A year-long contract...

...to marry a stranger!

In this Cinderellas to Royal Brides story, Dr. Sara Greer’s shocked to find Crown Prince Farhan on her doorstep with life-changing news—she’s the long-lost heir to the throne of Kalyana! Farhan needs to preserve his title and Sara wants to connect with her newfound heritage, so agreeing to his convenient proposal seems like the perfect solution! Until their inconvenient chemistry has her reconsidering their hands-off agreement...

ANN MCINTOSH was born in the tropics, lived in the frozen north for a number of years, and now resides in sunny central Florida with her husband. She’s a proud mama to three grown children, loves tea, crafting, animals (except reptiles!), bacon and the ocean. She believes in the power of romance to heal, inspire, and provide hope in our complex world.

Also by Ann McIntosh

The Nurse’s Pregnancy Miracle

The Surgeon’s One Night to Forever

Cinderellas to Royal Brides collection

Surgeon Prince, Cinderella Bride

And look for the next book

Royal Doc’s Secret Heir by Amy Ruttan Available now

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Surgeon Prince, Cinderella Bride

Ann McIntosh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09013-1

SURGEON PRINCE, CINDERELLA BRIDE

© 2019 Ann McIntosh

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 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.

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To my friend, critique partner, and inspiration, Amy Ruttan.

Through thick and thin!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

PROLOGUE

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

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Extract

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE
1988

IT WAS AS though Yasmine floated just ever so slightly outside her skin, so the sounds and smells of the maternity ward were muffled by the disconnect between flesh and spirit. Even the sensations of her body, the gritty pain each time she blinked her closed lids, the movement of the baby, the interminable heat, were distant things.

The observation ward wasn’t full. Just her and one other lady, who was also alone. Neither of them spoke, although the curtain between their beds had been left open.

She let herself drift, leaving the agonizing present to go back in time to the night she’d lain in her husband’s arms, and joy had been their only companion.

The night she’d told him she was finally, miraculously, pregnant.

Brian had been ecstatic, had shifted down in the bed so his face rested next to her belly.

“My child,” he’d said. “My son or daughter. Prince or princess.”

Her heart had leapt at his words.

For thirty years he’d held fast to the rule: no one must ever know who they were. What he was. Not one lax moment was to be tolerated. Yet here he was, saying it out loud. It had given her a chill, and involuntarily her gaze shifted to the closed door of their room, as though expecting people to burst through to tear them apart.

She’d had to stop herself from asking him not to say such things again, reassured herself he was using it in the North American way, as an endearment toward a child so longed for, it would be treated like royalty.

And Brian had longed for this child. His disappointment as the years passed and Yasmine didn’t conceive was as acute as her own. Yet he never placed blame. Never suggested he should seek another woman who could give him an heir. Indeed, this baby would be heir to very little. Their need to keep a low profile had taken them to Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada, where they’d remained.

When asked where they were from, Brian always said, “Just outside Bombay,” because it was a city he’d once known well, and could make intelligent conversation about. They both had diverse ethnic backgrounds, including Indian ancestors, but in her opinion neither really looked as though they came from India. However, the Canadians they came in contact with didn’t seem to notice.

Sometimes, as ethnic diversity stretched north, they got skeptical looks, but although Brian had thrown off all the trappings of royalty, he’d lost none of the confidence seemingly bred into his bones.

No one really pressed him about it.

Yasmine had simply kept her mouth shut most of the time, not completely trusting herself to maintain the fiction, should she get too close to anyone. She’d been homesick and heartsick for a lot of those years, secretly regretting not being able to go to university, having to work low-paying jobs, but having Brian made up for it all.

Now he was gone, and Yasmine couldn’t find a way back into her body to mourn, or even to be angry.

Four months before, his strange symptoms had started—arm pain, moments of disorientation and lack of balance, among others. He’d made light of it all, so Yasmine had never realized the seriousness of it until he’d collapsed with a seizure at the rail yard and had been taken to the hospital. After tests and scans he’d been transferred to Edmonton, where he’d had more of both. Then the oncologist had been glaringly blunt, although Yasmine thought the sympathetic glint in his eyes somewhat negated his directness.

“It’s stage four colon cancer, which has already metastasized to your liver, lungs and brain. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do, other than arrange pain management and hospice care for you going forward.”

For the first time in their marriage, Yasmine had been the one to fight, to raise her voice, to insist there must be—must be—something they could do.

Brian had sat there, as still as the statue of his ancestor in the center of Huban, which commemorated not just the first King but also repelling the French from their shores.

The doctor had given him six months. He’d only lived three and a half. And every moment of the time he’d had left had been devoted to thinking about their child.

“Take our child home, Yasmine,” he’d said.

“To Fort McMurray? Of course.” Where else had he thought she would go? At least there she knew her way around, had a job, a few friends.

“No, no,” he’d whispered, squeezing her fingers. “Home, to take his or her rightful place.”

She wouldn’t say either yes or no. Her habitual fear may have been rendered distant and weak by the pain of watching him slip away, but it still held sway.

