Stolen by the Desert King

by Clare Connelly

  “I don’t want to rip you apart.” He shook his head, his eyes meeting hers with obvious urgency. “I want to put you back together. I want to remove every lingering hurt he inflicted, every pain I’ve given you, and then I want to hold you close and love you for the rest of your life. Love you like you have never dreamed of being loved. I want you in my bed, by my side, as my wife, a ruler of Argenon, a friend and counsel. I want you to laugh with me, to ride with me, to swim with me. I want you. All of you.”

  His words were so sweet. A balm she needed.

  But she had been stupid. Vulnerable. Gullible. She’d been it all before! What she needed, more than anything, was a guarantee – and there were no such things. Faced with the pain she’d already weathered and soul-withering loneliness, she knew which she would choose. She’d been alone before and survived. But you hadn’t known Khalifa then, a frustrating little voice chirruped in her mind. She ignored it. For the most part.

  Was the voice right?

  Should she take a risk?

  No. She couldn’t.

  “So prove it.”

  He blinked, his dark eyes showing his confusion. “Prove it?”

  “Sure. Prove to me, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you mean what you just said.”

  “How?”

  She shrugged, tears sparkling on her lashes. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if it’s possible. But I’m done being stupid. I’m done taking chances. I’d rather be alone than live in misery, married to a man I know will never love me like I … like I want to be loved.”

  “And what if I am that man?”

  “You’re not.” Her voice cracked on the small rebuttal. “If you were … if you were … you would never have treated me like you did.”

  His jaw clenched together in silent acknowledgement of her words. “A mistake I do not intend to make twice.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING here?”

  Khalifa held a coffee cup out to Kylie, and her heart ratcheted up a gear with the pleasure of seeing her husband. Two days had passed since the day on the boat. Two days in which she’d wondered if he’d left the country and given up on her completely.

  “You asked me to show you why you should stay married to me.” He said it as a statement – a firm, unquestionable commitment.

  Kylie shook her head, and as Khalifa’s eyes drifted downwards, flaring wide with a heat she knew to be sensual in nature, she became distinctly aware of her state of undress. The nightgown she’d thrown on twelve hours earlier had not had an audience in mind and revealed far too much of her flesh to be in the company of this man.

  She crossed her arms defensively and he jerked his eyes upwards, his look so searing in its intensity that her heart rabbited hard in her chest and her stomach flipped over itself.

  “I asked you to prove to me that I can trust you not to hurt me again,” she pointed out, the words thickened by a corresponding rush of heat and need that was firing her blood.

  “Yes. And I intend to.” He took a step inside her apartment, brushing against her as he moved through the doorway, so that her senses were instantly charged with awareness. His scent, his strength, his warmth. She spun away, needing to regroup desperately.

  “Drink your coffee while you dress for the day, azeezi. I will wait.”

  “You’ll wait,” she repeated, this turn of events completely unexpected.

  “As long as it takes.” His eyes held hers and her throat constricted. The air in the room was thick, suddenly, as though she was fogged on all sides. She swallowed. It didn’t help.

  “I’m sorry for hurting you.” The words were hoarse with emotion. “I am sorry for lying to you. And for what he did to you.”

  “That’s not your fault.” She whispered the response, squeezing her eyes shut on a wave of remembering.

  “It is all my fault.” He took a step towards her, and she held her breath, waiting, wondering, if he was to touch her. To obliterate the feelings that were yawning inside of her.

  But he didn’t. At least, not physically. His eyes caressed her, though, and she felt them as though he was reaching for her.

  “I love you.” The words washed over her like a warm, salty wave. She felt them wrap her in the density of their necessity, and she swallowed them up, expelling a soft groan as they penetrated the last crevices that doubt had scored inside of her.

  “I…” She closed her mouth, not sure what she wanted to say. Not sure how she could answer. And then her feet were moving, pushing her towards him, and he was meeting her, wrapping her in his arms, his lips finding hers, and his kiss was so sweet and so perfect that she groaned, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  He lifted her off the ground, holding her body to his, kissing her as though his whole life depended on it and she kissed him back, answering his need.

