His Royal Prize

“Why are you so anxious to run from me? You do not take my proposition seriously?”

“You want me to marry you?” Just saying the words sent a shiver down Olivia’s spine, her thoughts flying in a hopeless direction. “Why? Do you love me?”

“I have a great fondness for you.”

“Why?”

“Your violet eyes. They intrigue me. And you will bear many brave, strong-willed children.”

She blinked. “I thought you didn’t want any. In fact, last night you said—”

“I am not a patient man, Olivia.”

It wasn’t her imagination that he moved closer, or that his eyes had darkened. “Is that supposed to win me over?”

“Perhaps this will.” He cupped her nape, drawing her closer, and covered her mouth with his.

Dear Reader,

Heartwarming, emotional, compelling…these are all words that describe Harlequin American Romance. Check out this month’s stellar selection of love stories, which are sure to delight you.

First, Debbi Rawlins delivers the exciting conclusion of Harlequin American Romance’s continuity series, TEXAS SHEIKHS. In His Royal Prize, sparks fly immediately between dashing sheikh Sharif and Desert Rose ranch hand Olivia Smith. However, Sharif never expected their romantic tryst to be plastered all over the tabloids—or that the only way to salvage their reputations would be to make Olivia his royal bride.

Bestselling author Muriel Jensen pens another spectacular story in her WHO’S THE DADDY? miniseries with Daddy To Be Determined, in which a single gal’s ticking biological clock leads her to convince a single dad that he’s the perfect man to father her baby. In Have Husband, Need Honeymoon, the third book in Rita Herron’s THE HARTWELL HOPE CHESTS miniseries, Alison Hartwell thought her youthful marriage to an air force pilot had been annulled, but surprise! Now a forced reunion with her “husband” has her wondering if a second honeymoon couldn’t give them a second chance at forever. And Harlequin American Romance’s promotion THE WAY WE MET…AND MARRIED continues with The Best Blind Date in Texas. Don’t miss this wonderful romance from Victoria Chancellor.

It’s a great lineup, and we hope you enjoy them all!

Wishing you happy reading,

Melissa Jeglinski

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin American Romance

Texas Sheikhs:

His Royal Prize

Debbi Rawlins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

In memory of Sister John Olivia. I miss you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Debbi Rawlins currently lives with her husband and dog in Las Vegas, Nevada. A native of Hawaii, she married on Maui and has since lived in Cincinnati, Chicago, Tulsa, Houston, Detroit and Durham, North Carolina, during the past twenty years. Now that she’s had enough of the gypsy life, it’ll take a crane, a bulldozer and a forklift to get her out of her new home. Good thing she doesn’t like to gamble. Except maybe on romance.

Books by Debbi Rawlins

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

580—MARRIAGE INCORPORATED

618—THE COWBOY AND THE CENTERFOLD

622—THE OUTLAW AND THE CITY SLICKER

675—LOVE, MARRIAGE AND OTHER CALAMITIES

691—MARRY ME, BABY

730—THE BRIDE TO BE…OR NOT TO BE

741—IF WISHES WERE…HUSBANDS

780—STUD FOR HIRE?

790—OVERNIGHT FATHER

808—HIS, HERS AND THEIRS

860—LOVING A LONESOME COWBOY

881—HIS ROYAL PRIZE

HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

587—HER MYSTERIOUS STRANGER

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

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Chapter One

America was a strange and bewildering place. Sharif Asad Al Farid squinted out the parlor window at the vast expanse of the Desert Rose ranch. In the distance, he could see two of his three brothers working with the horses. Brothers he had just met, had not known existed until a week ago.

No, America was not so strange. Sharif had traveled to New York often while he studied at the university in London, and he had always enjoyed his visits. It was Texas that seemed odd to him, and the way his brothers embraced manual labor, even though they shared the same royal blood that flowed through his veins.

Did they not understand what it meant to be heir to the throne of Sorajhee? To be sons of a king?

