But the dark figure by the window was not that of the man she was going to marry. Where Addan had been tall yet slim, elegant in his build, his brother Malik was a warrior, cast from the same tribal mould of Kings who had ruled this country for eons.
It was Malik who turned, slowly, to face her, Malik whose eyes, so black they were like shining coal, regarded her with the coldness and dislike that had always been a part of his response to her.
And heat flicked at her spine, the instant, unwelcome recognition a biological response to him she had learned to flatten, to ignore. A response she was glad she didn’t have to fight often – by silent yet mutual consent, they avoided one another as much as possible. She hadn’t seen Malik in at least six months, since he’d come to Addan’s birthday ball with a Swedish supermodel, and danced with her all night, his body cleaved to hers, his eyes promising seduction and heat that had made Sophia blush.
She blushed now, at the memory, and to cover it, assumed a cross expression. “What are you doing here?” She forgot, in that moment, that she generally attempted to preserve an air of respect. He was, after all, second in line to the throne. Besides which, Addan adored him – and revered him in equal measure.
“Earlier today, my brother, His Royal Highness Sheikh Addan bin Hazari, died.”
The words, spoken in her native English, jarred, like stones in the sole of her shoe. They landed against her ears but she couldn’t make sense of them, she couldn’t unravel them. She shook her head, certain she’d misheard. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, lifting a hand to her throat, toying with the necklace there. “What did you say?”
“My brother is dead.”
Belatedly, realization hit Sophia and she stumbled backwards, reaching for something, anything to support her. Only there was nothing, just air, and it was not thick enough. She shook her head, unable to accept this, needing him to explain why he would say something so cruel, why he would lie to her.
But mistaking her anger for something weaker, he crossed the room, lifting her up, holding her to his chest, cradling her and staring down at her with the same resentment she’d always felt from him. “It was an accident,” he said quietly, his face expressionless now, his eyes bitter. “It happened quickly.”
She wanted to tell him to put her down, but she was quivering from head to toe, and grief splintered through her, tearing her apart. “I don’t believe it.”
“I understand,” he said, the words loaded with his own sadness. “Nor did I, at first.”
“It can’t be…”
“I have seen his body,” he said, and she realized she was being held by the only person on earth who could understand the emptiness of her heart. That Addan’s death bonded them in an awful, horrifying way.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, looking up at him, seeing the pain, the raw despair in his stony features and sobbing suddenly. “What happened?” She asked again.
“The helicopter he was flying; the blades stalled.”
“Don’t,” she shuddered, burying her face in Malik’s shirt, his masculine, musky fragrance lacing through her on a biological level. “Don’t tell me he took that damned thing…”
Addan had been restoring an old helicopter for years, tinkering with it, loving it for its rudimentary nature.
“It doesn’t matter now. Don’t you understand?” A muscle throbbed, low in his jaw, and he carried her to Addan’s desk chair, placing her down on it. But she didn’t want to sit there. She didn’t want to sit at all, but especially not where Addan had been so at home. She jerked out of it, her body still trembling, her mind slow and weak. “He’s gone. He’s gone.”
She sobbed, lifting her hands to her lips, the words so cold, so violent for their truth, and the reality they painted.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again.
“As am I. My brother was the best man I have ever known. The world is poorer for his loss. The country is poorer without him as its leader.”
Her eyes lifted to Malik’s face as the full reality of this situation wrapped around her. “You are King,” she said, sitting into Addan’s chair now, collapsing into it, taking in a shaking breath.
“Yes,” he crossed his arms over his chest, “I will inherit Addan’s throne, and all that entails.”
She swallowed, his promotion one she knew he didn’t wish for, one she knew he didn’t take any joy in.
“Your highness,” she said, deferentially, standing uneasily. She couldn’t work out how she wanted to be. “I’d like to be alone now.”
He didn’t answer, his eyes holding hers for a moment before she spun and moved to the door. But before she could open it, his voice arrested her.
“You are part of that, Sharafaha.”
She turned to face him. “Part of what?”
“When he died, I inherited all that was his. Including you.” He said the words with a hint of disgust. With coldness and disdain.
A frisson of alarm jolted her spine. “I don’t… understand.” Tears streamed down her cheeks and she dashed at them; more came to take their place.
“This palace, the title, the country, his duties. All of it. And also, your betrothal to Addan, on his death, passed to me.”
THE END
THE SHEIKH’S INHERITED BRIDE (Sophia’s story) is out now! Following is an excerpt from REGRET ME NOT, book one in The Montebello series.
Excerpt - Regret Me Not
THE MONTEBELLOS BOOK 1
Prologue
Three years ago
SHE WAS SILK BENEATH his fingertips, soft and smooth and his body craved hers again now, despite the fact they’d spent the whole night wrapped together, limbs entwined, mouths seeking. He’d been hungry in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time – if ever – and he was hungry for her now.
He shifted carefully in the bed, angling his face towards hers so he could see her better, the soft light of dawn filtering in almost a sufficient amount to shape the features he knew so well by touch.
