From the VIP guest’s bed...
...to expecting his royal heir!
After a fleeting yet exhilarating affair with Sheikh Sariq, hotel concierge Daisy knows life can’t be ordinary again! She resigns herself to only ever reliving the pleasure in her memory. But then she makes a shocking discovery that will cause chaos for this duty-bound king...
Unable to forget their connection, Sariq is intrigued when Daisy declines his summons to his palace. Yet finding out she’s secretly pregnant demands dramatic action! She’s far from a suitable bride...but for their baby he’ll crown her. If Daisy will accept!
CLARE CONNELLY was raised in small-town Australia among a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Mills & Boon 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 that she’s in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Mills & Boon novels continue to be her favourite ever books. Writing for Modern is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com or at her Facebook page.
Also by Clare Connelly
Bought for the Billionaire’s Revenge
Innocent in the Billionaire’s Bed
Her Wedding Night Surrender
Bound by the Billionaire’s Vows
Spaniard’s Baby of Revenge
Shock Heir for the King
Redemption of the Untamed Italian
Christmas Seductions miniseries
Bound by Their Christmas Baby
The Season to Sin
Crazy Rich Greek Weddings miniseries
The Greek’s Billion-Dollar Baby
Bride Behind the Billion-Dollar Veil
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.
The Secret Kept from the King
Clare Connelly
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-1-474-09815-1
THE SECRET KEPT FROM THE KING
© 2020 Clare Connelly
Published in Great Britain 2020
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.
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This book’s for you—a romance reader who, just like me, loves to be swept up in a passionate escapist story with a guaranteed happily-ever-after.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
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
Extract
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
WHEN HE CLOSED his eyes he saw only his father’s, so he tried not to close them much at all. Not because he didn’t want to see the Exalted Sheikh Kadir Al Antarah again; he did, more than anything. But seeing his eyes as they’d been at the end, so clouded by pain and unconscious of the world that swirled around him, so robbed of the strength and vibrancy that had been hallmarks of his life and rule, made Sariq’s chest compress in a way that robbed him of breath and had him gasping for air.
The King was dead. His father was dead. He was now completely alone in this world, and the inescapable reality he had been aware of all his life was wrapping around him like a cable.
He had been crowned. The job of steering the Royal Kingdom of Haleth fell to him. Just as he’d always known it would, just as he’d spent a lifetime preparing for.
‘Your Highness? Malik has asked me to remind you of the time.’
Sariq didn’t respond at first. He continued to stare out at the glittering vista of Manhattan. From this vantage point, it was easy to pick out the key buildings that were considered the most well-known landmarks of New York. The Empire State building shone like a beacon. The Chrysler with its art deco detailing, and, far in the distance, the spire of One World Trade Centre. And in another direction, not far from this hotel, if he followed a straight line, he’d reach the United Nations, where he’d be expected to make his first official speech since the death of Sheikh Kadir. In the morning, he’d address leaders and delegates from dozens of countries, aiming to assure them that his father’s death was not an end to the peace that had, finally, been established between the RKH and the west.
‘Emir?’
‘Yes.’ He spoke more harshly than he’d intended. He closed his eyes—and there was his father. He returned his attention to the view, his features locked in a grim mask. ‘Tell Malik I am aware of the hour.’
Still, the servant hovered. ‘Can I get you anything else, sir?’
Briefly, Sariq turned to face the servant. He was little more than a boy—sixteen or seventeen perhaps. He wore the same uniform Sariq had donned at that age, black with gold detailing. The insignia indicated he was an ensign. ‘What is your name?’
The boy’s eyes widened.
‘Kaleth.’
Sariq forced a smile to his face. It felt odd, heavy and wooden. ‘Thank you for your attention, Kaleth, but you may go now.’
Kaleth paused, as though he wished to say somethin
g further.
‘Tell Malik it was at my insistence.’
This seemed to appease the young officer because he nodded and bowed low. ‘Goodnight, sir.’
