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He growled. Why would she wear a white nightgown? So very virginal and innocent.
Who was she trying to kid?
Marina was nowhere near a virgin. She was a sorceress. He should leave now, while he had the chance, before he was tempted to do something he might regret.
But he could not force his feet to move. He could not turn away. Instead he stayed and watched while she was hit by the spray of a wave crashing below, watched while she flung her arms out wide and laughed as brazenly as the weather, watched while her damp white gown turned transparent—and knew that he had no choice.
Knew he had to go to her.
DESERT BROTHERS
Bound by duty, undone by passion!
These sheikhs may not be brothers by blood,
but they are united by the code of the desert.
Their power and determination is legendary and
unchallenged—until two beautiful Jemeyan princesses
threaten their self-control …
In Trish Morey’s exciting duet searing passion and
sizzling drama are about to be unleashed!
In May you met:
Zoltan and Aisha
Will this barbarian sheikh tame
his defiant virgin princess and claim his crown?
This month meet:
Bahir and Marina
Infamous billionaire Bahir Al-Qadir risks it all in a
high-stakes game of love!
About the Author
TRISH MOREY is an Australian who’s also spent time living and working in New Zealand and England. Now she’s settled with her husband and four young daughters in a special part of South Australia, surrounded by orchards and bushland and visited by the occasional koala and kangaroo. With a lifelong love of reading, she penned her first book at the age of eleven, after which life, career and a growing family kept her busy until once again she could indulge her desire to create characters and stories—this time in romance. Having her work published is a dream come true.
Visit Trish at her website, www.trishmorey.com
Recent titles by the same author:
DUTY AND THE BEAST (Desert Brothers) SECRETS OF CASTILLO DEL ARCO FIANCÉE FOR ONE NIGHT THE HEIR FROM NOWHERE
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
The Sheikh’s
Last Gamble
Trish Morey
www.millsandboon.co.uk
CHAPTER ONE
BAHIR Al-Qadir hated losing. For a man barred entry to more than half the world’s casinos for routinely and systematically breaking the bank, losing did not come often or easily. Now, as he watched yet another pile of his chips being swept from the roulette table, the bitter taste of loss soured his mouth and a black cloud of despair hung low over his head.
For three nights now he had endured this run of black fortune and still there seemed no end to it. And not even the knowledge that roulette was a game designed to give the house the edge was any compensation. Not when he was used to winning. How ironic that Lady Luck had deserted him now, just when he had been counting on a stint at a casino to improve his mood. He might have laughed at the irony, except right now he was in no mood for laughing.
Still, he managed to dredge up a smile as placed his last pile of chips on a black square, and glanced the way of the croupier to let him know he was ready. So what that he had already dropped the equivalent of a small nation’s gross national product? He was nothing if not a consummate professional. The back of his neck might be damp with perspiration and his stomach roiling, but he’d be damned if any of the vultures around the table watching him come undone would read how bleak he felt right now on his face or in his body language.
The croupier called for any more bets even when he would have known there would be none. One by one the other players had dropped out, content to watch the unthinkable, to watch Bahir—the famed ‘Sheikh of Spin’—lose, until there remained only him and the numbered wheel.
With a well-rehearsed flick of one wrist, the croupier sent the wheel spinning; a flick of the other sending the ball hurtling in the opposite direction.
A feeble and battered thread of hope surged anew. Surely this time? Surely?
Bahir’s gut clenched as the ball spun. The damp at his collar formed a bead that ran down his back under his shirt. And, despite it all, he forced his smile to grow more nonchalant, his stance more relaxed.
‘Rien ne va plus!’ the croupier announced unnecessarily, for nobody looked like making another bet. Everybody was watching the ball bounce and skip over the numbered pockets as the wheel slowed beneath it.
