Their Impossible Desert Match

by Clare Connelly

  Two star-crossed lovers...

  One undeniable passion!

  Princess Johara craves a last taste of freedom before assuming her royal duties. And she finds it in a scorchingly hot encounter at an opulent ball. Except her mystery lover turns out to be Sheikh Amir of Ishkana—her family’s bitter enemy!

  Now Amir must invite Johara to his desert palace to cement a new peace treaty between their countries. He’d rather avoid her—and temptation—forever! Yet an attraction this consuming refuses to be ignored, no matter how risky the consequences...

  His eyes lifted to her lips and she didn’t breathe—she couldn’t—for several long seconds.

  Her lungs burned.

  He was going to kiss her. His eyes were so intent on her lips, his body so close—when had that even happened?—his expression so loaded with sensuality that memories weaved through her, reminding her of what they’d shared.

  She waited, her face upturned, her lips parted, her blood firing so hard and fast that she could barely think, let alone hear. She knew she should step backward, move away from him—this was all too complicated—but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Just as the hand of fate seemed to guide them in the maze, a far greater force was at work now.

  She expelled a shuddering breath simply because her lungs needed to work, and with the exhalation, her body swayed forward a little, not intentionally and not by much, but it brought her to him.

  “Johara.”

  Dear Reader,

  Romeo and Juliet is an enduring love story, though there is no happily-ever-after for the characters. Quite the opposite. This long-lived play is a cautionary tale, a warning against hatred and rivalry, a reminder that nothing good can come from blind acrimony.

  When I came to write Their Impossible Desert Match, I knew I wanted to write a modern retelling of Romeo and Juliet—but without the death! Whenever I’ve read or seen a performance of this classic, I’ve always crossed my fingers and hoped that perhaps the ending would be different this time. Writing Their Impossible Desert Match was my chance to make that wish come true! This is my own version of this classic love story, with my own spin, but as I wrote it I was mindful of wanting the book to hold fast to the themes of Shakespeare’s classic—to serve as a reminder that tolerance and peace will always serve us better than anger and enmity.

  I hope you enjoy reading Amir and Johara’s story as much as I loved writing it.

  Happy reading.

  Love,

  Clare

  Clare Connelly

  Their Impossible Desert Match

  Clare Connelly was raised in small-town Australia among a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Harlequin book in hand. Clare is married to her own real-life hero, and they live in a bungalow near the sea with their two children. She is frequently found staring into space—a surefire sign she is in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Harlequin novels continue to be her favorite-ever books. Writing for Harlequin Presents is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com or on her Facebook page.

  Books by Clare Connelly

  Harlequin Presents

  Innocent in the Billionaire’s Bed

  Her Wedding Night Surrender

  Bound by the Billionaire’s Vows

  Spaniard’s Baby of Revenge

  Redemption of the Untamed Italian

  The Secret Kept from the King

  Hired by the Impossible Greek

  Secret Heirs of Billionaires

  Shock Heir for the King

  Christmas Seductions

  Bound by Their Christmas Baby

  The Season to Sin

  Crazy Rich Greek Weddings

  The Greek’s Billion-Dollar Baby

  Bride Behind the Billion-Dollar Veil

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  EXCERPT FROM STEALING THE PROMISED PRINCESS BY MILLIE ADAMS

  PROLOGUE

  Nineteen years ago. The Royal Palace of Ishkana, on the edge of the Al’amanï ranges.

  ‘TELL ME IMMEDIATELY.’ It didn’t matter to His Royal Highness Prince Amir Haddad that he was just twelve and the advisors in his bedroom were all at least three times that in age. From birth he had been raised to know his place in the kingdom, the duty that would one day be his.

  Having six men sweep into his private quarters at four in the morning might have caused a ripple of anxiety deep in his gut, but he revealed nothing. His dark eyes fixed on advisor Ahmed, one of his father’s most trusted servants, and he waited quietly, with an unintended look of steel in his eyes.

  Ahmed took a step forward, deeper into Amir’s bedroom. Ancient tapestries adorned the walls and a blade of moonlight caught one, drawing Amir’s attention for a moment to the silver and blue threads that formed an image of the country’s ancient western aqueducts. He felt that he should stand up, face whatever was coming with his eyes open, and so he did, pushing back sheets made of the finest linen, pressing his feet to the mosaics—gold and blue and green, they swirled like water and flame beneath him. At twelve, he was almost as tall as any of the men present.

  ‘Tell me,’ he repeated, the quality of steel shifting from his eyes to his voice.

  Ahmed nodded slowly, swallowing so his Adam’s apple shifted visibly. ‘There was an attack, Your Highness.’

  Amir waited.

  ‘Your parents’ convoy was targeted.’

  Amir’s only response was to straighten his spine; he continued to stare at Ahmed, his young face symmetrical and intent. Inside, his stomach was in knots and ice was flooding his veins.