He turned back to the view without responding. It was after midnight and his day had been long. Starting with meetings in Washington and then the flight to New York, where he’d had dinner with his ambassador to America—also installed in this hotel while the major renovations to the embassy were completed. And all day long, he’d pushed his grief aside, knowing he needed to act strong and unaffected by the fact he’d buried his father a little over three weeks ago.
The man had been a behemoth. Strength personified. His absence left a gaping hole—not just for Sariq but for the country. It was one Sariq would endeavour to fill, but there would only ever be one King Kadir.
He moved towards the view, pushing one of the sliding glass doors open so he could step onto the large, private terrace, his eyes continuing to trace the skyline of New York. The background noise of horns beeping, sirens wailing and engines revving was a constant here, and somehow that made it fade into nothing. It was so loud it became a sort of white noise, and yet it made him long for the silence of the desert to the east of his palace, a place where he could erect a tent and be surrounded by silence, and the ancient sands of his kingdom. There was wisdom in those grains of sand: each and every one of them had stood sentinel to the people of his kingdom. Their wars, their famines, their pains, their hopes, their beliefs and, in the last forty years, their peace, their prosperity, their modernisation and acceptance onto the world’s stage.
It was his father’s legacy and Sariq would do all that he could to preserve it. No, not simply to preserve it: to improve it. To grow it, to strengthen it, to better his country’s standing and make peace so unequivocal that the trailing fingers of civil war could no longer touch a single soul of his country.
Sariq was not his father, but he was of him, he was cast from his soul, his bones and strength, and he had spent a lifetime watching, learning, and preparing for this.
In the morning, it would begin. He was ready.
Daisy stared at the flashing light with a small frown on her cupid’s bow lips, then consulted the clock on the wall. It was three in the morning, and the alarm for the Presidential suite was on. She reached for the phone, tucking it under her ear.
‘Concierge, how may I help you?’
It had only been a matter of hours since the delegation from the Royal Kingdom of Haleth had been installed in this five-star hotel’s most prestigious suite—as well as a whole floor of rooms for servants and security guards—but Daisy had already had multiple dealings with a man named Malik, who seemed to coordinate the life of the Sheikh. As the hotel’s VIP concierge, this was her job—she alone was responsible for taking care of every little thing the most prestigious guests wanted. Whether it was organising parties for after their concerts at Madison Square Garden, or, in the case of a Queen from a Scandinavian country, organising a small couture fashion parade in her suite so she could choose what to wear to the Met gala, Daisy prided herself on being able to cope with just about anything that was asked of her.
So when the phone rang, despite the hour, she was calm and prepared. Malik must need something and she would ensure he got it.
What she wasn’t prepared for was the timbre of the voice that came down the line, so deep and throaty, accented with spice and an exotic lilt that showed English was his second language. ‘I would like some persimmon tea.’
The RKH ambassador had been staying in the hotel for three months while the embassy was being renovated. They now had a permanent supply of delicacies from that country on hand, including persimmon tea.
‘Yes, sir. Would you like some balajari as well?’ she offered, the almond and lemon zest biscuits something the ambassador always took with his tea.
There was a slight pause. ‘Fine.’ The call was disconnected and Daisy inwardly bristled, though she showed no sign of that. Very few of the guests she’d hosted in the Presidential suite had exhibited particularly good manners. There were a few exceptions: an Australian actor who’d apologised every time he’d ‘disturbed’ her, a Scottish woman who’d won one of those television singing competitions and seemed unable to comprehend that she’d been jettisoned in the global superstar arena and seemed to want to be treated as normally as possible, and a Japanese artist who had wanted directions to the nearest Whole Foods so she could stock her own fridge.
Daisy called the order through to the kitchen then moved to the service elevator. There was a full-length mirror there—the hotel manager insisted that each staff member check their appearance before going out on the floor, and Daisy did so now, tucking a curl of her blonde hair back into its bun, pinching her cheeks to bring a bit of colour to them, and even though her shirt was tucked in, she pushed it in a little more firmly, straightening her pencil skirt and spinning to have a look over her shoulder at her behind.
Neat, professional, nondescript. Her job wasn’t to be noticed, it was to fly beneath the radar. She was a facilitator, and nothing more. A ghost of the hotel, there whenever she was required, but in an unseen kind of way.
