Clare Connelly Pairs: Warming the Sheikh’s Bed & Love in the Fast Lane

by Connelly , Clare

  “Believe me, I have never been more certain of anything in my life. You’re my future. I will fight for you, and your happiness, with all that I am.”

  Aurora put her arms around his shoulders and they stood, as one. She was crying, despite the fact she’d never been happier.

  “In that case… I don’t ever want to see you inside a hunk of compressed metal again.”

  “Got it.” He grinned. “Aurora Jones, will you marry me?”

  She laughed, and wiped at her eyes. “Yes. A thousand times, yes.”

  Epilogue

  A year to the day later.

  Aurora scanned the horizon from behind the small portal window, her blue eyes almost a perfect match to the sparkling ocean beneath. Where the water met the horizon, the hues changed, but it was still the same expanse of glorious color.

  Beside her, in the confines of the luxurious private jet, her husband was reclined, his body relaxed, his mind at peace, his soul truly happy for the first time in years.

  “It took me a long time, but finally you are Mrs Fontana, and I couldn’t be more pleased.”

  She flicked her eyes towards him, a smile beaming from her face. “Wasn’t the wedding beautiful?”

  He nodded. “Beatrice did us proud. Though perhaps a few less doves at the end would have sufficed,” he drawled with a small wink, and Aurora couldn’t help her giggle. The white birds had fairly covered the sky.

  “She’s not one for understatement,” Aurora commented with a shrug. “And aren’t you the one who wants to shout things from rooftops?”

  He reached over and took his wife’s hand in his. He looked at the ring – the understated gold band she’d insisted on, and smiled. “What’s the point of a huge rock?” She argued, when they’d been choosing the rings together. “I know you love me. I don’t need a massive diamond to prove it. I’d rather give the money to my old primary school.”

  And so they had. A sum large enough to purchase a perfect five carat diamond had instead been given to a struggling comprehensive in the east of London. As the sun caught the ring, it glistened, and almost seemed to match her fair hair. Yes. The single gold band was perfect for his wife. It was beautiful, like her, and excellent quality, but it was no-nonsense too. Just perfect.

  “You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” she whispered, turning her attention back to the window.

  “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

  She pouted. “I don’t like surprises.”

  “You’ll like this one.”

  “But what if I didn’t pack right?”

  He grinned. “You will have very little need for clothes, I promise.”

  She shook her head and something caught her eye, poked in her handbag. She reached for the brown envelope and ran her finger beneath the flap.

  “What’s that?” Leonardo asked curiously, leaning forward.

  “It’s an advance copy of the Hello! article.”

  He watched with interest as she flicked through it, to the piece that covered the lead up to their wedding. “I’m still surprised you allowed them to cover the event.”

  “If we didn’t let one magazine do it, there’d just be a heap of wrong information printed.”

  “Show me what they have to say about us then.”

  The photo had been taken at the duck pond, in Farnley. It was a close up of both of their smiling faces, and in the background, in soft focus, Aurora could just make out the Gardener’s Cottage.

  “Where it all began!” The small print ran beneath the picture.

  “Not quite, but we’ll give it to them.”

  She grinned, and began to read. “Aurora Jones has long been the darling of the British modelling world. Her fresh and fit take on beauty was the perfect anecdote to the heroine chic look of the nineties, and she became a household name after taking to the runway for London Fashion Week, almost a decade ago. Despite retiring from professional modelling, her transition to an internet fashion blogger has seen her meteoric star continue to rise. She is the glamorous starlet that all of Britain feels a sort of ownership of. She’s one of our premiere exports, but at her heart, she’s unfailingly British.

  It was only natural, then, that when Aurora began to date one man, instead of a series of eligible beaus, we’d be captivated by just who had won her heart.

  Enter, stage left, the dashing but somewhat ruthless figure of Leonardo Fontana. He’s certainly tall, dark and handsome, with a brooding intensity that even got this hardened journalist’s heart racing. As renowned for his victories on the Formula One circuit as the stunning parade of women he’s romanced in the past,” Aurora pulled a face at her new husband, “it was clear the afternoon we travelled to Farnely to meet the couple that their love is as unique as it is real. Aurora seems to glow in the presence of Fontana, and rumours of his ruthlessness appear completely unfounded. At least, it was impossible to see that side of him when all he did was stare goofily at his bride to be.”

  Aurora laughed and turned over the page.

  “Why did you stop reading?” Leo queried, leaning forward to see the article over her shoulder.

  “It’s the interview now. And you were there for that.”

  He smiled. “But I like the sound of your voice. I’m smitten, remember.”

  She rolled her eyes, but continued reading. The article went for four pages, and photographs were interspersed with the text.

  She got to the last paragraph, sipped her water, and continued.

  “With the wedding less than a week away, the lack of nerves is worth commenting on. When I asked the groom about his appearance of calm, he gave the following response: Life, by its very nature, is riddled with uncertainty. None of us has a guarantee, as to how long we’ll live, and how happy we’ll be. All we can do is make decisions that give us the best chance. I’m marrying Aurora because I love her, completely. Because I know that my life, without her in it, is pale and boring. Why would that make me nervous? It makes me excited. It thrills me. It makes me feel lucky and alive. Not nervous.”

