The Sultan's Choice

‘I won’t be kept in the castle like some bird in a cage.’

With an air of desperation tinging her voice, she said, ‘You can’t stop me from doing what I want.’

Sadiq looked down at the woman in front of him. The adrenalin was finally diminishing and being replaced by something hot and far more dangerous.

Giving in to the twisted inarticulate desires this woman roused inside him, he said throatily as he reached for her, ‘I have no intention of stopping you doing anything once you’re safe. But I can stop you driving me crazy.’

‘What do you—?’ Samia didn’t get anything else out in time. Sadiq had pulled her into his tall, hard body with two hands and everything was blocked out when his head descended and his mouth unerringly found hers.

ABBY GREEN got hooked on Mills & Boon® romances while still in her teens, when she stumbled across one belonging to her grandmother in the west of Ireland. After many years of reading them voraciously, she sat down one day and gave it a go herself. Happily, after a few failed attempts, Mills & Boon bought her first manuscript.

Abby works freelance in the film and TV industry, but thankfully the four a.m. starts and the stresses of dealing with recalcitrant actors are becoming more and more infrequent, leaving her more time to write!

She loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her through her website at www.abby-green.com She lives and works in Dublin.

Recent titles by the same author:

SECRETS OF THE OASIS

THE RESTLESS BILLIONAIRE*

*Bad Blood

The Sultan’s

Choice

Abby Green

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This is for Ann K. Thank you for everything.

CHAPTER ONE

‘I’M not marrying her for her looks, Adil. I’m marrying her for the myriad reasons she will make a good Queen of Al-Omar. If I’d wanted nothing but looks I could have married my last mistress. The last thing I need is the distraction of a beautiful woman.’

Princess Samia Binte Rashad al Abbas sat rigid with shock outside the Sultan of Al-Omar’s private office in his London home. He hadn’t been informed that she was there yet as he’d been on this call. His secretary, who had left momentarily, had inadvertently left his door slightly ajar—subjecting Samia to the deep rumble of the Sultan’s voice and his even more cataclysmic words.

The drawling voice came again, tinged with something deeply cynical. ‘That she may well appear, but certain people have always speculated that when the time came to take my bride I’d choose conservatively, and I’d hate to let the bookies down.’

Samia’s cheeks burned. She could well imagine what the voice on the other end of the phone had said, something to the effect of her being boring.

Even if she hadn’t heard this explicit conversation Samia already knew what the Sultan of Al-Omar planned to discuss with her. He wanted her hand in marriage. She hadn’t slept a wink and had come here today half hoping that it would all be a terrible mistake. To hear him lay out in such bald terms that he was clearly in favour of this plan was shocking. And not only that but he evidently considered it to be a done deal!

She’d only met him once before, about eight years previously, when she’d gone to one of his legendary annual birthday parties in B’harani, the capital of Al-Omar, with her brother. Kaden had taken her before she’d gone on to England to finish her studies, in a bid to try and help her overcome her chronic shyness. Samia had been at that awfully awkward age where her limbs had had a mind of their own, her hair had been a ball of frizz and she’d still been wearing the thick bifocals that had plagued her life since she was small.

After an excruciatingly embarrassing moment in which she’d knocked over a small antique table laden with drinks, and the crowd of glittering and beautiful people had turned to look at her, she’d fled for sanctuary, finding it in a dimly lit room which had turned out to be a library.

Samia ruthlessly clamped down on that even more disturbing memory just as the Sultan’s voice rose to an audible level again.

‘Adil, I appreciate that as my lawyer you want to ensure I’m making the right choice, but I can assure you that she ticks all the boxes—I’m not so shallow that I can’t make a marriage like this work. The stability and reputation of my country comes first, and I need a wife who will enhance that.’

Mortification twisted Samia’s insides. He was referring to the fact that she was a world apart from his usual women. She didn’t need to overhear this conversation to know that. Samia didn’t want to marry this man, and she certainly wasn’t going to sit there and wait for humiliation to walk up and slap her in the face.

