Innocent's Desert Wedding Contract

by Heidi Rice

  USA TODAY bestselling author HEIDI RICE lives in London, England. She is married with two teenage sons—which gives her rather too much of an insight into the male psyche—and also works as a film journalist. She adores her job, which involves getting swept up in a world of high emotion, sensual excitement, funny and feisty women, sexy and tortured men and glamorous locations where laundry doesn’t exist. Once she turns off her computer she often does chores—usually involving laundry!

  Also by Heidi Rice

  Bound by Their Scandalous Baby

  Carrying the Sheikh’s Baby

  Claiming My Untouched Mistress

  Contracted as His Cinderella Bride

  Claimed for the Desert Prince’s Heir

  A Forbidden Night with the Housekeeper

  Passion in Paradise collection

  My Shocking Monte Carlo Confession

  The Christmas Princess Swap collection

  The Royal Pregnancy Test

  Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

  Innocent’s Desert Wedding Contract

  Heidi Rice

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  ISBN: 978-0-008-91364-9

  INNOCENT’S DESERT WEDDING CONTRACT

  © 2021 Heidi Rice

  Published in Great Britain 2021

  by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

  By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  Note to Readers

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  Text to speech

  To my sister Nemone.

  Thanks for taking me to my first ever race horse auction—who knew it was so grand!

  H x

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Booklist

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  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

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  Extract

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  ‘WHY DON’T YOU just find yourself a wife, bro? That’ll stop the old goat trying to force you into an arranged marriage.’

  ‘No, thanks, bro,’ said Karim Jamal Amari Khan, Crown Prince of Zafar, sarcastically as he knocked his brother Dane’s booted feet off the coffee table, which his interior designer had probably paid a fortune for. ‘Our father can’t force me to do a damn thing.’

  ‘Father’s a rather loose term, don’t you think?’ Dane flashed a smile so sharp it could cut concrete. ‘Seeing as his only participation in our upbringing was to get both our mothers pregnant?’

  ‘True but irrelevant,’ Karim lied smoothly. As the older son and nominal Crown Prince, he had been subjected to rather more attention from their father—including the horrendous summers he’d been forced to spend in Zafar after his mother’s suicide. Summers Dane knew nothing about. ‘The point is I have no desire to acquire a wife for our father’s benefit. If he wants to disinherit me, he can.’ In fact, Karim would be overjoyed at the prospect. The kingdom of Zafar held nothing but bad memories for him, which was precisely why he had carved his own path, building a billion-dollar business empire from the ground up by the age of thirty-two, and had not been back to the kingdom since the summer he turned sixteen.

  ‘Which would leave me in the firing line,’ Dane replied, the sharp smile taking on a rueful tilt. ‘Gee thanks, bro.’

  ‘Tough.’ Karim chuckled. It would serve his father right to end up having to declare Dane his heir. His younger brother was reckless and undisciplined and had even less interest in their family heritage than he did. While Karim’s mother, Cassandra Wainwright, had been a young British aristocrat, who had returned to the UK with him after the divorce and sent him to a series of tediously disciplinarian boarding schools, Dane’s mother, Kitty Jones, had pursued a jet-set life as New York’s premiere wild child after her divorce. And her son had reaped the whirlwind, living a life with no boundaries whatsoever. There were only four years between them but Dane had refused Karim’s offer to join Amari Corp as an executive and set up his own hospitality brand five years ago, which had been surprisingly successful. If there was one thing Dane knew how to do, it was throw a party.

  ‘I know something which might change your mind about acquiring a wife, pronto,’ Dane said, the wicked glint in his eyes making Karim uneasy. There was nothing Dane enjoyed more than messing with him—which had to explain why he had turned up unannounced at Karim’s mansion in Belgravia at eight this morning, after a red-eye flight from New York.

  ‘Which is?’ Karim asked impatiently, deciding to cut to the chase. He needed to start work, so he didn’t have time for his brother’s little joke.

  ‘The old goat knows you’re after the Calhoun stud,’ Dane said as if he’d just scored a home run.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Karim demanded. His pursuit of the Calhoun stud was top secret.

  Michael Calhoun had died nearly a year ago leaving the family’s horse-racing bloodstock and training facility in Ireland with crippling debts. They’d sold a lot of their stock to stay afloat but he’d discovered a few days ago the business was finally being forced to go in to voluntary liquidation. And Karim had been preparing to go in for the kill as soon as it went up for auction.