Finally, wanting to understand, she’d asked, “Why would you put such a burden on our child, when you didn’t want it yourself?”

He’d shaken his head. “I would have carried the burden, but my need for you was far stronger than the need to fulfill my responsibilities to the country.”

He had been dying by then, so she hadn’t let loose the words gathering beneath her tongue, threatening to choke her if she didn’t spit them out.

He’d hated it all. His unpredictable, forbidding, controlling and manipulative mother. The constant rounds of royal protocol and living in a fishbowl. When he’d told her he was taking off, it hadn’t been couched as, I can’t live without you: run away with me. No, he told her he was leaving and asked if she wished to go.

Of course, she’d said yes.

At sixteen, she would have done anything for him.

Now he was trying to push her to take their child, her baby, back to a place where, if they believed Yasmine’s story, they’d take him or her away; probably imprison Yasmine too. Her father had some influence, but not enough to save her from the repercussions of that long-ago decision.

Perhaps it had been the cancer that had made Brian misremember, but Yasmine didn’t have the same problem. The palace had been a frightening place; Queen Nargis a despot. She was long dead now, but Yasmine knew nothing of the family who had ascended to the throne. Father had intimated things were better, both in governance and for the people, but she wouldn’t take the chance.

After all, her child would threaten their right to rule. Who knew what they might be willing to do to hold onto power?

And when it came out that her father had known where they were, his life might be endangered too.

No. Her child would have a normal existence. As good as she and Brian...

Mind stumbling over the thought, she cupped her belly, the stab of grief like a sword inserted, twisted.

It was just her. Brian was gone.

Now her pain underwent a metamorphosis, took her to a place of clarity.

Nothing was sure. Nothing was a given.

She abruptly sat up, opening eyes closed so long the sudden light was blinding.

“Nurse.” Her voice was wispy, a ribbon in a windstorm, but somehow it carried, as one of the nurses came bustling in.

“Are you in pain, Mrs. Haskell?” She immediately began checking the monitors.

“No. No. I need to see a social worker, right away.”

The nurse paused, and the sympathy in her eyes was obvious. Yasmine had vaguely heard them talking through the fog of her disconnect.

“Husband died yesterday...”

“She collapsed...”

“High-risk pregnancy to begin with...”

“First child, although she’s in her late forties...”

“Says there’s no next of kin...”

The nurses knew she was in a bad place, and this one made no effort to offer comforting platitudes or dissuade her.

“I’ll put the call in right away for you.” She eased Yasmine back against the pillows, and pulled the unnecessary blanket back up over her distended stomach. “You just relax. We’ll take good care of you.”

Was it a premonition, or just the aftereffects of watching Brian slide away from this world to the next? Yasmine didn’t know. All she could see was her baby, alone, with no one to care for him or her.

She wouldn’t let that happen.

And she wouldn’t let them take the baby back to Kalyana either.

CHAPTER ONE

BEYOND THE WINDOW of the hotel suite a flurry of mixed rain and ice pellets swirled, but although Dr. Farhan Alaoui gazed out through the glass, he wasn’t really paying attention to the weather.

This was a fool’s errand, and he the fool his father had chosen to go on it.

In years past, knowing how little regard his father had for him, Farhan would have simply refused to come to Canada, telling King Uttam to find another way to deal with the matter. It wouldn’t have been the first time, or even the hundredth time, they would have butted heads. The pattern had started from when Farhan was a child, and had only stopped ten years ago, when he’d left Kalyana for Australia, cutting off contact with his father, determined not to return until absolutely necessary.

Had his conscience bitten at him over the decision? Of course it had. He’d still been mourning Ali, trying to reconcile himself to being Crown Prince in his beloved brother’s place. The loss, along with his mother’s unassailable grief, which had made her pull even further away from her other two sons, had been excruciating. He hadn’t needed his father to intimate he was ill equipped to take on the role Ali had excelled at. Certainly hadn’t needed to be left with the feeling he would never do as well, so he may as well go back to school, finish his medical studies.

There was to be a referendum, the King said, looking down his nose at his son. If they were lucky, the people would decide to make Kalyana a republic, abolishing the monarchy.

Farhan had understood what his father hadn’t said outright.

If that were to happen, the island kingdom would be spared the inept and unprepared King that Farhan clearly would be.

Unfortunately for them all, the people had decided to keep the monarchy, and Farhan remained next in line to the throne. That was something he’d done his best to ignore, living in Australia as a normal person, working as a surgeon in a large hospital, until the night his younger brother Maazin had called to say their father had had a stroke.

Of course, he’d had to return then.

And he was a different person. More assured, ready to take on the responsibility he’d avoided for so long. A little less inclined to argue, or dig in his heels in the way he used to.

What he hadn’t been prepared for was his father’s tacit refusal to assist him in learning his new role.

Or being sent to Canada to track down the woman who should, by birthright, be the true monarch of Kalyana.

When Farhan had reported finding her, he hadn’t been sure what his father’s reaction would be.

