Innocent's Desert Wedding Contract

by Heidi Rice

  ‘It’s okay, Orla, the dress is good,’ he managed past the lump of lust forming in his throat.

  Far too damn good.

  He touched her elbow, her instinctive shudder of awareness reminiscent of the livewire moment he’d touched her for the first time that morning.

  As she turned into the light, he became momentarily transfixed by the sprinkle of freckles across her cleavage and the glimpse of her naked breast visible at the edge of the gown. Her pulse pounded visibly against the hollow in her neck, giving him a lungful of her scent. The intoxicating aroma reminded him of a country garden, the subtle perfume of wild flowers and the earthy scent of freshly mown grass. He bit down on the urge to nuzzle the translucent skin and nibble kisses along the delectable line of her collarbone.

  ‘Are you sure the dress is okay, Mr Khan?’ she said, forcing him back to the present. ‘The stylist might have another if you don’t like it…’ Small white teeth tugged on her bottom lip.

  Was she really as sexually experienced as she claimed? he wondered, not for the first time. And why the hell did her guilelessness only intoxicate him more?

  ‘I like it,’ he said, which had to be the understatement of the millennium. ‘You don’t have time to change. And stop calling me Mr Khan. My name is Karim, Orla. Use it.’

  Cupping her elbow, he led her out of the door to their waiting car. He needed to get this night over with, so he could think. He wasn’t making any more rash decisions where this woman was concerned.

  When was the last time a woman had affected him to this extent? The truth was his affairs had become jaded and dull in recent years, and while this livewire attraction was inconvenient, even unwanted, it also had the potential to be pleasurable for both of them.

  But before he renegotiated the terms of their liaison, he needed to be sure his new fiancée wasn’t going to spring any more unwanted surprises on him.

  He held open the passenger door of the convertible he’d selected to drive to the venue tonight. As Orla climbed into the low-slung car, he noticed the split in the gown’s skirt, revealing a generous glimpse of pale, toned thigh.

  He cursed inwardly as the wave of heat shot straight back into his groin.

  He slammed the door and walked around to the driver’s side. First thing tomorrow, he was firing the damn stylist.

  Mr Khan… Karim was angry with her, and she didn’t know what she’d done wrong.

  She’d done everything he’d asked. The dress had made her feel exposed and foolish—she’d never worn anything so skimpy before, or so beautiful. But the stylist had insisted it was perfect for her figure and would turn her new fiancé into her ‘slave’—the stylist’s words, not hers. Of course, the stylist—like the rest of Karim’s employees—didn’t know this wasn’t a real engagement… And that even if she danced naked in front of him it wouldn’t turn him into her slave.

  But the minute she’d heard the gruff whisper behind her, and turned to see Karim standing staring at her in the vestibule, that intense gaze making her skin prickle and pulse beneath the sheer fabric of the glittery gown, she’d known something was terribly wrong. Because he didn’t look pleased, he looked… Volatile.

  His movements and his demeanour had been stiff and formal ever since, as if he were trying to hold onto his temper. The shock of seeing him in a tuxedo, his dark good looks somehow even more compelling and dangerous in the formal wear, hadn’t helped.

  She sat in the car, trying to gather her thoughts and figure out what she could do to make things better between them. If only she had more experience of intimate relationships she might have more of a clue.

  He climbed into the car beside her, slammed the door, then pressed a button on the expensive car’s state-of-the-art dashboard.

  As the engine purred, he reached into his trouser pocket and produced a velvet box.

  ‘Put this on,’ he said, as he handed her the box.

  She opened the small container. Her breathing slowed, the well-oiled vibrations of the powerful car amplifying the thundering in her ears.

  Nestled in the box’s black satin lining was an exquisite ring of interwoven rose-gold and silver bands, studded with diamonds but crowned by an emerald. The misty green of the gem reminded her of the colour of the fields in Kildare when the sun hit them for the first time on a summer morning.

  ‘It’s stunning,’ she managed, round the strange swelling in her throat, as it occurred to her how different this moment was from the day Patrick Quinn had given her an engagement ring. Back then, of course, she’d believed Pat loved her, because she’d been a child with foolish romantic notions, instead of a woman with debts she couldn’t repay.

  Her heart hurt as the impact of what she’d done that morning—become engaged to a man for money—hit her solidly in the solar plexus.

  She touched the ring, but her fingers were trembling too violently for her to pull it out of the box.

  ‘Here,’ he said, as he took the box from her. He plucked the engagement band out. ‘Give me your hand.’

  She placed her left hand in his, far too aware of the warmth of his palm as his fingers closed over hers, gently, in a silent gesture to stop the trembling. Remarkably it worked, his touch so compelling it seemed to command her obedience.

  ‘Which finger does it go on?’ he asked.

  Her gaze lifted to his, to find him watching her, but instead of frustration or fury what she saw was contemplation, and something else, something that still looked remarkably volatile but not necessarily aimed at her.

  ‘The ring finger,’ she said. But when he went to thread the ring on, her finger wobbled.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.