  ‘Overheard it at an event l
ast night in Tribeca from one of Dad’s many mistresses. Which was why I caught the last flight out. She told me he was…’ Dane lifted his hands to do air quotes ‘…real thrilled about getting involved in racing by buying Calhouns. Which we both know is code for he plans to screw you over on the deal to force your hand on the marriage front.’

  Karim swore under his breath.

  ‘A phone call would have sufficed,’ he murmured, knowing his brother’s primary reason for catching the red-eye was probably to see him sweat in person. He refused to give him, or his father, the satisfaction. ‘But thanks for the heads-up,’ he added grudgingly.

  He would have to lose the deal.

  Which would hurt like hell. The Calhoun facility, even depleted and without Calhoun himself at the helm, represented a chance to enter the world of horse racing and build his own legacy—something he’d been planning for a while. The only thing he had enjoyed in Zafar was riding and training his father’s Arabian stallions.

  But he refused to engage with his father’s games, on any level. The old bastard had pulled similar tricks in the past, forcing Karim to go head to head with him. Karim hadn’t cared, in fact he’d enjoyed finding ways to best the bastard at first. To show him that he wasn’t scared of him, that he had no power over him any more. And as he’d built his business, it had become easier to win. But as his father’s attempts to blackmail him became more desperate, more deranged, he had become aware that every battle was taking a toll on Zafar’s economy as well as his father’s finances. Once one of the richest kingdoms in the region, Zafar was losing prominence because his father had been syphoning off money to spend on this war of attrition. Karim might not feel any connection with his heritage, but he didn’t want to see the country’s citizens punished. So, several years ago, he’d stopped engaging with his father—by keeping the deals he was involved in secret, or bowing out if his father showed an interest. It had taken a few strips off his pride, but he knew the non-engagement technique was working—his father hadn’t been involved in any of his business in over a year. Ultimately, frustrating the bastard was more important than beating him, as it wasn’t his father who would pay the price.

  ‘Why not call his bluff, this time?’ Dane said forcefully. ‘Instead of dropping the deal.’

  ‘I’m not getting married to close a deal…’ Karim said, wondering if his half-brother had lost the plot.

  ‘But what if you weren’t really getting married?’ Dane cut in. ‘Why not acquire a wife in name only?’ he continued. ‘It would be the perfect revenge on the manipulative bastard. If you’re not sleeping with her, you can’t provide him with the heirs he wants.’

  ‘And how would that work, exactly?’ Karim snapped, annoyed now with Dane’s nonsense. ‘The main reason I do not wish to marry has nothing to do with our father. I simply do not want a wife.’ He slept with women, he did not have long-term relationships with them. ‘Even a fake wife would expect things… And make demands on my time.’

  And could become as weak and needy and fragile as his mother.

  He resisted the shudder as the memory of his mother’s tear-stained face flitted across his consciousness. His mother’s sadness had defined his childhood, he was not about to become responsible for another woman who needed things he could not give her.

  Which was why he had a nicely appointed four-bedroom mews cottage in Kensington where he kept the woman he was currently sleeping with so she would be available when he wanted her, no messy emotions required. Maybe the place had been empty for a month—he frowned—or even two. But since paying off Alexandra, when she had begun to make noises about ‘something more permanent’, he simply hadn’t had time to acquire another mistress.

  ‘Bro, you’re loaded,’ Dane replied, with that charming, concrete-cutter grin.

  It occurred to Karim, while his brother enjoyed messing with him, Dane liked to mess with their father a great deal more.

  ‘Get your fancy legal team to put together an iron-clad prenup,’ his brother continued. ‘Then all you’ve gotta do is find yourself a woman who is greedy or desperate enough to be bought.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘ORLA, ORLA, THERE’S a helicopter circling the farm. Gerry just gave them permission to land on the back pasture. Gerry says it’s him, the sheikh who’s going to put us all out on the street.’

  Orla Calhoun paused while mucking out Aderyn’s stall at her sister Dervla’s panicked shout. The sleek black stallion jostled her as he shuffled his hooves. She pressed her hand to his nose, to soothe him. Unlike most retired racehorses, Aderyn was placid enough for her to muck him out while he was still in the stall. He liked the company, almost as much as she did, but even so…

  ‘Shh, fella, it’s okay, she’s just stressed,’ she whispered, before leaving the stall. She propped the rake beside the stall, latched the stable door, whipped off her work gloves and glared at her sister. ‘For goodness’ sake, Dervla, how many times have I told you not to raise your voice around the horses?’ she hissed. ‘You could spook them and someone could get hurt, or, worse, the animal could get hurt.’

