One Night with The Sheikh: An accident of fate brought them together, and it would bind them for the rest of their lives.

by Clare Connelly

  ONE NIGHT WITH THE SHEIKH

  Clare Connelly

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and have no existence outside the author’s imagination. They have no relation to anyone bearing the same or names and are pure invention.

  All rights reserved. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reprinted by any means without permission of the Author.

  The illustration on the cover of this book features model/s and bears no relation to the characters described within.

  First published 2014

  (c) Clare Connelly

  Photo Credit: dollarphotoclub.com / GooDAura

  Contact Clare:

  Website: http://clarewriteslove.wordpress.com/

  Email: Clareconnelly@outlook.com

  Follow Clare Connelly on facebookfor all the latest.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The sound of metal on metal was worse than Grace could have imagined.

  She squealed into the empty car, and squeezed her eyes shut, as her reliable little Fiat crumpled nose-first into the side of a big, black beast of a four wheel drive. It was a million times more ear-bursting than fingernails on the blackboard. It seemed to go on and on and Grace was absolutely convinced she was about to die. After what had been one of the best moments of her life, she was going to be extinguished.; finite, caput. With a flair for melodrama, she wondered briefly where her funeral would be held, and how many would attend. Would someone sing? Oh, God. Her father would. Dickie Jones had never been able to resist the limelight, and even at his daughter’s funeral he’d be able to bust out a show stopper.

  Gradually, though, the noise stopped and the accident seemed to be at an end. And remarkably, she had survived. She slowly cracked her eyes open, peering out to survey the damage.

  The dog she’d swerved to avoid had broken into a cracking run as soon as their vehicles had collided, and was nowhere to be seen. She breathed a sigh of relief. At least she didn’t have puppy paws on her conscience. She stretched her neck gingerly, amazed to realize that despite the wreckage around her, she seemed uninjured.

  “Are you all right?” A terse voice accosted her from outside her vehicle and she blinked into the night sky, casting around for whoever had addressed her.

  The first thing she noticed was his size. He was easily six and a half feet, and broadly muscular. The second thing she noticed was his face, because, quite simply, it took her breath away. Cheekbones that looked like they’d been scraped with a knife, a chin with a cleft so perfect it must have been an angel’s thumb print, and eyes the color of emeralds, surrounded by a forest of curled lashes.

  She opened her mouth to speak and coughed instead. Her voice came out as a rasp, as she tried to reassure him that she was okay.

  The stranger frowned, clearly put out. “You are winded.”

  Grace looked down and saw that her seatbelt was pulled almost suffocatingly tight across her chest. Her fingers shook with adrenalin as she clipped the belt loose and sucked in a deep breath.

  “Just wait until your breathing returns to normal. Do not try to speak.” He pulled her door open and crouched down on his powerful haunches. “Can you move?”

  That was the third thing she noticed. His accent. It was spicy and exotic, like cinnamon and star anise mulled wine on a winter’s night. She clamped her lips shut and nodded instead. At least, she hoped she could. Worse than planning her own funeral was a future in which she could not sing nor act.

  “Take my hand. I will help you.” He reached towards her. A tanned hand, with long fingers and neat nails. She put her own in it, and despite her state of shock, was felt a strange spark of electricity flow through her at the contact.

  Her eyes, naturally a blue so vibrant they were almost mauve, skittered to his; he seemed not to have noticed the effect he was having on her. She put her right foot out first, letting the six inch spike heel-clad foot touch the ground gingerly before removing her left leg, and attempting to stand.

  Grace Jones was used to men’s reactions to her looks. In school, she’d garnered the nickname Barbie, and with good reason. She was tall; slender, yet voluptuous, with skin the color of honeycomb and long, flowing blonde hair. Yes, Grace had had her fair share of admirers in the past, but none had made her skin tingle and spark quite like this Adonis. With one all-encompassing inspection of her body, he set every single one of her senses alive.

  She was dressed as she had been for her final audition, in a pair of figure hugging jeans, and a long-sleeved black shirt that was snug all over. At twenty two, and as the daughter of a Tony award winning actor, she hadn’t been sure she would even stand a chance of being cast. So hearing tonight that she’d won the lead in a West End musical was the culmination of all of her ambitions.

  “Your car is not drivable.” He flicked his attention to the wreck behind her.

  She spun on her heels, and her heart sunk when she saw that he was right. Not only was the bonnet completely compressed to nothingness, smoke was rising disastrously from under the hood. Or, rather, where the hood used to be. She tried to say something but again, no words came out. With a sigh of frustration, she leaned back into her car and strained to reach her handbag. She was not aware of the way the man’s gaze fell to her rear as she extricated the bag. With a quick sip of her water bottle, she cleared her throat and tried again.

  “It’s ruined,” she agreed wistfully. Her voice was not permanently damaged. A little hoarse, but she was confident it would recover in time for next week’s rehearsals. Remembering that the accident had been her fault, she turned back to properly address the man she’d used as a stopping ramp. “I’m very sorry. There was a dog…”

  “There was?” His face, for some inexplicable reason, looked amused.