  His golden gaze was still fixed on her face. The warmth in her cheeks ignited, but she forced herself to remain pragmatic, even if the aching in her chest had got so much worse as a thought spun into her brain unbidden. What would it be like to have a man as passionate and powerful as Karim Khan truly care for you? To want to cherish and protect you?

  ‘No, nothing,’ she said hastily, dismissing the weak, pointless yearning as best she could. She didn’t want to have this situation be real. She didn’t need any man to cherish and protect her, and certainly not a man like Karim Khan. He might be rich and powerful, but he was also taciturn and cynical and cold… And far too overwhelming for the likes of her. Falling for a man like him would be even more fraught with danger than falling for a man like her skank of an ex-fiancé.

  She squeezed her fingers into a fist then straightened them again to stop the trembling. She didn’t want him to think she was some kind of foolish romantic, or, worse, that she had any kind of misconceptions about what this relationship was.

  He stroked the ring finger with his thumb, then slipped the band on, pushing it down. His thumb slid back over the knuckle, then he let go of her hand. She missed the warmth of his touch instantly.

  Her pulse began to punch her collarbone.

  ‘Thank goodness it fits,’ he said, his voice a husky murmur.

  The tiny diamonds sparkled in the light from an overhead street lamp, exquisite and yet ethereal. She curled her fingers back into a fist and placed both her hands in her lap, painfully aware of the buzz of sensation his touch had ignited, and the cold weight of the ring that didn’t really belong to her.

  The engagement ring must have cost an absolute fortune, the insignia on the box from London’s most exclusive jewellers. Perhaps it was the thought of possessing something so valuable, even for a little while, that was the problem, not the significance of having Karim Khan place his ring on her finger, when that had no real significance at all.

  ‘I’ll be sure to take good care of it for you,’ she said. ‘Until you need it back.’

  ‘Why would I need it back?’ he asked, the cutting edge back. Had she done something else wrong?

  She stared at his face, the strong
planes and angles even more striking cast into shadow by the street lamp. Was he serious? ‘Won’t you need it when you get engaged for real? It must have cost a fortune.’

  He let out a harsh chuckle, as if she’d said something particularly stupid. ‘Keep it. The stylist picked it out for you, so it’s unlikely to suit any other woman.’ He shifted the car into gear. ‘And once this is over, I certainly don’t intend to do it again.’

  As the car peeled away from the kerb, the critical comment ripped through her show of confidence, to the neglected girl beneath.

  The light summer breeze whipped at her skin. She squeezed her fist, determined to ignore the ring, and the lump of inadequacy forming in her throat.

  This isn’t about you, it’s not personal. The engagement is a means to an end, he’s made no secret of that.

  But unfortunately, despite her frantic pep talk, there didn’t seem to be much she could do about the heavy weight of his disapproval sinking into the pit of her stomach.

  Getting through the next few hours pretending to belong in Karim Khan’s rarefied world—and present the picture of a loving fiancée, when she knew she was no kind of fiancée—suddenly seemed insurmountable.

  ‘I told Phillip Carstairs and my financial advisors we met when I visited the stud, and that my decision to pay off the estate’s debts were a result of my affection for you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’ she said, too preoccupied with her own evolving misery to take stock of what he’d said.

  ‘The story of our whirlwind romance,’ he clarified. ‘I left it vague, but if anyone questions you simply say the engagement is based on our shared love of horse racing and our…’ he paused ‘…our considerable chemistry.’ He glanced her way, trapping her in that intense gaze for a second before he returned his attention to the road. Even so it was enough to reignite the familiar bonfire at her core. ‘Which from this morning’s evidence appears not to be a lie.’

  She swallowed as the bonfire crackled and burned.

  Why did knowing his response had been as genuine and unguarded as hers only make her feel more insecure? And more unsettled?

  ‘I’d say that’s not much of a basis for a marriage,’ she said, before she could think better of it. She wanted to grab the words back when he sent a sharp glance her way.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, I don’t think that’s much of a basis for a marriage,’ she managed, knowing she’d said it now, so no more harm could be done by explaining herself. And anyway, she was tired of worrying about saying or doing the wrong thing constantly. Perhaps if they talked more, he’d realise she was doing her best. ‘A shared love of horse racing, that is… And…’ She coughed to dislodge the sudden blockage in her throat. ‘And chemistry.’

  His brows drew down as he approached the traffic lights at Hyde Park Corner. The Corinthian columns of Wellington Arch at the centre of the roundabout and the galloping horses of the bronze statue on top looked particularly imposing illuminated from beneath as the dusk descended over central London. But it was nowhere near as imposing as the silence in the car or the man beside her. Orla’s pulse accelerated and the weight in her belly grew. She could sense his disapproval again—seemed she was getting very good at noticing that much about him, at least—but she refused to apologise. Being timid and self-effacing was not a good way to deal with Karim Khan, she decided, because it only gave him more power. And made her feel more useless. If she was going to get through tonight without making some major faux pas she was going to need his help… Instead of his disapproval.

