The Sheikh's Unwilling Wife

And then one morning Giovanni had walked in, and everything had changed. In an instant she had become the victim of the feeling which had swamped over her—a feeling she’d never really believed in until it happened to her. But then no one ever did.

The world had stopped spinning, became suspended and frozen—and everything in it had blurred into insignificance except for the man who had sauntered in, seemingly oblivious of all the eyes upon him as he homed in on her like a moth to the flame. And Alexa had fallen in love.

She had not known that he owned the store, and several like it throughout Italy, or that he featured on all the Best-Dressed and Most Eligible lists—usually somewhere near the top. All she’d known was that he had eyes like ebony and skin which seemed especially dark—like sleek, polished wood—and that the suit he wore did little to conceal the hard, honed perfection of his body. Her mouth had dried, but she’d hidden it behind her polite shop assistant’s smile.

‘So, you are the woman who is causing all the excitement,’ he murmured.

Alexa glanced around the shop, taking deliberate note of all the women who were watching him, and she smiled as she answered him in Italian. ‘And you are the man who seems to be doing just the same!’

He was slightly taken back—as much by her retort as by her fluency. Giovanni had been told that she spoke his language, but he had not expected it to be so…so…perfect. ‘I have been told that you are very beautiful,’ he said huskily. ‘But words do not do you justice. I have never seen a mouth so begging to be kissed.’

Alexa’s eyes became shuttered. Because these were the kind of glib phrases she knew were meaningless. In the past weeks she had become a dab hand at spurning the advances of amorous men—though it had never seemed remotely difficult before. ‘Are you interested in buying a handbag, sir?’

Giovanni thought of a hundred ways he could react to her question. He could say yes, go through a flirtatious little pantomime of asking her advice and then buying the one she liked best—probably the most expensive one—and presenting it to her with a theatrical flourish before asking her out for dinner. But some cool reserve in the pale green eyes told him that this strategy would not get him the result he wanted. She was not flirting with him, he realised with a certain astonishment. Not flirting with him!

‘No, I am not interested in handbags. I am interested in showing you Naples.’

‘I have a map.’

‘And I have a car.’

Alexa glimmered him a smile. ‘I like to walk. But thank you all the same.’

‘I am used to getting my own way,’ he purred.

‘Then I have a feeling that this time you’re going to be disappointed.’

‘I am never disappointed when I set my heart on something.’

Alexa discovered that he was rich, and that he changed his women more often than his cars. She told herself that the best thing would be to avoid him—but Giovanni da Verrazzano laid siege to her, and the more she refused his invitations, the more ardent became his pursuit.

If she’d had been older and more experienced she would have realised that her unwillingness to go out with him was only increasing his determination, and his admiration. But she wasn’t doing it to play games. She was doing it because she was frightened of being hurt.

So that by the time she could refuse him no longer, and agreed to have a chaste lunch in a tiny restaurant scented with jasmine and overlooking the city, Giovanni had placed her on a pedestal as high as Vesuvius itself.

He swept her off her feet with a masterful arrogance which left her reeling—and yet it was his surprisingly tender restraint which ensnared her and fuelled the fires of a passion she hadn’t known she possessed. The almost reverential respect he showed for her determination not to fall into his bed meant that Alexa could relax.

For the first time in his life Giovanni listened to a woman, and talked with her—and it was a novel experience. She made him laugh—while he showed her that a sexy and virile man could have the soul of a poet.

He fell in love—was blown away by it—as innocent as a child beneath the onslaught of this powerful feeling. The cynical man of the world who had seen and done everything was as susceptible as the next when it came to the age-old vulnerability of the heart.

But nobody told them about brevity of the colpo di fulmine—the thunderbolt of love—which crashed into lives for such a brief moment before crashing out again. If anyone had tried, they’d have never believed them.

‘Marry me,’ he said one day.

Alexa’s heart lurched, and threatened to deafen her with its sudden wild pounding.

‘But—’

‘Marry me, Lex,’he said again—softly, sweetly—his lips brushing over hers in way which made her want to faint with pleasure.

