MARRYING HER ENEMY & STOLEN BY THE DESERT KING

by Connelly, Clare

  But having been bitten once, she was, most definitely, twice shy.

  “I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been.” She laced her fingers through his so that he wouldn’t pull away. “Fayez was right. I am gullible. Too trusting.”

  “You are no such thing. Do you have any idea how rare it is to meet a person like you? Someone so full of purity and goodness that you see these qualities in others, even when they are lacking? You are an angel here amongst us. You are perfect.”

  His words, oh, his words. They fused into her wounded heart and she sucked them deeper, holding them tight, loving the way they lit her back up again. And yet, doubts were still there, darkening her happiness. She shook her head slowly. “I lived my life believing in the idea of a marriage that could have been an absolute disaster. And then, when it turned out to be just that, I was heartbroken. I don’t know who I am, Khalifa. How can you give me what I need when I don’t even know…”

  “Because I know,” he said simply. “I know you are smart and strong and kind and generous and fearless. I know you deserve to be loved and adored and cherished. I know that I will make you happier than you’ve ever been.” He lifted her hand to his lip and breathed a kiss against it. “I know that I love you.” And then, his eyes flicked with something that she didn’t initially understand. “But I also know that I hurt you and that it will take time for you to recover. And I will wait, my darling wife, until you can trust me again.”

  Trust.

  Such a small, innocuous word for one of the most difficult emotions and behaviours in the human condition. She had trusted him when she’d hardly known him – she’d trusted him on instinct. And she’d loved him on instinct too.

  Now that she knew him, did she trust him less? He hadn’t realised that he was in love with her, yet he was freely admitting that to her now. He was apologising. Hell, he was begging, and Khalifa was not a man who begged.

  She bit down on her lip, the step before her was one she found herself terrified to take. And yet she nudged towards it, her heart in her throat the whole time. She had to be strong; she had to play to win.

  They had both changed during their brief marriage; or perhaps it was that the marriage had changed them.

  She had grown and matured but he had also, for he had shown that he had learned to be humble. That he had learned to admit fault, to apologise and to ask for forgiveness. He was showing Khalifa his needs and vulnerabilities.

  And they perfectly matched her own.

  Kylie loved her husband. She’d loved him all along, really, but first it had been a love borne of passion and fire, and now it was a mix of all that they were. It was everything. Heat, desire, trust, companionship and the future.

  “Yes.” She expelled a breath, and with that one word came relief. Relief that she’d been brave, and certainty that she’d made the right decision.

  “Yes?” He repeated, apparently not as sure as she was.

  “Yes.” Her smile was mesmerising. “I love you. And I want to be with you. So let’s go.”

  He laughed, the sound rich and magnetic. He pulled her against his chest, and she felt his heart hammering against hers, speaking to one another, communicating in a fever-pitch of relief.

  “And will you stay with me forever?”

  “And ever,” she sighed, her mouth melting to his.

  And for all the days and all the sand-swept desert nights, she did just that.

  THE END

  Following is an excerpt from Clare Connelly’s best-selling IN THE HANDS OF THE SHEIKH.

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  IN THE HANDS OF THE SHEIKH

  By Clare Connelly

  EXCERPT - IN THE HANDS OF THE SHEIKH

  Prologue

  Five years earlier

  Her imitation of grief was nearly perfect.

  The designer suit that covered her young body in black from head to toe; the somber way she’d shaken each guest’s hand and remembered their names; the way she’d dabbed elegantly at her eyes, despite the fact no tears had been present.

  Yes, the teenaged Phoebe Douglas-Cauve was an excellent actress, but Sheikh Hakim Al Meshuda had no doubts.

  Her grief was a performance.

  Her sadness a fake.

  Her tears not simply delayed, but not there at all.

  He stood back from her now, as the last of the guests filed, with a respectful hush, from the grand estate of the late Lord Etienne Cauve. Her face was lifted to the sky, the dappled sunlight painting triangles across her fair skin, her eyes shut. And a small smile in the corners of her pretty, bow shaped lips.