Sultan Sadiq Ibn Kamal Hussein put down the phone, every muscle tensed. Claustrophobia and an unwelcome sense of powerlessness drove him up out of his leather chair and to the window, where he looked out onto a busy square right in the exclusive heart of London.

Delaying the moment of inevitability a little longer, Sadiq swung back to his desk where a sheaf of photos was laid out. Princess Samia of Burquat. She was from a small independent emirate which lay on his northern borders, on the Persian Gulf. She had three younger half-sisters, and her older brother had become the ruling Emir on the death of their father some twelve years before.

Sadiq frowned minutely. He too had been crowned young, so he knew what the yoke of responsibility was like. How heavy it could be. Even so, he wasn’t such a fool to consider that he and the Emir could be friends, just like that. But if the Princess agreed to this marriage—and why wouldn’t she?—then they would be brothers—in-law.

He sighed. The photos showed indistinct images of an average sized and slim-looking woman. She’d lost the puppy fat he vaguely remembered from when he’d met her at one of his parties. None of the pictures had captured her fully. The best ones were from last summer, when she’d returned from a sailing trip with two friends. But even in the press photos she was sandwiched between two other much prettier, taller girls, and a baseball cap was all but hiding her from view.

The most important consideration here was that none of the photos came from the tabloids. Princess Samia was not part of the Royal Arabian party set. She was discreet, and had carved out a quiet, respectable career as an archivist in London’s National Library after completing her degree. For that reason, and many others, she was perfect. He didn’t want a wife who would bring with her a dubious past life, or any whiff of scandal. He’d courted enough press attention himself over who he was dating or not dating. And to that end he’d had Samia thoroughly investigated, making sure there were no skeletons lurking in any closet.

His marriage would not be like his parents’. It would not be driven by mad, jealous rage and resemble a battlefield. He would not sink the country into a vortex of chaos as his father had done, because he’d been too distracted by a wife who’d resented every moment of being married to a man she didn’t want to be married to. His father had famously pursued his mother, and it was common knowledge that in his obsession to have the renowned beauty reputed to be in love with another he’d paid her family a phenomenal dowry for her. His mother’s constant sadness had driven Sadiq far away for most of his life.

He needed a quiet, stable wife who would complement him, give him heirs, and let him concentrate on running his country. And, above all, a wife who wouldn’t engage his emotions. And from what he’d seen of Princess Samia she would be absolutely perfect.

With a sense of fatalism in his bones he swept all the photos into a pile and put them under a folder. He had no choice but to go forward. His best friends—the ruling Sheikh and his brother from a small independent sheikhdom within his borders—had recently settled down, and if he remained single for much longer he would begin to look directionless and unstable.

He couldn’t avoid his destiny. It was time to meet his future wife. He buzzed his secretary. ‘Noor, you can send Princess Samia in.’

There was no immediate answer, and a dart of irritation went through Sadiq. He was used to being obeyed the instant he made a request. Stifling that irritation because he knew it stemmed from something much deeper—the prospect of the demise of his freedom—he strode towards his door. The Princess should be here by now, and he couldn’t avoid the inevitable any longer.

CHAPTER TWO

SAMIA’S hand was on the doorknob when she heard movement behind her and a voice.

‘You’re leaving so soon?’

It was low and deep, with the merest hint of a seductive accent, and she cursed herself for not leaving a split second earlier. But she’d dithered, her innately good manners telling her that she couldn’t just walk out on the Sultan. And now it was too late.

Her back was stiff with tension as she slowly turned around, steeling herself against the inevitable impact of seeing one of the most celebrated bachelors in the world up close. She worked among dusty books and artefacts! She couldn’t be more removed from the kind of life he led. There was no way he would want to marry her once he’d met her.

