Pairs VIII Read online

  Pairs VIII

  Clare Connelly

  www.clareconnelly.com

  Contents

  Bartered to the Sheikh

  Rakanti’s Indecent Proposition

  Excerpt - The Billionaire’s Untouched Bride

  COMING SOON

  About the Author

  Books by Clare Connelly

  Bartered to the Sheikh

  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 name 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 2016

  (c) Clare Connelly

  Photo Credit: Adobe Stock

  Contact Clare:

  http://www.clareconnelly.co.uk

  Blog: http://clarewriteslove.wordpress.com/

  Email: [email protected]

  Follow Clare Connelly on facebook for all the latest.

  Join Clare’s Newsletter to stay up to date on all the latest CC news. http://www.clareconnelly.co.uk/subscribe.html

  Chapter 1

  Her fiancé’s eyes watched her as she entered the stateroom, but he didn’t move.

  Sally tried to remember the hasty training she’d been given. The instructions were clear. Walk quietly and sedately to the empty throne and take her seat. After all, in two short weeks, she would be taking her place as the Crown Princess of Tari’ell, and it was her duty to act as though she was ready.

  Even though her knees were knocking together and the valley between her small breasts was filled with perspiration, she needed to outwardly appear calm. Even though she’d had only a month to adjust to the idea that she would be going through with the betrothal contract. Even though she wasn’t ready to be a princess and might never be.

  Don’t overthink it, she reminded herself. Sit in the chair. It was the first step. After that, she would speak to her husband-to-be for the first time in her life. An important threshold to cross, she knew she would feel better once they’d passed that awkward introduction.

  Her pale pink lips trembled as she sucked in a deep breath.

  Sally had two problems. First, there was no other throne. In fact, there was no other chair. Only the single throne, gold and heavily embellished with rubies and diamond, was placed in the centre of the stage.

  And in it sat the exalted Crown Prince Sheikh Khalid ash-Hareth.

  The second problem that faced Sally was that the Sheikh wasn’t moving. His pale brown eyes were resting curiously on her face, but he was yet to speak. A frown puckered her brow as she allowed herself a cursory inspection of the man she was to tether herself to for life.

  Despite the ornateness of his dress, he was far less intimidating than she’d been led to expect. Her governess Abigail had described him in great detail. From his legendary toughness to his physical strength, his excellent education and the type of rugged good looks that had made him a much adored ruler. Abigail had also belaboured the fact that Khalid ash-Hareth was renowned for his devotion to his country and people. A devotion that would never waver, and never be sacrificed to a wife’s needs.

  Abigail had been against the union from the moment it was suggested. How could someone as gentle and delicate as Saaliyah Ibarra marry a man like him? True, Sally had been born to this ancient land, and carried the life-blood of its founders in her petite frame, but she had been raised in England. She had been given a first rate education and all the advantages of parents with money and a governess who loved her like her own child.

  To leave the life she had been offered to return to Tari’ell and marry a man she’d never met – it was the kind of foolhardy move that beggared belief. Abigail simply couldn’t understand what could have possessed Sally.

  But Sally had her reasons.

  Reasons that went beyond duty and honour, and beyond money and title.

  He stood, bringing her attention back to the stage with a start. He was shorter than she’d imagined too. And though his robes were white flecked with gold thread, she could see from the set of his face and his hands that he was slender.

  Relief flooded her system.

  He looked nice. Kind. Gentle.

  “Emira,” An imperious voice came from somewhere in the back of the enormous room. She scanned the stage, searching for its origin.

  A man emerged, dressed in black robes. She recognised them as the sort of uniform royal advisors generally wore, with the gold thread wrapping around the wrists as a point of detail.

  Her breath snagged in her throat. This man was far more like what Abigail had encouraged her to expect. Though she was diminutive in stature, and was therefore used to people dwarfing her, this man was taller than most. Definitely well over six feet tall. And broad. Broad shouldered, broad chested, with caramel coloured skin, and glinting black eyes. His hair was as dark as a raven, and it was long enough to be pulled into a messy bun on top of his head.

  There was a feral, animalistic strength emanating from him, and she wondered distractedly if he formed part of the Sheikh’s security detail. It would make sense to have a man such as this as the proverbial muscle. He looked as though he could squash someone with his hands alone.

  Even his throat was strong – a thick column of muscle, covered with a hint of stubble. He moved towards her without taking his eyes from her face.

  They were beautiful eyes. Beyond their unusual midnight colour, they were shaped like almonds, and rimmed with thick, curling lashes. His brows were thick and dark, giving his face an emphasis it didn’t need.

  Some people had nice eyes. Nice teeth. A generally pleasing appearance. But not this man. His face was a patchwork of strength. Every feature was remarkable. An aquiline nose, a square jaw, a chin with a dent in the middle, dark stubble that was more like a very short beard, and a wide, curved mouth. He didn’t smile, but she could imagine that when he did it would be a thing of great beauty.

