The Sheikh's Convenient Virgin

Trish Morey

THE SHEIKH’S CONVENIENT VIRGIN

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

To Jacqui, Steph, Ellen and Claire

Thanks for all the times you’ve had to wait

for me to finish a sentence, a paragraph or a

chapter before you could get my attention.

And thanks for all the times you had to do

lots of extra stuff because I was on deadline

and the house would have collapsed in a heap

otherwise.

Not to mention all the times you forgave me for

forgetting to pick you up from wherever. (Really

sorry about those!)

But, most of all, thank you all for being your

totally gorgeous selves.

I am truly blessed.

All my love,

Mum xxxx

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

‘WHO’S the woman?’ With just three sharp words Sheikh Tajik al Zayed bin Aman cut off the tedious update being delivered by his secretary as he wandered closer to the window. It had been a long flight, and the stranger he’d just spied sitting near the pool was far more interesting than the latest exchange rate fluctuations of his Emirate’s currency. ‘What is she doing here?’

Kamil temporarily abandoned his recitation of numbers and followed his ruler’s gaze through the wall of windows and past the palm-lined lawns to the pool area beyond.

‘This is the one we employed as your mother’s companion after Fatima was taken ill. I sent word to you while you were in Paris for the oil summit…’ His secretary trailed off, suddenly hesitant, as if concerned he’d overstepped the mark in retaining a local woman to be Nobilah’s companion during their Gold Coast sojourn.

‘Ah, yes,’ Tajik said, recalling the case of appendicitis that had seen Fatima packed off to hospital for emergency surgery. ‘I just did not expect Nobilah’s new companion to be quite so young.’ Or quite so attractive. Even from this distance he could see her features were far from plain, her figure, even though demurely dressed from neck to ankle in light trousers and shirt, no chore to behold. ‘So why is she alone and not looking after my mother?’

As if on cue, Nobilah emerged from the poolhouse behind, the dark abaya she’d favoured since her husband had died swirling about her like a cloud as she walked. He watched the younger woman rise and then adjust the umbrella shading his mother from the Queensland sun as she settled herself into the chair alongside. Then the young woman sat back down, picking up a newspaper from a wrought-iron table sitting between them, her lips moving as she read aloud.

His mother laughed at something, and he could almost hear her musical chuckle. He couldn’t help but smile. It had been a tough year—for all of them—and it was good to see her laugh. Very soon he would hear it for himself. After the tense and at times heated negotiations of the past week he deserved it. And now they would have the last weeks of their summer break together.

‘I must go and let Nobilah know I have returned from Paris,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Was there anything more, Kamil?’

His secretary cleared his throat. ‘As a matter of fact, Excellency, there is one more item I must bring to your attention…’

‘Can it wait? I am anxious to catch up with my mother.’

‘I think you will want to hear this, Excellency.’

Tajik looked around in surprise. His secretary knew him too well to keep him over some trifling matter when he was already taking his leave. He moved away from the window, his attention now fully on his secretary, the stranger all but dismissed from his mind. ‘Well, what is it?’

‘There have been murmurings from home…It appears Qasim has raised with the council of tribal leaders some concerns about the ascendancy…’

Tajik’s blood chilled at the news, but it was to Kamil that his ire was directed right now. ‘And you thought it more important to relate Jamalbad’s exchange rates than my cousin’s machinations behind the scenes?’

His secretary had the good sense to look nervous. ‘Reports have just come in,’ he said, bowing deferentially. ‘They have yet to been confirmed—’

‘Then have them confirmed!’ he snapped as he began pacing the spacious living area in long purposeful strides. ‘And tell me why should my cousin bring such concerns to the council? If anything happens to me, he knows he is next in line to the throne. His place is assured.’

‘He has apparently told the council members he believes Jamalbad’s future cannot be assured unless there is solid provision for the future. Unless there is an heir.’