Uttam’s fingers had curled into a fist on his desk, and Farhan had interpreted the motion as signifying anger. Or perhaps, considering the King’s unusual pallor, some other, stronger emotion. It made the physician in Farhan watch the older man closely, looking for any signs of cardio-pulmonary distress. After his father’s diagnosis of atrial fibrillation the entire family worried about his health.

No one more so than Farhan.

King Uttam tapped the folder in front of him, his dark gaze boring into Farhan’s. Despite the King’s macular degeneration, he still had the ability to fix a person in place with just one look.

“Are you positive this woman is Bhaskar’s descendant?”

Suppressing a sigh, Farhan shook his head. “I don’t have Bhaskar’s DNA to make the comparison. However, I can say she is a direct descendant of Queen Nargis, and since the records show Bhaskar as Nargis’s only child...”

The slam of Uttam’s fist on the desk was so unexpected everyone else in the office—Farhan, Maazin, and the King’s aide-de-camp, Joseph Malliot—started.

“All these years our family has been blamed, accused of doing away with Bhaskar to gain the throne, while he has been out there, somewhere, living his life as he wished—”

Breaking off his unusually impassioned speech and rising abruptly, Uttam paced across the room. Stopping at the large birdcage housing his pet macaw, Uttam kept his back to his aide and two sons, reaching in to stroke a finger down Sophie’s cherry-red poll.

No one spoke. Like acrid smoke, the King’s words hung in the office, thickening the already tense atmosphere. Farhan sent a quick glance at Maazin. He seemed relaxed, although his eyelids were lowered, hiding his true expression.

After a moment, Uttam asked, “What do you know of her—this child of Bhaskar?”

All the information was in the file on his father’s desk, but Farhan had made sure to bring his own copy.

He’d gone through it fully, of course, and memorized most of it. The private investigator had been thorough, and Farhan was of the opinion the shy and quiet doctor was not, and never would be, a threat to the kingdom.

Even her pictures gave the impression of harmlessness. She was no beauty, being a little plain, with a serious yet pleasant expression in all the photographs.

But his father wasn’t interested in Farhan’s opinion on things, so, opening the folder on his lap, he read out the salient facts.

“Dr. Sara Greer, general practitioner, thirty-one years old, resident of London, Ontario, Canada. She was adopted at approximately three weeks old by Karen and Everton Greer, who subsequently had two more daughters. Dr. Greer graduated summa cum laude from Eastern University, and now works at an urgent care clinic.”

Uttam’s free hand sliced through the air, cutting off Farhan’s recitation. “Does she know she could be the rightful heir to the throne of Kalyana?”

“It would be impossible for her to know.” Being on the receiving end of a quick, skeptical glare, Farhan explained, “When, as you requested, DNA was collected from Nargis’s remains the results were posted privately on a number of genealogical websites. That means any matches would be reported to me, as the administrator of that DNA sample, but not to the other parties. No matter what other familial matches Dr. Greer may make, the match with Nargis is the only one that could alert her to the royal bloodline, and she can’t see it.”

His father’s back seemed to relax fractionally, but Uttam still didn’t turn around; just stood stroking the macaw’s head through the bars, making Sophie chuckle and coo with pleasure.

Farhan exchanged a look with his brother, now seeing the same impatience he felt in Maazin’s expression. None of this was germane to the running of the country.

Farhan was compelled to say, “Father, this is all ancient history, and since Dr. Greer will never know who she is, she’s no threat. On top of that, our constitution is clear: without documentation showing the direct lineage between her and Crown Prince Bhaskar, her claim, should she make one, would be denied.

“Adoption records retrieved by the PI show Dr. Greer’s birth parents as Brian and Yasmine Haskell, residents of Fort McMurray, Canada, both deceased. Immigration records show the Haskells entering Canada in 1958 as citizens of Great Britain, although there are no records of either of their names in the British archives. Clearly Bhaskar must have had help creating a new identity, but unraveling that, at this stage, would be nigh on impossible.”

He should have known better. His father was unmovable on the subject. The near rebellion caused when Uttam’s father had taken the throne had, it seemed, made him paranoid. He was absolutely sure one day some supporters of the missing Bhaskar would rise up to try to end his reign, and endanger them all.

With a final scratch of Sophie’s head, Uttam turned to walk back to his desk.

“We will not take the chance,” he said, as he settled into his chair. “This is a matter that must be dealt with, immediately.”

Despite the return of his father’s usual stoic demeanor, Farhan was aware of an undercurrent beneath the cool declaration. Maazin shifted, as though suddenly uncomfortable, but before Farhan had a chance to react, Uttam continued.

“Farhan, you will travel to Canada and marry this Dr. Greer; produce an heir to unite the two lines.”

Once again he felt the icy fingers of disbelief run down his spine, just as they had then.

The one thing he’d decided when Ali died was never to become a parent. His father had made it clear: the throne—the country—took precedence over everything. Farhan had no interest in producing a child only to have to sacrifice it on the altar of duty. He would do what he could to carry out the first part of his father’s order, if he could, but the second part wouldn’t happen.

