The Desert King's Secret Heir Page 18

  Compromise. There was that word again. Idris had never hated it so much.

  ‘You’re lying. Whatever is behind your actions, this isn’t about Dawud. This—’ a sharp gesture encompassed the half-made bed and his errant wife ‘—is about you and me.’

  Instinct drove that observation and he saw it confirmed when her eyelids fluttered and her gaze skated sideways, as if she were scared he’d read the truth in her expression.

  What was the truth? She’d hurt him as surely as if she’d taken his grandfather’s ceremonial sword and sliced Idris right through the chest. He’d never experienced anything like this pain he was helpless to understand or control. It made him even more determined.

  Another step took him into her space. Her chin tipped high to keep him in her sights. He sensed her fight or flight response in her sharp, tremulous breaths and her air of expectation.

  Just let her try to flee. He’d enjoy stopping her.

  ‘What could it be, I wonder?’ He thought over her explanation.

  ‘All that about being an embarrassment to me is whitewash. You don’t embarrass me and you never have. You know that. I’m proud of the way you’ve adapted. You’ve got a gift for putting people at their ease, a gift for making them feel welcome. You like people, you’re interested in them and that shows.’

  Her eyes grew wide. ‘But I—’

  ‘No buts. You know it’s true. Don’t I tell you time and again how wonderful you are? How quickly you’ve mastered your royal duties? You’ve already won the hearts of half the schoolchildren in the country and their parents. That only leaves fifty per cent to go.’

  Where he found levity from Idris didn’t know, but the idea of Arden hiding like some shameful secret was totally absurd.

  Her reasons for moving out didn’t make sense.

  ‘Then there’s the question of my lovers.’ She flinched then schooled her expression into immobility. His hunter’s instinct sharpened.

  She cared about him having women?

  Of course she cared. He’d be outraged if she didn’t.

  The idea of Arden and his cousin as lovers had unearthed previously unknown violent instincts in Idris, till she’d convinced him there’d been no man in her life for four years.

  No man in her life but himself.

  His thoughts slowed to a familiar, all-consuming satisfaction. Idris was her only lover and he intended it to stay that way. He couldn’t countenance the idea of Arden with any other man. Ever.

  Sudden heat bloomed in his chest as realisation smacked him.

  He rocked back on his feet, actually taking a half step away as knowledge smote him.

  ‘My lovers,’ he repeated slowly, his brain, finally, catching up with instinct. ‘You don’t want to meet my lovers.’

  The voice wasn’t his. It was hoarse, thick and dull, stunned by what he’d blithely never considered before.

  Had he really been so blind?

  His heart hammered against his ribs and his breath came in sharp snatches, dragged into lungs that felt too small to cope with the enormity of the knowledge battering him.

  ‘You promised. You agreed not to flaunt them so Dawud or I would see them.’ She glared, hands on her hips, her bottom lip jutting belligerently. In her white silk dress, with her hair in gilded waves around her shoulders and her aquamarine eyes dazzling like gems, she was stunning.

  How could he want another woman when he had Arden?

  He shook his head, blinking at the patent absurdity of it.

  She stepped forward, prodding his chest. ‘A man of honour wouldn’t go back on his word.’

  Idris clapped his hand over hers, pressing it against his racing heart. He saw her still, her eyes widen from slits of anger to pools of shimmering surprise.

  ‘Feel that?’ His voice was a raw rasp. ‘You do that to me, Arden.’ As he said it Idris felt the power of it fill him like a shaft of sunshine streaming all the way to the bottom of an abandoned, empty well.

  Except he didn’t feel empty now. He felt filled to the brim with fierce, choking, glorious feeling.

  She tugged at her hand, her mouth turning down, her brow knotted. ‘You’re angry at the inconvenience I’m causing. That’s all.’

  ‘Not angry. Furious. I was furious. But I’m not now.’

  Yet his heart rate didn’t ease. His temper might have dried up but what he felt now was simultaneously the most amazing, frightening thing he’d ever experienced.

  He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing painfully.

  ‘I don’t care, Idris. I just want you to let me go.’ Arden’s voice rose in a wailing sob that cut him to the bone. Her pain was his, tenfold.

  He lifted his other hand and stroked the hair from her cheek, marvelling again at the softness of her skin. He closed his eyes, trying to save this moment of absolute awareness, inhaling her light orange blossom fragrance.

  ‘There will be no other women.’

  Finally she stopped trying to free herself. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘There won’t be any other women for me. I never intended to take another lover.’

