The Sheikh Crowns His Virgin

From innocent in distress...

To convenient princess

To escape her overprotective family, sweet-natured Zoe Mardas heads to the desert kingdom of Maraban for an adventure. But she’s kidnapped on arrival! Zoe is saved by mysterious and devastatingly handsome Raj—the nation’s exiled prince. The attraction between them is instant—and fiery like the desert sun! Yet her rescue comes with a price: to save them both from a political scandal, Zoe must become Raj’s virgin bride...

Turn the page and step into the sheikh’s desert kingdom...

LYNNE GRAHAM was born in Northern Ireland and has been a keen romance reader since her teens. She is very happily married, to an understanding husband who has learned to cook since she started to write! Her five children keep her on her toes. She has a very large dog who knocks everything over, a very small terrier who barks a lot, and two cats. When time allows, Lynne is a keen gardener.

Also by Lynne Graham

His Queen by Desert Decree

The Greek’s Blackmailed Mistress

The Italian’s Inherited Mistress

Billionaires at the Altar miniseries

The Greek Claims His Shock Heir

The Italian Demands His Heirs

The Sheikh Crowns His Virgin

Vows for Billionaires miniseries

The Secret Valtinos Baby

Castiglione’s Pregnant Princess

Da Rocha’s Convenient Heir

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Sheikh Crowns His Virgin

Lynne Graham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08780-3

THE SHEIKH CROWNS HIS VIRGIN

© 2019 Lynne Graham

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

ZOE DESCENDED THE steps of her grandfather’s private jet and as the sunlight of Maraban enveloped her she smiled happily. It was spring and the heat was bearable but, best of all, she was taking the very first brave step into her new life.

On her own, on her own at last, free of the restrictions that her sisters would have attached to her but, most importantly of all, free of the low expectations they had of her. Winnie and Vivi had been amazed when Zoe had agreed to move to a foreign country for a few months without freaking out at the prospect. They had been equally amazed when she’d agreed to marry a much older man to fulfil her part of their agreement with their grandfather, Stamboulas Fotakis. Why not? It wasn’t as though it was going to be a real marriage, merely a pretend marriage in which her future husband made political use of the fact that she was the granddaughter of a former princess of a country called Bania, which no longer existed.

Long before Zoe was even born the two tiny realms of Bania and Mara had joined to become Maraban and apparently her late grandmother, the Princess Azra, had been hugely popular in both countries. Prince Hakem wanted to marry Zoe literally for her ancestry and she would become an Arabian princess and live in the royal palace for several months. There she would enjoy glorious solitude with nobody bothering her, nobody asking how she felt or worriedly enquiring if she thought she should have more therapy to help her cope with ordinary life. Even though she hadn’t had a panic attack in months, her siblings had always been on edge around her, awaiting another one.

Zoe adored her older sisters but their constant care and concern had held her back from the independence she needed to rebuild her self-esteem and forge her own path. And taking part in this silly pretend marriage was all she had to do to finally obtain that freedom.

All three sisters had agreed to marry men of their grandfather’s choosing to gain his financial help for their foster parents, John and Liz Brooke. Winnie and Vivi had already fulfilled that bargain. But in Zoe’s case, no pressure whatsoever had been placed on her and, indeed, John and Liz’s mortgage arrears had been paid off shortly after her sister Vivi’s marriage had taken place. Yes, she thought wryly, even her extremely ruthless grandfather had shrunk from taking the risk of putting pressure on his youngest granddaughter, having taken on board her siblings’ conviction that she was hopelessly fragile and emotionally vulnerable. Nobody had faith in her ability to be strong, Zoe reflected ruefully, which was why it was so very important that she proved for her own benefit that she could be strong.

Like her sisters, Zoe had grown up in foster care, and a terrifying incident when she was twelve years old had traumatised her. But she had buried all that hurt and fear, seemingly flourishing in John and Liz’s happy home, only for those frightening insecurities to come back and engulf her while she was studying botany at university. Having to freely mix with men, having to deal with friends asking why she didn’t want a boyfriend, had put her under severe strain. Her panic attacks had grown worse and worse and, although she had contrived to hide her extreme anxiety from her sisters, she had, ultimately, been unable to deal with her problems alone. Weeks before she sat her final degree exams, she had suffered a nervous breakdown, which had meant that she had had to take time out from her course to recover.