Tajik’s feet came to a sudden halt. ‘My father has been dead but one short year, and Joharah with him! Would Qasim have me casting my seed at the first woman to cross my path? Besides, everyone knows that my cousin is more an agent of instability than of peace—otherwise why would he be stirring up trouble while my back is turned?’

‘Qasim cloaks his desire for the throne in concerns for Jamalbad. Some of the council will take his words at face value.’

‘And some members of the council would be swayed by the dance of the cobra.’ Tajik thumped his closed fist against the nearest piece of furniture with so much force it made his secretary jump. ‘He must be stopped! If these reports are true, we must return to Jamalbad immediately. Prepare to make the necessary arrangements.’

Kamil hesitated. ‘Before I do—there’s one more thing you should know. There is a suggestion that he has told the council he has found you the perfect bride.’

‘He has what? Who is the delightful creature this snake of a cousin of mine would see me saddled with?’

‘His daughter, Abir.’

Tajik laughed out loud. ‘In the name of Allah, the girl is but a child! She must be no more than ten years old. He wants the throne so badly he would sacrifice his own child to his cause?’

‘Abir is fourteen at her next birthday. More than old enough to become betrothed if the council so approves.’

‘Not to me, she’s not! I will not be manipulated by a madman into marrying a child less than half my age, especially not his own spawn, merely to give him greater access to the throne.’

Kamil frowned. ‘Beware, Excellency. From what’s been said, some of the council are in favour of the match. They believe you have mourned long enough, that it is time you give away your playboy ways and find a bride to provide Jamalbad with an heir. Qasim has intimated that he is acting in your best interests, and that the best way forward for both you and Jamalbad is a betrothal announcement that is just days away.’

‘So now a single life is to be interpreted as “playboy ways”?’ He sighed. Given his age and his position he’d had his pick of women if and when he’d wanted—but losing Joharah had taken the edge off his needs, and the nameless and faceless women since then had been few and far between, his wants nowhere near approximating what those words implied.

He stared blindly out of the window, the blood hammering with fury in his veins. So Qasim meant to tie him into a betrothal in his absence—a betrothal he would be neatly boxed into on his return? No wonder his belligerent cousin had been so accommodating when Tajik had informed him of his plans to take his mother away from Jamalbad’s month of horror heat to the relative cool of tropical Australia.

But there was no way he would allow himself to be manipulated like that. And there was no way he would marry his cousin’s teenaged daughter. No way in the world.

He raked his fingers through his hair as he set about pacing the room once more, his mind working out the best strategy to outplay his cousin’s hand. On the one hand he could just say no. He was absolute ruler of Jamalbad after all. The council was a powerful body in its own right, but it could only advise, not decree, and while it might not be happy with his refusal to marry Abir, it could not force him to do otherwise.

And yet there was another course of action that formed like crystals in his mind, clear and sharp. Another way he could stop Qasim’s machinations in their tracks and keep the council happy into the deal.

‘No, Kamil,’ he asserted, swinging around. ‘I will not marry Abir. Or anyone else my cousin lines up for me.’

‘Very well, Excellency. Once I receive confirmation that our information is correct, I will prepare a message to the council to that effect.’

‘No, there is no need. If the council are expecting a bride, then the council will be satisfied. They will have their sheikha.’

‘And how do you intend to achieve that if you will not marry Abir?’

‘Simple, Kamil. I will find my own bride.’

‘Your Excellency, are you serious?’

The look he shot his secretary was enough to make his servant stammer in apology, but he cut off his backtracking with the simple act of raising one hand. ‘I am serious about not being controlled like a puppet by my cousin. I will do whatever it takes to foil his plans to take over the throne of Jamalbad by marrying me to his daughter.’

‘But a bride…You cannot marry just anyone. The bride of a ruler of Jamalbad must be pure of mind and body.’ The secretary wildly threw out his arms in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘How do you expect to find such a gem here?’