  ‘I would have to disagree,’ he said at last, finally breaking the agonising silence. ‘Chemistry was the only element that compelled my father to marry all four of his wives.’

  His father had been married four times!

  Shock came first, followed by a strange ripple of regret as she acknowledged the bitterness in his tone. No wonder this man had such a jaundiced view of love and relationships if that was his role model.

  ‘Well, you might say that proves my point, rather than disproves it,’ she countered.

  The lights changed and he drove past the arch.

  ‘How so?’ he asked, as he shifted down a gear to accelerate around a delivery truck and make the turn onto Piccadilly.

  ‘Perhaps if he’d considered more than chemistry when choosing a wife, he might not have had four of them.’

  The minute the comment had left her mouth his lips drew into a tight line.

  She wanted to bite off her tongue. Why couldn’t she learn to keep her opinions to herself? Starting an argument with him was hardly the way to go here.

  And his father’s four failed marriages were not her concern, any more than the bitter disillusionment in his tone was when he’d spoken of them.

  But to her surprise, instead of telling her to mind her own business, his lips relaxed and he said, ‘A good point. Although incorrect where my father is concerned.’

  ‘How is that?’ she asked, trying not to flinch when he sent her another assessing look.

  Maybe he didn’t want to talk about this, but she needed to know this stuff if she was going to pretend to be in love with him tonight with any degree of success.

  Although her own parents’ marriage had ended tragically, she could still remember the intimacy between them. Whenever they were together, it was the small possessive touches, the jokes only they shared, the secret looks they sent each other when they thought no one was watching, that announced their love, so much louder than any outward show of emotion or desire.

  She suspected, from what Karim had just told her about his father’s marriages and his scathing reaction to the L word yesterday, he would be unaware of how a connection like that manifested itself, so it would be up to her to fake that part… And there was no way she could do that if she didn’t find out more about him. So surely the avid thundering of her pulse as she waited for him to give her an answer to her question was totally justified.

  He sighed as if the question was an inconvenience rather than an intrusion, but when he spoke, she could hear more in his voice than impatience and it made her heart beat even harder.

  ‘My father’s reasons for marriage were two-fold: sexual gratification and the production of male heirs. Only two of his wives managed to achieve the latter—my mother and my younger brother Dane’s mother—but he grew bored with them all after a few years, at which point they were always discarded.’

  The bland, almost bored tone as he described a man who sounded like an arrogant, entitled monster shocked her. But then the car crossed Piccadilly Circus, and the red and gold lights from one of the junction’s illuminated advertising hoardings highlighted the tension in his jaw.

  Was he really as unaffected by his father’s behaviour, or just very good at hiding it?

  ‘He doesn’t sound like much of a husband… Or father,’ she commented.

  ‘He’s not.’ His lips twisted into a hard smile. ‘But the only wives who suffered were the ones who made the mistake of believing he wanted more,’ he added.

  Did that include his mother? It was hard to tell from the flat, unsentimental tone.

  ‘What about his children?’ she asked softly.

  He let out a harsh laugh. ‘Dane and I survived without him,’ he said.

  He sounded unmoved, almost amused by the suggestion any child would need a father—she found his attitude unbearably sad. No wonder Karim Khan could view a relationship as nothing more than a business deal. But didn’t every child deserve a father who cared for them as a person—as well as simply a means to continue their legacy? As difficult as it had been to watch her own father change after her mother’s death, allowing the grief and eventually the gambling to destroy all their lives, he had loved and nurtured her and her sister once. What would it be like never to have that support?

  The silence stretched between them a
gain until a question formed in her mind.

  ‘Won’t you have to marry to provide heirs eventually too?’ she asked, wondering how he was going to square that with his avowed decision never to do so. ‘Being the Crown Prince?’

  ‘My father certainly thinks so,’ he said, the coldness in his voice chilling. ‘I do not.’

  He glanced at her as he flicked up the indicator to turn the car into Seven Dials.

  ‘His attempts to force my hand in the matter are the main reason I decided to acquire you, as it happens,’ he added.

  Orla blinked, his cynicism making her rub her arms despite the balmy summer evening.

  So that was why he had needed a fake fiancée? To stop his father from trying to force him to marry. She supposed it made sense. But all it did was make her feel sadder for him. To have such a dysfunctional relationship with a parent—to know from a young age you had only ever been born for one purpose—couldn’t be good for anyone.

  But as he braked the car at the small roundabout in the middle of the Seven Dials, and handed his keys to a parking attendant, she tried to ignore the compassion tightening her throat and concentrate instead on the rigid line of his jaw.

  Karim Khan, whatever the struggles of his childhood, was not the sort of man that inspired anyone’s pity.

  The road in front of The Chesterton Hotel had been closed off, and a red carpet laid on the centuries-old cobblestones flanked by a barrage of photographers. He escorted her through the mêlée, his hand once again doing diabolical things to her body temperature as the calluses skimmed across her naked back.

  As they entered the hotel together, the anxiety in her gut twisted and burned and she forced herself to forget the glimmer of insight she had got into Karim’s childhood during the drive.