  But it was over too quick. He pulled away, his eyes meeting hers with a mix of approbation and frustration. “This could get carried away.”

  She nodded and pressed her body closer to his. “I want to get carried away.” The words were groggy. Heavy with sensual need.

  “The next time we make love will be in our bed in Argenon.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Go and get dressed. Preferably in something dull and over-sized.”

  She arched a brow at both directives but spun on her heel, weaving through the apartment and into her room. Dull and over-sized? So that he wouldn’t want her? She shook her head. That was hardly fair, given that one look in his direction and she felt ready to combust. She pulled a pale yellow dress from the wardrobe. It fit like a glove, and while it had a modest neckline and clung to the knees, it hugged her body so tightly that it left little to the imagination. She fluffed her hair and pinched her cheeks then grabbed a floral print kimono and slung it over her shoulders, slid her feet into sandals and moved out of the room. He was staring at pictures on the wall when she emerged, but he turned instantly and his eyes took their time, dragging from the top of her head to her feet and back.

  “This is not what I had in mind.”

  “No,” she nodded, a hint of defiance in her eyes. “Is that a problem?”

  “Of course not.” He padded a thumb over her cheek, his eyes sparking with emotion and her stomach lurched. He dropped his hand to hers, catching it, lifting it to his lips, and then walking with her through the apartment. As they passed the kitchen he paused, his eyes landing on the fruit bowl.

  “I thought you said you threw it out?”

  Her cheeks flushed at the lie. “I… meant to.”

  He laughed. “I’m glad you didn’t. I’m glad you gave it a second chance.”

  And, as their day sped by, Kylie had to admit she was similarly glad she’d at least left the door open a crack for her husband. After breakfast on his boat they’d gone to the Little Minds office, so that Kylie could see all of the children she’d worked with in the past. Khalifa admitted to having given the enormous donation and pledged an ongoing annuity which would make it possible for Little Minds to expand with confidence.

  They had lunch at the Argenese embassy and Kylie saw that an enormous portrait of her was hanging beside his. “I had them done as a surprise,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around her waist and bringing her close.

  And finally, they’d walked hand in hand along the soft sands of Bondi as the sun had dipped down.

  “I didn’t believe in fate until I met you.” His face was bathed in gold, and the water made soft lapping noises beside them.

  “Didn’t you?”

  “No. I believed in myself. How arrogant I was to think I could use you like I’d intended.” He shook his head. “What a fool! I deserved everything that happened to me.”

  “And what happened to you?”

  He stopped walking, his fingers curling around hers. “I met my match.” His wink was teasing, but his face was serious. “I met the one person on earth who can bring me to my knees. The one person I would do anything for. Anything. I met you.” He stroked his
thumb over her hand and Kylie wanted, so badly, to give into the optimism and hope that beat in her breast.

  But having been bitten once, she was, most definitely, twice shy.

  “I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been.” She laced her fingers through his so that he wouldn’t pull away. “Fayez was right. I am gullible. Too trusting.”

  “You are no such thing. Do you have any idea how rare it is to meet a person like you? Someone so full of purity and goodness that you see these qualities in others, even when they are lacking? You are an angel here amongst us. You are perfect.”

  His words, oh, his words. They fused into her wounded heart and she sucked them deeper, holding them tight, loving the way they lit her back up again. And yet, doubts were still there, darkening her happiness. She shook her head slowly. “I lived my life believing in the idea of a marriage that could have been an absolute disaster. And then, when it turned out to be just that, I was heartbroken. I don’t know who I am, Khalifa. How can you give me what I need when I don’t even know…”

  “Because I know,” he said simply. “I know you are smart and strong and kind and generous and fearless. I know you deserve to be loved and adored and cherished. I know that I will make you happier than you’ve ever been.” He lifted her hand to his lip and breathed a kiss against it. “I know that I love you.” And then, his eyes flicked with something that she didn’t initially understand. “But I also know that I hurt you and that it will take time for you to recover. And I will wait, my darling wife, until you can trust me again.”