By the time she reached the kitchen in the basement, the order was ready. She double-checked the tray herself, inspecting plates for fingerprints, the teapot for heat, then thanked the staff, carrying the tray on one hand as she pressed the call button for the lift.
The Presidential suite was on the top floor and only she and the hotel manager had a staff access card for it. She swiped it as she entered then moved the tray to both hands, holding it in front of her as the lift shot up towards the sky.
When she’d first started working here, two years ago, the elevator had made her tummy ache every time, but she was used to it now and barely batted an eyelid.
The doors pinged open into a small service corridor with a glossy white door on one end. In the presidential apartment, the door was concealed by wall panelling. She knocked discreetly and, despite the absence of a greeting, unlocked the door and pushed into the suite.
The lights were out but several lamps had been turned on, giving the apartment an almost eerie glow.
She loved these rooms, with their sumptuous décor, their stunning views, the promise of luxury and grandeur. Of course, she loved them most of all when they were empty, particularly of the more demanding and disrespectful guests who had a tendency to treat the delicate furniture as though it were cheap, plastic tat.
The coffee table in the middle of the sofas was low-set and a shining timber. She placed the tea tray down on it, then straightened to look around the room. At first, she didn’t see him. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkened room. But then, the silhouette of a man stood out, a void against the Manhattan skyline.
The Sheikh.
She’d caught a glimpse of him at a distance, earlier that day, and he was instantly recognisable now. It wasn’t just his frame, which was tall and broad, muscled in a way that spoke of fitness and strength. It was his long hair, dark, which he wore in a bun on top of his head. She was used to dealing with powerful, important people and yet that didn’t mean she was an automaton. In moments like this, a hint of anxiety always bristled through her. She ignored it, keeping her voice neutral when she addressed him.
‘Good evening, sir. I have your tea.’ A pause, in which he didn’t speak, nor did he turn to face her. ‘Would you like me to pour it for you?’
Another pause, a silence that stretched between them for several seconds. She waited with the appearance of impassivity, watching him, so she saw the moment he dipped his head forward in what she took to be a nod.
Her fingertips trembled betrayingly as she reached for the teapot, lifting it silently, pressing down on the lid to avoid any spills, filling the tea to near the top of the cup, then silently replacing the pot on the tray.
She took a step backward then, pre
paring to leave. Except he still didn’t move and something inside her sparked with curiosity. Not just curiosity: duty. He had asked for tea; her job was to provide him with it. She moved back to the coffee table, lifting the teacup and saucer, carrying them across the room towards him.
‘Here you are, sir,’ she murmured at his side. Now, finally, he did turn to look at her, and she had to grip the teacup and saucer more tightly to stop them from shaking. Her fingers felt as though they’d been filled with jelly. She’d seen him from a distance and she’d seen photographs of him, when she’d been preparing for his visit, but nothing really did justice to his magnificence. In person, he was so much more vital than any still image could convey. His features were harsh, symmetrical and almost jagged. A jaw that was square, cheekbones that appeared to have been slashed into his face at birth, a nose that had a bump halfway down its length, as if it had been broken at some point. His eyes were the darkest black, and his brows were thick and straight. His skin was a swarthy tan, and his chin was covered in stubble. Yes, up close he was quite mesmerising, so she forced herself to look away. Being mesmerised wasn’t part of her job description.
‘It’s supposed to help you sleep.’ His voice was unlike anything she’d ever known. If you could find a way to bottle it, you’d be a millionaire.
‘I’ve heard that.’ She nodded, crisply, already preparing to fade into the background, to disappear discreetly through the concealed doorway, feeling almost as though her disappearing now was essential to her sanity.
‘Have you tried it before?’
‘No.’ She swallowed; her throat felt quite dry. ‘But your ambassador favours it.’
‘It is very common in my country.’
His eyes roamed her face in a way that set her pulse firing. Escape was essential. ‘Do you need anything else?’
A small frown quirked at his lips. He looked back towards the view. ‘Malik would say I need to sleep.’
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