by Julia James
Her voice was full as she answered him. ‘I could not have borne it if you had felt any...any obligation. Of any kind.’ She drew breath. ‘But now...’
She smiled and took his hand in hers again. Slowly, carefully, she placed it across her gently swelling waistline. She saw wonder fill his face, light in his eyes, and her heart lifted to soar.
French words broke from him, raw and heartfelt. She leant to kiss his mouth. There was a glint in her eye now. ‘I’m going to lose my figure, you know... Turn into a barrage balloon. You won’t desire me any more—not for months and months and months!’
The familiar look was in his eyes—that oh-so-familiar look that melted the bones of her body.
‘I will always desire you!’ he promised, and he laughed. Joy was soaring in him, like eagles taking flight. And desire too—heating him from within.
She gave a laugh of pure happiness that lifted her from her feet—or was it Marc, sweeping her up into his arms?
She gave a choke, felt emotion wringing her. ‘Marc, is this real? Is it? Tell me it is! Because I can’t be this happy—how can I?’
The future that had loomed before her—empty of all but the most precious memento of her brief time with him—now flowed and merged with the past she had lost...becoming an endless present that she knew she would never lose!
His arms tightened around her, his eyes pouring into hers. ‘As real as it is for me,’ he said.
Happiness such as he had never known since the carefree days of his youth overflowed in him. Tara was his for ever, and she was bringing to him a gift that was a wonder and a joy to him: the baby that was to be born.
He was striding with her now, towards the cottage. He glanced around, as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Is this the new life you said you were making for yourself?’
She smiled, tightening her grip around his neck with the hook of her arm. ‘A new life—and an old one,’ she said. ‘The cottage belonged to my grandparents, and they left it to me. It’s always been my haven...’
‘And it will be ours, too, if you will permit me to share it with you,’ he said, his voice warm. ‘In fact it seems to me that it would be the ideal place for a honeymoon...’
The glint in his eyes was melting her bones as he negotiated the narrow doorway, sweeping her indoors and ducking his tall frame beneath the beamed lintel. Purposefully, he headed for the stairs. There must be bedrooms upstairs, and beds...
He dropped a kiss on her mouth as he carried her aloft, following her hurried directions to her bedroom, lowering her down upon the old-fashioned brass bed which creaked under their combined weight, sinking them deep into the feather mattress.
‘Starting right now.’
‘Now, that...’ Tara sighed blissfully ‘...is a wonderful idea!’
Marc gave a growl of satisfaction at her answer and began to remove their entirely unnecessary clothing, covering her face in kisses that would last their lifetimes—and beyond.
EPILOGUE
MARC STOOD ON the terrace of the Villa Derenz, his infant son cradled in his arms. Out on the manicured lawn, under the shade of a huge parasol beside the pool, Tara dozed on a lounger.
His eyes went to her, soft with love-light. Here she had first beguiled him and entranced him, lighting a flame within him that his own fears had so nearly extinguished but which now burnt with everlasting fire.
He walked up to her, feeling the warmth of late summer lapping him. At his approach she roused herself and smiled, holding out her arms expectantly.
‘Afternoon tea is served, young Master Derenz!’ she said, and laughed, busying herself settling him to feed.
Marc dropped a lingering kiss on her forehead, then turned as two figures of military bearing emerged from the villa, coming towards him and Tara.
‘Feeding him up? Good, good...’ Major Mackenzie nodded approvingly at his grandson’s nursing.
‘Latched on properly?’ the other Major Mackenzie asked her daughter.
‘Mum, I’m not one of your subalterns,’ Tara remonstrated good-humouredly, with a laugh, patting the lounger for her mother to sit down beside her.
Her parents had welcomed the news of their daughter’s marriage with open delight, and her mother had organised the wedding at the little parish church near the cottage with military precision. Her father had even summoned a guard of honour for the bride and groom, formed by the men of his regiment.
And if a tear had moistened her mother’s eyes, only Tara had seen it, and only she had heard her mother say, with more emotion in her voice than her daughter was used to hearing, ‘He can’t take his eyes off you, that utterly gorgeous man of yours! And he is lucky—so lucky—to have you!’ Then she had hugged her daughter closely.
The arrival of their grandson had also persuaded her parents to return to Civvy Street, and they would soon buy a house on the Dorset coast, near enough to for them to keep an eye on the cottage. Tara was glad for them and glad for herself—she would be seeing more of them, and they were safe from future military deployment.
She was also glad that Marc’s son would have grandparents on her side to grow up with. But there would be happy memories in the making here, too, at the villa on Cap Pierre, just as Marc had from his own boyhood with his parents and their friends.