  Aurora turned to him, her blue eyes tinged with moistness. “I didn’t hear that.”

  “You were changing into the hundredth outfit for the photo shoot at the time.”

  Aurora sighed. “You’re really very sweet, you know. It’s just as well you quit racing. I really think your talents were wasted.”

  He grinned. “I’m glad. I have ideas for how I’d rather spend my time, and they all focus on you.”

  Aurora snuggled deeper into the comfortable leather chair. “Imagine if Beatrice hadn’t met Peter. If she hadn’t got married. Do you think we’d have worked out that we were meant to be together?”

  “Undoubtedly. It was only a matter of time.”

  His confidence pleased her. “I think so too.” She reached down and rubbed at a crease on her dress.

  “It was Betty,” he said. “I saw her clutching your skirts as though you were her lifeline.”

  Aurora smiled, thinking of Beatrice and Peter’s dear little three month old. “In that case, the creases can stay.”

  “Our niece is quite delightful,” he agreed. “Though I predict she’ll be just as troublesome as her mother.”

  Aurora nodded. “I hope so. Nothing better than a girl with spirit.”

  “Speaking of which,” Leonardo asked softly, “do you approve of Alec’s new flame?”

  “Not only do I approve of her, I set them up.”

  Leonardo’s brows shot up. “I didn’t realise.”

  “We have to have some secrets, you know.” She winked. “Alyssa is perfect for him. And he for her. I think they’re a good match.”

  “I’m glad. I would like him to be as happy as we are. Well, that is probably not possible. I at least want him to find someone he cares for, who returns the sentiment.”

  Aurora tilted her head, just as the spectacular and unmistakable sight of Rimini loomed into view.

  “The island!” She squealed, squeezing his fingers. �
��It’s perfect.”

  He nodded. “I have long been tormented by memories of that very perfect time we spent together here. I thought it was time to add to the collection.”

  Aurora sighed. “It’s funny, I never really believed in fairy tales, but now I’m living one.”

  “This is better than a fairy tale,” he demurred, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it softly.

  “How so?” She asked, her eyes clinging to his.

  “Because fairy tales always have a happy ending.”

  She frowned. “You don’t think we have a happy ending?”

  He laughed. “Maybe one day. But right now, we have a happy beginning, and I want that to last forever.”

  The End

  Following is an excerpt from THE VELASCO LOVE CHILD by Clare Connelly, available to purchase or hire from amazon.com.

  The Velasco Love Child

  By

  Clare Connelly

  Prologue

  It’s not like she actually had to sleep with the guy.

  No amount of money would lower Maggie’s standards to that degree.

  A lingering look would do. A hand on her back. Perhaps a kiss.

  Anything that would show her ‘mark’, in this case the gloriously handsome and rich Spanish wine mogul, for the cheating bastard he was. All she needed was a shared moment of intimacy that was damning enough for the agency’s photographer to catch. Proof for the poor wife, who’d suffered silently through affair after affair.

  Getting the sleaze to hit on her should be easy enough.

  Only, Maggie hadn’t taken on an assignment in years, and she knew she was out of practice. A flutter of nerves assailed her as she eyed herself in the washroom mirror. Nervous or not, she had still managed to look the part. Tall and slender, with auburn hair and a creamy complexion, Maggie had always been one of the agency’s best employees. Her years studying ballet gave her a litheness and grace that she took for granted.

  She frowned, as she ran a hand over the black silk neckline of the dress. To describe it as plunging would be the understatement of the century. It was slit almost to her belly button at the front, and at the back, it draped to just above her bottom. The dress was made of silk, and it clung to her curves like a second skin, to mid-thigh length. She put her hands on her hips and pulled a face when she saw the way the dress hitched up a little higher, to reveal even more of her smooth, creamy skin. She might as well have walked into the five star lobby stark naked, for all the dress did to cover her up.

  The slinky black number was a far cry from her usual clothes, she thought with a shake of her head. This life was so far in her past that she needed a magnifying glass to spot it in her rear vision mirror. If it hadn’t been for her cousin Miranda’s desperate pleas, she would never have agreed to this assignment.

  But Miranda had been desperate; her agency’s reputation was at stake, she’d declared dramatically. Maggie had still resisted. She was no longer interested in helping wives make their cheating husbands pay. But Miranda had pushed and pushed, reminding Maggie of the effort and work that had been involved in making the sleuthing business such a success.

  Finally, Maggie had relented, if only to get Miranda off the phone. And it was just one more night of her life, nothing more. And her curiosity had been piqued by the target’s description. Dante Velasco was, undoubtedly, a Big Fish. The money would be nice, too. The commission being offered to catch the Spanish wine mogul in the act would be enough to pay off Maggie’s overdraft altogether. Maybe even to service the coffee machine, she thought with a twist of her lips. With the exception of Miranda, no one knew she was undertaking the assignment. Though she’d hated lying to her best friend Rosie, it had been easier to say she had stomach flu and leave work early than to face Rosie’s big green eyes when they clouded with disappointment. Rosie had never understood Maggie’s agency work, and she would certainly not do so now. No. Lying was easier. So she’d left work and hopped onto a flight to Paris.