Every coherent thought fled her mind, though, when her eyes came to rest on the man standing just feet away. He filled the doorway to his office with his tall, broad-shouldered physique. His complexion was as dark as any man from the desert, but he had the most unusual blue eyes, piercing and seemingly boring right through Samia. Dressed in a dark suit which hugged his frame, he was six feet four of lean muscle—beautiful enough to take anyone’s breath away. This was a man in his virile prime, ruler of a country of unimaginable wealth. Samia felt slightly light-headed for a moment.

He stood back and gestured with a hand into his office. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Please, won’t you come in?’

Samia had no choice but to make her feet move in that direction. Her heart beat crazily as she passed him in the wide doorway and an evocative and intensely masculine scent teased her nostrils. She made straight for a chair positioned by the huge desk and turned around to see the Sultan pull the door shut behind him, eyes unnervingly intent on her.

He strolled into the room and barely leashed energy vibrated from every molecule of the man. Sensual elegance became something much more earthy and sexual as he came closer to Samia, and a disturbing heat coiled low in her belly.

His visage was stern at first, but then a wickedly sexy smile tugged at his mouth, sending her pulse haywire. Her thoughts scrambled.

‘Was it something I said?’

Samia looked at him blankly.

‘You were about to leave?’ he elaborated.

Samia coloured hotly. ‘No … of course not.’ Liar. She went even hotter. ‘I’m sorry … I just …’

She hated to admit it but he intimidated her. She might live a quiet existence and dislike drawing attention to herself—it was a safe persona she’d adopted—but she wasn’t a complete shadow. Yet here she seemed to be turning into one.

Sadiq dismissed her stumbling words with one hand. He took pity on her obvious discomfort, but he was still reacting to the jolt running through him at hearing her voice. It was low and husky, and completely at odds with her rather mousy appearance. As mousy as the photos had predicted, he decided with a quick look up and down. In that trouser suit and a buttoned up shirt which did nothing for her figure, it was imposible to make out if she had a figure.

And yet … Sadiq’s keen male intuition warned him not to make too hasty a judgement—just as a disconcerting tingle of awareness skittered across his spine. He stuck his hands into his pockets.

Samia could feel her cheeks heat up, and had a compelling desire to look down and see where his trousers would be pulled tight across his crotch. But she resolutely kept looking upwards. She tried to do the exercise she’d been taught to deal with her blushing—which was to consciously try to blush, and in doing so negate the reflexive action. But it was futile. The dreaded heat rose anyway, and worse than usual.

He just looked at her. Samia valiantly ignored the heat suffusing her face, knowing well that she’d be bright pink by now, and hitched up her chin. She nearly died a small death when he broke the tension and put out a hand.

‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’

This was it—just what she’d been dreading. And it got worse when he continued.

‘I knew I remembered meeting you, but couldn’t place where it was. And then it came to me …’

Her heart stopped beating. She begged silently that it wouldn’t be that awful moment which was engraved on her memory.

‘You had an unfortunate tussle with a table full of drinks at one of my parties.’

Samia was so ridiculously relieved that he didn’t seem to remember the library that she reached out to clasp his hand, her own much smaller one becoming engulfed by long fingers. His touch was strong and warm and unsettling, and she had to consciously stop herself from ripping her hand out of his as if he’d stung her.

‘Yes, I’m afraid that was me. I was a clumsy teenager.’ Why did she sound breathless?

While still holding her hand, he was looking into her eyes and saying musingly, ‘I didn’t realise you had blue eyes too. Didn’t you wear glasses before?’

‘I had laser surgery a year ago.’

‘Your colouring must come from your English mother?’

His voice was as darkly gorgeous as him. Samia nodded her head to try and shake some articulacy into her brain. ‘She was half English, half Arabic. She died in childbirth with me. My stepmother brought me up.’

The Sultan nodded briefly and finally let Samia’s hand go. ‘She died five years ago?’

Samia nodded and tucked her hand behind her back. She found a chair behind her to cling on to. Her eyes darted away from that intense blue gaze as if he might see the bitterness that crept up whenever she was reminded of her stepmother. The woman had been a tyrant, because she’d always known she came a far distant second to the Emir’s beloved first wife.