  Trust.

  Such a small, innocuous word for one of the most difficult emotions and behaviours in the human condition. She had trusted him when she’d hardly known him – she’d trusted him on instinct. And she’d loved him on instinct too.

  Now that she knew him, did she trust him less? He hadn’t realised that he was in love with her, yet he was freely admitting that to her now. He was apologising. Hell, he was begging, and Khalifa was not a man who begged.

  She bit down on her lip, the step before her was one she found herself terrified to take. And yet she nudged towards it, her heart in her throat the whole time. She had to be strong; she had to play to win.

  They had both changed during their brief marriage; or perhaps it was that the marriage had changed them.

  She had grown and matured but he had also, for he had shown that he had learned to be humble. That he had learned to admit fault, to apologise and to ask for forgiveness. He was showing Khalifa his needs and vulnerabilities.

  And they perfectly matched her own.

  Kylie loved her husband. She’d loved him all along, really, but first it had been a love borne of passion and fire, and now it was a mix of all that they were. It was everything. Heat, desire, trust, companionship and the future.

  “Yes.” She expelled a breath, and with that one word came relief. Relief that she’d been brave, and certainty that she’d made the right decision.

  “Yes?” He repeated, apparently not as sure as she was.

  “Yes.” Her smile was mesmerising. “I love you. And I want to be with you. So let’s go.”

  He laughed, the sound rich and magnetic. He pulled her against his chest, and she felt his heart hammering against hers, speaking to one another, communicating in a fever-pitch of relief.

  “And will you stay with me forever?”

  “And ever,” she sighed, her mouth melting to his.

  And for all the days and all the sand-swept desert nights, she did just that.

  THE END

  Following is an excerpt from Clare Connelly’s best-selling IN THE HANDS OF THE SHEIKH.

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  IN THE HANDS OF THE SHEIKH

  By Clare Connelly

  PROLOGUE

  Five years earlier

  Her imitation of grief was nearly perfect.

  The designer suit that covered her young body in black from head to toe; the somber way she’d shaken each guest’s hand and remembered their names; the way she’d dabbed elegantly at her eyes, despite the fact no tears had been present.

  Yes, the teenaged Phoebe Douglas-Cauve was an excellent actress, but Sheikh Hakim Al Meshuda had no doubts.

  Her grief was a performance.

  Her sadness a fake.

  Her tears not simply delayed, but not there at all.

  He stood back from her now, as the last of the guests filed, with a respectful hush, from the grand estate of the late Lord Etienne Cauve. Her face was lifted to the sky, the dappled sunlight painting triangles across her fair skin, her eyes shut. And a small smile in the corners of her pretty, bow shaped lips.

  It was the last straw.

  With a brief look of dismissal in the direction of his attending servants, he moved towards her, his mouth a grim line of disapproval in his face.

  “You seem to be coping well with the sudden death of my Godfather,” he drawled cynically, unaware of the way the harsh set of his handsome face sent a terrifying frisson of awareness jangling down her teenaged spine.

  Her eyes were cloaked; her feelings impossible to comprehend. “My stepfather’s passing was an unexpected tragedy,” she murmured, and though her words were thick with emotion, he knew, somehow, that her sincerity was completely forged.

  He held onto his emotions with effort. After all, Etienne had been his father’s best friend, and a close advisor to him in times of stress. Etienne’s stepdaughter’s lack of emotion was insulting to the memory of the man he had loved almost as a father himself. “Yes,” he drawled with obvious cynicism. “I can see how affected you are.” His broad shoulders and tall stature cast a shadow over her. She wrapped her arms around her middle, and shivered, despite the warmth of the summer day.

  Phoebe was young, but she was wise beyond her years. From her mother, she had inherited a gift for social nuance. She knew that responding to the powerful Sheikh would only anger him, so she stayed silent.