Sharif massaged the tension knotting the back of his neck. More confusing than a desert mirage were the thoughts spinning incessantly like a whirlpool inside his head. He was not sure who he was anymore, or from where he truly came. For twenty-nine years he had been the firstborn, the only son of King Zakariyya and Queen Nadirah of Balahar. There had been no question he would ascend the throne. But now…

His glance slid to Rose, the American woman who had borne him. She looked his way, her anxious blue eyes meeting his, and she stopped pouring tea. Her lips curved slightly. Only politeness made him return the tentative smile before he turned to stare out the window again.

He was a fool not to have guessed he had been adopted. Or that he was of half-Western ancestry. All the signs were in evidence—the lighter eyes, the fairer skin. Although his eyes were a dark midnight-blue and not as pale as those of this woman who claimed to be his mother, he in no way resembled King Zak’s or Queen Nadirah’s dark, regal looks.

There was a trace of English blood in Nadirah’s lineage they had said—an explanation he had easily accepted. They were his parents. Why would he not have trusted them to speak the truth?

Bitterness taunted him, but he would not succumb. He understood the reason they had withheld the truth. The politics and public temperament of the time had prevented them from publicizing the verity of his birth—that he had secretly taken the place of their stillborn child. They had protected him, protected his rightful place on the throne.

Rightful place. His insides clenched painfully, yet still the numbness threatened to engulf him. He almost welcomed the oblivion. What was his destiny? All his life he had been so sure of himself, his future as king. No more.

His belly cramped again. Uncertainty was such a difficult pill to swallow.

“Your mother is speaking to you,” he heard King Zak say, and Sharif turned slowly toward his father. His adoptive father. The only one he had ever known.

Sharif wanted to tell him not to refer to this woman as his mother. Queen Nadirah was dead and buried for several years now. But she had been the one to sit at the edge of his bed when fever raged through his young body, or when his knees had been skinned raw from scaling the palace walls. He missed her every day.

“I beg your forgiveness,” Sharif said with stilted politeness. “My mind was wandering.”

Rose smiled. “That’s okay. I only asked what you’d like in your tea.”

He eyed the tray of cups she had filled with the amber liquid. In her hand was a small porcelain bowl of sugar. It trembled slightly. “Do you not have servants to do this?”

She blinked, a startled look crossing her face. “There’s a cook and housekeeper, and ranch hands to help with the horses, of course,” she said slowly, “but not the kind of servants you’re talking about.” A smile tugged at her mouth. It gave beauty to her weary features. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had anyone wait on me.”

Stung by the reminder of her appalling imprisonment for the past twenty-nine years, Sharif’s gaze quickly slid away. Right into his father’s disapproving face.

King Zak’s dark eyes narrowed, and he gestured toward the space beside him on the burgundy couch across from Rose. “Why do you not sit here with us? What is outside that so captures your attention?”

Sharif remained stubbornly silent for a few moments and then said, “I would like Scotch instead of the tea, if you have it.”

“Of course.” Rose immediately stood, ignoring Sharif’s father’s sound of disgust. “King Zakariyya? How about you?”

“Thank you.” King Zak had risen, and he bowed slightly. “But I do not make it a practice to drink before six o’clock.”

Sharif got the message of his father’s disapproval. He noted something else, as well. That King Zak could not seem to take his eyes off the American woman as she left the room.

Distaste surged through Sharif. “I think I will go for a ride. I assume there is someone around who can saddle a horse for me.”

“Sharif, we have been here only one day. Your mother is trying very hard to make you welcome. Be kind to her.”

He turned to stare out the window again. “My mother is in the ground.”

King Zak sighed. “We should have told you the truth sooner. Until not long ago I did not know your mother was still alive. Do not punish her for my error in judgment.”

Sharif stared off in the direction where Rose had disappeared in search of his Scotch. “She is very beautiful.” He meaningfully met his father’s eyes. “Is she not?”

After a long pause, King Zak said, “She has suffered greatly, locked away in the sanitarium for so many years because of a madwoman’s thirst for power. She did not abandon you and your brothers. It is because of her sacrifices that you are all still alive. Royal blood may not flow through her veins, but she has the wisdom and strength of a true queen. You should be very proud to be her son.”