  ‘But you agreed—’

  His eyes snapped open and he looked down into her stunned face. ‘I agreed never to flaunt a lover. I never said there would actually be any lovers.’ He paused, amazed at how slow-witted he’d been. He’d never questioned why that was. ‘I knew even then that I’d want no one else. I haven’t since I met you again.’

  Her mouth tightened. ‘You’re saying that because you think it will make me change my mind. But it won’t. It’s nothing to me if you have a whole harem of lovers.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ He cupped her cheek. ‘You may not care but I would. I just couldn’t do it.’

  He stared into her grumpy, set features and told himself he owed her the truth, even if by some ill-omened fate he was wrong about Arden’s feelings for him. His pulse sprinted like a mad thing and fear tightened his belly.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me why I couldn’t take a lover?’

  She blinked then looked away. He felt her tremble and her pain made his chest seize. ‘Don’t do this, Idris. I don’t think I—’

  ‘I couldn’t take another woman into my bed because there’s only one woman I’ll ever want, in my bed and in my life. That’s you, Arden. I love you, habibti. I have from the start, though I was too slow to see it. I felt it. I hated believing there’d been other men in your life. I hated feeling that you didn’t need me or want me. That’s one of the reasons I acted so quickly to secure you, before you could run off again.’

  ‘I never ran anywhere.’ Her eyes were round as saucers and her tremor intensified till she shook all over.

  ‘It felt like it.’ Now, in retrospect, he realised that was exactly how it had been. ‘I deserted you because I had to face my responsibilities, my duty.’ His mouth twisted. ‘But it seemed like you’d run away with my heart. I never felt for any woman what I felt for you. Not in all the years we were apart.’ He shook his head. ‘Why do you think I made a beeline for your house the morning after the reception? I had to see you again, had to be with you, even though it was total insanity if I really planned to marry someone else.’

  ‘Idris?’ Arden’s voice was a tremulous whisper, her mouth working. ‘Please. Are you just saying this because—?’

  ‘I’m saying it because it’s true, Arden. I love you. You make me feel whole.’ He fell to his knees before her, ignoring generations of royal pride, knowing only that he had to make her believe. He gathered her hands in his.

  ‘I didn’t think it possible. The men in my family never lose their hearts. All except King Dawud, my grandfather, who adored my grandmother till his dying day.’ Idris pressed her hands, willing her to believe. ‘That’s my excuse for not realising how I felt about you. It didn’t even o
ccur to me that the jealousy and lust, the pride and admiration, the liking, were all part of love.’

  He lifted first one of her hands, then the other, pressing kisses to each. ‘I love you, Arden, with all my heart. With all that I am. On my honour, on the honour of my family and the memory of my grandfather, it’s true.’ He paused, emotions surging so high speech was difficult.

  ‘But if you don’t believe me yet, don’t worry, you will. I intend to convince you every day for the rest of our lives.’

  If she let him.

  Tears glistened in her eyes and his heart cramped. Dismay filled him and dread that perhaps he’d been wrong to imagine she cared for him.

  But before he could conjure a protest she’d sunk to her knees before him, her hands gripping his strongly.

  Heart in mouth, he watched her raise his hand, then press her delicate lips to it. A ripple ran up his arm, across his shoulder to splinter to spread through his body. Slowly she kissed his other hand and his heart sang.

  ‘I love you, Idris.’ Those stunning eyes, washed, he realised, with tears of happiness, were the most beautiful in the whole world. ‘I loved you in Santorini. I even loved you in the years we were apart though I told myself it wasn’t so.’ Her mouth curved in a secretive smile that melted his soul. ‘I’ll always love you.’

  A huge sigh escaped him, shuddering out the pent-up breath he’d held too long. His whole being felt renewed, stronger, better. ‘Then we’re perfectly matched. For I will love you till the last breath in my body, and beyond.’

  He watched the stars shine in her eyes, the sun rise in her smile and knew he’d come home.

  ‘I have a suggestion.’

  Her gaze slid to the bed beside them and he laughed, the sound of pure joy ringing around them. ‘Soon, Arden.’ Already he was strung taut and eager for her. ‘But I wanted to suggest we move in here together, you, me and Dawud.’

  ‘Really? But you need to be at the Palace of Gold. All your official responsibilities...’

  ‘Our official responsibilities,’ he amended. ‘I propose that during the week we stay there, and do what’s expected of a royal sheikh and sheikha. And on weekends we live here, out of the limelight, just being a family.’

  ‘You could do that? Really?’

  ‘We can do it. With some planning I don’t see why not. In fact, I insist.’

  Her smile said everything he could have wanted as he pulled her to him.

  ‘It sounds just perfect.’ Whatever else she intended to say was lost against his lips as he bestowed the first kiss of the rest of their lives. A kiss of love, offered and received. A kiss of promise.