Ever.

The door to the suite opened, rousing Farhan from his memories, and Kavan—his bodyguard, chauffeur, and friend—came in, rubbing his hands together.

“How do people live in this weather all the time?” he grumbled. “It’s just gone four o’clock, and it’s already dark outside. Not to mention colder than normal people can bear, and the ice and slush is everywhere.”

Only then did Farhan realize the murky sunlight had faded, and the street lights had come on. It was time to find and speak to Dr. Sara Greer.

His heart stuttered, but he refused to let his trepidation show. Instead he stood and walked to the hall closet to pull out his wool coat, a warm silk scarf looped under the lapels.

“There are benefits to living everywhere,” he replied, as he pulled on his winter wear. “This wouldn’t be my first choice, but it certainly is a beautiful country.”

“In summer, perhaps,” Kavan said, pulling open the room door and holding it for Farhan to precede him out. “But ice should be in a glass, with Scotch on it, not under my feet.”

And Farhan found himself chuckling, despite the apprehension gnawing at his insides.

* * *

I have to get my life together.

The thought ran on a loop in Dr. Sara Greer’s head as she limped from the bus stop through slush and snow toward her home.

It had been one of those days, starting from when she’d got up to find her roommate’s dog, Diefenbaker, had torn the insoles out of her shoes. The right one was salvageable. The left one, not at all. And who knew there was a metal bar just above the soles? She hadn’t until she’d seen it for herself. With no time to stop and buy an insole, she’d put two socks on that foot and, planning to run out at lunchtime and buy new shoes, hoped for the best.

That idea went out the window when her sister, Mariah, turned up before the clinic even opened.

“I need your car,” she said, making it a demand, rather than a request. “I have an appointment at ten on the other side of town.”

“Use Mom’s, or Dad’s.” Yet, even as Sara tried to be firm, she knew it was probably a losing battle. “I have stuff I have to do at lunchtime.”

“Dad’s gone to Clinton to work, and Mom has some errands to run, so I need your car.”

Sara’s heart sank. Although her dad was a semi-retired farrier, “going to Clinton” usually meant more drinking beer than actual work, especially on a Friday during the London harness racing season. Not to mention the fact that Dad was notoriously horrible about getting people to settle their accounts. Even if he did work, he’d probably never see a dime.

And despite their perennial need for money, Mom didn’t have the heart to nag him about his lack of financial acumen.

Mariah turned from demanding to wheedling. “I’ll get it back to you before lunchtime. This is really important. A job interview.”

“You could take the bus, you know. There’s plenty of time.”

“Not when I have to go home and change first. I’d need to take two buses, and it looks like it’s going to rain. I’d be a mess when I get there, and it might cost me the job.”

The thought of one of her sisters being gainfully employed was a heady one, given their propensity for drifting along, doing as little as possible to get by.

“Okay.” Even as she capitulated, Sara knew she shouldn’t. “But, seriously, I need it back before lunch. I have to get new shoes, and I promised to check in on Nonni too.”

Mariah wrinkled her nose, one corner of her lip curling.

“I don’t know why you bother. Aunt Jackie is there all the time with her, and she was always so mean to you. You shouldn’t waste your time on her.”

Sara hadn’t argued the point. Mariah was right about how cruel their maternal grandmother had been to her adopted grandchild, but whatever Sara did for the now senile old woman had nothing to do with Nonni. She was helping her aunt and mother, who had given her nothing but love and acceptance her entire life.

“I promised I’d go, so make sure you bring the car back on time, okay?”

“Sure, sure,” was her sister’s response but, up until the time Sara’s shift ended at four, she still hadn’t returned it.

Then Cyndi, their younger sister, had started calling and texting at about eleven, as usual wanting Sara to intervene in one of her interminable arguments with their mother.

“She won’t listen to me, Sissie.” Sara knew there was nothing but trouble ahead when Cyndi used that particular nickname. “I can’t get into the culinary course on time if Mom and Dad won’t pay for it now.”

“I’m not getting involved, Cyndi. Sorry.”

“But if you tell Mom it’s a good idea, she’ll listen.”

Sara actually didn’t think it a good idea for Cyndi to sign up for yet another course, when she’d failed to finish either of the other two she’d started over the last three years. Yet her saying so would only make Cyndi dig in her heels.

“Listen, why don’t you save up some money and take the course the next time it’s offered? That way you don’t have to depend on Mom and Dad to be able to do it.”

Cyndi didn’t even dignify that suggestion with an answer, just moved on to the next plan of attack.

“Couldn’t you lend me the money? It’s only two thousand dollars.”

Only? What world was Cyndi living in that two thousand dollars wasn’t a lot of money?

“Firstly, I just made my student loan payment,” Sara told her. “I don’t have any cash to spare. Secondly, saying you want to borrow it really doesn’t fly, since I don’t see how you’d pay it back.” Not wanting a protracted argument, she finished up with, “I have to go back to work. Talk to you later.”