The Neubergers, with Hans’s new grandchild on the way, would soon be here to spend a fortnight, after her parents had returned to the UK. Hans had not been slow to express his gladness that Marc and she were so happy together.
She looked up lovingly at her husband and he met her gaze, his dark eyes softening, his heart catching.
How can I love her so much? How is it possible?
All he knew was that he did, and that theirs was a love that would never end. And to have found it made him the most fortunate man in the world.
There was the sound of a throat clearing and he glanced across at his father-in-law.
‘If it’s all right with you, old chap,’ said Major Mackenzie, ‘we’d like to take out that very neat little boat of yours! Wind’s rising, and we’re keen to try out the spinnaker.’
Marc smiled broadly. ‘An excellent idea,’ he said warmly, and Tara added her own encouragement.
Her mother rose briskly to her feet and she and Marc watched them stride across the lawn to the path leading to the jetty, where the boat was moored.
‘You could go out with them too, you know,’ she said to Marc.
He shook his head. ‘I was thinking, actually, of a quite different activity. When, that is, young Master Derenz requires his afternoon nap...’
Tara’s eyes glinted knowingly. ‘And what might that be, Monsieur Derenz?’ she enquired limpidly.
He gave a low laugh. ‘Well, Madame Derenz, I was thinking,’ he said, returning the glint in her eye with a deeper one of his own, ‘that perhaps it is time to consider the addition of a Mademoiselle Derenz to the family...’
She caught his hand and kissed it. ‘An excellent idea,’ she agreed. ‘Happy families...’ She sighed. ‘It just doesn’t get better.’
And Marc could not help but agree—with all his heart.
* * *
If you enjoyed Billionaire’s Mediterranean Proposal
you’re sure to enjoy these other stories by Julia James!
Carrying His Scandalous Heir
The Greek’s Secret Son
Tycoon’s Ring of Convenience
Heiress’s Pregnancy Scandal
Available now!
Keep reading for an excerpt from Claimed for the Sheikh’s Shock Son by Carol Marinelli.
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Claimed for the Sheikh’s Shock Son
by Carol Marinelli
CHAPTER ONE
‘WILL YOU BE speaking at the funeral, Your Highness?’
The questions from the paparazzi started even before Sheikh Prince Khalid of Al-Zahan had stepped out of the luxury vehicle.
Jobe Devereux’s funeral was tomorrow. The press and television crews were gathered outside the late, great man’s Fifth Avenue home, capturing images of visitors arriving to pay their condolences.
Some visitors walked slowly, keen to be photographed and seen, others put their heads down and hurried from their cars to the residence.
Others opted to use the trade entrance.
Khalid did neither.
He had flown to New York from Al-Zahan and at the family’s request had come directly from the royal jet to Jobe’s home. Tomorrow Khalid would be clean-shaven with his thick, black hair freshly cut and he would be wearing a suit. Tonight, though, having come from a retreat in the desert, he was bearded and his tall frame was dressed in dark robes. Khalid was a striking man—tall and slim yet muscular too. Despite his impressive physique he moved in an elegant, unhurried fashion towards the home that he knew well, ignoring the paparazzi’s questions. For Khalid, the presence of the press had barely registered and certainly he didn’t deign to respond. His mind was elsewhere, for he had lost not just a business partner but someone he both valued and respected.
Yet they persisted.
‘Will Chantelle be seated with the family?’
‘Might there be some unexpected guests?’
‘Your Highness, is it true that the King of Al-Zahan is soon to announce your marriage?’
The last question jarred, not that Khalid showed it. But at home the pressure on him to marry was immense. That it was now being aired here in New York, the place he considered his bolthole, now rendered the pressure inescapable.
The door was opened by the housekeeper and as he stepped inside it was clear that even prior to the funeral, Jobe had pulled in quite a crowd. People were mingling and spilling out from the reception room where groups stood talking. Drinks were being served as if the funeral had already taken place.
Khalid was not here to socialise, though, and was taken straight through to Jobe’s study.
‘I’ll let Ethan know that you’re here,’ the housekeeper said. ‘He’s just speaking with the senator.’
‘Tell him there is no rush,’ Khalid said.
‘Is there anything I can get for you?’ she checked, ‘He shouldn’t be long.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Khalid said, but as the housekeeper headed out the door he called to her. ‘Barb,’ Khalid said. ‘I am sorry for your loss.’
She gave him a watery smile. ‘Thank you, Khalid.’
It was a relief to be here in the study and away from the hordes. Khalid could, of course, be polite and make small-talk—his royal status demanded it. He was in no mood to, though.
How odd that one room in a house so far from home could hold so many memories. Jobe’s globe had always been a draw for Khalid. It had been an antique when Jobe had purchased it and Khalid would look at all the old countries now gone, while his island country, independent from the mainland, remained.
