The Sheikh's Heir

‘Maybe you decided your night with me was so hot that you wanted a repeat of it. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.’

‘I try never to make the same mistake twice, Hassan. Any other suggestions?’

Dark clouds drifted into his mind. ‘Or our ill-judged liaison has left us with something other than regrets.’

She stared at him, because didn’t his words make what she was about to tell him even more difficult? ‘That’s the most cold-hearted description I’ve ever heard,’ she whispered.

Her lack of denial unsettled him but Hassan kept his nerve. ‘That’s because I am a cold-hearted man, Ella. Be in no doubt of that. And I haven’t come here to play guessing games. What is it that you want to say to me?’

‘That you’re right!’ She swallowed as she forced out the bitter truth. She looked into the narrowed black eyes and spoke in a low voice. ‘I’m having a baby, Hassan.’

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia to escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

The Sheikh’s Heir

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Max Campbell, for ensuring that my iPhone

plays more than one Beatles song.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

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

Copyright

WOULD this damned party never end?

In the softly lit anteroom of his friend’s palace, Sheikh Hassan Al Abbas let out an irritated breath and turned to the man standing a few deferential paces away from him.

‘Do you think there’s any chance I could just slip away and leave them to get on with it, Benedict?’ he demanded, knowing only too well how his loyal English aide would respond.

There was a pause. ‘Your absence would almost certainly be noticed, Your Highness,’ answered Benedict carefully. ‘Since you are one of the most esteemed guests present. And furthermore it would offend your oldest friend if he knew that you could not be bothered to stay to wish him happiness on the night of his engagement.’

Hassan’s fists clenched against the unaccustomed lounge suit which clothed his hard body, hating the strictures of collar and tie. He wished he was wearing soft and silken robes against his naked skin. That he was galloping free on his horse, with the warm desert wind blowing against his face. ‘And what if I believed deep in my heart that such a wish would not only be futile but hypocritical?’ he iced back. ‘That I think Alex is about to make the biggest mistake of his life?’

‘It is often difficult for two men to see eye to eye when it comes to the subject of women,’ answered Benedict diplomatically. ‘Particularly regarding the subject of marriage.’

‘It’s not just his choice of fiancée I don’t agree with!’ Hassan said, unable to contain the frustration which had been growing inside him since his oldest friend, Prince Alessandro Santina, had announced that he was to marry Allegra Jackson. ‘Though that is bad enough. Even worse is that he has abandoned the woman to whom he has been betrothed since he was born! A woman of noble birth, who would make a far more suitable bride.’

‘Perhaps his love is too strong to be—’

‘Love?’ interrupted Hassan, and now he could feel the bitter lump which had risen in his throat like a ball of nails. A brief yet undeniable pain clenched at his heart. For didn’t he know better than anyone that ‘love’ was nothing but an illusion which could wreck lives with its seductive power?

‘Love is nothing more than a fancy name for lust,’ he bit out. ‘And a ruler cannot allow himself to be guided by the stir of his loins or the beat of his heart. He must put duty before desire.’

‘Yes, Highness,’ said Benedict obediently.

Hassan shook his head in disbelief, still unwilling to accept that his high-born friend had let his standards dip so low. ‘Did you realise that Alex’s future father-in-law is some grubby ex-footballer with a long list of wives and mistresses he has been publicly unfaithful to?’

‘I had heard something along those lines, Highness.’

‘I cannot believe that he is willing to marry into such a disreputable family as these Jacksons! Did you see the way they were behaving at the ball? It turned my stomach to watch them quaffing champagne as if it was water and making fools of themselves on the dance floor.’

‘Highness—’

‘This woman Allegra cannot possibly become the wife of a Crown Prince!’ Angrily, Hassan slammed the flat of his hand against an adjacent table and its delicate frame juddered beneath the contemptuous force. ‘She is a tramp—just like her mother and her sisters! Did you witness the spectacle which brought me seeking refuge in here, when the sister with the voice of a crow stormed the stage and attempted to sing?’

‘Yes, Highness, I saw her,’ said Benedict softly. ‘But the Crown Prince has made up his mind that he will marry Miss Jackson, and I doubt whether even you will be able to change it. And should you not now return to the ballroom before your absence is commented upon?’