Undeterred, Cyndi sent so many texts, the tone increasingly desperate, that Sara had ended up turning off the ringer on her phone.

To make it all worse, the freezing cold January rain and ice mix Mariah had predicted had waited to start until Sara was standing at the bus stop. With the exception of her jacket, all the rest of her winter gear—boots, gloves and toque—was in her car. After all, she hadn’t expected to have to take the bus or walk to get home.

Really, though, she shouldn’t be surprised. Her family, sisters in particular, seemed to feel it was Sara’s responsibility to do whatever was necessary to make their lives more comfortable, and Sara let herself be a pushover.

She remembered when Mariah had been born. Sara had already been seven when her mother had got pregnant, despite the doctors saying it would never happen, and she’d been so excited to go from lonely only to big sister. When the baby had come home, she’d eagerly helped her mother and father, and somehow it seemed she’d never stopped.

It often felt there was no time for herself, to work toward her own dreams and goals. Being viewed as an easy mark was one thing, but when you added being caught in a tug of love between Cyndi and her mom, and looking after Nonni, it often felt like too much. The emotional strain and financial pressure had stressed her to the point of a functional gastrointestinal disorder. Sometimes just seeing one of her family members’ numbers pop up on her phone made her stomach roil and burn, her teeth clench.

That wasn’t something she shared with her family, though. Since childhood everyone had commented on how independent and reliable she was, and, as she finally opened her front door, Sara reflected that there were far worse ways her family could think of her.

Her relief at finally getting home evaporated when, calling out to the French bulldog jumping up and down in the kitchen, she saw the note from her roommate.

Sara, going to be late. Walk Dief for me.

Not even a “please” or a “thank you.”

But it wouldn’t be fair to take out her bad mood on the dog by refusing to walk him when he’d been locked up by himself all day.

“Well, Dief, since I’m already wet, we might as well go for that walk now.”

And she had to giggle when, hearing her say “walk,” the dog danced on his hind legs, turning in circles.

After changing into a pair of dry sneakers, Sara let him out of the kitchen and hooked his leash to his collar.

“Walkies,” she sang, loving the way he pirouetted on the way back to the front door. “Walkies,” she sang again, as she pulled the door open...

And walked straight into the man standing on her doorstep.

The air left her chest in a whoosh, and when she gasped to inflate her lungs again her head filled with the most delectable male scent she’d ever encountered. Firm fingers gripped her upper arms, steadying her as she wobbled.

Quickly stepping back and pulling a now barking Diefenbaker with her, Sara looked up.

And lost her breath all over again.

Dark yet somehow cool eyes stared down at her from a face too pretty to be traditionally handsome and yet too roughly hewn to be beautiful. Toffee-toned skin stretched over an undeniably masculine bone structure. Midnight-black hair waved back from a wide forehead, which was balanced by a strong jawline and ever so slightly hooked nose. And his unsmiling but deliciously shaped lips made her legs suddenly weak.

Her heart started racing, not in fright but with the intense sensation of recognition firing through her body, making her head spin. Although she could swear she’d never seen him before, something in his inscrutable gaze, the set of his head, the scent still lingering in her nostrils called to her primal, feminine core.

Then common sense returned.

Snapping her gaping mouth shut, she tugged Dief close to her side. Looking down at the dancing, yapping Frenchie gave her welcome respite from staring at the man before her.

“Diefenbaker, enough. Sit.”

Giving her a doleful glare, the little dog did as she commanded, his barking replaced by little rumbles in his throat.

Steeling herself, Sara looked back up and stuttered, “C-can I help you?”

Great. Not only was she a bedraggled mess, but she couldn’t even speak to the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen without sounding like a dork.

“Dr. Sara Greer?”

It was only nominally a question. His deep, accented tones made it more of a haughty statement, and Sara just stopped herself from shyly dipping her chin. Instead, she forced herself to look directly into his eyes.

“Yes?”

“My name is Dr. Farhan Alaoui.” He paused almost expectantly, his gaze watchful. “Crown Prince of Kalyana.”

For a long moment the words sounded like gibberish. Of course she’d heard them loud and clear, but they made no sense to her on an intellectual level.

Had she fallen on the way home, hit her head and lapsed into some kind of concussed dream? That seemed more likely than a man claiming to be a crown prince standing on her doorstep.

“Wh-who?”

Obviously sensing her rising anxiety, Dief stood up and growled. Sara bent to scoop him up. The little dog was trembling—or was it her shaking that way?

“Dr. Farhan Alaoui. Crown Prince of Kalyana,” he repeated, tipping his head back so he was looking down that impressive nose at her, and enunciating every syllable as though speaking to a child.

“D-don’t b-be ridiculous.” She could hardly catch her breath, between the pounding of her heart and rising nausea. “Is this some kind of joke? Who put you up to this?”

Her mind was spinning as she tried to figure out what was going on. There were only three people she’d shared her DNA results with, all trusted family members. Would any of them play such a cruel hoax on her?