There was truth in his father’s words, Sharif knew. Rose had been a queen once, when she had married Ibrahim, Sharif’s birth father, and ruler of Sorajhee. She had possessed power and fortune herself, along with her brother, Randy, the heirs of a wealthy and important American businessman.

When Ibrahim was assassinated, it was Randy in America to whom she had sent Sharif’s three brothers for safekeeping while she sought the truth behind her husband’s death. Before she could attain her goal, she was committed to a sanitarium in Europe.

Sharif still did not know all the details. Only that he was born five months later, then taken from Rose and given to his parents. Everyone had thought Rose was dead. Even her brother. Until recently. She had not lived an easy life. And for that misfortune, he pitied her. He even admired her strength and courage. But he was not yet ready to embrace her as family.

“I found the Scotch,” she said, smiling as she reentered the room, a bottle of fine aged Scotch in one hand, a crystal tumbler in the other. “I hope this suits you.”

Everything at the ranch was of the finest quality: the furnishings, the art adorning the walls, even the china and crystal. The Spanish-style house itself was solid and spacious and possessed over a dozen bedrooms that overlooked a glorious lake. And the Arabian horses housed in the stables were of superb breeding. His brothers certainly had not grown up wanting. Still, none of this compared to the opulent palace where Sharif had spent his twenty-nine years.

He wasn’t sure how that made him feel, or why it mattered. All three of his brothers seemed content. Genuinely happy. Sharif was the one who was suffocating from confusion.

After accepting the glass of Scotch Rose poured, he downed the liquor in one gulp. “I will go for that ride now,” he said, and stoically met her startled eyes. “What time shall I return for dinner?”

“Sharif.” His father’s sharp tone shook the air like sudden thunder on a clear night.

Rose laid a hand on King Zak’s arm, and his expression immediately softened. “We eat around seven. But it’ll start getting dark before then, so be careful.”

For a moment, his father’s gaze lingered on the American woman, and Sharif’s insides twisted at the longing he saw in those dark eyes. Anger and resentment sliced through him like a thief’s sharpened dagger.

“I shall not be dining with you tonight.” Sharif walked toward the French doors without another glance at them. “Be certain my bedchamber has been made ready for my return.”

Even at his father’s grunt of disapproval, he did not turn around. He continued out the door, and waved for his personal attendant to lag behind when the man rushed to accompany him. Sharif did not want anyone to see the pain his eyes surely could not hide.

“HE’S VERY ARROGANT.” Rose watched her youngest son stride proudly away, his head held high, his posture perfectly erect. When she realized what she’d said, heat flared in her cheeks and her gaze flew to King Zak’s face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound critical. I was merely making an observation, really. You’ve done a fine job with him. And you have my everlasting thanks. He is very well mannered and bright and handsome…”

King Zak smiled. “It is you who is responsible for his comeliness. He looks very much like you.”

Rose blushed again. “Thank you, but I think he looks more like Ibrahim.” Her gaze strayed out the window and she watched the way one shoulder dipped ever so slightly as Sharif walked. Remarkably like Ibrahim.

The memory of her husband was a knife in her heart, as though it had been only yesterday that his young life had been violently ripped away from hers.

“You are quite right,” King Zak said, drawing her attention again. He had a fierce, swarthy look, but kind eyes. “Sharif is sometimes arrogant. We indulged him too much. Especially Nadirah. She awaited a child for a very long time.”

He fell silent, staring out the window toward Sharif’s disappearing form, and Rose knew he was thinking about his wife, missing her, as Rose still missed Ibrahim.

“This behavior…” he said finally, waving a ringed hand, a large ruby catching the sunlight and sparking brilliant red flames. “It is not so much arrogance as it is fear.”

“Fear? Of me?”

“Of change.”