  “Yes. No more than a pup.” She grimaced. “I know it’s stupid, but I didn’t see it until it was too late. If I hadn’t swerved, I would have hit it.”

  “Instead, you hit me.” He pointed out, but his words were softened by the hint of a grin. In repose, he was handsome. With a slightly sardonic smile in place, he was bone-meltingly gorgeous.

  “I am sorry. I have insurance. We should swap details.”

  “My name is Sam,” he said, extending his hand to her.

  “Sam. I’m Grace.” She wiped the palm of her hand against the back pocket of her jeans and then placed it in his. Again, she felt almost as though she’d been electrocuted as soon as their fingers touched. This time, she was sure she detected an answering flare of awareness in his eyes.

  “Well, Grace, it would appear you’re without a lift. I will take you home.”

  She raised her eyebrows thoughtfully. “How do I know you’re not an axe-murderer, planning to kill me?”

  His laugh was warm and syrupy. “You are the one who just rammed my car.”

  “To save a dog,” she reminded him gravely, earning another throaty laugh.

  “Which makes it completely acceptable.” He looked around the quiet back street of Marble Arch and shrugged. “If I wanted to kill you, this would be as good a place as any.”

  “Oh, well, in that case,” she responded sarcastically. Though he was right. They were completely alone. The realization made her feel inexplicably excited, rather than frightened. With a small shake of her head at the ridiculous direction her thoughts were heading, she tried to focus.

  “Come, Grace. You’re shaking from the shock of it. Let me take you home before yo
u pass out.”

  “I’m fine,” she responded tersely. Her father had always treated her like a baby and consequently, she had turned into a woman who very much hated being handled with kid gloves. “Besides, how do you know your car is road worthy? That was quite a smash.”

  Samir looked toward his state of the art Range Rover. Like his entire fleet of vehicles, it had been fitted with a custom-made bullet proof casing and shatter-proof windows. In fact, it was her bad luck she’d bumped into him rather than any other car, which would not have presented such a brick wall resistance to her own little vehicle.

  “It has barely a scratch.” He responded honestly. “I feel responsible.”

  “You?” She queried disbelievingly. “Why would you feel responsible?”

  His grin made her heart quiver in her chest. “Because, Grace, it was my car you crashed into. Therefore, the responsibility of seeing you home is mine.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” she contradicted. “Unless you unleashed the dog in my path?”

  “I did not.”

  “Well, there you go. You may absolve yourself of all responsibility. I can take a taxi.”

  “And how can you be certain the taxi driver is not an axe-murderer?” He asked from beetled brows. He was teasing her, yet she didn’t mind a bit.

  With a small grin she shrugged. “I guess I’d be taking my chances.”

  He pulled himself up to his full height, though in those ridiculous heels, which he had little doubt had played a part in her veering off the road, she stood almost eye to eye with him. It was a novelty to meet a woman who, physically at least, was a match for him. “I will not argue with you here, in the middle of the street.” He placed a hand firmly under her elbow and propelled her towards his car. “You will allow me to take you home?”

  It was a question but she was certain he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. It should have been a tip off. People who behaved with such an air of authority usually did so because they were in a position of actual authority. But her mind was addled from the accident, and his proximity was having a strange effect on her mental faculties, so she simply took his suggestion at face value.

  She told herself later that she accepted his offer because she was shivering, and alone, and that it was a long walk in heels to catch a cab. Not because of the over-arching and all-consuming fascination he was sparking inside of her.

  As he pulled open the front passenger door for her, Samir caught a hint of her perfume and desire, strong and heady, unfurled in his gut. It was floral and feminine, without being cloying, like so many women’s perfumes. It was subtle, too. Only as she brushed right past him to climb into his car did he properly detect it. He watched as she rearranged herself into the seat and pulled the seat belt across her shoulder, snapping it firmly into its clasp.

  Grace angled her face to her would-be rescuer; or was that assailant? After all, had he not been there, she probably wouldn’t have crashed in the first instance. Her blue eyes scanned his face. He was looking at her closely. Analytically. His expression was blanked of any emotion, so she had no clue what he was thinking, but his continued appraisal made awareness tingle down her spine. She covered it with a snappy, “Are you done?”

  Immediately, his face creased into a smile and Grace’s breath hitched in her throat. Describing this man as gorgeous was like saying fires were warm or oceans were big. It was a woefully inadequate description for his particularly lethal blend of good looks and charisma.

  “I am.” He closed the door gently and crossed in front of the car to his own door. As he walked, Grace sat back in the softly molded leather seat and admired his economical gait. Each step was purposeful and laden with intent. Deadly.

  “Where do you live?” His voice was husky, his accent thicker, somehow in the smaller space of the car.

  Grace toyed with the pendant she wore at her neck. “You’re definitely not an axe murderer?”

  “If I were, I am certain I would not own up to it now. You are at my disposal, after all.” His words were lightly teasing, but Grace’s heart sped up to bursting point at the idea of being at this man’s disposal. She lifted her gaze to his face thoughtfully, and at this distance, she couldn’t help but imagine what his lips would feel like on hers. Soft, or powerfully demanding?