  Which left only the seduction bit.

  She’d done her research. Before his marriage to the glamorous Veronika (first name only, in true supermodel style) he had been a confirmed bachelor. The more obviously attractive his lover the better, and Maggie’s dress that night was nothing if not flagrantly obvious. Maggie had deduced that he was not one for subtlety, and not one for long-term relationships. He swapped lovers almost as often as he moved countries.

  There was one crucial way in which this assignment differed to the targets she’d dealt with in the past. Infidelity was not the issue. That had already been established, and the clever wife didn’t require evidence to justify a divorce. She wanted to make him pay through the teeth for having broken her heart though, and photographs of him with another woman would help attain that. Maggie had felt a short jab of compunction, initially, but then she’d thought of the poor wife, and any sympathy had evaporated. It was his own fault for playing around, after all.

  She lifted her hands and gave her hair a little tease, pushing the auburn curls at the roots so that they looked like she had just rolled out of bed. “Okay, Maggie. It’s now or never.” Her heels moved with a clickety clack across the highly sheened tiles of the foyer. As she approached the glass door entrance to the bar, a doorman swung them inwards, so that she could go in. That was the moment. The small moment she had to rethink her actions and walk away.

  She did not.

  The hotel bar was not busy, but even if it had been, she would have been able to pick Dante Velasco in the midst of a crowd. Had she not scoured the internet for photographs of him, she still would have just known. Men born to impossible wealth had a certain bearing about them. It was expressed in the way they held their shoulders square, their heads high, and the slight curl of disdain on their lips as though they knew they belonged to an elite echelon of society. She took a moment to steel herself for what lay ahead, and to inure herself to his obvious physical charms.

  Without heels, Maggie stood almost six feet tall. She’d donned a pair of stilettos that night, knowing they made her legs look as though they stretched forever. The moment she began to weave through the bar, she felt his eyes arrest on her. Dark eyes, she knew from photos, followed her as she walked with an exaggerated swagger to the front of the room. She stood far from him. Far enough that he wouldn’t think she was interested; far enough that he would have to pursue her.

  Though it was all a game of pretend, Maggie knew the way men worked. Getting a man like Dante to hit on her required him to truly be attracted to her. While she was playing a part, he was not. She leaned slightly forward, pretending fascination with the wine list. It draped her dress lower, and she knew he would be catching a good glimpse of cleavage if he were still looking.

  She just hoped he wouldn’t see the way her heart was banging against her ribcage.

  The one thing she’d overlooked was her manicure. When she’d worked for the agency full time, several years earlier, she’d always had a perfect set of false nails in place. Red and long, the kind of nails that men seemed to fantasise about. The kind of nails that were completely unsuitable for her new life, as the owner of her own café in Chelsea. The best she’d been able to do was to paint them herself with a black polish she’d grabbed at the airport. She ran a finger down the menu now, looking for a wine that would send the right message.

  Concealing her smile, she fixed the barman with a steady gaze, and said in her huskiest voice, “One of the Vin Ros 2012’s, thanks.” She cursed the civility afterwards. Women like she was pretending to be did not say ‘thanks’ to wait staff. She assembled a shroud of unapproachable formality around herself and stared straight ahead.

  “Would you like to start a tab, madam?” The barman spoke English with an obvious French accent.

  “Put it on mine,” Dante’s voice was low and gravelly, his accent like a Spanish summer on her skin. Maggie felt her heart stutter. As always, she experienced a sinking feeling of depression to realise that she’d hooked her target.
Oh, it was the purpose of her evening, so she should have been relieved. Only Maggie always hoped against hope that these poor wives were wrong. That their husbands weren’t out trying to shag anything that moved.

  Her faith remained shaken; her hope unwarranted. In the two years she’d played her part in these undercover operations, not once had a single target turned her down.

  She concealed her disappointment and instead, angled her head to fix Dante with a slow, steady appraisal. She had to convince him that she was interested. That she was available. She needed him to do something that showed his despicable morals for the sake of the camera.

  It was always the same tactic. Get the man to make a move, be sure the photographer had snapped the image, then whisper something sexy about freshening up, and affect a silent escape before any real seduction could take place. She was happy to get the proof these women required, but not to be complicit in the marriage breakdown by actually doing anything with the sleazy husbands.

  “That’s not necessary,” she demurred, all the while making a show of eating him up with her eyes. It was not hard. He was sinfully good looking. Not in that movie star way that some girls seemed to go wild for. He was darkly tanned, with jet-black hair and dark eyes that were flecked with caramel. He had a scar that ran from his ear to his nose; it wasn’t dark nor deep, but it was still visible – a silver highway on the roadmap of his face. She would have guessed it had happened many years ago. She banked down on her curiosity. This was an act. Nothing more.

  “A beautiful woman on her own in a bar, buying one of my wines. Of course I will add it to my bill.”

  “One of your wines?” She blinked her huge blue eyes, feigning ignorance.

  His lips curled into a sardonic smile. “Si. Something I suspect you are well aware of.”