And it was from this very decanter that Khalid had first tasted alcohol. On that desk that the first tentative sketch of the Royal Al-Zahan Hotel had been drafted.
It was just a year off completion now.
An impossible dream, first born in this study.
Khalid picked up a heavy paperweight and recalled Jobe, for once awkward, tossing it between his hands as a far younger Khalid had opened the study door.
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’
‘How many times do I have to tell you to call me Jobe? Even my own kids do.’
But Khalid called his own father by his royal title and bowed to him on arriving and leaving, so he struggled to accept the informal greetings in the Devereux household.
‘Sit down, son.’
Khalid took a seat when he would have preferred to stay standing, for he was certain he was about to be disciplined. At sixteen he had been in New York City for close to a year and he and Ethan had discovered fake IDs and girls.
Yes, there were plenty of reasons Ethan’s father might want to have words with him.
‘There’s no easy way to say this.’ Jobe cleared his throat. ‘Khalid, you need to call home.’
‘Is something wrong with the twins?’ Khalid asked, for he knew his mother was due to give birth any day now.
‘No. Your mother gave birth to twins this morning, but there were complications. Your mom took a turn for the worse and could not be revived. I’m very sorry to tell you this, Khalid, but your mom is dead.’
It felt as if the air had been sucked out of the study and though Khalid determinedly didn’t show it, he felt as if he could not breathe. It simply could not be, for his mother was so alive and, unlike his stern father, she smiled and laughed and loved life. Queen Dalila was the very reason that Khalid was here in NYC.
‘Call home,’ Jobe said. ‘Tell your father we can head straight to the airport and that I will accompany you back to Al-Zahan.’
‘No.’ Khalid shook his head, for Jobe did not understand that Khalid had to arrive aboard the royal plane. ‘But thank you for the kind offer.’
‘Khalid.’ Jobe spoke with exasperation. ‘You are allowed to be upset.’
‘With respect, sir, I know what is allowed. I shall call the King now.’
Khalid awaited privacy, but Jobe remained in his seat and then, to Khalid’s mind, did the oddest thing. Jobe Devereux put his elbows on the mahogany desk and buried his face in his hands.
Jobe, Khalid realised with both bemusement and strange gratitude, had found telling him hard. It had hurt Jobe to break the news, and he hurt for their mother, and his two-year-old brother, Hussain, and for the twins just born.
Then he heard the voice of the King.
‘Alab,’ Khalid said, calling him Father.
A mistake.
‘I am your King first,’ he reminded Khalid. ‘You must never forget it, not even for a moment, and especially in dark times.’
‘Is it true?’ Khalid said. ‘Is she dead?’
The King confirmed the grim news, but said there was much consolation that an heir had been spared. ‘We celebrate that this morning another heir to the Al-Zahan kingdom was born.’
‘So she had a boy and a girl?’ Khalid checked.
‘Correct.’
‘Did she get to see them?’ Khalid asked. ‘To hold them? Did she know what she had?’
‘Khalid, what sort of question is that? I wa
s not with her.’
That he hadn’t even found out had Khalid fold then, and an agonised breath shuddered out of him that the King heard.
‘There will be no tears,’ the King said sharply. ‘You are a prince, not a princess. The people need to see strength, not their future King acting like some peasant who weeps and keens.’
As Khalid was being reminded he was royal, and so above emotion and pain, Jobe came around the desk and placed his hand on Khalid’s shoulder. Jobe did not know what was being said, for Khalid spoke in Arabic, yet his hand remained, even when the phone call had ended.
‘I’m so sorry, son. You’ll get through this. Abe and Ethan lost their mom too.’
‘They had you, though.’ It was the most honest admission.
‘So do you, Khalid,’ Jobe said, for having himself spoken to Khalid’s icy father he knew the young man would get no true support at home.
Here in this study Khalid had wept for his mother.
For a short while he had been sixteen and flailing, scared and desperately sad, and Jobe had allowed him to be.
Jobe Devereux had been the only person ever to see him cry for, even as a child, tears had been forbidden.
Khalid had been an only child until he’d been a teenager and his brother, Hussain, had been born, lifting from him the full weight of being the only heir. Now there were twins but no mother to love them.
Yes, Khalid had cried.
But by the time the royal plane had arrived the mask had been back on and it had never, to this day, slipped.
‘Khalid?’
He realised that he had not heard Ethan come into the study and turned and offered his condolences to his business partner and friend, although they could never have been considered close.
Khalid was not close to anyone.
‘Thank you for coming, Khalid.’
‘Of course, I was always going to be here for Jobe’s funeral.’
‘I meant tonight. It’s appreciated. How long are you here for?’
‘Till the day after tomorrow.’
‘You have to leave so soon?’