But Hassan was not listening—at least, not to his aide. He raised a hand for silence, his ears straining for the whispering of a sound. His body tensed. Had he heard something? Someone? Or had the recent harsh months spent in battle meant that he suspected danger lurking everywhere? Yet he could have sworn that the room had been empty when he’d come searching for an escape.

‘Did you hear something?’ he questioned as he felt the instinctive pricking of his skin.

‘No, Highness. I heard nothing.’

There was a brief silence before Hassan nodded, feeling some of the tension ease from his body as he allowed himself to be reassured by his aide. This might be the worst party in living memory, but at least security was tight. ‘Then let us return to this mockery of a reception. Let me see whether I can find anyone tolerably attractive enough to dance with.’ He gave a sardonic laugh. ‘A woman who is the very antithesis of Allegra Jackson and her vulgar family!’

With this, the two men swept from the softly lit room, while from her hiding place behind a carved chest in a corner of the vast chamber, Ella Jackson wished that she could open her mouth and scream with rage and frustration.

How dare he?

Waiting for a few moments to check that he really had gone, she stretched limbs which were cramped from sitting still for so long. Greedily, she sucked great gulps of air into her lungs because she’d had to keep holding her breath in case she was discovered. For a moment back then, she’d been sure he was going to find her. And something told her that she was lucky not to have been discovered by that arrogant beast of a man who had been so insulting—not just to Allegra and Izzy, but to the entire Jackson family.

The other man had called him ‘Highness’—and judging from the way he’d been calling all the shots, he had certainly sounded royal. His voice had been deep and faintly accented—not the kind of voice you heard every day. It had also sounded bossy and proud. Could that have been the powerful sheikh everyone had been banging on about? The groom-to-be’s oldest friend, who had been expected at tonight’s party and anticipated with the same kind of breathless excitement which might have greeted a movie star?

Uncomfortably, Ella rose to her feet. The beads of her elaborate dress were pressing painfully into her skin and her wild tangle of curls was desperately in need of a session with the hairbrush. She would have to do something drastic to repair her appearance before she thought about returning to the general scrum which was her sister Allegra’s engagement party to the Crown Prince of the Santina royal family. Even though she would have happily given a month’s salary not to have gone back into that ballroom.

Wasn’t it ironic that she had slipped away from the party for precisely the same reason as the sheikh? The moment her sister Izzy had staggered onto the stage to sing, Ella’s heart had hit her boots and she’d wanted to curl up and die. She loved Izzy. She did—but why did she have such a penchant for making a complete fool of herself? Why sing in public when you had absolutely zero talent?

Ella had slunk into this darkened anteroom and instinct had made her crouch down behind the concealing bulk of the chest when she’d heard the sound of approaching footsteps. There had been the sound of the door quietly clicking shut and then someone uttering a short, terse expletive. And that’s when she had heard the damning words of the accented man as he had torn her family to shreds.

Yet hadn’t he only been speaking the truth? Her father did have a long list of women he’d been intimate with. He had two ex-wives at the last count, and one of those he’d married twice. Plus all the mistresses on the side—some of whom were reported in the newspapers and some whom he’d managed to hush up.

Hadn’t her own mother’s life been blighted by her hopeless longing for a man who seemed to be incapable of any kind of fidelity? Her sweet, foolish mother, who’d never been able to see any fault in her errant husband, which was why she had been his bride twice over. And why she let him treat her like a complete doormat.

If ever Ella had needed to know how not to conduct a relationship, she’d never needed to look any further than the example set by her own parents. And hadn’t she vowed that she would never, ever let a man make a fool of her like that?

She reached down and picked up her handbag, extracting the wide-toothed comb which was the only implement which could ever come close to taming her soft but wayward curls. Dare she risk putting a brighter light on in here?

Why not? The outrageously opinionated sheikh didn’t sound as if he was in any danger of coming back. He was probably subjecting some ‘tolerably attractive’ woman to a dance. Poor her, Ella thought with a genuine trace of sympathy. Imagine dancing with someone who had an ego as big as his—why there would be barely any room left on the dance floor!

She clicked on a light which illuminated the regal splendour of the vast antechamber and hunted around until she found a mirror recessed in one of the alcoves. Stepping back, she surveyed herself with critical eyes.