It took no more than a raised eyebrow for Kamil’s coffee-coloured skin to flush darker. ‘Have you not seen the women on the beach?’ he blustered in defence. ‘I am not sure that the council would approve of such a queen.’

Tajik nodded in understanding as his thoughts drew him in the direction of the windows again. Tradition was important in Jamalbad, and while he had been educated long enough in the west to believe that the idea a woman must remain untouched until marriage while the man was free to sow his wild oats wherever he chose was a classic double standard, the council would expect his bride to be innocent. Still, he was sure he could find someone who would pass for a convenient virgin somewhere. So long as he was happy with the choice, he would have no trouble convincing the council of her virtue.

He turned his gaze out of the windows once more, movement poolside bringing his gaze back into focus—and his thoughts into razor-sharp precision behind it.

She was quite attractive, in a western kind of way, her figure indeed watchable, despite the conservative clothes and the honey-blonde hair restrained too tightly behind her head. She would look so much better in more feminine clothes that showed off her curves. But then, given the truth of what Kamil had said, her conservatism was a definite plus right now…

He stroked his chin while he considered the possibilities. Fair-skinned, with honey-blonde hair and a generous mouth, she looked nothing at all like Joharah. That could only be a plus.

He clamped down on a twinge of guilt that he should be contemplating marrying anyone. But this would not be a marriage as theirs would have been. This marriage would be one of simple expediency that would put paid to Qasim’s plans for the throne and bring stability to Jamalbad as a result.

Reason enough for him to contemplate the enjoyment he’d get presenting this woman as his bride. Her looks were merely a bonus. And bedding her would be no chore. He was a man, after all. He could certainly think of less enjoyable ways to foil his cousin’s plans.

‘Perhaps, Kamil,’ he mused, ‘we need not extend our search as far as the beach. Tell me,’ he said, pointing to the young woman who had abandoned her reading of the newspaper and was currently engaged in painting his mother’s nails, ‘have you done all the necessary security checks on this woman?’

It wasn’t really a question. He knew the answer would be in the affirmative—she wouldn’t have been employed otherwise—and the older man looked confused at the sudden change of topic.

‘Of course. She has a clean record, impeccable references, and no unsavoury connections that we could find.’

‘And personally?’

‘No attachments. As far as family she has just the one sister, a twin, recently married and with her first child.’

‘Perfect,’ Tajik announced coldly. ‘Then she will not be missed.’

‘What do you mean?’ Kamil asked, with the tone of someone who really didn’t want to hear the answer.

Tajik placed a hand on his secretary’s shoulder. ‘It’s quite simple, my good friend. In finding my mother the perfect companion you have also done your country a great service. You may also have found Jamalbad the perfect queen.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘EXCELLENCY, this is madness. Taking a wife, taking a sheikha for your country, this is a serious matter.’

‘You’re right, Kamil,’ he said with a brotherly slap on the back, ‘and much too serious to be decided for me by the likes of my cousin.’

‘But to decide on this woman on a whim, when the council cannot force you to marry Abir?’

‘Listen, my good friend, do you think that if I refuse to marry Abir, Qasim will desist in his efforts to gain power? Of course he won’t. He will keep working away, using whatever influence he has on the council for his own purposes.’ He shrugged before continuing, ‘And on one level Qasim and the council are right. Jamalbad needs an heir. And, sadly, I am in no position to provide them with an heir without a wife—a wife I simply have no interest in searching for.’ He waved his hand in the direction of the window. ‘Especially not when such an apparently suitable specimen sits just a few yards away. And she looks nothing like your “women on the beach”. I am sure I can convince the council that she has all the necessary virtue she needs. Now, does this woman, this companion for my mother, have a name?’

His secretary was still shaking his head, but he could no more refuse his ruler than stop breathing. ‘Her name is Morgan Fielding, Excellency. But what makes you think, even if she were suitable for the role, that she would agree to marry you?’