  They only had six horses left now, but each one of them meant everything to her—and she still mourned the loss of the horses they’d been forced to sell in the last year. Each one unique, with a personality and a purpose that had always meant more to Orla than just winning races or accruing stud fees. Perhaps that was why she had ultimately failed in her attempt to keep Calhouns going, not because she hadn’t been good at training and caring for the horses, but because they had always meant more to her than just a business.

  And now she was going to lose it all…

  ‘All right, all right. I get you,’ Dervla whispered back, grabbing her elbow to drag her away from the stall, and not sounding all that apologetic. ‘But what are we going to do about him?’

  Orla heard it then, the sound of a helicopter powering down. It was far enough away not to disturb the animals, but the sound would never be quiet enough not to disturb her.

  ‘Are you sure it’s him?’ she asked. ‘He’s not due here till Friday.’

  The liquidator had arranged to have Crown Prince Karim Jamal Amari Khan view the facility before the auction on Saturday. This must be a preliminary visit by one of his minions. Sure, it had to be. She wasn’t ready for him.

  She glanced down at her work boots and dirty jeans, the sweat-stained camisole that clung to her breasts. She’d been up at dawn to take Aderyn out on the gallops and had been mucking out the stalls ever since, because they’d laid off the last of the stable boys almost a month ago.

  ‘Gerry said he spoke to him,’ Dervla whispered. As if the man was standing behind them. ‘He’s piloting the helicopter! He came on his own, Gerry says.’

  The anxiety that had gripped her stomach ever since she’d been forced to face the inevitable took another vicious twist.

  She’d had a plan to have the house and herself spotless when he arrived. When you were going to beg a favour from a playboy sheikh, you needed to look your best.

  ‘Go keep him busy, then, while I wash up here,’ Orla said, her mind racing. ‘And get Maeve to bring over my best trousers, fresh underwear and the blouse I ironed yesterday in my wardrobe.’

  She shoved her sister out of the stable entrance, then shot towards the washroom at the back of the stalls. Kicking off her boots, she ripped open the fly of her jeans. She could rinse herself here to get the stink off and then get changed before going to greet him.

  Sophisticated and demure was out now, but she’d always been a tomboy and had never fitted into the racing high society her father frequented. She’d tried that by getting engaged to Patrick Quinn. And it had been a disaster.

  What did you expect? Men have needs, Orla. And you’re as frigid as a nun.

  She flinched, remembering Patrick’s parting words from five years back, and the sickening sight of him and Meghan O’Reilly
wrapped around each other like superglue in the gazebo during their engagement party. Orla dumped her jeans by the sinks and ignored the shiver of humiliation that always accompanied the distressing memories.

  Doesn’t matter, you’re well shot of him.

  But Patrick had been right about one thing: she had never been any good at playing the flirtatious debutante. So trying to impress a playboy sheikh with her socialite credentials would always have been a stretch. Even if she’d had the time to prepare properly.

  But if she changed into something not filthy, she could at least manage cool, calm and in control—something she needed to be to have any chance of persuading Karim Khan to let her stay at Calhouns.

  The man knew their financial situation, that they were being forced to sell, so she didn’t have much bargaining power.

  She’d done a ton of Internet research on Khan last night, as soon as they’d got wind of Amari Corp’s interest from the liquidator. From what she could tell their potential buyer was rich, entitled and arrogant, a royal prince who was used to having people like her at his beck and call and who was rich enough to think he could buy his way into a legacy that had taken her family ten generations to build. But she’d be damned if she’d let Crown Prince Whoever cut her out completely from the work she had dedicated her life to.

  All she needed was a chance to prove to him she could still be useful at the stud. After all, she’d been as good as managing the place for five years now, ever since she turned seventeen and her father had become trapped in the well of grief left by her mother’s death.

  But she couldn’t do that looking like Little Orphan Annie. From all the press reports she’d read, he was the sort of man who only paid attention to beautiful, sophisticated women with manicured nails, designer clothes and perfectly styled hair that reached down to their bums. The sort of woman she’d never been, even when she had fancied herself in love with the son of the neighbouring Quinn stud.