Her silver-beaded dress was a little on the short side but it was extremely fashionable—and such a look was essential in Ella’s line of work. Her rather flashy clients expected her to reflect their values, to make a statement and not fade quietly into the background. As a party planner catering to the nouveau-riche end of the market, Ella had decided to cash in on her family’s notoriety by working for the kind of people who had plenty of money, but very little in the way of generally accepted ‘taste.’

She’d quickly learnt the rules. But then, she was a quick learner—it came with the territory of being a survivor, of having lived with scandal and notoriety for most of her life. If a glamour-model bride wanted to arrive at her wedding in a dazzling diamante coach, she expected the woman organising the event to dazzle in a similar way. So dazzle Ella did. She’d got that down to a fine art. With her trademark slash of scarlet lipstick accentuating her wide mouth, she wore the on-trend clothes which so impressed her clients. She turned heads when she needed to.

But all that was for show. She kept the real Ella locked away where no one could find her. Or hurt her. Underneath the dazzling exterior, when she was dressed down and chilled out at home, it was a different story. There she could be the person her family had always teased her for being. Bare of makeup, wearing old jeans and a T-shirt—sometimes with paint underneath her fingernails. She wished she was there right now, instead of having to endure the longest evening of her life. A night she would never have believed could happen.

A member of her family was marrying into one of the Mediterranean’s oldest and most revered royal families—and the knives were out. Hadn’t she just heard for herself, via the arrogant sheikh, how the entire Jackson clan were being judged and found wanting? Weren’t the sly eyes of various members of the press watching every move they made, to report with glee how ill-equipped the Jacksons were to mix with the aristocracy?

Well, Ella would show them. She would show them all. Their cruel comments wouldn’t get to her because she wouldn’t let them. She bit her lip, for once feeling vulnerable about the charges which were always levelled at her and her siblings. She worked hard for her living—she always had done—and yet her Jackson surname made people pigeonhole her. They thought she just lay around all day, drinking champagne and generally whooping it up, and yet nothing could be further from the truth.

Raking the comb through her red-brown curls, she checked for any stray smudges of mascara and then applied a final, defiant coat of scarlet lipstick.

There.

Her dangling earrings were swaying in a sparkling cascade and even her blue eyeshadow had bits of glitter in it. Her shiny armour was firmly in place and she was ready to face the braying masses. Let anyone dare try to patronise her!

The sound of music and chatter grew louder as she clattered along the marble corridor in her new shoes. In glossy black patent, with towering silver heels which were wonderfully flattering to the legs, they were a fashionista’s dream and an orthopaedic surgeon’s nightmare. But they made her walk tall and stand straight and tonight she needed that more than anything.

The ballroom was crowded and noisy and Ella’s eyes skimmed the dance floor. The place was packed. Royals mingled with minor television stars, and one-time Premier League footballers who’d worked with her dad were propping up the bar. She could see various members of her family partying away with enthusiasm. Rather too much enthusiasm. Her father was downing a flute of champagne, her mother hovering nearby with an ever-hopeful smile on her face. Which meant that she was worried he was going to get drunk. Or make a pass at someone young enough to be his daughter.

Please don’t let him get drunk, thought Ella. And please don’t let him make a pass at someone else’s girlfriend. Or wife.

There was her sister Izzy dancing, grinding her hips in a way which made Ella turn away with embarrassment. Knowing there was no point in trying to reason with her wayward sibling, she redirected her gaze to the dance floor. Her heart suddenly beginning to pound as her eyes came to rest on a man whose exotic looks marked him out from everyone else.

She blinked. In a room which wasn’t exactly short on the glamour quotient, he drew the eye irresistibly. And yet he looked totally out of place among the glittering throng and she couldn’t quite work out why. It wasn’t just that he was taller than any other man there or that his muscular body was all hard, honed muscle. He looked hungry. Like he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in months. Ella’s gaze roved over his face. A cruel face, she thought with a sudden shiver. His black eyes seemed devoid of emotion and his sensual mouth was curved into a cynical smile as he listened to his blonde dance partner as she lifted her chin to chatter to him.

Ella’s heart missed a beat. It was him. Instinct told her so. The man who had been so unspeakably rude about her family when she’d been hiding in the anteroom. The man she had silently cursed as being arrogant and judgemental. And yet now that she’d seen him, she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from him.