  It was the last straw.

  With a brief look of dismissal in the direction of his attending servants, he moved towards her, his mouth a grim line of disapproval in his face.

  “You seem to be coping well with the sudden death of my Godfather,” he drawled cynically, unaware of the way the harsh set of his handsome face sent a terrifying frisson of awareness jangling down her teenaged spine.

  Her eyes were cloaked; her feelings impossible to comprehend. “My stepfather’s passing was an unexpected tragedy,” she murmured, and though her words were thick with emotion, he knew, somehow, that her sincerity was completely forged.

  He held onto his emotions with effort. After all, Etienne had been his father’s best friend, and a close advisor to him in times of stress. Etienne’s stepdaughter’s lack of emotion was insulting to the memory of the man he had loved almost as a father himself. “Yes,” he drawled with obvious cynicism. “I can see how affected you are.” His broad shoulders and tall stature cast a shadow over her. She wrapped her arms around her middle, and shivered, despite the warmth of the summer day.

  Phoebe was young, but she was wise beyond her years. From her mother, she had inherited a gift for social nuance. She knew that responding to the powerful Sheikh would only anger him, so she stayed silent.

  “You are how old?”

  She looked at him, confused.

  Hakim let out a breath of frustration. “Fifteen, I think?”

  “Sixteen,” she whispered, thinking back to her birthday, only weeks earlier. Dread had accompanied her the whole way from Surrey to Richmond. Fear and anxiety had dogged her every step. Pain, it had been on the return journey, and the certainty that she must hide her bruises from her dorm upon her return.

  Hakim scanned her face thoughtfully. In his country, many women were betrothed at her age. It was a practice he was working to prevent. Teenagers should not be forced into marriage. Teenagers were young, creatures of innocence. But this teenager was different. There was an entirely adult comprehension in her eyes, a knowledge that was almost eerie.

  She was beautiful, too, in a way that surprised him. Etienne had boasted of her physical gifts frequently enough. Hakim had been certain Etienne’s descriptions must have been covered by a paternalistic pride. Now, he saw that not a word of Etienne’s praise had been exaggerated. Phoebe Douglas-Cauve was as beautiful as she was strong-willed. Her hair was long and fair. Not pale, but rather blonde like sand and ash mixed together. Her skin was pale yet warm, her figure mature beyond her years; she was tall and slender, with the hint of curves visible beneath her dress.

  Hakim’s frown increased, as he shook his head to clear the unwelcome thoughts. She was still a child. “Sixteen.” He nodded. “You are aware that your step-father left me as your legal guardian.”

  Her eyes, enormous and round, and so blue they must surely be enhanced by cosmetic lenses, fixed him with a terrified stare. “No. I didn’t know.”

  “He spoke to me of it years ago. I agreed, of course. There is nothing I would not do for your father.”

  “Step-father,” she corrected instantly, her pretty face a hard mask of emotion. Pho
ebe might have been surprised that Etienne had left his affairs in such good order, particularly given that his death was completely unexpected. Only it perfectly fit his behavior as an absolute control freak. Nothing was ever to be left to chance. She shivered as she remembered how he had somehow obtained a copy of her class schedules and surprised her unexpectedly one afternoon. It had not been the worst hour of her life, but always, lurking at the back of her mind, was the knowledge that he could reach her anywhere and at any time.

  Hakim’s eyes were narrowed. “Etienne has left your fortune to me to manage, which I am happy to do, of course.”

  Phoebe’s heart was beating painfully in her chest. “Your highness,” she said, trying, and failing, to keep her voice steady, “I do not need a guardian.” She lifted her small, angular chin in a proud gesture of defiance. “While I am only sixteen, I have lived away from my parents for many years. I am sure my life will continue much as normal for me.”

  “So certain,” he remarked, scanning her face thoughtfully. “You do not feel sad that Etienne has gone?”