Samia looked back to the Sultan and her heart lurched. He was too good-looking. She felt drab and colourless next to him. How on earth could he possibly think for a second that she could be his queen? And then she remembered what he’d said about wanting a conservative wife and felt panicked again.

He indicated the chair she was all but clutching like a life raft. ‘Please, won’t you sit down? What would you like? Tea or coffee?’

Samia quelled an uncharacteristic impulse to ask for something much stronger. Like whisky. ‘Coffee. Please.’

Sadiq moved towards his own chair on the other side of the desk and thankfully just then his secretary appeared with a tray of refreshments. Once she’d left, he tried not to notice the way the Princess’s hand shook as she poured milk into her coffee. The girl was a blushing, quivering wreck, but she looked at him with a hint of defiance that he found curiously stirring. It was an intriguing mix when he was used to the brash confidence of the women he usually met.

He almost felt sorry for her as she handled the dainty cup. Miraculously it survived the journey from saucer to her mouth. She was avoiding his pointed look, so his gaze roamed freely over her and he had to concede with another little jolt of sensation that she wasn’t really that mousy at all. Her hair was strawberry-blond, with russet highlights glinting in the late-afternoon sun slanting in through the huge windows. It was tied back in a French plait which had come to rest over one shoulder. Unruly curls had escaped to frame her face, which was heart-shaped.

She looked about eighteen, even though he knew she was twenty-five. And she was pale enough to have precipitated his question about her colouring. He’d forgotten that interesting nugget about her heritage.

It surprised him how clearly that memory of her knocking over the table had come back to him. He’d felt sorry for her at the time; she’d been mortified, standing there with her face beetroot red, throat working convulsively. Another memory hovered tantalisingly on the edges of his mind but he couldn’t pin it down.

Absurdly long lashes hid her eyes. He had to admit with a flicker of something that she wasn’t what he’d expected at all. Obeying some rogue urge to force her to look at him, so that he could inspect those aquamarine depths more closely, he drawled, ‘So, Princess Samia, are you going to tell me why you were about to leave?’

Samia’s eyes snapped up to clash with the Sultan’s steady gaze. She couldn’t get any hotter, and had to restrain herself from opening the top button of her shirt to feel some cool air on her skin. He was looking at her as if she were a specimen on a laboratory table. It couldn’t be more obvious that she left him entirely cold, and that thought sent a dart of emotion through her.

‘Sultan—’ she began, and stopped when he put up a hand.

‘It’s Sadiq. I insist.’

The steely set of his face sent a quiver through her. ‘Very well. Sadiq.’ She took a deep breath. ‘The truth is that I don’t want to marry you.’

She saw the way his jaw tensed and his eyes flashed. ‘I think it’s usually customary to be asked for your hand in marriage before you refuse it.’

Samia’s hands clenched tight on her lap. ‘And I think it’s customary to ask for the person’s hand in marriage before assuming it’s given.’

His eyes flashed dangerously and he settled back in the chair. Conversely it made Samia feel more threatened.

‘I take it that you overheard some of my phone conversation?’

Samia blushed again, and gave up any hope of controlling it. ‘I couldn’t help it,’ she muttered. ‘The door was partially open.’

Sadiq sat forward and said brusquely, ‘Well, I apologise. It wasn’t meant for your ears.’

Giving in to inner panic, Samia stood up abruptly and moved behind the chair. ‘Why not? After all, you were discussing the merits of this match, so why not discuss them here and now with me? Let’s establish if I am conservative enough for you, or plain enough.’

A dull flush of colour across the Sultan’s cheeks was the only sign that she’d got to him when she said that. Otherwise he looked unmoved by her display of agitation, and Samia cursed herself. Her hands balled on the back of the chair. He just sat back and regarded her from under heavy lids.