His olive skin gleamed, as if he’d been cast from some precious metal, instead of flesh and blood. She watched as a beautiful redhead brushed past him, saw the way he automatically glanced at her bursting décolletage without missing a beat.

He was danger and sexuality mixed into one potent masculine cocktail—the kind of man most people’s mothers would warn you to steer clear of. Ella felt a debilitating kick in her belly, as something deep inside her responded to him. As if on some instinctive level, she had discovered something she hadn’t even realised she’d been looking for.

He raised his head then and she saw the way he stilled. The way his black eyes narrowed as he moved his gaze around the ballroom until at last it came to alight on her.

Like a hunter, she thought.

Ella felt as if she had been caught in a dark yet blinding spotlight. She could feel herself flush—a slow heat which started at the top of her head and seemed to work its way right down to her toes. Had he known she’d been staring at him? Look away, she urged herself furiously. Look away from him right now. But she couldn’t. It was as if he had cast some powerful spell over her which was making it impossible for her to tear her gaze away.

From across the dance floor, his black eyes grew slightly amused as their overlong eye contact was maintained. A pair of ebony brows were raised at her in arrogant question, and when still she did not move, he bent to whisper something into the blonde’s ear.

Ella was aware of the woman turning and glaring at her and of the man with the black eyes beginning to walk towards her. Run, she urged herself. Get away from here before it’s too late.

But she didn’t run. She couldn’t. It was as if she’d been turned into a tree and was rooted to the spot. Now he was almost upon her, and his physical presence was so overwhelming that she felt the breath dry in her throat. His shadow moved over her as he approached, enveloping her—and suddenly it was as if every other person in the crowded ballroom had ceased to exist.

There was a pause while he let his eyes rove unashamedly over her face and then her body, just as he’d done when the big-breasted redhead had passed him by.

‘Have we met somewhere before?’ he questioned.

Ella didn’t have to hear his deep, accented voice to know that she had been right. It was him. The opinionated man who’d been so rude about her family. She’d already decided that he was proud and arrogant, but she hadn’t expected this level of charisma. Nor for him to have such an overwhelming effect on her that she could barely think straight. And she needed to think straight. Now was not the time to demonstrate that her tingling body seemed to have taken on a greedy life of its own. All she needed was to remember his unforgettable insults.

‘Not until now,’ she said, injecting a noncommittal note into her voice and hoping it sounded convincing.

Hassan’s eyes flicked over her, interested at the play of emotions on the Madonna-like oval of her face. She had been staring at him as if she’d like to rip his clothes off with her teeth! Not an uncommon reaction from a woman, it was true—and she was pretty enough for him to have given the idea a moment’s consideration. But her initial hungry look had been replaced by one of wariness and suspicion. He felt the faint prickle of hostility emanating from her, and that was novel enough to arouse his interest.

‘Are you sure about that?’ he murmured.

She thought how incredibly well he spoke English, despite the sexily accented voice. It seemed to whisper over her skin with its velvet caress, and inexplicably she started wondering what it would be like to have that voice murmur sweet nothings in her ear. ‘Positive,’ she replied coolly.

‘Yet you were staring at me as if you knew me.’

‘Aren’t you used to women staring at you, then?’ she questioned innocently.

‘No, never happened to me before,’ he drawled sardonically, wondering what was making her blow so hot and cold. He looked at the provocative scarlet gleam of her lips and felt a sudden rush of desire. ‘What’s your name?’

Ella wished that her breasts would stop tingling and likewise the molten throb of lust deep in her belly. She didn’t want to feel like this about a man who had talked about her family in a way which had made them all sound like some sort of gutter animals. She stared at him, defying him to contradict her. ‘My name is … Cinderella.’

Hassan gave a slow smile. ‘Is it now?’ So she wanted to play, did she? Well, that was fine by him. He liked games—particularly of the flirty, sexual nature. And particularly with nubile young women with glossy, red lips and firm bodies which had been poured into a shiny silver dress which emphasised their every willowy curve. As a child, the only female role models he’d known had been servants and as an adult he had discovered that women were usually predatory and nearly always beddable.

He felt the sudden beat of anticipation as he looked at her. ‘Then I think the fairy tale must have just come true, Cinderella,’ he said. ‘Because you’ve just met your prince.’