  ‘They were hurt?’

  He heard one of the other servants groan, but he didn’t take his eyes off Ahmed. With Ahmed he felt a degree of comfort; he trusted him.

  ‘Yes. They were badly hurt.’ Ahmed cleared his throat, his gentle features showing anguish. He put a hand on Amir’s shoulder—a contact that was unprecedented. ‘Amir, they were killed.’

  The words were delivered with compassion and a pain all of his own—Ahmed had served Amir’s father for a very long time, since he himself was a boy. The pain he felt must have run deep.

  Amir nodded, understanding, knowing he would need to deal with his grief later, when he was alone. Only then he would allow his pain to run through his body, felling him to his knees for what he had lost. He wouldn’t mourn publicly; that was not his way, and it was not what his country required of him. How long had that message been instilled in his heart? He was now his country’s King, his people’s servant.

  ‘By whom?’

  One of the other servants stood forward. Amir recognised the military medals he wore across the breast of his white uniform. He had a thick moustache, black and long. ‘A band of renegades from Taquul.’

  Amir’s eyes closed for a moment. The country directly to the east, with whom Ishkana had been embroiled in bitter unrest for over a century. How many lives had been lost because of it? And now his parents were gone.
r />   He, Amir, was Sheikh of Ishkana.

  ‘A band of renegades,’ Ahmed continued gently, ‘led by His Highness Johar Qadir.’

  Amir dug his hands into his hips, rocked on his heels, and nodded slowly. The King of Taquul’s brother was a well-documented troublemaker. It was known that he sympathised with the people who inhabited the borders of their two lands, a people who had benefited for years from the ongoing conflict and wanted it to continue, at all costs. But this?

  This was a step further. This was a new twist in the century-old war, one that was unforgivable. And for as long as he lived, Amir would make the Qadirs pay. He hated them with a vengeance that nothing—and no one—could ever quell.

  CHAPTER ONE

  PRINCESS JOHARA QADIR cut through the room with an innate elegance, pleased the evening was a masquerade for the anonymity it afforded her. The delicately constructed mask she’d been given to wear was made of onyx and pearl, with diamonds around the eyes and ostrich feathers on one side, which rose at least two feet above her head. The mask concealed everything but her eyes and lips, meaning she could pass unrecognised on this evening to all but those who knew her very, very well and could recognise the sparkle that lit the depths of her golden brown eyes.

  ‘You have no choice, Johara. The whole family must appear to be united behind this decision. For our people...’

  Yes, for their people. The prospect of peace with neighbouring Ishkana meant too much, would save lives, improve safety and lifestyle—of course she must support her brother’s decision to enter a treaty with the neighbouring Sheikh.

  It wasn’t that that bothered her.

  It was being summoned to return to the kingdom—for good. To leave behind her life in New York, the important work she was doing to support childhood literacy; it was leaving behind the identity she’d carved out for herself there. And for what? To come home to Taquul where her future was all mapped out for her? A ceremonial title and marriage to the man her brother deemed most suitable, Paris Alkad’r? A role in this kingdom as ornamental but useless and ineffective?

  It felt like a form of suffocation to even contemplate that kind of life and yet she understood her over-protective brother’s thinking. He’d seen the way she’d been after Matthew—the American she’d fallen in love with and who had broken her heart. The newspaper articles had been relentless, the tabloids delighting in her pain. Malik wanted to spare her that—but an arranged marriage was about ten steps too far. Besides, the kind of marriage he and Paris envisaged—a political alliance—was the last thing she wanted!

  A spirit of rebellion fired inside her.

  Her brother was the Sheikh. He was older, true, but, more importantly, he had been raised to rule a country. Johara’s importance—compared to his—had never been considered as particularly great—at least, not by their parents. Even Malik seemed, at times, to forget that she was a person with her own free will, simply snapping his fingers and expecting her to jump. Her closest friend in New York had commiserated and said that it was the same with her and her older sister—‘older siblings are always bossy as hell’—but Johara doubted anyone could match the arrogance of Malik. She adored him, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t capable of feeling enraged by his choices, at times.

  She expelled a sigh, took a glass of champagne from a passing waitress and had a small sip, then replaced it on another waitress’s tray. Every detail of the party was exquisite. The National Ballet were serving as wait staff, each ballerina dressed in a pale pink and silver tutu, dancing as they moved through the crowd, mesmerising, beautiful, enchanting. The enormous marble hall had been opened for the occasion—showcasing the wealth and ancient prestige of the country, the windows displaying views of the desert in one direction and the Al’amanï ranges in the other. Large white marble steps led to an enormous lagoon; man-made, centuries ago, it had a free-form shape and was lit with small fires all around it. Glass had been carefully laid over the edges, allowing guests to hover over the water. Gymnasts danced in the water, their synchronised routines drawing gasps from those who stood outside. Fairy lights were strung overhead, casting a beautiful, ‘midsummer night’s dream’ feeling.