  Realizing she’d dropped her act for a vital moment, she schooled her features into an expression of anguish. “Of course I do.” The sentence was heavy in her mouth, and vomit threatened to make a liar of her.

  “Do you know who I am?” He demanded, taking a step closer to her, unknowingly menacing. Phoebe fought the wave of fear that rose to a crescendo inside her.

  “Yes.” She squared her shoulders. He was, of course, Sheikh Hakim Al Meshuda, the exalted leader of Mehran. She had heard of him frequently. She had come to loathe him, even by name, purely because her step-father had spoken so highly of him. Any man respected by Etienne must surely be an absolute jerk.

  “Then you will know I have no time to argue with an insolent teenager.” He tried not to let Etienne’s tales of her misbehavior color his attitude towards her, but it was not possible. How often Etienne had spoken to him of her wild, willful nature; her disobedience and disrespect. Yet Etienne had loved her, in spite of it. Hakim remembered the way Etienne had said to him, one day, “You love your children, Hakim. You cannot give up on them. You must employ whatever measures are necessary to prepare them for the world. Phoebe just needs a little extra discipline to counteract her mother’s lenience. And I love her enough to not back away from the task.”

  Phoebe’s eyes sparked with a silent challenge. One look at his harshly set face, however, instantly quashed her desire to argue. She lowered her eyes, pretending fascination with a patch of clover that was springing stoically through the herringbone pavers. Etienne would have had a fit, if she’d picked a fight with the marvelous Hakim. He would have had a fit, that was, if his bad heart hadn’t already ended his despicable life. Out of nowhere, a mad desire to laugh coursed through her body. Phoebe would have given into it, if she’d been alone, but she couldn’t now. Not whilst in Hakim’s imposing presence.

  “I don’t wish to take up a single moment more of your time,” she finally replied, her words slightly too sweet to be credible.

  Hakim’s eyes narrowed. “I am your guardian, Phoebe, which means I am in charge of your life. For the next few years at least.”

  Her eyes flew to his face. “You can’t seriously wish to take me on?”

  “No,” he responded with passionate frustration. “I do not. Were it simply a matter of you and me, I would walk away now without a second thought. I believe you are selfish and spoiled.” He sighed heavily. “But I respected Etienne, very much. There isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for him. Even providing counsel and guidance to his over-indulged princess of a step-daughter.”

  “You’re one to talk,” she responded mutinously, her voice so quiet he almost didn’t catch her caustic remark.

  Yes, she was antagonistic, self-important, and clearly thought the world of her own opinions. Etienne’s attempts to correct her naturally bad tendencies had not worked quite as planned. “It is clear we do not like each other,” he answered, finally, his dark eyes flecked with amber as he briefly wondered why the knowledge sat uncomfortably on his shoulders. “And this does not matter. I will act as your legal guardian, and you shall become my ward. We should discuss your relocation to Switzerland as soon as may be arranged. This is not a good time, of course.” His mouth was grim. “You are, after all, a grieving daughter.”

  “Step-daughter,” she challenged. “Did you say… Switzerland?”

  “Of course. The Academy is the best private school in the world. It is appropriate that you attend it.”

  “But…” she stammered, reaching behind her for the wrought iron bench seat. She collapsed into it heavily, not caring that it was slightly damp from a light rain shower earlier in the day. “I already have a school.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that, but it does not suit me that you continue there.”

  Phoebe blinked, her blue eyes clear and enormous in her face. “I want to stay at my school,” she responded, her voice threaded with concrete determination. She knew, though, that tears were not far away.

  Hakim examined her thoughtfully. Finally, in an uncharacteristic moment of reconciliation, he crouched down on his haunches, so that they were at eye level. “Why?”

  “I have friends there. I like it. It’s close to my home.” Though Ivy Lane Estate no longer felt like her home. When her mother had died, seven years earlier, Phoebe had still felt a connection to the stunning, ancient country home. With each year that had passed, those sentiments had eroded and dissolved, until now, it was just a vague idea of home that remained.