“No joke, Dr. Greer.” The corners of his lips twitched downward, reminding her of her least favorite lecturer at university. The one for whom she could do no right. “I’ve come to offer you a job.”

“A job?” she repeated, still trying to sort through the chaos in her head. She peeked around his broad-shouldered frame, expecting to see Cyndi or maybe Mariah behind him, holding a camera and giggling. “A-as what?”

His lips tightened, and she actually heard him inhale before he said, “My wife.”

CHAPTER TWO

OF COURSE SHE thought he was crazy, although she was intrigued enough to put aside her skepticism and at least listen to what he had to say.

If even two months earlier someone had said her roots lay in the small kingdom of Kalyana, she wouldn’t have had a clue where they were talking about. After getting her DNA results she’d had to look it up online.

Lying on her bed, computer on her lap, she’d fallen in love with the pictures of the country and the faces of the people. A chain of thirty-plus small islands in the Indian Ocean, it was a melting pot, she’d learned from her research. A mixture of Indian, Arab, African and European, which lent her DNA breakdown credence.

The need to understand where her ancestors came from had been growing inside her for a long time, and had become a compulsion. It wasn’t anything she could discuss with her adoptive parents or younger sisters. How could she explain, although they were her family, the yearning to have a biological connection to other people, to an ancestral home, was overwhelming? Although they knew she’d looked up her birth parents’ names and had done the DNA test, it wasn’t something they’d talked about much, as though it wasn’t that important.

Her parents had a commendable, egalitarian outlook on life.

“Everyone’s the same, under their skin,” was one of her mom’s favorite sayings, but knowing that hadn’t helped Sara when she’d been a kid, going to school, trying to field questions about her origins.

With her burnt-caramel skin tone, thick, kinky black hair, dark brown eyes and plump build, she’d stood out, especially when compared to her tall, thin, fair-skinned, blonde sisters. There had been a few other children of color in the schools she’d gone to, but the difference had been that they had all known what their roots were. Sara never had.

It had left a hole inside; empty spots in her soul.

Crown Prince Farhan seemed able to fill in some of those blanks, although she found it difficult to comprehend what he was saying.

“Explain it to me again,” she said.

Sitting in a slightly seedy coffee shop down the road from her house, she was supremely aware of the man across the table, and the avid stares of the other early evening customers. Who could blame them for being curious?

With his beautifully fitting coat, even in jeans and with a silk scarf looped informally around his throat, there was nothing casual about the overall effect Crown Prince Farhan projected.

Everything about him, from his aura of wealth to the bodyguard, who he’d introduced as Kavan, sitting at an adjacent table, was beyond Sara’s, and no doubt the other patrons’, ken.

It made her aware of the slightly rundown aura of her blue-collar neighborhood. Heightened her discomfort and confusion.

With exaggerated patience he replied, “In a nutshell, you’re part of the Kalyanese royal family. A part that was thought to have died off.”

“But I looked at my adoption records. My father was Brian Haskell, not this...”

“Bhaskar Ahuja,” he helpfully supplied.

“Right. Him. So I can’t be who you think I am.”

“According to the DNA results, you’re definitely the granddaughter of Queen Nargis, and Bhaskar was her only child. Ergo...”

She shook her poor befuddled head.

“This is crazy. And how does any of this relate to your proposition that we marry?”

Just saying the words made her blood pressure skyrocket, bringing a slow-building headache.

“Through your father, you could, if you wish to exercise it, have a claim to the throne. Should certain factions find that out, you may be used as a rallying point for a revolution.”

“I—I don’t want the throne,” she’d said, quite sure it would be the end of the conversation. The craziness.

But Crown Prince Farhan had simply shaken his head.

Apparently, in the worlds of royalty and politics, nothing was that simple. She wouldn’t even have to participate in the rebellion, could denounce it, and that still wouldn’t be enough.

Farhan wrapped long, nimble fingers around the disposable cup half-filled with coffee and leaned closer across the small table. At that distance, in the garish light, she realized his eyes weren’t as dark as she’d thought.

Or as cold.

In the rich brown tones there was, she thought, a hint of sympathy, although what she interpreted as determination took precedence.

“Even though there is no way to connect Brian Haskell with Bhaskar, except through your DNA, some might consider you the true Queen of Kalyana. My father hopes that, should your lineage become public knowledge, uniting the bloodlines through our marriage would appease those inclined to overthrow his reign.”

At least some semblance of her logical brain was still functioning. Not that she knew much about royalty and rights of inheritance, but she did know enough to ask, “But don’t thrones pass from father to son? And if my father ran off rather than take the throne, shouldn’t he be considered to have abdicated?”

He surprised her with the briefest hint of a smile. Just enough to chase the solemn, arrogant expression from his face and create deep, slashing laugh lines in his cheeks. With just that small change his face, already gorgeous, became shockingly beautiful.

Tingles of awareness shot through her veins, and heat settled low in her belly.