Finally the ball lost momentum and caught in one of the pockets, fighting momentum and bouncing once, twice, before settling into another and being whisked suddenly in the other direction. He knew exactly how it felt. He’d felt hope being ripped right out of him in much the same way for three nights running now. Surely this time, on his last bet of the night, his luck would change? Surely this time he might regain some tiny shred of success to take with him, to show him his gift hadn’t abandoned him completely?
Then the wheel slowed to a crawl and with sickening realisation he saw: red, the colour rendering the number irrelevant.
It was done. He had lost.
Again.
He thanked the croupier, as if he had dropped no more than the price of a cup of coffee, ignoring the shocked murmurings of the onlookers, intending to walk out of here with his head held high, even if he felt like dropping it into his hands. What the hell was wrong with him?
Bahir didn’t lose.
Not like this. The last time he had suffered a run like this …
He pulled his thoughts to an abrupt halt. He wasn’t going down that path. The last thing he needed to think about on a night such as this was her.
She was the damned reason he was here, after all.
‘Monsieur, s’il vous plait,’ came a smooth-as-silk voice alongside him, and he turned to see the shark-faced Marcel, the host the casino had assigned to him tonight. The perfect host up until now, keeping both his distance and his expression free of the smugness he was no doubt feeling, Marcel had meantime ensured that he had wanted for nothing during his stint at the table. ‘Sheikh Al-Qadir, the evening does not have to end here. If you wish, the casino would be only too happy to extend you credit to prolong your entertainment.’
Bahir read his face. The man’s bland expression might tell him nothing, but there was an eagerness in his grey eyes that made his skin crawl. So they did not think he was done with his losing streak yet? A momentary challenge flared in his blood, only to be quashed by the knowledge that all he’d done here since he’d entered this establishment three days ago was lose. So maybe they were right. Which gave him all the more reason to leave now.
Besides, he didn’t need their money. He had won plenty of that over the years not to be worried about dropping the odd million, or even ten for that matter. It wasn’t the money he cared about. It was losing that did his head in. It pounded now, the drums in his head beating out the letters of the word: loser. He smiled in spite of it. ‘Thank you, but no.’
He was halfway across the room before Marcel caught up with him. ‘Surely the night is still young?’
Bahir looked around. A person could certainly think that here. Locked away under the crystal chandeliers, surrounded by luxurious furnishings and even more luxurious-looking women, and without a hint of a window to indicate the time of day, it was possible to lose all concept of time. He glanced at the watch on his wrist, realising that, even leaving now, daylight would beat him to bed. ‘For some, perhaps.’
Still his host persisted. No doubt he would be amply rewarded if he hung onto his prize catch a while longer. ‘We will see you this evening, then, Sheikh Al-Qadir?’
‘Maybe.’ Maybe not.
‘I will arrange a limousine to collect you from your hotel. Perhaps you will have time for dinner and a show beforehand? On the house, of course. Shall we say, eight o’clock?’
Bahir stopped then, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to produce enough pain to drown out the thunder in his head. Not for the first time was he grateful he hadn’t accepted the casino’s oh-so-generous offer of accommodation in-house. There were advantages in turning down some of the casino’s high-roller benefits. The ability to come and go as he pleased, for one.
He was just about to tell Marcel where he could shove his limousine and his show when he saw it—a flash of colour across the room draped over honey-coloured flesh, and a coil of ebony hair held by a diamond clip—and for a moment he was reminded of another time, another casino.
And, damn it all, of another woman; one he had come here expressly to forget. He shook his head, wanting to rid himself of the memories, feeling the blackness inside of him swell to bursting point, feeling the rush of heat from a suddenly pounding heart.
‘Shiekh Al-Qadir?’
‘Go away, Marcel,’ he snarled, and this time the pinstriped shark took the hint and with a hasty goodnight withdrew into the sea of gowns and dinner suits.
It wasn’t her, he realised on a second glance, it was nothing like her. This woman’s face was all square jaw and heavy brow, her lips like two red slugs framing her mouth, that honey skin more like leather. And, of course, how could it have been her? He’d left her with her sister in Al-Jirad and surely not even someone as irresponsible as she was would abandon her family so soon after the trouble they had all gone to to rescue her from Mustafa?