‘You can be under no illusion, whether you heard that conversation or not, that any marriage between us will be based purely on practicality along with a whole host of other considerations.’

When she spoke, the bitterness in Samia’s voice surprised her. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’ve no illusions at all.’

‘This union will benefit both our countries.’

Suddenly a speculative gleam lit his eyes and he sat forward, elbows on the desk. Samia wanted to back away.

‘I’d find it hard to believe that someone from our part of the world and culture of arranged marriages could possibly be holding out for a love match?’

He said this sneeringly, as if such a thing was pure folly. Feeling sick, Samia just shook her head. ‘No. Of course not.’ A love match was the last thing she would ever have expected or wanted. She had seen how love had devastated her father after losing her mother. She’d had to endure the silent grief in his gaze every time he’d looked at her, because she’d been the cause of her mother’s death.

She’d seen how the ripples of that had affected everything—making his next wife bitter. Love had even wreaked its havoc on her beloved brother too, turning him hard as a rock and deeply cynical. She’d vowed long ago never to allow such a potentially destructive force anywhere near her.

The Sultan sat back again, seemingly pleased with her answer. He spread his hands wide. ‘Well, then, what can you possibly have against this marriage?’

Everything! Exposure! Ridicule! Samia’s hands were tightly clasped in front of her. ‘I just … never saw it in my future.’ She’d thought she’d faded enough into the background to avoid this kind of attention.

And then, as if he’d taken the words out of her brother’s own mouth, Sultan Sadiq said with a frown, ‘But as the eldest sister of the Emir of Burquat, how on earth did you think you would avoid a strategic match? You’ve done well to survive this far without being married off.’

Purely feminist chagrin at his unashamedly masculine statement was diminished when guilt lanced Samia. Her brother could have suggested any number of suitors before now, but hadn’t. She’d always been aware that Kaden might one day ask her to make a strategic match, though, and this one had obviously been irresistible. This one came with economic ties that would help catapult Burquat into the twenty-first century and bring with it badly needed economic stability and development.

As much as she hated to admit it, they did come from a part of the world that had a much more pragmatic approach to marriage than the west. It was rare and unusual for a ruler to marry for something as frivolous as love. Marriages had to be made on the bedrock of familial ties, strategic alliances and political logic. Especially royal marriages.

If anything, this practical approach which eschewed love should appeal to her. She wasn’t in any danger of falling for someone like Sadiq, and he certainly wouldn’t be falling for her. She was almost certainly guaranteed a different kind of marriage from the one she’d witnessed growing up. Their children wouldn’t be bullied and belittled out of jealous spite.

Sultan Sadiq stood up, and panic gripped Samia again. She moved back skittishly and cursed this mouse of a person she’d become in his presence. She ruled over thirty employees at the library, and was used to standing up to her brother, who was a man cut from the same dominant cloth as the Sultan, but mere minutes in this man’s presence and she was jelly.

He prowled around the room, as if he couldn’t sit still for longer than a second, and Samia recalled that he had a well known and insatiable love of extreme sports. He’d been the youngest ever sailor to take part in the prestigious Vendée Globe race. As a keen sailor herself, she was in awe of that achievement.

In the tradition of men of his lineage he’d studied in both the UK and the US, and had trained at the exclusive royal military academy at Sandhurst. He had a fleet of helicopters and planes that he regularly flew himself. All in all he was a formidable man. Along with that came the notorious reputation of being one of the world’s most ruthless playboys, picking up and discarding the most beautiful women in the world like accessories.

And every year—not that she needed to be reminded—he hosted the biggest, most lavish birthday party and raised an obscene amount of money for charity. For years after that humiliating incident at his party, she’d been scornful of the excess he presided over. But she’d seen the evidence of how much bona fide charity work he did when time after time he was lauded for his fundraising. And how did she know all this? Hours spent researching him on the internet last night, much to her shame.

He stopped pacing and quirked an ebony brow. ‘Are you going to insist on refusing my offer of marriage and force me to look elsewhere for a wife?’