“Oh, King Zakariyya, I don’t expect anything to change. I want to be in his life, of course, but—”

“Please.” He took one of her nervous hands and sandwiched it between his. “It is not necessary to be so formal. And Zak is so much easier on the tongue, is it not?”

She nodded, and willed her cheeks not to color as she extracted her hand as gracefully as she could. “I hope he understands that I don’t expect him to welcome me overnight. I simply wish for the chance to get to know him, just as I’ve been getting to know the other boys.”

“He is a good man. A true king. But right now his identity is shaken. He needs some time. He is still growing up, I am afraid, but he would never let our people down. And he will not let you down. I am certain of this.”

As they both turned toward the window again, Rose prayed Zak was right. Sharif had already disappeared from sight. She felt his absence clear down to her soul.

“DAMN IT, LIVY, YOU CHEATED.”

Olivia Smith stopped laughing and glared at her friend and fellow ranch hand. “Mickey Farrel, you worm, I’ve never cheated once in my life, and you know it. Take it back.”

“I won’t.” He stooped to pick his hat off the barn floor and shook the hay off the battered gray rim before setting the Stetson back on his head.

She had a good mind to knock his hat off again. He was twenty-two, just a year younger than she, but he acted as if he were twelve. “Don’t try and weasel out of mucking out the stalls. You lost fair and square.”

“How come I always lose? Tell me that. You have to be cheating.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.” She walked over to get the shovel and thrust it at him. “The object is to knock the other person’s hat off without bodily contact. Which is exactly what I do. How could I possibly cheat?”

“All I know is I’m five foot ten and you’re only five two. So how in the blazes do you always whack my hat off first?”

“It’s called having a brain. Maybe you ought to use yours sometimes.”

Mickey muttered a foul word under his breath and grudgingly grabbed the shovel. “Why can’t you act like other girls, and not be such a tomboy and a bully?”

“I’m not a bully. You’re just a sore loser,” she said with a smug toss of her head so he wouldn’t know how much the remark stung. The truth was, she’d grown up with mostly boys at the orphanage where she’d been abandoned as a baby and she wasn’t sure she knew how to act like a girl.

Sometimes she wished she did know the right things to say, and had the proper clothes to wear, instead of her usual jeans and baggy shirts. Especially since Rose Coleman–El Jeved came to the ranch. She was so beautiful and poised that it was easy to imagine her as a queen just like in the fairy tales Livy read to the kids when she visited the orphanage. Except Rose had been a real life queen with a palace and servants and fine clothes and…

Livy straightened and grabbed her gloves. Wouldn’t Mickey and the rest of the guys laugh themselves silly if they knew about her foolish daydreams. “See you later,” she said. “I’ll be working with Khalid.”

Mickey stared, slack jawed. “You’re not leaving me to muck out all thirty stalls by myself.”

“Be grateful you don’t have all sixty to clean.” She strode off before she gave in and helped him as she usually did. She had something else in mind. Although she really did plan on working with Khalid, the ranch’s newest colt, she needed to stop and talk to her own horse first.

She swore that Prince was the only creature on God’s green earth that understood her. Of course they shared a similar past. He’d been a runt, unwanted and shunned by breeders. Her parents had dumped her on the steps of St. Mary’s before she could even talk. Which was sort of a blessing. She obviously hadn’t said anything bad that ticked them off or made them not want her. Reminding herself of that helped when she felt down and alone sometimes.

As soon as she saw Prince stick his head out of his stall, she broke into a grin. Now Prince Charming here had shown all the naysayers a thing or two. He’d turned into a fine stallion. Even some of the trainers and breeders who’d snubbed him earlier had changed their tune and offered her a heap of cash for him. It made her burst with pride. Not that she’d ever sell him in a million years. Even though he’d cost her every dime she’d saved.

“How ya doing, boy?” She reached into her pocket for his daily cube of sugar while she stroked his neck with her other hand. “You look mighty handsome today, young man.” She laughed when he nuzzled her neck. “Thanks, but you still get only one cube.”