Then again, knowing Marina …
He cursed under his breath as he headed for the exit. What the hell was wrong with him tonight? The last thing he needed to think about was her.
No, that was wrong. The last thing he needed to think about was her honey skin, and how she’d still drawn him like a magnet, in spite of the passage of time and despite the hate-filled chasm that lay between them. Yet she’d stepped out of that desert tent and he’d still felt the tug in every cell of his body. What was it now—three years? More? Yet still she’d managed to make him hard with just one glance from those siren’s eyes, a glance that had turned frosty and cold the instant she’d realized just who one of her rescuers was.
Still she’d moved like liquid silk, mounting the horse like a natural, her limbs as slender as he recalled, her body still willowy slim despite time and the two children he knew she’d borne.
He might be on the losing streak from hell, but he would bet everything he had that her satin skin was just as smooth as he remembered it to be, whether it be under his hands or in the long slide of her legs wrapped around him.
Curse the woman!
He would not think of her or her long limbs and satin skin! There was no point to it. She was trouble, past or present. She was the worst kind of gamble, the wager lost before the wheel was even spun.
A doorman nodded and bade him a good evening as he passed, even though the night sky outside was already softening to grey. He looked to the cool morning air for the balm it should have been to his overheated skin and fractured nerves, searching for the promise of a new day.
Instead he felt only frustration. He rolled his shoulders on an exhale, protesting the unfamiliar stiffness in his back and neck. When before had his muscles ever been bound so tightly? When before had his spirits ever felt so bleak?
But he already knew the answer to that question. He didn’t want to go there either.
He curled into a waiting limousine and tugged his bow tie loose as he sagged against the upholstery, suddenly weary of the world, suddenly restless with his life. He’d thought the casino would liven his spirits. Instead, his luck had let him down and ground him further into the mire.
He looked vacantly out of the window, past the palm-lined esplanade, over the white-fringed sea. Monaco was beautiful, there was no doubt, and justifiably a magnet for the rich and famous and those who craved to be. But right now Monaco and the entire south of France seemed stale, empty and utterly pointless.
No, there was nothing for him here.
He needed to get away, but to where? Las Vegas? No, that would be pointless. Casinos in the States offered even better odds for the house. And he was still unwelcome in Macau after his last winning streak.
An image formed unbidden in his mind, a recent memory of desert dunes and a golden sun, heavy, hot and framed between palm trees as it dipped inexorably lower towards the shimmering horizon.
The desert?
He sat up straighter in his seat, his interest piqued, though wondering if he was mad in the next moment. His recent visit to Al-Jirad had reunited him with his three old friends, Zoltan, Kadar and Rashid. It had also brought two brief forays into the desert. But neither of them had afforded more than a taste of the desert as they had raced to retrieve first the Princess Aisha and then her sister, Marina, from the clutches of the snivelling Mustafa.
The first excursion he had found exhilarating, speeding with his three friends in a race against time across the dunes. The second he’d found less so, although the horses had been just as willing, the company just as entertaining and the sunsets and dawns just as magnificent. It was seeing Marina again after all these years that had spoilt that trip for him.
Of all the women in the world, how unfortunate that Zoltan had to marry her sister, the one woman he had sworn never to see again in his life. Even more unfortunate that she could still make him hard with just one look.
Maybe a return visit to the desert would cure him. Maybe the desert sun would sear her from his brain, and the crisp desert night air clear all thoughts of her once and for all.
And maybe not just any desert. Maybe it was just time to go home.
Home.
How long since he had thought of the desert as his home?
How long since he’d called any place home?
But why shouldn’t he go now? There was nowhere he needed to be. He had no one to please but himself. And this time he could take the time to drink in the colour and the texture of the desert, take the time to linger and to observe and absorb its sheer power, and breathe in air turned pristine under the heat of the desert sun.