  Nothing had been missed.

  Another sigh escaped Johara’s lips. In New York, she had still been a princess, and the trappings of home had, of course, followed her. She’d had bodyguards who accompanied her discreetly wherever she went, she’d stayed at a royal apartment, and from time to time had taken part in official functions. However, she had been, by and large, free to live her own life.

  Could she really give that up to come home and be, simply, ornamental? What about her burning desire to be of use?

  Her eyes flicked across the room. Dignitaries from all corners of the globe had travelled to Taquul for this momentous occasion—an occasion most said would never happen. Peace between Ishkana and Taquul was almost an oxymoron, despite the fact the war had raged for so long that it had become a habit rather than anything else. A foreign diplomat was strutting proudly, evidently congratulating himself on bringing about this tentative peace accord. Johara’s lips twisted into an enigmatic smile. Little did the diplomat know, no one could force her brother into anything that was not his desire.

  He wanted this peace. He knew it was time. The ancient enmity had been a part of their life for generations, but it didn’t serve the people. The hatred was dangerous and it was purposeless. How many more people had to die?

  Perhaps in the beginning it served its purpose. The landscapes of Ishkana and Taquul were inhospitable. True, there was beauty and there was plenty in parts, but not enough, and the regions that had been in dispute a hundred years ago were those most plentiful with water, most arable and productive. Though a property accord had been reached, the war had continued and the accord had always seemed dangerously close to falling through. Add to that a group of tribes in the mountains who wanted independence from both countries, who worked to ensure the mistrust and violence continued, and Johara could only feel surprise that this peace had finally been wrought. Detailed negotiations between both countries and an agreement to impose strict laws on both sides of the mountains had led to this historic, hopeful event.

  She hoped, more than anything, the peace would last.

  ‘You are bored.’ A voice cut through her thoughts, drawing her gaze sideways. A man had moved to stand at her side. He wore a mask over the top half of his face—soft velvet, it hugged the contours of his features, so she could still discern the strength and symmetry that lay beneath. A jaw that was squared, a nose that was strong and angular, and lips that were masculine yet full. His hair was dark as the depths of the ocean might be, and just as mesmerising—thick with a natural wave, it was cut to the collar of his robe and, though it was neat, she had the strangest feeling it was suppressed wildness, that it wanted to be long and loose, free of restraint. His eyes were dark like flint, and his body was broad, muscular, tall, as though cast in the image of an ancient idol. The thought came to her out of nowhere and sent a shiver pulsing down her spine. He wore an immaculate robe, black with gold at the cuffs and collar, complementing the mask on his face. He looked...mysterious and fascinating.

  Dangerous.

  He looked temptingly like the rebellion she wanted to stage, so she forced herself to look away while she still could.

  ‘Not at all.’ She was unrecognisable as the Princess of Taquul, but that didn’t mean she could speak as freely as she wanted. And not to a stranger.

  But she felt his eyes on her, watching her, and an inexplicable heat began to simmer inside her veins. She kept looking forward. ‘There is somewhere else you’d rather be though?’ he prompted, apparently not letting his curiosity subside.

  She felt a burst of something shake her, willing her to speak to him, to be honest.

  ‘I—’ She swallowed, tilting her gaze towards him. The mask emboldened her. She was hidden, secret. He didn’t
know who she was, and she had no idea who he was. They were simply two strangers at a state function. No rank, no names. A smile curved slowly over her lips. ‘Up until twenty hours ago, I was in Manhattan.’ She lifted her shoulders, conscious of the way the delicate gown moved with her.

  ‘And you would prefer to be there.’

  ‘It is a momentous occasion.’ She gestured around the room, then turned back to face him fully. ‘Everyone in Taquul will be rejoicing at the prospect of peace with Ishkana after so long.’

  His eyes gave little away; they were stony and cool. ‘Not everyone.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘There are many who will harbour hatred and resentment for their lifetimes. Peace does not come about because two men snap their fingers and decide it should.’

  Fascination fluttered inside her. ‘You don’t think people see the sense in peace?’

  His lips curved in an approximation of a smile. There was something about its innate cynicism that sparked a fire in her blood. ‘Ah, then we are talking about sense and not feeling. What one feels often has very little to do with what one thinks.’

  Surprise hitched in her throat. It was an interesting and perceptive observation; she found herself more interested in him than she’d expected to be by anyone at this event. She took a small step without realising it, then another, leading them around the edges of the space.

  ‘Nonetheless, I believe the people of Taquul will feel enormous relief, particularly those in the border regions. What’s needed is a unified front to quell the unease in the mountain ranges.’

  His eyes burned her with their intensity—strange when a moment ago she’d been thinking how like cool stone they were.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘You don’t agree?’

  His lips curved in another mocking smile. ‘I do not think peace can be so easily achieved.’

  ‘I hope you’re wrong.’

  ‘I doubt it.’