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed this story, check out these other great reads from Annie West

  THE FLAW IN RAFFAELE’S REVENGE

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  Available now!

  And don’t miss these other SECRET HEIRS OF BILLIONAIRES themed stories

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  Available now!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from SURRENDERING TO THE VENGEFUL ITALIAN by Angela Bissell.

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  Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian

  by Angela Bissell

  CHAPTER ONE

  HELENA SHAW HAD been sitting in the elegant marble foyer for the best part of two hours when the man she had trekked halfway across London to see finally strode into the exclusive Mayfair hotel.

  She had almost given up. After all the effort she had devoted to tracking him down, she had almost lost her nerve. Had almost let cowardice—and the voice in her head crying insanity—drive her out of the plush upholstered chair and back into the blessed obscurity of the crowded rush-hour streets.

  But she had not fled. She had sat and waited—and waited some more.

  And now he was here.

  Her stomach dropped, weightless for a moment as though she had stepped from a great height into nothingness, and then the fluttering started—a violent sensation that made her belly feel like a cage full of canaries into which a half-starved tomcat had been loosed.

  Breathe, she instructed herself, and watched him stride across the foyer, tall and dark and striking in a charcoal-grey two-piece that screamed power suit even without the requisite tie around his bronzed throat.

  Women stared.

  Men stepped out of his way.

  And he ignored them all, his big body moving with an air of intent until, for one heart-stopping moment, his footsteps slowed on the polished marble and he half turned in her direction, eyes narrowed under a sharp frown as he surveyed the hotel’s expansive interior.

  Helena froze. Shrouded in shadows cast by soft lighting and half hidden behind a giant spray of exotic honey-scented blooms, she was certain he couldn’t see her, yet for one crazy moment she had the unnerving impression he could somehow sense her scrutiny. Her very presence. As if, after all these years, they were still tethered by an invisible thread of awareness.

  A crack of thunder, courtesy of the storm the weathermen had been promising Londoners since yesterday, made Helena jump. She blinked, pulled in a sharp breath and let the air out with a derisive hiss. She had no connection with this man. Whatever bond had existed between them was long gone, destroyed by her father and buried for ever in the ashes of bitterness and hurt.

  A hurt Leonardo Vincenti would soon revisit on her family if she failed to stop him seizing her father’s company.

  She grabbed her handbag and stood, her pulse picking up speed as she wondered if he would see her. But he had already resumed his long strides towards the bank of elevators. She hurried after him, craning her neck to keep his dark head and broad shoulders in her line of sight. Not that she’d easily lose him in a crowd. He stood out from the pack—that much hadn’t changed—though he seemed even taller than she remembered, darker somehow, the aura he projected now one of command and power.

  Her stomach muscles wound a little tighter.

  Europe’s business commentators had dubbed him the success of the decade: an entrepreneurial genius who’d turned a software start-up into a multi-million-dollar enterprise in less than ten years and earned a coveted spot on the rich
list. The more reputable media sources called him single-minded and driven. Others dished up less flattering labels like hard-nosed and cut-throat.

  Words that reminded Helena too much of her father. Yet even hard-nosed and cut-throat seemed too mild, too charitable, for a man like Douglas Shaw.

  She shouldered her bag, clutched the strap over her chest.

  Her father was a formidable man, but if the word regret existed in his vocabulary he must surely rue the day he’d aimed his crosshairs at Leonardo Vincenti. Now the young Italian he’d once decreed unsuitable for his daughter was back, seven years older, considerably wealthier and, by all accounts, still mad as hell at the man who’d run him out of town.

  He stopped, pushed the button for an elevator and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. Behind him, Helena hovered so close she could see the fine weave in the fabric of his jacket, the individual strands of black hair curling above his collar.

  She sucked in a deep breath. ‘Leo.’

  He turned, his dark brows rising into an arch of enquiry that froze along with the rest of his face the instant their gazes collided. His hands jerked out of his pockets. His brows plunged back down.

  ‘What the hell...?’

  Those three words, issued in a low, guttural growl, raised the tiny hairs on her forearms and across her nape.

  He’d recognised her, then.

  She tilted her head back. In her modest two-inch heels she stood almost five foot ten, but still she had to hike her chin to lock her gaze with his.

  And oh, sweet mercy, what a gaze it was.

  Dark. Hard. Glittering. Like polished obsidian and just as impenetrable. How had she forgotten the mind-numbing effect those midnight eyes could have on her?

  Concentrate.

  ‘I’d like to talk,’ she said.

  A muscle moved in his jaw, flexing twice before he spoke. ‘You do not own a phone?’