Although she had subsequently completed her degree and worked through the therapy required to put her back on an even track where crippling anxiety no longer ruled her every thought and action, her sisters had continued to treat her as if she could shatter again at any moment. While she understood that their protectiveness came from love, she also saw that their attitude had made her weaker than she need have been and that she badly needed the chance to stand on her own feet. With her sisters now married, one living in Greece and the other in Italy, coming to Maraban was Zoe’s opportunity to prove that she had overcome her unhappy past.

Zoe stepped into the limousine awaiting her, grateful for the reality that her arrival in Maraban was completely low-key. Prince Hakem had insisted that no public appearances or indeed anything of that nature would be required from her. He might be the brother of the current King but he had no official standing in Maraban. Zoe’s grandfather should have been travelling with her but a pressing business matter had led to him asking if she could manage alone if he put off his arrival until the following day. Of course, she could manage, she thought cheerfully, gazing out with lively interest at the busy streets of the capital city, Tasit, which was an intriguing mix of old and new. She saw old buildings and elaborate mosques with quaint colourful turrets nudging shoulders with redeveloped areas boasting soaring skyscrapers and office blocks. Maraban was evidently right in the middle of the process of modernisation.

Oil and gas wealth had transformed the country. Zoe had read everything she could find on Maraban and had rolled her eyes at the discovery that nobody appeared to know why her grandmother, Princess Azra, had failed to marry the current King, Tahir, as she had been expected to do. The bald truth was that Azra had run off with Stamboulas Fotakis sooner than marry a man who’d already had three wives. Presumably that story had been suppressed to conserve the monarch’s dignity. Luckily, Stam had told her everything she needed to know about his late wife’s background.

Darkness was falling fast when the limo driver turned off the road and steered between imposingly large gates guarded by soldiers. Zoe strained to see the enormous property that lay ahead but the limo travelled slowly right on past it, threading a path through a vast complex of buildings and finally drawing up beside one. She was ushered out and indoors before she could even catch her breath and was a little disappointed to find herself standing in a contemporary house. A very large contemporary house, she conceded wryly, with aggressively gilded fancy furniture and nothing whatsoever historic about it. A female servant in a long kaftan bowed to her and showed her up a brilliantly lit staircase into an entire suite of rooms.

Her disappointment that she wasn’t going to be living in the ancient royal palace slowly ebbed as she scanned her comfortable and well-furnished surroundings. It wasn’t ideal that none of the staff spoke her language and that she didn’t speak theirs but miming could accomplish a lot, she told herself bracingly as her companion mimicked eating to let her know that a meal was being brought. And long before she went home again, she should have picked up at least a few useful phrases to enable her to communicate more effectively, she told herself soothingly.

A maid had already arrived to unpack her suitcases when a knock sounded on the door. Zoe made it to the door first.

A slimly built young man and a uniformed nurse hovered outside. ‘I am Dr Wazd,’ the man told her stiffly. ‘I have been instructed to give you a vaccination shot. The nurse will assist.’

Zoe winced because she hated needles and she was surprised because she had had all the required shots for Maraban. But then what she did know that a medical doctor would not know better? She rolled up her sleeve and then frowned as she saw the doctor’s hand on the syringe was shaking. Glancing up at him in surprise, noting the perspiration beading his brow, she wondered if he was a very newly qualified doctor to be so nervous and she was relieved when the nurse silently filched the syringe from him and gave her the injection without further ado. It stung and she gritted her teeth.

No sooner was that done than a tray of food arrived and she sat down at the table to eat, noting that she was feeling dizzy and woolly-headed and surmising that she was already suffering the effects of jet lag. But while she was eating, she began feeling as though the world around her were slowing down and her body felt as heavy as lead. Feeling dizzy even seated, she rose to go to the bathroom and had to grip the back of a chair to balance. As she wobbled on her heels, blinking rapidly, a suffocating blackness folded in and she dropped down into it with a gasp of dismay...

* * *

His Royal Highness, Prince Faraj al-Basara, was in a very high-powered meeting in London dealing with his country’s oil and gas production when his private mobile thrummed a warning in his pocket. Few people had that number and it only ever rang if it was very, very important. Excusing himself immediately, Raj stepped outside, his brain awash with sudden apprehension. Had his father taken ill? Or had some other calamity occurred back home in Maraban?