  “You are Saaliyah Ibarra.” The way he said it, Sally couldn’t be sure if it was a question or a statement.

  His voice was deep and raw, as if the sands of the desert kingdom had worn it down to a husky timbre.

  At twenty-one years of age, despite having been raised in the middle of London, she had no real experience with men. She’d been ferried to her all-girls school by chauffeur, and returned home directly afterwards. Her tertiary education had been led by Abigail, who’d hired an assortment of visiting lecturers to instruct her in all of the matters that interested her most.

  Through her brother Afida she had met a few boys, but none like this.

  Her throat was dry and her tongue felt big and heavy in her mouth. He was staring at her with barely concealed impatience. She remembered, belatedly, that there was a long running enmity between the people of the Medouzan province and those from Tari’ell. An enmity that she had managed to avoid only because she’d been raised by a Briton, and lived in London.

  But she had no doubts. This half man, half Hercules felt that enmity for her. He looked at her as though she was about to take the throne by force, rather than by marriage.

  She had been prepared for objections. After all, her predecessor had lost her life because she’d had the audacity to agree to a union such as this.

  Sally pushed aside the brief thought of Tasha. Her beautiful cousin was gone. Thinking of her in that moment would not help anyone.

  “You do know English?”

  Sally forced her gaze back to the enormous man in the black robe. He must be close to the Emir, to be speaking
on his behalf. She blinked her clear hazel eyes as if to bring herself back into the moment, and forced a small smile to her face. “Yes.”

  He exhaled slowly, and the warm breath fanned her temples. A wave of goose bumps danced over her skin. “Yes what?”

  Yes what? “I don’t know your name,” she murmured. “How can I address you by anything?”

  He looked at her as though she were brainless. “I did not mean to urge you to address me differently. I meant ‘yes’ to which of my questions.”

  Unused to being insulted for her intelligence, she flushed to the roots of her hair. “To both then,” she tried, and failed, to flatten the waspish annoyance from her tone.

  “You are late.”

  She lifted her wrist to check the time and then realised her watch was no longer a part of her. The gold Rolex she’d been given for her sixteenth birthday had been put away; it was not part of her costume now. For it belonged to the girl she had been before, and was not a part of who she had agreed to become.

  Now, she was Emira, betrothed to one of the most powerful men in the world.

  Her eyes skidded past this warrior-creature and to the Sheikh. He was watching with barely concealed fascination, and it occurred to Sally that she was being tested. Perhaps he wished to see how she coped under pressure.

  After all, her role as Crown Princess would be nothing if not full of challenges. She calmed her racing pulse with a deep breath and then fixed the Minotaur with a coldly assessing stare of her own.

  “As these proceedings cannot begin without me, I’d say it’s impossible for me to be late.”

  A tiny flicker moved at the corner of his lips. Definitely not a smile, but a reflection of emotion. “These proceedings were supposed to begin thirty minutes ago.”

  Her eyes narrowed. He must be well regarded by Khalid to feel free to speak so impertinently to her. “Then perhaps we shouldn’t delay any longer,” she remarked, angling her body away from him in a silent gesture of dismissal.

  As if such a man could be dismissed! She could feel him right behind her, as though his proximity was actually a touch. Her skin felt warm all over.

  She walked slowly towards the front of the room, willingly ignoring the unwelcome fog of awareness that was throbbing through her.

  In contrast to her brother, Sally was naturally petite. Short, slender and dainty. At Abigail’s suggestion, her parents had brought a former prima ballerina from Moscow to teach her the beautiful style of dance. Even as a child, she had excelled, and that grace of movement translated into every step she took.

  Sheikh Khalid was standing perfectly still and watchful.

  Yes, it must surely have been a test, to expose her to someone as rude and intimidating as the henchman had been.

  “Emira,” Khalid spoke, bowing his head towards her. His tone was pleasingly friendly, his voice deep but clear. The name sounded odd, but she remembered that Abigail had prepared her for this, too. Despite the fact they were not yet married, she was regarded as Emira simply by the fact she was engaged to the ruling Sheikh.

  Her smile was as natural as it could be in the circumstances, and she issued it with no idea how it changed her appearance completely. She returned his greeting with a tilt of her head.

  “My cousin Kaman,” The sheikh said, waving a hand towards the man-beast.

  She didn’t dare look his way again. “I apologise for my lateness. There was a delay at the airport.”

  “A delay?” The cousin, Kaman. She couldn’t tell if the deep throb of his voice was disapproval or disbelief, but its effect on her was the same regardless. Nerve-endings jangled and heat began to pulse through her.

  She didn’t look at him. How could she? “A problem with customs.”

  The sheikh’s eyes locked with Kaman’s, over her head.

  “Did you know about this?” Kaman asked and arrows darted down her spine.

  “I was not informed,” Khalid responded with a thoughtful nod.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sally said. Though it had worried her at the time; the possibility that the objections to her marriage were far more widespread than she’d appreciated. “The issue was sorted out efficiently enough.”