  “Grace?”

  She shook her head forcefully and let out a feeble laugh. “I’m in Chelsea.” She named her street and forced herself to look straight ahead. You’re making a fool of yourself, Grace. Hold it together for a few more minutes.

  “Chelsea is a nice part of London,” he said conversationally, apparently not feeling even an iota of the paralyzing awareness that she was experiencing.

  “Where are you from?” She blurted out, still not looking towards him.

  “Where am I from?”

  “Your accent.”

  He frowned. He was a patriotic man, so why was he bristling now at the idea of revealing too much to this enigmatic waif who had found her way into his life. “Elaminar,” he said at last, turning to cast her a sidelong glance.

  “I’ve heard of it,” she said with a frown, “But I’m afraid I don’t know much at all, except that it’s a small, oil-rich country with beautiful, ancient monuments.”

  His smile was sure. “It is a country filled with beauty and interest. On three sides, we are met by ocean. Our beaches are superb. Second to none. White sand, so pure it sparkles in the midday sun, stretches for miles, and the ocean is almost the color of your eyes. So blue as to take your breath away.”

  His words had taken Grace’s breath away. She swallowed convulsively, trying to moisten her suddenly dry mouth. “You’re rather… poetic.”

  “Am I?” He shrugged a little. “Some beauty is so incandescent it inspires even the dullest of men to recitations of poetry.”

  “I can’t believe anyone would ever describe you as dull,” she observed with a small smile, but inside, her bones had turned to jelly. He’d been talking about his country Elaminar, only her wishful thinking had made her hope he’d been describing her.

  “Perhaps not,” he conceded with a small tilt of his head. His telephone began to ring and, with one press of a button on his steering wheel, he answered it. A short exchange took place, between Sam and another man, in a language she had never heard before. Then, Sam frowned as his mobile cut out mid-way through the conversation, battery apparently flat.

  “My assistant,” he explained. “He is arranging for your vehicle to be towed to a garage in Battersea. Do you know the one?”

  “Oh!” She squirmed uncomfortably. “Please don’t go to more trouble on my behalf. You’ve already put yourself out.”

  “It is no trouble.”

  “Not for you, but for your assistant…”

  “Malik is used to handling all manner of things on my behalf. He will be very happy to organize this.”

  Grace tried, but couldn’t, pull her eyes off his autocratic profile. So strong and commanding, and totally absorbing. “You’re really gorgeous,” she blabbed, and clasped a hand to her mouth, stricken. “I don’t mean… I mean…” her face was so pink she felt like the sun had set up camp where her brain used to be. “I just mean you are, in the strictest meaning of the word, gorgeous. You must be a model.”

  He tilted her a bemused grin. “I most certainly am not.”

  “An actor, then.”

  “No. Nothing so interesting, I’m afraid.”

  She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to control her response to this stranger. She squeezed her eyes shut. Grace was used to men making a fool of themselves over her. She had never experienced the particularly excruciating distinction of being the foolish one. Face burning, she turned away from him, looking out of her own window.

  With relief, she noticed a familiar building, only a few streets from her home. “You can just let me out here, if you’d like. Saves you having to get off the main road.”

  He slid her a sidelong glance that made her stomach
flip over. “I told you I am seeing you home safely, and that’s what I intend to do.”

  He turned the car off the Kings road, and down a side street.

  “It’s just left here, then,” Grace pointed to the mews street she’d called home for the past two years.

  “Thank you, for the lift,” she said quietly, as they pulled up near her house. She lifted her eyes to his face, but all they could focus on was his mouth. His sensuous, firm mouth. When she was finally able to drag her glance north, to this smoldering eyes surrounded by the thickest, black lashes she’d ever seen, her breath was shallow and raspy.

  As if committing his face to memory, she let her eyes soak in every detail of him, from his chin to his cheekbones, to his swarthy tan and those eyes, up to his thick crop of dark hair.

  “You’re bleeding!” She exclaimed, shaken out of her admiration by the sight of cherry red blood slowly dripping from his hairline toward his ear. Though blood usually made her squeamish, her only instinct now was to make sure he was okay. She leaned toward him, so that she could inspect the wound closer.

  “It is nothing,” he said, but up close, while she was distracted by the small cut in his head, he was able to stare at her unguardedly. That intoxicating fragrance wove its way in to his nostrils and through his whole body.

  “Nonsense.” Azure eyes locked with emerald. “If it was nothing, it wouldn’t still be bleeding like that.” She pulled back in her seat. “Come upstairs. My roommate’s a doctor, so I happen to have the best stocked medical cupboard in the city. I will definitely have some antiseptic ointment to put on that.”

  He was on the verge of demurring, when he realized he would take whatever opportunity he could to spend a little more time with this woman. If it meant allowing her to take on the role of Florence Nightingale, he wasn’t going to stand in her way.

  “Now who is imposing on whom?” He said with a disarming smile.

  “Don’t be silly,” she retorted. “I feel awful! This is all my fault.” She climbed out of the car with her usual grace and waited on the footpath. “You didn’t even say you were hurt,” she murmured, when he came to join her.