Never Mine: The Rich List Book 1

by Connelly, Clare

  Max sucked in a sharp breath, his confession the complete opposite of anything she might have expected.

  “I fell in love with you, Max. Walking out of here and leaving you that morning was the hardest damned thing I’ve ever had to do. I hated every moment of that morning, that argument, of leaving you, but I told myself I had to. That I’d done my job, that you’d get over me. I thought I couldn’t give you what you wanted – what you deserve – a great future with a guy who loves you like you deserve to be loved. I thought I was doing the right thing by leaving, but it has been a form of agony every day since. I’m in love with you.”

  “You’re in love with me,” she whispered, shutting her eyes.

  “And I know I probably ruined any chance with you by walking away. I realise I hurt you, that you trusted me and I betrayed that trust in the worst possible way. I should never have left here. I should never have ignored what you were saying, I should never have fought you, because you were right. What we shared was special and perfect; it was the most beautiful and right relationship I’ve ever known.”

  Her lips parted on a soft exhalation.

  “I want to be in your life.” He stood with his shoulders braced, looking every inch the confident-bordering-on-arrogant man he was, and yet she saw beneath it, to the uncertainty in his gaze, borne of a fear she might reject him. “I came here tonight to see if there’s any chance you’re okay with that.”

  Was that seriously a question?

  “Noah,” she sighed, eyes closed as she tried to rally her thoughts.

  “As much or as little as you want,” he growled. “We can take it slow, start from scratch. Go on dates – I’d love to date you, Max.”

  Something popped in her belly, like little fireworks. She pressed her hand there and spun away, her cheeks overheating.

  “Or I can leave, if you’d like, and give you time to think about it. The ball’s in your court.”

  She nodded, completely shell-shocked.

  “Okay.” His voice was resonant. “You have my number. I’ll be in town indefinitely.”

  She spun back to face him. “Why?”

  He quirked a brow.

  “Do you have a client here?”

  “No. I don’t usually do protective details anymore. I’m moving my corporate presence to London for the interim.”

  “Because of me?”

  His expression was defiant, as though he was scared that if he admitted that to her, he would be too vulnerable. So when he nodded, just once, she knew what that had taken, and her heart swelled to at least twice its original size.

  It was almost impossible to know what to say.

  “Okay,” he repeated. “I’ll go now.” He hesitated a moment, then moved towards Max, pressing a kiss against her forehead, and up close he smelled so damned good, every part of her exploded. She lifted her hands, curling them in his shirt, holding on as though she were drowning and he alone could save her.

  He took a step back, dislodging her hands, then began to move out of the kitchen, towards the front door. She heard his footsteps, and it was like each one was the thundering of a drum, loud and consequential, so before she knew it she was following behind him.

  “Noah, wait,” she murmured.

  He froze, almost as though bracing for what she was going to say.

  “Don’t come here to apologise for walking out on me then walk out on me all over again.”

  “I’m giving you space,” he denied. “Do you want me to stay?”

  “Yes.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “At least until I’ve had a chance to reply. You can’t just walk in here and drop a bombshell like this and then go away again. That’s not fair.”

  His expression bore a tight, wary mask. “Then what do you want to say?”

  She bit down on her lower lip. “I’m so mad at you.”

  He clipped his head once. “You have every right to be.”

  “You don’t need to tell me that. I know how I’m allowed to feel.”

  He lifted his hands in a conciliatory gesture, not saying anything in reply.

  “You broke my heart when you walked out of here, Noah.”

  His eyes darkened and she saw the recognition there, the self-directed anger. She understood how much he hated that he’d done that to her.

  “You treated me like I was disposable to you, like I meant nothing. You treated me like a client you’d saved, and could move on from and forget.” Emotion made her voice uneven. “I have spent every night since then believing you felt that way about me and I have been so completely, utterly miserable.”

  Sympathy softened his features, pain too.