Maybe it was madness, but in Giovanni Alexa saw her glorious future. He wanted to take care of her. Her beautiful, strong, old-fashioned Italian seemed to be the answer to something she hadn’t even been aware she was looking for.

So they married, in a ceremony which was intended to be simple—until Giovanni’s mother arrived back from a spending spree in Monte Carlo to turn it into something of a spectacle. But nothing could destroy Alexa’s slightly disbelieving pleasure in the unexpected twist her life had taken. It felt like a dream—it was a dream, she thought happily, forgetting that dreams didn’t stand up to the cold light of day.

And hers crumbled on their wedding night itself, when Giovanni made the discovery that his bright-haired and perfect bride was no virgin. He stilled, staring down at her in disbelief, words torn from his lips moments after he entered her.

‘There has been another?’

It was a question designed to break the bubble of her passion—though for a moment Alexa wasn’t quite sure she had heard properly. But then he repeated it—or rather, he shouted it—and the lovemaking which up until the moment of penetration had been like her wildest expectations come true—suddenly mushroomed into something else entirely. Something ugly. Something shameful. Giovanni’s face closed up—closing her out—but he didn’t stop what he was doing. He carried on moving inside her, and the only chink in his armour came in that brief moment when he lost control and cried out her name.

Afterwards, she lay back against the pillows, feeling as if he had ripped something from her heart and her soul, staring up in the moon-washed silence as his terse and furious interrogation began.

And the first night of their honeymoon was only the start of it—for his discovery had awakened the dark green serpent of a jealousy which up until that moment had lain dormant. Every move she made was watched; every statement she uttered was analysed. She had slept with five men, no—ten. Or was it more than that? And how many was she sleeping with now, other than him? She must tell him, for he needed to know!

Yet he seemed determined to give her satisfaction—almost as if he was demonstrating a master-class in sex. As if he wanted to show her how good it could be. And in some ways it was. In his arms, Alexa gasped out her pleasure time and time again, but the lack of emotion and the simmering anger on Giovanni’s face made her feel empty afterwards. Like a beach, when the tide had turned and flowed away.

It was a slow kind of torture, and Alexa lasted only three months of her doomed marriage. Then she had fled vowing never to revisit that black landscape of despair ever again—but she would never forget Giovanni’s snarled and angry words ringing in her ears.

At least we must give thanks that you aren’t pregnant—for how would we ever know the identity of the father?

Yes, the facts were simple—it was what lay behind them which was complex. She had been too young to know the difference between love and lust, or between protection and possession. She should have known something about Italian men—and Southern Italian men in particular—before she committed herself to marriage.

‘Are you going to tell him?’ asked Teri now, her concerned voice bringing Alexa back to the present. ‘That he has a son?’

Alexa wiped away the last tear and shook her head. ‘I can’t,’ she said, swallowing defiantly. ‘I can’t afford to.’

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER Teri had left the shop, Alexa forced herself to deal with practicalities. She phoned the childminder, who said that, yes, of course Paolo could have his tea there.

‘I’ll pick him up at about seven-thirty,’ said Alexa, in a voice which suddenly sounded shaky. ‘Will you…will you send him my love?’ She heard the emotion trembling in her voice as the childminder said she would, and that they would see her later.

Alexa put the phone down. Her proud and beautiful little son would not be happy to have his normal routine changed, but he would soon have the childminder acceding to his every wish just by looking at her from beneath the thick curtain of his dark lashes and twisting her with that heartbreaking smile.

What would Paolo say if he knew that his daddy was in town? She bit her lip with pain and guilt—but it was pointless allowing her mind to go there. Hadn’t she gone over this, over and over again, and decided this was the only way that her son could be guaranteed a life that wasn’t filled with acrimony and trauma?

But by the time Alexa finally locked the shop door at the end of the day she was a bag of nerves, and knew she had to pull herself together. It was pointless trying to predict what she would say or how she would behave until she knew the reason why Giovanni had suddenly turned up here today. And if she walked into the pub looking like a shivering wreck, then his suspicions would only be alerted.