It was her eyes he’d noticed first. Almost too-large for her face, and so shimmering brown they were like liquid gold. They’d been both trusting and cynical and if there was one thing in life Fiero Montebello understood, it was contradictions. He understood happiness and pleasure, like this, in the midst of extreme pain and shock. A night out of time, a night to revel in his body’s instincts and strength, when the body of the man who had raised him, his beloved grandfather, was simultaneously close to death. This night had been a reprieve, a release, a way to exist on a purely sensual level, to close off his emotions and thoughts and simply enjoy bodily pleasures.
How long had it been since he’d done this?
Lips that were full and pouting without her notice were parted now, her soft breath sounds filled the room. Her nose had a lift at the end, like a little ski-jump and there was a cluster of tiny, faint freckles which danced across her cheekbones – he’d laid kisses there the night before, wanting to kiss her all over, taste all of her, thinking he could do so and be done.
But it had been years since he’d felt his body move with passion like this, years since he’d obeyed his body’s commands, and finally succumbing to temptation had driven him wild. He felt wild now, filled with needs and almost selfish enough to wake her, so that they might start answering them together.
But it was wrong.
Wrong to be here, wrong to have come, wrong to have gone to her bed, to have made love to her until she was crying his name – Fiero – as if the very flames of hell were at her back and he the only possible way to douse them.
He was a married man.
His lips stretched into a grimace as he thought of that – of his wife, and how little was left of their marriage. They’d agreed to separate. They’d both signed the divorce papers, in fact. But his grandfather’s illness made it impossible, for now. To pain the older man in the twilight years of his life meant they must – on the surface – continue to appear as a ‘married couple’, despite the fact she’d moved out of the hom
e they’d shared, despite the fact their marriage was colder than a long-dead fish.
He suppressed a groan of frustration. Which meant what, exactly? That this wasn’t wrong?
It was a fine line. He could make his peace with it, but what of his young lover, who’d so willingly given her body over to pleasure, who’d opened herself up to him so trustingly? If she were to discover that he had a wife back in Italy, albeit in name only?
And the press? If they were to discover this, and Gianfelice awoke to yet another scandal in the papers?
No. He couldn’t risk it.
His body screamed at him in regret, but Fiero knew what he must do. Pushing back the covers, he stood, taking the time to commit her appearance, at least, to memory, in the hope it would be sufficient comfort in the days to come – when he would no doubt kick himself for having done something so foolish and walked away from her without one last time, one last kiss, one last everything.
He gathered his clothes and dressed quietly in the small lounge room of her flat. He took in the details on autopilot – the neatness and order, the books categorised by author surname on the shelves across the room, the fresh cut flowers on the kitchen bench, a glass bowl overflowing with fresh, fragrant fruits, a colourful rug on the floor.
The décor was just like she had been, when she’d walked into the restaurant unable to secure a table and he’d offered for her to join him. Eclectic, beautiful, serene, bright, fascinating…
He stifled a groan and reached for the notepad and pen she kept on the kitchen bench. The first page had a few items neatly penned, a grocery list that made him smile when he read the contents: olive oil, bread, tea bags, vegemite. The last brought her Australian accent to mind and his gut kicked in a strange sensual response.
He flipped the page and hovered the pen over it for a moment, balancing his words mentally before committing them to paper.
I had a great night. You were perfect. He paused, knowing he needed to walk away, to force a clean break. It had been one night, there was nothing between them, no expectations, no promises. He’d been very careful there.
Nonetheless, he found himself adding: If you ever need anything… and placing his business card beside the note. It was simple and discreet – FIERO MONTEBELLO and his cell number. Nothing more, no mention of his job title or industry. Then again, the Montebello name really needed no introduction. They owned airlines, hotels, fashion chains, and pharmaceutical interests. The name was synonymous with being a titan of industry.
He left the card and then strode out of the apartment, pulling the door closed quietly behind himself, and mentally doing the same thing.
It had been one of the best nights of his life, but now it was morning, and he had to get back to his real life.
That didn’t include Elodie Gardiner.
Chapter 1
IT HAD BEEN THREE years, almost to the day, but he could still see her perfectly in his mind, the mental snap-shot he’d taken of her before striding out of her flat in Earls Court embedded in his brain somehow, so nothing and no one seemed able to dislodge it.
But she wasn’t that woman anymore.
He stood rigid across the hospital room, his body completely still, his eyes taking in every detail of her appearance. Her face was badly bruised down one side, and blood was dry and clumped in the roots of her silky, dark hair. She wore a hospital gown. One arm was in a cast as was a leg, including an ankle. Her toenails were painted the palest pink, just like the night they’d slept together. Memories seared him, threatening to pull him out of the present, and he couldn’t let that happen.
“What is the prognosis?” He spoke with the command that came naturally to him, a command that wasn’t a by-product of his birth into one of the world’s wealthiest families, nor was it because he was responsible for one sixth of that company’s empire. No, his command was innate to him, a part of his character and soul, a marker of the Montebello arrogance that ran through each of their veins.