But, more than that, out in the desert there would be no flashes of colour across a crowded room; no glimpses of flesh to remind him of another time and another woman he wanted to forget.
He breathed deeply, content for the first time in days, making a mental note to check flights and make enquiries after he had slept. He was glad this run of nights was behind him. Surely now this run of bad luck must be over too? For right now it could not get much worse.
The mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. He hauled it out, curious who would be calling him at this early hour, less surprised when he checked the caller ID. He pressed the phone to his ear. ‘Zoltan, what can I do for you?’
He listened while the grey of the dawn sky peeled away to pink and his run of bad luck took a turn for the worse.
CHAPTER TWO
‘NO.’
‘Bahir,’ his friend insisted, ‘just listen.’
‘Whatever it is, I don’t need to hear it. The answer is still no.’
‘But she can’t travel home by herself. I won’t allow it.’
‘I thought Mustafa was cooling his heels in prison.’
‘He is, but I made the mistake of underestimating him once before. I won’t do the same again. So long as there’s a possibility someone out there is still loyal to him, I’m not taking any chances with Aisha’s sister’s safety.’
Bahir raked one hand through his hair. ‘So get Kadar to do it.’
‘Kadar has urgent business in Istanbul.’
He grunted. ‘How convenient. Rashid, then.’
‘You know Rashid. He’s disappeared. Nobody knows where or when he’ll show up again.’
He had to be dreaming. Bahir pinched his nose until sparks shot behind his eyelids but there was no waking up. This nightmare was real. ‘Look, Zoltan, it doesn’t have to be one of us! What’s wrong with getting one of the palace guards to babysit her?’
‘They’re busy.’ A pause. ‘Besides, Aisha specifically asked that you do it.’
He hesitated. He’d liked what he saw of Zoltan’s new bride. Although he’d had his doubts at first, now he could not imagine a better woman as a match for his friend. In any other circumstances, he would not hesitate to do whatever she asked of him. But Aisha had no idea what she was asking of him. ‘Aisha was wrong.’
‘But you know Marina.’
‘Which is exactly the reason I’m saying no.’
‘Bahir—’
‘No. Isn’t it enough that I agreed to come with you to rescue her? Don’t push me, Zoltan. Why don’t you do it yourself, if you’re so God damned keen on her having an escort home?’
‘Bahir,’ came the hesitant voice of his friend at the end of the line. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Nothing is wrong!’ Everything is wrong. ‘Listen, Zoltan, we broke up for a reason. Marina hates me and, when it all comes down to it, I’m not that overly fond of her. She might now be your sister-in-law, but you don’t know her like I do. She’s as irresponsible as they come, the original party girl who’s never done a thing for anyone else. She’s spoilt and headstrong, and if she isn’t given exactly what she wants she goes out and takes it anyway, regardless of the consequences. And, if that’s not enough, she’s got the morals of an alley cat and the litter to prove it. I tell you now, Zoltan, I am not going back there.’
‘God, Bahir, I’m not asking you to marry her! All you have to do is make sure she gets home safely.’
‘And I’m telling you to find someone else.’
There was silence at the end of the line. A brooding silence that did nothing to encourage Bahir to think he was swaying his friend’s opinion. ‘You know, Bahir,’ his friend said at last. ‘If I didn’t know better …’
Bahir felt like growling. ‘What?’
‘Well, anyone who didn’t know you better might actually think you were actually—worried—about spending time with Marina.’
‘Are you suggesting I’m afraid?’
‘Are you?’
‘You just don’t get it, Zoltan. Even if I agreed to take her, there is no way this side of hell freezing over that she’d agree to come with me. Didn’t you hear me say that she hates me? If you’d bothered to ask her you’d already know that.’
There was a telling pause at the end of the line and Bahir felt a glimmer of hope as he saw a way out of this madness.