Changing out of her working clothes, she pulled on jeans, sweater and jacket, and stared back at her image, knowing that she was dressed in a way which was practical and smart rather than feminine. But appearances mattered—particularly to a man like her husband. He would judge her by what she was wearing and she would not, not be found wanting. So she brushed her hair and added a touch of lipstick, and rubbed her finger against her cheeks in an attempt to put some colour there.

At least the crisp breeze which blew in from the sea took her breath away and made her feel properly alive—even if her heart felt dead. She walked along to the harbour, where little boats bobbed in the water with their masts chattering and where seagulls cawed in their relentless search for food.

On such a cold evening there were few people hanging around, and it seemed so desolated and so very English that for a moment Alexa could scarcely believe that her estranged husband was sitting waiting for her—here, in this little town. Her territory, she thought. Not his.

The pub sign creaked, and Alexa hugged her coat tightly to her as she dipped her head to walk into the warm, beamed interior and look around for Giovanni.

He wasn’t hard to find. The pub was fairly quiet, with just a few office workers having a quiet pint before setting off home for the familiar evening routine, and Giovanni looked overwhelmingly exotic in comparison.

On a table in front of him stood two glasses of red wine, and his long, muscular legs were stretched out in front of him—pulling the material tight over his groin and unashamedly accentuating his masculinity.

Alexa thought how deeply olive his skin looked beneath the soft lighting—yet it gave off a soft golden radiance which contrasted with his thick hair, as black as the coal which lay waiting to be thrown onto the roaring fire.

And suddenly she felt a terrible yearning—like someone standing in an icy waste who had just sighted a thick cashmere blanket. For how long was it since she had looked on a man and felt anything approaching desire?

Not since Italy.

And she had never desired anyone the way she had Giovanni—how could she? Who could possibly follow a role model like him?

Well, she wasn’t going to think of that now. Keep focussed. Find out why he’s here and keep it simple. Pinning a smile to her lips, she began to walk towards him.

Giovanni’s eyes narrowed as he saw her, and again that alien and unexpected feeling wrenched at him. How pale her face looked, he thought with a frown. And how did she always manage to project that image of being all alone in the world—so that a man wanted to reach out and safeguard her? His frown deepened. Because that was the game she played—one that all clever and beautiful women engaged in. His own mother had excelled at it. Alexa was simply capitalising on her assets—emphasising her strange fragility and her pale, doe-like beauty.

Forcing himself to concentrate instead on the darkened bow of her mouth, the sway of her hips, and the thought of her breasts hidden beneath the bulky jacket, he was rewarded with a familiar leap in his groin. He rose to his feet as she approached, because his manners were always impeccable, even if the dark light flashing from his eyes was anything but conventionally polite.

‘Here I am,’ she said flatly.

‘So I see.’

They stared at one another like two new boxers in the ring, who were trying to psych the other one out.

He would never have allowed her to go out wearing such a bulky, waterproof jacket as the one which now sparkled beneath fine droplets of seawater, he thought. Yet the dilemma with someone who looked like Alexa was that on the one hand you wanted her to display that magnificent body of hers—while on the other you did not want other men seeing it. But they were separated now, and none of the normal rules counted. How she dressed was nothing to do with him, for he was interested only in seeing her without any clothes on at all.

His eyes flickered over her, to where her glorious hair tumbled down in windswept strands over her breasts. ‘At least you’ve let your hair down,’ he observed softly.

‘Giovanni, we aren’t here to…’

‘To what, cara?’ he questioned innocently.

‘To—to make personal remarks like that.’ To make her feel like a real woman for the first time in years and remind her of his consummate skill as a lover. And wasn’t she in danger of regarding even that through rose-tinted spectacles? She must force herself to remember the reality of their wedding night and its bitter conclusion. ‘It isn’t appropriate,’ she finished.

Giovanni heard the slightly despairing note of appeal in her voice and bit back his smile. This was good. What was it that the English said? He was getting under her skin. Just as she had once got under his, playing disingenuous games in order to hook him, as women had been attempting to do since he’d first started shaving.

‘Sit down,’he said, his eyes narrowing at her look of genuine hesitation.