  “I will need to know more about this incident,” Kaman pressed, moving his large frame to her side, so that she had no choice but to look at him.

  “Do you think it could wait until I have properly been introduced to the man I am to marry?” Her query was loaded with a hint of simpering impetuousness.

  Kaman’s eyes were at war with hers. The challenge in them was unmistakable.

  “My cousin Kaman has been appointed as my intermediary,” Khalid spoke with a light deference. The bond between the two men was obvious. So too was the trust Khalid felt for the larger relative.

  Anxiety flooded her system. “Your intermediary?” What the hell did that mean?

  Khalid nodded. “Given the unusual nature of our betrothal, Kaman will conduct an initial vetting process.”

  “A vetting process?” She let the words sink into her exhausted, emotional brain. A vetting process? She looked from the Sheikh to his virile, masculine cousin, careful to keep the fear from her face.

  Was this possibly another test?

  “Tashana had undergone a lengthy process to ensure her … suitability … for this marriage,” Kaman’s voice was slow and rich. “With the wedding to take place in a matter of weeks, this process will not be possible to re-enact.”

  Sally’s heart was pounding against her rib cage. She had arrived in Tari’ell prepared to do her duty and marry the Sheikh. The very idea of having to jump through hoops to bring about the union was like adding flame to a gas can.

  Though it was obviously a directive from the Sheikh, she found it far more palatable to direct her insulted rage at the hulk of a man delivering her with this information. “Perhaps you misunderstood, sir,” she ground out from between gritted teeth. “My name is Saaliyah Ibarra. I am a descendant of the ancient desert Kings. Their blood runs through my veins. Beyond this, what vetting do you require?”

  The Sheikh’s laugh was unexpected, but he silenced himself quickly enough. He angled an almost apologetic look at his cousin. “Think of it as an orientation to the palace,” he said with a kindly softness. “It is in both of our interests to ensure we are compatible.”

  She didn’t want to be alone with the intimidating Kaman. The very idea made her stomach ache. She took a step closer to the throne. “Surely, sir, our getting to know one another would be better served by actually spending time together?”

  Khalid regarded her with a slow smile. “Perhaps you are right, Emira.”

  Kaman spoke brusquely, “And yet protocol dictates this step is taken first.” He fixed Sally with a look of cold contempt. “It would be wise to avoid taking up any more of the Sheikh’s time now.”

  His meaning was clear.

  Stop arguing.

  Stop being objectionable.

  Stop being Medouzan.

  Sally compressed her lips. “Fine,” she nodded, nervousness overtaking every other sensation in her body as she imagined being alone with this man.

  She turned to say something to the Sheikh, but he was already absorbed in conversation with another of his black-clad servants.

  And so she fell into step beside the powerful figure of Kaman as he walked out of the throne room, and deeper into the palace of Tari’ell.

  Sally knew she would regret not paying closer attention to the stunning details of the sixteenth century building. As a lover of art and history, and all things cultural, this building was a testament to a period of rich prosperity and enlightenment. In that moment of intense confusion, all she caught was a glimpse of highly polished white marble, gold leaf columns and windows that revealed a view of the jagged topped Allani mountains to the East.

  Beyond them – the province of Medouzan. Her home.

  Her step faltered as the sun crested like a golden ball of fire over the range, shooting arrows of warmt
h through the windows.

  Kaman caught her gaze and stopped walking. “The border of our land,” he murmured, moving back a step so that he was right beside her.

  She nodded. “I haven’t been here for so long. I’d almost forgotten …” Her breath caught in her throat for the second time that afternoon. She risked flicking a glance at him. The sun was dousing him in golden flecks of light; they danced over his breathtaking face like pixies in the breeze. She swallowed and returned her attention to the natural delineation of the Kingdom. “It’s so beautiful.”

  He had thought so for a long time. As a child he’d marvelled at the almost mystical seeming size of the snow-capped peaks. But for many years, they’d simply formed a fact of life. Incontrovertible and ever present, much like the hatred he’d been taught to feel for this woman and her destabilising family. His lips compressed in disapproval. Not of the marriage, which had been his idea. But of her.

  Her attention was rapt, completely captivated by the dusk-lit vista, and so he was able to observe her privately. She was not what he’d expected. Far different to her cousin, who had been obviously perfect for the part of Sheikha. He suppressed a sad smile as he thought of Tashana Ibarra, the woman who had been hand-picked for the likelihood she might bring stability to the troubled lands.

  Stability the region, perhaps, was not ready for, if her suspected assassination was anything to go by.

  So how could this woman – tiny, breakable and mousey – hope to handle the rigours of what would be expected of her?

  It was his personal opinion that she wouldn’t. Royal life was not for the faint of heart, and she was most definitely that. Far better to show her now that she wasn’t up to the task, rather than after a disastrous marriage.

  “Come,” he commanded, a new sense of purpose in his tone. “Let us begin.”

  For the sooner they began, the sooner it would all be over, and she would be out of the palace for good.