  She swallowed past a lump in her throat. “But I just need to understand exactly what you want. I can’t lose you again. I need to know how to protect myself from loving you so completely that I’m torn apart all over again.” She bit down on her lower lip. “I’m scared, Noah.”

  “Scared I’ll hurt you?”

  “Scared I’ll lose you, yeah.”

  “And if I promise you won’t?”

  She toyed with her hands, fidgeting from a mix of nerves and excitement.

  He closed the gap between them. “I will never hurt you again, Max.”

  She stared into his eyes, her heart pounding.

  “Can you trust me?”

  “You know I trust you.”

  He moved his head closer, his eyes boring into hers. “And do you think you could love me?”

  She glanced up at him. “If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t have felt like a part of me was missing since you left.”

  “You’ve felt that too?” For the first time since he arrived, his lips half-smiled.

  Her heart stammered. “Yep. A lot.”

  She looked up at him and her stomach clenched. He brushed his lips over hers. “I love you. I love you in a total, overwhelming, forever kind of way. I always will.”

  Her laugh was unsteady. “Forever, huh? I thought we were just talking about dating.”

  “To start with, sure.”

  “And then what?”

  “Well, I thought we could spend a week on the boat,” he suggested, dropping his mouth once more, nipping at her lower lip.

  She smiled. “Just a week?”

  “Forever?”

  “Forever sounds about right.”

  “I could honestly live here, you know,” she stretched her arms over her head, smiling as the water bobbed beneath the boat.

  “We might need a bigger boat,” Noah grinned ruefully, looking around at the mix of books, laptops and clothes that were strewn across the bedroom.

  “Fine by me.” Max flipped onto her stomach, running a hand over his naked chest before pressing a kiss to his chest.

  Three months after Noah’s return to London, they’d been on the boat almost nonstop. Max had started to lose track of time and days.

  “I think your tattoo is wrong, my love.” She propped her chin on his chest. “It turns out, the path to the stars is easy after all. It starts with love.”

  Later that night, beneath stars that were twinkling against a velvet black sky, the night turning cool as the seasons changed, Noah waited until they’d eaten dinner before reaching into his pocket and removing a small, black velvet box.

  “You’re the meaning to my life, Max. I didn’t know until I met you that I was incomplete, but now that I know you, I can’t imagine ever spending another day without you.” He crouched down on one knee, the boat’s gentle rocking adding to Max’s shifting heart.

  “What’s that?” She blinked at the box, her pulse racing.

  He cracked the lid open to reveal a diamond solitaire ring. “A promise.”

  “Oh?”

  “To love you for every single day, for as long as we both shall live; if you’ll let me.”

  Her fingers trembled as she held out her hand to him. He slid the ring onto her finger and stood, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her into the air.

  And Max believed him.
With all of her heart, soul, body and mind, she knew that Noah Storm was her life and future, and always, always would be.

  * * *

  THE END

  * * *

  I hope you loved Max and Noah’s story! Grayson’s book is #2 in THE RICH LIST, and is available for pre-order now.

  Gray’s Story is Coming Soon! Pre-order now.

  The Sheikh’s Baby Bargain - Excerpt

  BOOK ONE - The Evermore Series

  Chapter 1

  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 ev
en 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 peace 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.

  His eyes held hers for several seconds. “Have your servants bring you to my apartment after this has concluded.”

  Chloe’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t mean now. Tonight?” She gulped. “Don’t you think that’s too soon?”

  “No, Chloe. I think it’s just soon enough.” There was a warning glint in his eyes, urging her to silence, but Chloe had never been the submissive wife she knew Raffa had banked on. Promises her father had made to seal the deal, no doubt. Or perhaps it had been her father’s truth. After all, to the Greek tycoon, she’d always been too in awe to speak her mind. Too afraid that the same criticisms he’d reserved for her mother might fall to her shoulders. So she’d been meek and respectful on the few occasions she’d seen him.