‘I don’t know if I should.’

His mouth curved into a mocking line. Did she really imagine that he would let her walk away from him a second time?

‘I said, sit down,’ he repeated silkily.

Come to think of it, she wasn’t sure she could walk straight out again—even if he’d told her she could. The feelings which had surged over her since he’d entered the shop suddenly took their toll, and with legs which were suddenly weak Alexa sank down onto one of the overstuffed leather sofas, glancing around her as nervously as if she was a woman on a blind date.

Sometimes when she was out she felt self-conscious, or paranoid as if people were staring at her. But today they really were. And it was nothing to do with a winds-wept woman on her way home from work—but everything to do with the exotic man who had just sat down opposite her. He was lounging back in his chair like a dangerous, undiscovered species who needed a warning notice attached to him.

He pushed a glass of wine towards her. ‘You look as if you could use it.’

Alexa took the drink but didn’t touch it. Just looked straight into his eyes and willed herself not to respond to all those potent signals he was sending out. But most potent of all was the heartbreaking similarity between him and Paolo. The same thick forest of black lashes, and the slash of high, slanting cheekbones. The same dark curls—though Paolo’s were more of an ebony tumble and Giovanni’s had been expertly clipped to lovingly define the proud shape of his head. She shook the thoughts away.

‘How did you find me?’ she questioned, curling her fingers around the glass, as if doing that would warm their frozen stiffness.

‘Oh, finding you was simple, cara—far easier than I expected.’He shrugged. He had been surprised she was still here—but then, didn’t women always go back to somewhere they’d known? She had lived here before she had come out to Italy. Before her mother had moved off to live in the wilds of Canada, and before he had foolishly decided that Alexa needed looking after and had married her.

His mouth hardened. ‘I tried your old phone number and got your voice on the answer-machine.’

‘And if you hadn’t?’

He shrugged, but his eyes glittered. ‘Then I should have had to employ someone to find you. Anything is possible.’

‘A…detective?’

‘Something like that.’

‘But you didn’t? Get a detective, I mean?’ she questioned, until she saw his face and realised that she’d said too much. Underestimated his razor-sharp intelligence. He must surely have noticed her wide-eyed fear and be questioning its source. So better start back-tracking before it was too late.

‘Whatever is the matter, Alexa? Anyone would think you had something to hide from me.’

‘Oh, don’t be so melodramatic!’ she said brightly, though inside she hated herself for the unspoken lie which fell from her lips. ‘I’m just fascinated to find out what has brought you here.’

‘Are you?’He traced his forefinger along his bottom lip thoughtfully. Of course she was going to be jumpy—what woman wouldn’t be, in her situation? Was she looking at him now and realising what a stupid mistake she had made? But she was the one who had to live with the consequences of her own stupidity—and that was not the reason he was here.

‘Yes, in truth it is a fascinating story,’ he agreed, but for once in his life the words did not come easily—there was no template for this kind of situation. He ran his finger around the rim of his wine glass and realised that although they were separated he was still treating her like a wife. For simply by marrying they had forged a deep bond he had experienced with no other woman—no matter what had happened between them subsequently. Why else would he be about to confide in her an incredible story he had told no other? ‘You remember my mother?’ he asked suddenly.

It was not the opening Alexa had been expecting, and it took her off guard. ‘Yes, of course I remember her,’ she answered slowly. ‘She’s a pretty unforgettable character.’ Natala—his glamorous, gorgeous mother, with her penchant for diamonds and those slinky black satin dresses which were as tight as a second skin. Until Alexa had met Natala she hadn’t realised that mothers could look like film stars.

‘How is she?’ she questioned, not quite sure of the etiquette in asking after a woman who had once been overheard pronouncing her as—‘ordinary. And she has no money, Gio!’

His lashes came down, concealing all but a dark gleam of light in his eyes. ‘She died last year,’ he said bluntly.

Alexa gasped, everything else forgotten—because his mother had been relatively young. ‘Oh, Giovanni—I’m so sorry,’ she said instinctively, and only just stopped herself from leaning forward to touch him.