Tajik laughed. The idea was preposterous. ‘Come now, Kamil, she is a woman, and if you believe everything my cousin says I am a playboy through and through. With such a reputation, how could any woman resist me?’

Today was Gold Coast weather at its best: the sky an endless stretch of azure blue, bisected only by the occasional spear of jet stream, and with a slight breeze taking the edge off the sun’s heat. Palm fronds swayed lazily in the gardens surrounding the pool, and diamonds of light played on the surface of the aqua water.

If a job could be perfect, then this one had to come close—relaxing days, beautiful surroundings, and nothing more taxing to do than keep a fascinating woman from an equally fascinating country company. She loved the stories Nobilah had told her about Jamalbad. She seemed to make the rich desert sunsets and the colours, scents and noise of the local soukhs come alive with her words.

Oh, yes, it was a dream job. Just a pity that it ended in less than two weeks. The gentle-faced Nobilah would return to Jamalbad and she would return to the temp agency. She sighed a wistful sigh. There was no way she could expect to be this lucky again. More likely she’d end up working ten hours a day for a madman in some office where the milk in the fridge lasted longer than the PAs.

Less than two weeks to go—so she’d just have to enjoy this experience while it lasted.

Morgan closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, the scent of frangipani adding a heady sweetness to the air. If she tried hard she could almost imagine she was there, in Nobilah’s home in Jamalbad, the desert-warmed air kissing her skin, the sweet scent of the palace orange grove tugging at her senses.

A shadow moved over her as the sun disappeared behind a cloud—until she remembered there were no clouds today, and there should be no shadow.

She snapped open her eyes with a start to see a man standing over her, a dark statue looming tall and powerful, his features indistinguishable with the wash of light behind. Without seeing his eyes she knew this man was a stranger. Without seeing his eyes she could still feel their impact like an acid burn. He was looking down at her. Staring. Assessing.

Her senses on trembling alert, she swung her legs over the edge of the chair, pushing herself to stand so as to remove at least some of the advantage he had by virtue of his height. But just standing was nowhere near enough. He still stood a full head above her, although at least from this angle she could finally see his eyes.

And immediately regretted the fact.

They burned gold, with scattered flecks like flaming coals, burning all the brighter with the contrast of his dark lashes and arched brows and the darkly shadowed angles of his cheeks and jaw.

Never before had she been confronted with someone so totally, unashamedly masculine. And never before had she felt more like an insect under a microscope. It was impossible not to resent his inspection. At the same time there was something compelling about those golden eyes that wouldn’t let her turn away.

She swallowed, trying to quell the insane rush of sensation that coursed through her.

Attraction.

Desire.

Fear.

All those things rolled into one prickly surge of awareness as he silently continued to watch her.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked at last, when the silence had stretched out much longer than was polite, and it was clear he was not about to break it.

The corners of his mouth turned up, drawing her eyes to his full lips. And to a wide mouth she could tell immediately would be equally at home delivering either pleasure or pain. ‘That is my intention,’ he answered cryptically. But before she could think about a response, Nobilah stirred on the lounger alongside.

‘Tajik! You’re back already. Why didn’t you tell me?’

He turned his attention to the much older woman, releasing the hold on Morgan’s eyes as abruptly as the snapping of chains.

‘The negotiations finished early,’ he said, moving to the older woman’s side and enclosing her in a bear-like hug that swept her off her feet and around in a circle of dark silk. ‘I wanted to surprise you.’

‘You did!’ she said, her age-plumped features creasing in delight. ‘I’m so pleased.’

Morgan watched the reunion, waiting for the perfect time to withdraw. So this was Nobilah’s son, the Sheikh? She’d expected someone older, maybe forty or so, given that Nobilah was in her mid-sixties, but this man looked in his prime. He couldn’t be more than early thirties. But then Nobilah had talked often of him as a child, of her dark haired boy who had grown up wild and untamed in the deserts of Jamalbad only to become a prince when her husband had unexpectedly came to the sheikhdom. Of the boy who had been torn from one life and thrown into another much more demanding and exacting.