Maraban was a tiny Gulf state but it was also one of the richest countries in the world. A terrorist incident, however, would bring the home of his birth to a screeching halt because the security forces were equally tiny and these days Maraban relied on wealth and diplomacy to stay safe. When Raj thought nostalgically of home, it was always of a place of stark black and white contrasts where four-wheel-drive vehicles and helicopters startled livestock in the desert and where a conservative Middle Eastern ethos struggled to cope with the very different mores and the sheer speed of change in the modern world.

It was eight years, however, since Raj had last visited his home because his father, the King, had removed him from his position as Crown Prince and sent him into exile for refusing to go into the army and for refusing even more vehemently to marry the bride his parent had chosen for him. No, he had not been a dutiful or obedient son, Raj acknowledged with grim self-honesty, he had been a stubborn, rebellious one and, unfortunately for him, there was no greater sin in his culture.

That said, however, Raj had, since, moved on from that less than stellar beginning to carve his own path in the business world and there his shrewd brain, intuition and ability to spot trends had ensured meteoric success in that sphere. He had also learned how to steer Maraban into the future from beyond its borders, making allies, attracting foreign businesses and investment while constantly encouraging growth in the public infrastructure required to keep his country up to speed with the latest technology. And his reward for that tireless focus and resolve? Maraban, the home that he loved, was positively booming.

He was pleasantly surprised when he answered his phone and recognised his cousin, Omar’s voice. Omar had pretty much been his best friend since the dark days of the military school they had both been forced to attend as adolescents, an unforgettable era of relentless bullying and abuse that Raj still winced to recall. As Crown Prince he had had a target painted on his back and his father had told the staff to turn a blind eye, believing that it would be beneficial for his only child to be toughened up in such a severe environment.

‘Omar...what can I do for you?’ he asked almost cheerfully, relieved of the anxiety that his elderly father had taken ill because Omar would not have been chosen as messenger for that development. That call would only have come from a member of his father’s staff. After all, his mother had died while he was still a boy. The memory made him tense for his mother had died in a manner that he would never forget: she had taken her own life. It had taken a very long time for Raj to accept that her unhappiness had surpassed her love for her nine-year-old son and he had never forgotten his sense of abandonment because, once she was gone, everything soft and loving and caring had vanished from his childish world.

‘I’m in a real fix, Raj, and I think you are the only person with sufficient knowledge to approach with this,’ Omar declared, his habitually upbeat voice unusually flat in tone. ‘I’ve been dragged into something I don’t want to be involved in and it’s serious. You know I’m a royalist and very loyal to my country but there are some things I can’t—’

‘Cut to the chase,’ Raj sliced in with a bemused frown. ‘What have you been dragged into?’

‘Early this morning I received a call from someone at the palace who asked if I would look after a “package” and keep it safe until further notice. And that’s the problem, Raj... I didn’t get delivered a package, I got a woman.’

‘A woman?’ Raj repeated in disbelief. ‘Are you joking me?’

‘I wish I was. All the women in the tribe are outraged and I’ve been thrown out of my tent to accommodate her,’ Omar lamented. ‘My wife thinks I’m getting involved in sex trafficking.’

‘It could not be that,’ Raj pronounced with assurance because the penalty for such a crime was death and his father was most assiduous in ensuring that neither drugs nor prostitution gained ground in Maraban.

‘No, of course it couldn’t be,’ Omar agreed. ‘But even though the order came from the very highest level of the palace I should not be asked by anyone to imprison a woman against her will.’

‘How do you know the order came from the very highest level?’ Raj demanded.

His cousin mentioned a name and Raj gritted his teeth. Bahadur Abdi was the most trusted military adviser in his father’s inner circle and could only be acting at the King’s command. That shocking truth shed an entirely different light on the kidnapping because it meant that Raj’s father was personally involved. ‘Who the hell is this woman?’

‘You’re not going to like the suspicion I’m developing any more than I do,’ his cousin warned him heavily. ‘But I contacted the palace as soon as I appreciated I was being asked to deal with a live package and I was told that she was the last descendant of the al-Mishaal family, which was a shock. Thought they were all dead and buried long ago! Were you even aware that my father divorced my mother two months ago?’