Giovanni’s eyes narrowed and she saw in them the brief chink of pain. But then it was gone—clicked out—like the shutter of a camera.

‘Did you come here just to tell me that?’ she questioned uncertainly.

His black eyes hardened. ‘No. Of course not.’

There was a pause as he seemed to search for the right words. It was so uncharacteristic of Giovanni to hesitate that Alexa felt herself stiffening with apprehension.

‘What, then?’ she said nervously, because precious minutes were ticking away—and it wasn’t just that she wanted to be back on time for Paolo and not to alienate the childminder by taking advantage. She also wanted to be away from the still-powerful sexual pull her husband exerted—away from the foolishness in her heart which made her want to put her arms around him and draw him close in a gesture of comfort.

He tapped his long olive fingers against the polished surface of the table. ‘After she died I was going through her papers and I made a discovery.’

‘What…kind of discovery?’

Sifting and sorting through the files of information in his mind, Giovanni began for the first time to place them in some kind of coherent order. ‘The unwelcome kind—that informs you that you have been labouring under an illusion for most of your life,’ he said, and his voice sounded suddenly harsh.

‘What illusion?’

His voice hardened. ‘As you are aware, I grew up believing that my father was a Spanish aristocrat—one who refused to publicly acknowledge me, even though he was prepared to pay generously for my upkeep and my mother’s jewels. My mother told me that her silence about his identity to the rest of the world would guarantee her a lifetime’s riches. And it did.’ The stony expression in his eyes matched the sentiment at the heart of his words. ‘She also led me to believe that he had died—and I had no reason to distrust her.’

‘You mean she was lying?’

Giovanni threw her a look of mockery. ‘Why? Would you feel an affinity with her if you knew that to be the case?’ he questioned acidly.

‘I’m not interested in raking up old scores, Giovanni,’ she answered quietly. ‘What are you trying to say?’

‘That my father is not Spanish at all—and he is not dead. Though he is very old, nearing the end of his life, and—’

‘And?’ she prompted, on a whisper.

‘I am the son of a sheikh,’ he said at last, aware even to his own ears—how bizarre his words must sound. He could see his own reaction mirrored in her widened eyes.

‘What?’

‘My father is a sheikh.’ But through the haze of unreality bubbled a feeling of intense…satisfaction. It was as if he had found the missing bit of himself—which, in a way, was exactly what had happened. ‘More specifically, he is Sheikh Zahir of Kharastan,’ he added. And then, as if to lessen the emotional impact of his words, he raised his jet brows in question, as if he were a university professor quizzing a student. ‘You have heard of it, perhaps?’

For a moment Alexa forgot their history, forgot her own dark secret and her fear of the man she had married—because his startling piece of information wiped all other thoughts completely from her mind. She didn’t even stop to question it—Giovanni wouldn’t lie about something like that. Why on earth would he? He had the riches and the power that most men hungered for—he wouldn’t invent royal blood unless it were true. And wouldn’t that just make him a million times more attractive to the opposite sex? she thought, with a sudden pang of wistfulness.

‘Of course I’ve heard of it,’ she breathed. ‘The papers have been talking of nothing else for weeks. There’s a big royal wedding taking place there soon, isn’t there?’

She tried to remember a bit more, but she had mainly looked at photos of the handsome groom and his beautiful fiancée while she’d been sitting in the hairdressers. What with working full-time, looking after her son and running a home some things had to give—and reading the foreign news section of the papers was unfortunately one of them. Alexa frowned. ‘But I thought it was the Sheikh’s son who is getting married. And isn’t he half-French?’

Giovanni gave a grim smile, for in a way she had made this easier for him. ‘Yes. He is. The Frenchman’s name is Xavier,’ he said. ‘And he is—as you say—the Sheikh’s son. He is also my half-brother.’

‘You mean there’s more than one son? I…don’t understand, Giovanni.’

Hadn’t he thought exactly the same thing himself, when the incredible facts had first been presented to him by the Sheikh’s aide—the man they called Malik? For in one swoop Giovanni had gone from being a man with no family to finding himself a father and a half-brother.