As she looked at him now she could see no trace of that wild boy-child. Royalty was everything about him. His composure. His bearing. His sheer presence.

He could have been born to rule.

As if sensing her thoughts, he turned and captured her gaze. ‘So this is your new companion?’ he said, still holding his mother’s hands in his own. ‘So, tell me, is she any good?’

‘Come and meet her,’ his mother scolded, tugging him around. ‘See for yourself.’

Morgan stiffened as he allowed his mother to lead him to the hired help. As if it was necessary. Surely he’d seen enough while he’d been standing over her? And if talking about her in the third person had been intended to make her feel uncomfortable, he’d sure hit the spot. She gave him a glare that should strip paint.

If he noticed her glare of disapproval he gave no hint of it. ‘Morgan Fielding,’ he uttered slowly—so slowly and deliberately, that the sound of her own name rolled through her, a strange, unfamiliar thing.

With an accent that was like a blend of the richest coffee and the darkest chocolate, he made her name sound good enough to eat. No, she corrected herself, catching sight of white teeth flashing between lips that looked too confident, too predatory, he made her name sound good enough to devour. She shivered. Because his eyes echoed the certainty. They looked down at her, their golden depths too knowing, too intent, as if he was reaching to some place deep inside her she hadn’t known existed until now. And instinct warned her this man would do nothing by half measures.

And then he held out one hand, and she had no choice, no matter what her senses screamed to her in warning, but to do likewise.

She felt long fingers enclose her hand, circling around her wrist in a sensual dance of flesh against flesh as he drew her arm weightlessly towards him. With his eyes firmly fixed on hers she felt powerless to resist. Just when she thought he was intending to take her all the way to his lips, he stopped, and with the merest smile nodded slightly. ‘It is indeed…a pleasure.’

Her heart thumping in her chest, it was all she could do to form, let alone hear, her own words. ‘Sheikh Tajik, I’ve heard a lot about you.’

His smile widened, although his eyes remained steady, calculating.

‘You have me at a distinct disadvantage,’ he said. ‘I know next to nothing of you—a failing I intend to rectify at the first opportunity, I assure you.’

Golden eyes told her he meant every word he said, while the gentle stroke of one long finger over her wrist sent tremors of heat reverberating up her arm.

‘Taj,’ Nobilah rebuked with a laugh, breaking the spell. ‘Stop flirting with my companion. Come and tell me all about Paris. I’ll send for tea.’

‘I…I’ll get it,’ Morgan offered, smiling her thanks at Nobilah as she sensed a means of escape. She tugged her hand free and set off for the house, unable to ignore the prickle of heat on her skin, almost as if a pair of golden eyes were burning tracks into her back the whole way.

Nobilah had thought he’d been flirting with her? Why, then, had every word felt like some kind of threat? And why had the touch of his fingers on her flesh felt like some kind of promise?

She shivered again, wanting to shake off the unfamiliar sensations, and let herself into the house via the wide glass doors that led into the casual living areas and through to the kitchen beyond. She had almost crossed the cool tiled floor when she heard the voices—the even, low tones of Kamil and the raised voice of Anton, the chef they’d lured from one of Brisbane’s top hotels for the duration of their stay.

‘I have a contract,’ the chef protested. ‘I will not be sacked!’

Morgan pulled herself up short of the door. Obviously this was not a good time. But why were they sacking Anton? It made no sense. His cooking was three star Michelin standard, his menus superb. And Nobilah had made no secret of the fact that if she could she would like to take him back to Jamalbad with them.

‘Not sacked,’ she heard Kamil reply, his tone soothing yet insistent. ‘The remaining balance owing on your contract will be paid in a lump sum, together with a generous bonus for any inconvenience.’