  “You are how old?”

  She looked at him, confused.

  Hakim let out a breath of frustration. “Fifteen, I think?”

  “Sixteen,” she whispered, thinking back to her birthday, only weeks earlier. Dread had accompanied her the whole way from Surrey to Richmond. Fear and anxiety had dogged her every step. Pain, it had been on the return journey, and the certainty that she must hide her bruises from her dorm upon her return.

  Hakim scanned her face thoughtfully. In his country, many women were betrothed at her age. It was a practice he was working to prevent. Teenagers should not be forced into marriage. Teenagers were young, creatures of innocence. But this teenager was different. There was an entirely adult comprehension in her eyes, a knowledge that was almost eerie.

  She was beautiful, too, in a way that surprised him. Etienne had boasted of her physical gifts frequently enough. Hakim had been certain Etienne’s descriptions must have been covered by a paternalistic pride. Now, he saw that not a word of Etienne’s praise had been exaggerated. Phoebe Douglas-Cauve was as beautiful as she was strong-willed. Her hair was long and fair. Not pale, but rather blonde like sand and ash mixed together. Her skin was pale yet warm, her figure mature beyond her years; she was tall and slender, with the hint of curves visible beneath her dress.

  Hakim’s frown increased, as he shook his head to clear the unwelcome thoughts. She was still a child. “Sixteen.” He nodded. “You are aware that your step-father left me as your legal guardian.”

  Her eyes, enormous and round, and so blue they must surely be enhanced by cosmetic lenses, fixed him with a terrified stare. “No. I didn’t know.”

  “He spoke to me of it years ago. I agreed, of course. There is nothing I would not do for your father.”

  “Step-father,” she corrected ins
tantly, her pretty face a hard mask of emotion. Phoebe might have been surprised that Etienne had left his affairs in such good order, particularly given that his death was completely unexpected. Only it perfectly fit his behavior as an absolute control freak. Nothing was ever to be left to chance. She shivered as she remembered how he had somehow obtained a copy of her class schedules and surprised her unexpectedly one afternoon. It had not been the worst hour of her life, but always, lurking at the back of her mind, was the knowledge that he could reach her anywhere and at any time.

  Hakim’s eyes were narrowed. “Etienne has left your fortune to me to manage, which I am happy to do, of course.”

  Phoebe’s heart was beating painfully in her chest. “Your highness,” she said, trying, and failing, to keep her voice steady, “I do not need a guardian.” She lifted her small, angular chin in a proud gesture of defiance. “While I am only sixteen, I have lived away from my parents for many years. I am sure my life will continue much as normal for me.”

  “So certain,” he remarked, scanning her face thoughtfully. “You do not feel sad that Etienne has gone?”

  Realizing she’d dropped her act for a vital moment, she schooled her features into an expression of anguish. “Of course I do.” The sentence was heavy in her mouth, and vomit threatened to make a liar of her.

  “Do you know who I am?” He demanded, taking a step closer to her, unknowingly menacing. Phoebe fought the wave of fear that rose to a crescendo inside her.

  “Yes.” She squared her shoulders. He was, of course, Sheikh Hakim Al Meshuda, the exalted leader of Mehran. She had heard of him frequently. She had come to loathe him, even by name, purely because her step-father had spoken so highly of him. Any man respected by Etienne must surely be an absolute jerk.

  “Then you will know I have no time to argue with an insolent teenager.” He tried not to let Etienne’s tales of her misbehavior color his attitude towards her, but it was not possible. How often Etienne had spoken to him of her wild, willful nature; her disobedience and disrespect. Yet Etienne had loved her, in spite of it. Hakim remembered the way Etienne had said to him, one day, “You love your children, Hakim. You cannot give up on them. You must employ whatever measures are necessary to prepare them for the world. Phoebe just needs a little extra discipline to counteract her mother’s lenience. And I love her enough to not back away from the task.”