“Not in Kalyana. It’s always been the oldest child, irrespective of gender. And there are people who might say Bhaskar was forced to run away by my family, rather than him leaving of his own accord.”

A little chill ran up her spine at his words, and she had to ask, “Could there possibly be any truth to that? And if we’re both part of the royal family, aren’t we related?”

His face tightened, became forbidding, yet he replied, “No, we’re not related and I think it doubtful my grandfather even knew he was next in line, since we’d cut off all contact with the kingdom by that point. My branch of the family had left Kalyana about a century before, and was living prosperously in Australia. By all accounts, my grandfather, his wife and children underwent great upheaval when he agreed to take the throne. And their transition was difficult, because of the suspicion surrounding your father’s disappearance.”

Her mind was going a million miles an hour, and she latched onto a subject that felt distant enough to be tenable. “How old was your father when they moved there?”

His eyebrows rose slightly, as though the question caught him off-guard. “About nine or so, I think.”

“Poor soul,” she murmured, imagining herself at that age moving halfway across the world into a new and hostile environment. She’d had life changes happen at about the same age, and the effects still lingered, even after so many years. “That must have been rough on him.”

Prince Farhan’s eyes widened slightly, then he dropped his gaze to his cup, not replying.

There were too many threads to unravel, but one thing was foremost in her mind.

“Why can’t I just sign a document saying I promise not to try to take over the country? Wouldn’t that work as well?”

He looked up at her again, but it felt as though he’d pulled his mind back to their conversation from somewhere far away.

“The vast majority of the Kalyanese people have no problem with the monarchy. However, even after more than fifty years, the suspicions about my family have lingered, so having you aligned with our side of the family would...should...put all that to rest, once and for all.”

It was too much to take in, and she struggled to contain her anxiety, the panic making her pre-ulcerous stomach burn and her hands shake.

Sara wasn’t impulsive. She’d had neither the luxury nor the inclination to be. In life, and particularly in her job, she was cautious and deliberate, to the point where the manager of the walk-in clinic often asked her speed up diagnosing and treating patients.

And yet here she was, seriously considering his proposition.

It wasn’t just the money, although the lump sum he’d offered, along with an amount he’d called a monthly stipend but had sounded like a yearly salary to her, would definitely be a godsend. More than that, though, the gorgeous man sitting across from her seemed to embody adventure, and offer her a chance to see her ancestral home. He was also dangling a chance to play a fairy-tale role in front of her like the ultimate carrot.

Her. Plain, unremarkable, sensible and reliable Sara Greer, contemplating running off into the sunset with a real life prince to become a princess in her own right?

She must be losing her mind.

As though to distract her, her brain went off at a tangent and she heard herself say, “You sound Australian, but Kalyana is in the Indian Ocean. Have your family kept their accents after all this time?”

Farhan shook his head. “I don’t sound like the rest of my family because I went to medical school and practiced in Australia up until a year or so ago.”

In the midst of all the nonsense, she’d forgotten he was a doctor too. Somehow knowing that made her relax fractionally.

“What is your specialty?”

“I’m a general surgeon. My brother, Maazin, is one as well, although, having trained with the Royal Guard, his experiences have been far more interesting than mine.”

“Do you have a practice in Kalyana now?”

His expression was rueful as he replied, “I keep my hand in, but it feels as though I do more administrative work than actually practicing medicine. I’ve been trying to upgrade the medical systems, which has turned out to be more difficult than I’d imagined.”

“I’d need to work, if I agree to come with you.”

The words fell between them, were followed by a thick silence. Farhan’s eyes narrowed, and Sara knew why.

Despite the ambivalence of the statement, it sounded like capitulation.

Hadn’t she recently been thinking how much she wanted to see the place her ancestors came from? Wasn’t she longing for adventure, for a chance to advance, to make things better?

I’m going to do this.

And it was, as the old saying goes, all over bar the shouting at that point.

* * *

Somehow, before going to Canada to find her, when reading the PI’s report and looking at the photographs accompanying it, Farhan had felt he knew who Sara Greer was. Quiet and serious. Competent medically, but socially withdrawn. Nothing fun or fancy about her.

Yet when she’d tugged open her door before he could knock, and he’d seen her in the flesh for the first time, shock had fired through his system.

Damp and flushed, laughing down at the dog capering around her ankles, the sight had almost made him smile despite the stress he’d been under. But when their bodies had collided and she’d looked up, her gleaming brown eyes widening in shock, all his amusement had fled, replaced with a jolt of desire.

It still simmered beneath his skin, and he found himself taking in her every expression, every gesture, trying to parse them, wanting to understand what each one meant.

Not the most auspicious start to what was supposed to be strictly a business arrangement. This sudden surge of attraction was unwanted, as was the tug of sympathy he felt toward Sara Greer. Even as a child, he’d recognized the subtle danger of allowing himself to feel too much for others. Ali had been the golden son, Maazin the baby. Farhan had felt lost in the shuffle, ignored until he did something wrong. He’d craved his mother’s love, his father’s approval, but their attention had rarely strayed his way. Withdrawing into himself and avoiding emotional involvement had served him well.