She led him out of the stall and into the outdoor riding ring. The sun was low enough that it wasn’t too hot, and she really wished she had the time to take him out for a good run. In another week the annual Hill Country Breakneck Race was going to make her and Prince a small fortune. Assuming they won. Although she had little doubt they would. Prince was that fast.

He was smart, too, and eventually she’d probably show him, just as Mac Coleman, the head trainer at the ranch, suggested.

“Come on, boy. Let’s see what you remember.” She led him around the ring at a slow pace. Sunlight gleamed off his shiny black coat. He looked like velvet in motion and her heart swelled with pride.

After a few more turns, she shaded her eyes and looked at the pink-streaked horizon. The sun was still visible, but she guessed it was about four-thirty or five. She had to go work with Khalid. Prince sensed he was about to be penned again and pulled back a little.

“I’m sorry, boy, I wish I could stay longer.” She stroked the side of his neck, whispering to him in the low murmuring tone he liked. “If I don’t work, who’s going to pay for all that feed you scarf up like there’s no tomorrow?”

Prince let her rub his velvety nuzzle before throwing his head back out of reach. She laughed, knowing this was his way of telling her he understood but didn’t like it.

Working with Khalid was no chore, and Livy was careful not to show her eagerness in front of Prince as she returned him to his stall. Khalid was amazingly beautiful, a quick learner, and she loved the Arabian colt as if he were her own.

He greeted her with youthful enthusiasm as soon as she approached him, shifting between his two front hooves, nodding his head, knowing he’d make her laugh.

“Come on, you little ham.” She led him outside and he strained against the lead, anxious to get started with his lesson. He seemed a little more spirited than usual and she had to calm him down several times during their session.

After leading him around the third time, she understood why Khalid was so animated. He loved audiences and two people stood on the southern slope watching them. Startled, Livy wondered how long they’d been standing there, and when she didn’t resume training, the pair started down the slope toward her and Khalid.

The men didn’t walk side by side, the one with the dark full beard lagged several feet behind. He was wearing the type of clothing the Colemans wore when showing Arabians.

She tugged the rim of her hat down to cut the sun’s glare and squinted for a better look at the man in front of him. He was taller, broader, his hair black and shiny, and he had on some kind of brown silk shirt. Not the usual ranch garb.

She knew the Colemans were expecting company, but when the other hands were speculating at breakfast that royalty was coming to visit, she’d thought it was a bunch of hogwash. Of course everyone knew that Alex, Mac and Cade were descendants of some Arab sheikh…as hard as that was to believe. She knew that Cade’s wife, Serena, was from the mid-East and that her father had visited once. But she didn’t think any more of those people would be coming here.

Khalid whinnied and she absently patted his neck, helplessly fascinated by the approaching stranger. He sure walked as if he owned the place.

The instant he was close enough that she could see his face, Livy knew he had to be royalty. Her mouth knew it judging by the way it got drier than withered cotton. And trying to keep her heart from pounding through her chest was like nailing pudding to a tree. He was downright beautiful. Just like one of those princes in the fairy tales.

And he was coming straight toward her.

Should she bow? Curtsy? Heck, her knees were so weak she’d be lucky not to fall on her fanny.

About twelve feet away he stopped, and so did Livy’s heart.

Every fairy tale she’d ever read flitted through her head.

He waved the man behind him forward. “Bring the servant boy to me,” he commanded in lightly accented English.

Livy blinked. Boy? Was Mickey trying to sneak up on her? She shot a look over her shoulder. Not a soul was in sight. Her attention immediately returned to the handsome stranger. He was looking directly at her.

She blinked again. He thought she was a—of all the damn nerve.

“My master summons you.”

She jumped at the gruff, heavily accented voice so close to her ear. Tilting her head back, she peered up into the dark face of the bearded man and scowled. “Your what?”

The man frowned down at her, confusion taking the edge off his barbarous look. He hesitated, glanced at the other man, then said, “You will come.”

She had a good mind to knock the turban off his head just as she’d done to Mickey’s Stetson. Although this contraption would be more of a challenge. And then again, playing along could be a heck of a lot more fun.