‘In that case, you might try asking her. She’ll give you the same answer I have. No. If you’re so convinced she needs someone to make sure she’s safe, then you find someone else to do your babysitting.’
‘And what if she agrees?’
He laughed out loud. ‘No way. She’ll never agree. Not in a million years.’
‘And if she does, will you do it?’
‘It’s not going to happen.’
‘Okay—so, if she says no, I’ll find someone else and if she says yes, then you’ll do it?’
‘Zoltan … There’s no way …’
‘Is that a bet?’
‘She won’t say yes.’ She wouldn’t. If there was one thing in this world he could be certain of, it was that she would want to be with him even less than he wanted to be with her. Especially after the way they’d parted. ‘I know she won’t.’
‘In which case,’ Zoltan said, ‘you’ve got nothing to worry about.’
‘No way!’
‘Marina!’ Aisha called as her sister jumped up from the garden seat where they’d been sitting together. ‘Just listen.’
‘There’s no point,’ she said, striding swiftly away. ‘Not if you’re not going to make sense.’
Aisha chased after her. ‘Zoltan and I don’t want you going home alone, surely you can understand that? You should have an escort. It’s the least we can do.’
‘I’ll be fine. It’s not that far.’
‘Like you thought you’d be fine on the way here too, remember?’
Marina shook her head. ‘Mustafa’s been put away. And this time I won’t go overland, okay? Put me on a private jet. Nothing can possibly go wrong.’
‘You’re going on a private jet, no question, but you’re not going alone. Not this time.’
‘Fine! So assign me a bodyguard if you must. But I will not go with that man! It was bad enough to find him waiting for me outside Mustafa’s tent. If I hadn’t known everyone was afraid for me, I would have gone right back inside again.’ And it had had nothing to do with the shivers that had skittered across her skin at finding him amongst the party of her rescuers; nothing to do with that flare of heat she had witnessed in his eyes, before they had turned hard, and as cold and unflinching as ice.
Aisha studied her sister. ‘You didn’t seem that upset when you arrived back at the palace. “A blast from the past”, you called him. I got the impression that whatever had happened in the past, it wasn’t that serious.’
Not serious. Marina flung her arms out wide, her fingers flicking the flowers of a nearby jasmine creeper in the process and sending its heady scent swirling into the air. She shook her head, reining her arms in and weaving them tightly around her midriff. ‘You were all so worried about me, and happy I was safe, how could I make a fuss? Besides, I thought it was over, that I’d never see him again. And clearly he was just as relieved himself that it was over.’
And when she saw the question in her sister’s eyes, she added, ‘Didn’t he take off for Monte Carlo that very same day? No doubt so that there was no chance he could run into me again while I was at the palace.’
‘Oh, Marina, I had no idea.’ Aisha slid a hand beneath one of her sister’s tightly bound arms and coaxed her into a walk through the fragrant garden. ‘What happened between you two?’
What hadn’t happened? Marina dropped her head, the weight of painful memories dragging her spirits with it. ‘Everything and nothing. It all came to nothing.’ She frowned. No, not nothing. She still had Chakir. ‘I was stupid. Naive. I flew too close to the sun and it’s no wonder I came crashing down.’
‘Okay. So you had an affair that ended badly, right?’
And this time it was Marina’s turn to squeeze her sister’s arm. ‘I’m sorry, Aisha. I’m not making sense, I know. But you’re right. I met Bahir one night at a party—eyes across a crowded casino, the whole boring cliché, I guess.’
She looked intently at her sister, trying to make her understand. ‘But the attraction was so intense, so immediate, and I knew in that instant that we were going to spend the night together. And one night turned into a week and then a month and more, and it was reckless and passionate and didn’t look like ending. And I really thought I loved him, you know. I actually thought for one mad moment—maybe more than just one—that he was the one.’ She sighed, staring blankly into the distance. ‘But I couldn’t have been more wrong.’
‘Oh, Marina, I’m sorry. I had no idea.’