A marriage of convenience, especially of a short duration, would suit him perfectly. With his need to serve his country foremost in his mind, he had no time for complications and messy relationships.

And it was time he made that aspect of it absolutely clear.

“What I propose is that we marry, and agree to stay together for at least a year.” Something in the way her cheeks pinked up made his pulse escalate, but he kept his face expressionless, and his voice level. “Obviously, this won’t be a union based on emotion and, while I’m content with that, I doubt you’d want to be locked into such an arrangement long term.”

“How would a short-term marriage help the situation, though?”

“If within the year no one finds out about your lineage, I’d think it would be safe to part ways, and the chances of anyone finding out who your father was are nil. I’m sure if anyone knew Bhaskar was alive all those years, they would have said something.”

The skeptical look she gave him made him impatient. She’d seemed set to agree to his terms, and now he felt victory slipping away.

“Look,” he said, leaning closer over the table, trying to ignore the way the lights made her eyes seem speckled with gold dust, “I’m doing this because my father ordered me to. He’s not been well, and I think he’s trying to wrap up loose ends as best he can, although I suspect he’ll live for many years to come. In his mind, a marriage of convenience is perfectly acceptable and you should be happy to become a part of a wealthy, royal family. He entered into such a marriage, and I knew eventually I would also, but trying to explain to him that modern women, like you, would find it strange and potentially insulting did no good.

“So I’m following his orders in the best way I know how, trying to be fair to you in the process. As Bhaskar’s daughter you would probably have inherited a bankrupt country, as my grandfather did, but I believe you’re still due compensation as his heir, so think of the lump sum in that light, even though it comes with strings. The monthly stipend will be for the sheer upheaval moving and playing your part will bring.”

He wouldn’t tell her the deal he offered wasn’t sanctioned by his father, who believed theirs would be a true, lasting union, not the limited one Farhan envisioned.

Sara still looked unsure, however, so he continued, “If after a time we part ways, my father won’t be happy, but that wouldn’t be his decision to make. He can order me to marry, but he can’t order you to stay in the marriage if you don’t want to.”

“That makes sense,” she said, shifting her empty cup back and forth between her hands. Then she cleared her throat, the blush now suffusing her entire face, but she bravely held his gaze as she said, “Before I agree, I have to ask: would you be expecting me to fulfill all the usual roles as your wife?”

He knew what she was asking; would have found her delicacy amusing if it weren’t for the ramifications of even thinking that way, coupled with the rush of heat up his spine at the thought of having her in his bed.

“No,” he said, quickly enough that her blush deepened. “Us being intimate isn’t part of the bargain.”

If his father had his way it would have been written into the contract. Uttam had gone so far as to say he would give Sara a million dollars to produce an heir within the first year, saying it might, “smooth the way to compliance.” Farhan found his father’s suggestion offensive in every way, and had no intention of telling her about it. Ever.

She looked back down at her cup, and he held his breath. He’d thought it would take weeks, perhaps even months to convince her to marry him, but beyond the shyness and anxiety in her gaze there was also curiosity and something akin to excitement. Farhan hoped it would be enough to get her to agree to his terms.

“Okay, but I’ll need time to get everything sorted out.”

Outwardly calm, but inside doing fist pumps and cartwheels, he said mildly, “That’s good. You won’t regret it.”

Then, with ruthless efficiency, he steamrollered over every objection that would delay their return to Kalyana, or make her change her mind as the reality of her agreement set in.

No, she didn’t need time to give notice or to pack. He was royalty, and rich. They’d hire people to deal with those pesky details.

“You can leave all that to me, and we’ll be on our way in two weeks.”

Eyes wide, she’d gasped. “Wait. You’re kidding, right?” Waving her hands, she continued, “I don’t know anything about being royalty; what to do or say. It’ll be a disaster, and an embarrassment. I can’t do it.”

“I’ll arrange for you to learn whatever you need to know, as well as make sure you’re completely kitted out for the part. If we get everything squared away here over the next week or so we’ll go to Toronto, get married there, and then head to Paris or Milan to get you a new wardrobe.”

The mingled horror and shock on her face was obvious, yet she didn’t object again. Instead she muttered, “And what the heck do I tell my family?”

“The truth?” he ventured, only to be met with a scathing glance.

“Oh, heck, no. All this princess business would blow their minds.”

“They’ll find out sooner or later that you’re marrying a prince, albeit one from a tiny kingdom.”

She nibbled at the corner of her lip, and then replied, “And we’re going to have to come up with a realistic backstory about how we met, and why we’re marrying in such a rush.”

He shrugged, and gave her a smile. “I came to Canada on business. We met and I fell head over heels for you. I refused to go home without you, and you finally gave in.”

Her scathing glance and answer made him smile.

“You’re going to have to come up with a better story than that. No one would believe you’d fall for me like that.”

“We’ll see,” was all he said, rising to get another coffee, which he found to be surprisingly good. “Want another drink?”

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