  Hakim let out an angry sigh. “I do not wish to argue with you, Phoebe. I valued your stepfather a great deal, and I do not know how to diplomatically tell you this. When he asked me to assume the role as your legal guardian, he assured me I would have carte blanche with you. Believe me, he left me in little doubt that you would require a firm hand.” Phoebe began to shake. It was a familiar reaction to her. Fear and adrenalin formed a taste of iron in her mouth. She dug her fingernails into her palms, until the pain became so intense that the shaking stopped. She lifted her eyes to Hakim’s, forcing an expression of idle boredom onto her face. “In short, whatever I decide, you must do. At least, until you are twenty one.”

  The freedom Phoebe had felt, upon learning of Etienne’s death, all but evaporated. She had simply lost one dictatorial bastard, only to have him usurped by another.

  “Eighteen,” she said automatically.

  “Eighteen is when you come of age, Phoebe, but your fortune is not to be released to you until I feel you are ready for it.”

  She opened her mouth, anger and surprise making speech difficult.

  “Were you not aware? It was your mother’s wish, as well as your father’s.”

  “Step-father,” she grunted harshly, leaning her head forward.

  “Etienne did not want generations of wealth to be squandered by a young woman with a predilection for fashion and expensive friends.”

  How Phoebe hated this man! To hear him spouting words she had heard Etienne himself say so many times was despicable. She picked an invisible piece of lint from her pants. “My friends are nice people.”

  Hakim let out a short laugh, without humor. “I care not for your friends, Phoebe. I do not need to know details of your life. Do not misunderstand my reason for taking this on. It is for Etienne alone that I have agreed to this.”

  Phoebe understood. She was alone. Thoroughly alone in the world. Her father, she had never known. Her mother had died many years earlier. And now even the horrid Etienne was gone. Soon, she would be removed from her friends and her home, too. “I understand,” she said, so quietly he had to strain to hear.

  “You will do as I say, without arguing. Provided you do not give me any trouble, and can prove that you have turned into a respectable woman, your fortune will be signed over to you. In the mean time, the best of everything will be provided for you. As it always has been.”

  She wanted to say something horrible to him. She wanted to r
ant and rave at the inequity of life, to scream that she was always a good little girl, and it had only ever earned her beatings and abuse. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Silence was a long ingrained habit; one of life preservation. Her policy with Etienne had been simple, and carved out after many years of terror and withheld love. She knew the best way to survive a dictator’s rule was to fall in with his plans, or appear to, at least.

  While fantasies of slapping that sardonic grimace off his handsome face ran through her mind, she nodded, her hair moving like a wave down her back. “Fine,” she responded. After all, at sixteen, what else could she do? “I’ll go wherever, and whenever you want me to. But please, let me be now.”

  “I’m sorry?” He asked, uncertain suddenly at her acquiescence.

  “I said,” she was yelling at him, and she didn’t care, “that’s fine! If that’s what you want, I’ll bloody move to Switzerland.” She stood up and stalked away from him, towards the grand house that was home to so many memories, most of them painful.

  Hakim watched her go.

  She had proved true everything he’d thought about her.

  She was spoiled. She was unable to control herself. She was a wild, moody, angry teenager. And though he had taken on the role of her legal guardian, he swore to himself then and there that he would see very little of the girl again, between that moment and her twenty first birthday. He could pay people to educate her; he did not need to be personally involved. No matter how he cared for Etienne, putting up with a brat like Phoebe Douglas-Cauve was not in his future.

  Chapter 1

  Present day.

  She had heard many stories of Mehran, but nothing had prepared Phoebe for the reality of the country. Its beauty, and it was beautiful, was nothing compared to its spice-scented heat. She fanned her face with her hand, absentmindedly noting that one of her nails had lost a chip of color somewhere on the flight over. She made a mental note to book an appointment with her manicurist upon her return to London.