“Hard to say,” the nurse didn’t look up. “Her bones’ll mend, though she’ll be in a lot of pain for weeks, I’d say. She’ll likely need rehab to get back on her feet properly.”
He narrowed his eyes, acutely aware of the fact the nurse was carefully hedging, choosing her words with care. “But there’s something else - something you’re not saying?”
The nurse lifted her eyes to Fiero’s, her expression wary. “Who are you to Miss Gardiner?”
Nobody. The word rattled through him but he rejected it out of hand. They weren’t ‘nobody’ to one another. It had been three years but that night was alive in his mind, as though it had been only yesterday. Apparently, the reverse was true. Why else would she have asked for him to be called? Three years, and yet she’d been in an accident and his had been the name she’d given.
He closed his eyes for a moment, the last hour a blur. His meeting with the British Prime Minister, conveniently in Westminster, and then the call from the hospital.
It’s Ang from the Royal High and Free in Kensington. Elodie Gardiner’s been in an accident and she’s put you as her emergency contact.
The words had echoed through him, bringing to bear memories of a night he rarely let himself think about, of a woman who had been breathtakingly beautiful – all the more so for how forbidden she’d been to him.
He didn’t know why she’d listed him as an emergency contact. Something about that hurt him low in his ribs, because it spoke of an intense loneliness and vulnerability. Was he truly the only person she could think of in a time like this?
But then – that didn’t make sense. It had been three years, surely she hadn’t spent her life in a void of friendship and people? Not someone like Elodie who sparked from her every piece of her being.
“She’s unconscious,” he murmured, taking a step towards the bed and wincing at how battered she was, at the pain she would be in when the morphine eventually stopped easing it.
“Mmm.” The nurse was no longer drip-feeding information but that didn’t matter. Fiero was on his own path now.
“Was she unconscious when she came in?”
The nurse compressed her lips, clearly not keen to divulge anything to a man who might very well be a stranger.
“I’m her emergency contact,” he said with authority even as the question of ‘why’ hung over his head.
The nurse looked at him for several beats longer and then sighed impatiently. “Hang about. I’ll go see what I can find.”
It was Fiero’s turn for impatience. “Where is her doctor?”
The nurse reached for the clipboard at the foot of the bed. “We’re waiting on the neurologist consultant to arrive. She’s on call; we’ve paged her.”
He stifled a curse and swept his eyes shut. “Do you mean to tell me there might be neurological issues here and we are waiting?”
The nurse flinched a little. “I can page her again.”
“Do that.” But Fiero was already reaching for his own phone, pulling it out of his pocket and dialling his personal assistant, ignoring the ‘no mobile phone’ sign near the door of the room. The nurse clearly thought better of pointing it out. She moved quickly from the room.
Fiero was alone with Elodie.
Three years.
His body radiated tension as he moved the rest of the way to the side of the bed. Of his own accord, his fingers lifted to the hand that wasn’t in a sling. He stroked it gently, his eyes sweeping shut, impossibly long, black lashes curling against his dark skin.
His assistant answered his phone call.
Instincts took over.
Springing his eyes open, he spoke in rapid-fire Italian. Where is the best hospital in London? How quickly could a private helicopter ambulance be arranged? Clear his meetings for the week. Everything. Yes, the dinners too. He disconnected the call and stared down at her, knowing that for whatever reason she’d given his details to the hospital, he was glad for it. Glad because he was the right person to make sure she got the very best car
e. Cost was irrelevant.
She would be well again.
“Dr Hassan won’t be long,” the nurse breezed back in, holding a plastic cup half-filled with water. She passed it to Fiero and he took it without acknowledging it.
“What happened?”
“A car accident.” The nurse had now apparently obtained the authority to speak freely with him. “I don’t know the details, but she was lucky it wasn’t worse. She was nipped as she stepped onto the curb, thrown across the footpath. Her head collided with a shop window, hence the lacerations and bruising.” The nurse clucked sympathetically. “Caused quite a commotion.”
His nod was tight.
“She’s been in and out of consciousness since,” the nurse continued.
He suppressed the desire to drill her on the hospital’s policy with neurological admits. His assistant would be arranging everything – soon Elodie would be getting proper care.
“And she asked for me?” He prompted, that piece of the puzzle making little sense at the same time it somehow did. Wasn’t that how it had been, on their short night together? Contradictions everywhere. How right it felt even when he’d known it to be wrong. How he’d felt as though he’d known her forever when they’d only just met.
The nurse frowned. “No.”
He jerked his gaze away from Elodie. “But the hospital called…”
“You were listed on her admissions paperwork.”
“She had time to fill out paperwork?”
“From last time,” the nurse corrected.
“Last time?”
“Mmm. A previous admission.”
“And she listed me as her emergency contact then, not now?” This was making marginally more sense. If she’d been admitted some time shortly after they’d met, perhaps he’d been all she could think of.
She’d only been in London a short while before he’d met her. She hadn’t known many people, she’d said, as they’d walked to her apartment.
This Christmas and Forever: A heartwarming anthology of billionaire holiday romances... Page 43