn to be grateful. ‘I will send a car for you shortly before eight. Make sure you’re ready.’
She opened her mouth as if she was about to say something else but maybe something in his eyes stopped her for she nodded, even though her expression made her look as if she’d been asked to do some sort of penance. In fact, he was almost certain that she’d just stifled a resigned kind of sigh.
‘Very well, Your Royal Highness,’ she said stiffly. ‘I will be ready just before eight.’
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