Raj was shocked enough by both those revelations to listen keenly as Omar described his mother’s refusal to discuss the divorce and the oddity of her continuing calm over the termination of a marriage that had lasted almost fifty years and had spawned four children and at least a dozen grandchildren. Prince Hakem, Raj’s uncle and Omar’s father, however, was an embittered and ambitious man, who ever since Raj’s exile had been striving to become the recognised heir to the throne in Raj’s place. Ironically, Raj didn’t even really feel that he could blame his uncle for his ambition because, as the King’s younger brother, Hakem had spent his whole life close to the throne but virtually ignored and powerless, his royal brother refusing to grant him any form of responsibility in the kingdom. Furthermore, only the King could name his heir and Hakem had long desired a role of power and the rise in status it would accord him.

‘So, what’s the connection with this woman?’

Omar shared his suspicions and Raj paled and experienced a spontaneous surge of rage at such a manipulative plot being played out in virtual secret behind the palace walls. ‘Surely that is not possible?’

‘It may not be. I must admit that the woman doesn’t look remotely as if she carries Marabanian blood. She’s got white-blonde hair...looks like something out of that fairy tale... The Sleeping Beauty,’ Omar revealed heavily.

Raj parted compressed lips. ‘Princess Azra of Bania was the daughter of a Danish explorer, who was blond,’ he murmured flatly. ‘I don’t know much about Azra’s elopement with her Greek tycoon, who was working in Maraban when the two countries joined, but I do know her flight with another man created a huge scandal. She was supposed to become my father’s fourth wife and instead, she ran off with Fotakis and married him.’

‘Didn’t know that...but then it’s not really my slice of history in the same way as it’s yours.’ Omar sighed heavily. ‘Just give me some diplomatic advice about what to do next because I’m at a standstill. This woman has obviously been kidnapped. Our doctor says she’s been drugged, so she’s unconscious and she arrived with no means of identification. But even if she is one of the al-Mishaal family’s next generation from that marriage all those years ago I still can’t believe that any young woman would agree to marry a man as old as my father—’

‘It would shock you what some Western women would be willing to do to become an Arabian princess with unlimited wealth at their disposal. Suggest that a crown could also be on offer and there would be many takers of that particular bargain,’ Raj breathed with cynical derision, his lean, darkly handsome features clenching hard as he reflected on his own experiences and the shattering betrayal he had endured...and worst of all, only after he had destroyed his standing with his father for ever. Even years after that youthful disillusionment, he was grimly aware of the pulling power of his status and wealth in the West. In his radius even seemingly intelligent women frothed and gushed like champagne, desperate to attract and bed him. Sadly for them, he didn’t find being chased, flattered or potentially seduced remotely attractive because he preferred to do his own hunting in that field. And, almost inevitably, that shattering act of infidelity following on from his mother’s suicide had underlined his growing conviction that women were not to be trusted.

‘Possibly not...shocked,’ Omar clarified as tactfully as he knew how because he too was probably thinking about that old and demeaning history that still scarred Raj’s pride. ‘But I can tell you that if that is my father’s game, very few of our people would like or accept such a marriage. My father is unpopular: he’s as old school as your father. I don’t know anyone who would be willing to accept him as the heir in place of you, no, not even if he has somehow contrived to bring back the ghost of the al-Mishaal royal family as a potential bride!’

Raj had been away from palace politics for a very long time but he had not forgotten the scheming games of one-upmanship involved. In the role of Hakem’s bride, Princess Azra’s granddaughter would be a priceless figurehead, Raj acknowledged grimly. Half the population of Maraban came from Banian roots and all had been seriously dissatisfied forty-odd years ago when the joining of the two states was not matched as had been promised by a marital alliance between Bania’s only Princess and Mara’s King. All those people had felt cheated by the absence of Banian blood in the royal family tree of Maraban. It would be a triumph for his uncle to marry Azra’s descendant and it definitely would increase his popularity, which was precisely why Raj’s father would never have allowed such a marriage to take place: King Tahir did not tolerate competition or, for that matter, a little brother he deemed to be getting too big for his boots. After such a publicity-grabbing stunt, Hakem could only have been hoping to be named the King’s heir and step into Raj’s former position as Crown Prince in his nephew’s stead.

Omar broke into Raj’s racing thoughts. ‘Tell me, what am I to do with her?’ he demanded, infuriated that an innocent woman had been kidnapped to prevent a marriage he believed to be wholly inappropriate. ‘How do I safely and decently rid myself of this appalling responsibility? ‘