they were married, Jasmine, his childhood sweetheart, had become increasingly clingy and demanding, dissolving into tears or throwing tantrums when she didn’t get her way. She had resented his busy work schedule, and had become convinced he was having affairs. When he had refused to start a family until their relationship was on a more even keel she had taken that as a sign that he regretted the marriage. The guilt she had inspired in him had taken on a haunting rawness when, after a tense exchange during a boat trip, Jasmine had stormed off in the yacht’s tender, overturned on rocks and drowned.
The memory of the icy salt water dashing off rocks as he had attempted to save Jasmine started a dull ache in the scar that marred one cheekbone, a permanent reminder of that day.
Legend said Gabe’s ancestor had a positive outcome to his passionate involvement with the woman he had married. Gabe’s experience had been such that he would not allow a woman to have that kind of power over him again. As far as he was concerned, passion had its place, but only in short, controllable liaisons. Love was another thing entirely; he would not be drawn into that maelstrom again.
A rap at the door of his suite was a welcome distraction. Shrugging into a T-shirt, he opened the door to his longtime friend and Zahir’s chief of security.
Xavier, who had just flown in from Zahir, strolled into the spacious lounge that adjoined Gabe’s bedroom and handed him an envelope. “Special delivery.”
Slitting the envelope, Gabe extracted the marriage contract he had discussed with his lawyers before leaving Zahir.
Xavier stared at the contract as if it were a bomb about to explode. “I don’t believe it. You’re actually going to go through with it.”
Gabe headed for the state-of-the-art kitchenette that opened off the lounge. “There aren’t a whole lot of options.”
With the cold winds of bankruptcy at their backs and the remains of Camille’s extraordinary wealth lost during the confusion of the Second World War, it was up to Gabe to restore the country’s fortunes with another arranged marriage to an extremely wealthy woman.
Xavier shook his head to the offer of a glass of orange juice. “I would have thought that after Jasmine—”
“That it was time I moved on?”
Xavier’s expression became impatient. “When you married Jasmine you were both too young. It’s time you had a real marriage.”
“The marriage to Jasmine was real enough.” Gabe drained his glass of juice and set the glass down on the counter with a sharp click. As far as he was concerned, their marriage had been all too real. He could still feel the familiar coldness in his gut, the tightness in his chest every time he thought about the past and how completely he had failed his wife when she had needed him most. “This marriage won’t be.” It was prescribed and controlled, preventing any possibility of destructive, manipulative emotion. “Remember, it’s a business arrangement.”
Xavier, who was happily married, didn’t bother to hide his incredulity. “You can’t seriously think you can keep it that way. What woman will ever allow that?”
Gabe lifted a brow as he flipped to the back pages of the contract. It contained a short list of candidates and photographs of the pretty young women from wealthy families who had expressed an interest in the prestige and business opportunities inherent in a marriage to the future Sheikh of Zahir.
Xavier frowned at the list. “I still think you’re making a big mistake, but I guess it’s your funeral.”
Gabe saw the moment Xavier realized the import of his final comment about a funeral. He cut off Xavier’s apology with a curt word. They had grown up together. Xavier had been his best man when he’d gotten married, and when Jasmine had died, he had kept the press and hordes of well-meaning friends and relatives at bay, gifting Gabe the privacy he had needed. Through it all, their friendship had endured. “I have to marry at some point. Don’t forget, aside from the money, Zahir needs an heir.”
After Xavier left, Gabe grabbed fresh clothing and headed for the shower. He considered Xavier’s comment that he and Jasmine had been too young to marry. He had been twenty, Jasmine eighteen. The marriage had lasted two years.
Flicking on the shower, he waited until steam rose off the tiles before stripping and stepping beneath the water. Now he was thirty, and as his father’s only son he needed to marry and continue the family line. The prospect of a second marriage made his jaw clench. He could think of other ways to raise the money Zahir needed, Westernized ways that weren’t presently a part of Zahir’s constitution. But with his father recovering from cancer and wary about new investments, Gabe had accepted his father’s old-fashioned solution.
Minutes later, dressed in a white shirt, red tie and dark suit, he stood drinking the dark, aromatic coffee he preferred as he stared out at the heavy rain sweeping the harbor. As cold and alien as the view was, thousands of miles from sunny Zahir, it was nevertheless familiar. Not only had his mother been born in New Zealand, but Wellington had been a home away from home for him because he had gone to school here.
Checking his watch, he placed his empty mug on the coffee table next to the marriage contract. Right now he had a breakfast meeting with both the Zahiri and New Zealand ministers for tourism. That would be followed by a string of business meetings, then a cocktail party and presentation on Zahir’s attractions as a tourist destination at the consulate tonight.
Despite Gabe’s resolve, he could think of better ways to spend his last day of freedom.
One more day—and night—as a bachelor, before he committed to the marriage of convenience that was his destiny.
* * *
She was destined to be loved, truly loved...
The chime of her alarm almost pulled Sarah Duval out of her dream, but the irresistible passion that held her in its grip was too singular and addictive to relinquish just yet. Eyes firmly closed against the notion of another day of unvarying routine in her teaching job, she groped for the alarm and hit the sleep button. Dragging a fluffy feather pillow over her head, she sank back into the dream.
The directness of the warrior’s gaze was laden with the focused intent she had waited years to experience, as if he thought she was beautiful, or more—as if he was actually fascinated by her.
Strong fingers cupped her chin. Sarah dragged her gaze from the fascinating scar that sliced a jagged line across one taut cheekbone and clamped down on the automatic caution that gripped her, the disbelief that after years of being let down by men an outrageously attractive man could truly want her. The searing heat blasting off his bronzed torso, the rapid thud of his heart beneath her palms, didn’t feel like a lie.
In point of fact, the warrior wasn’t saying a lot, but Sarah was okay with that. After years of carefully studying body language, because she had learned she could not always trust what was said, she had learned to place a measure of trust in the vocabulary of the senses.
Throwing her normal no-nonsense practicality to the winds she lifted up on her toes, buried her fingers in the thick night-dark silk of his hair, and pressed herself firmly against the muscular warmth of his body. His mouth closed over hers and emotion, almost painful in its intensity, shuddered through her.
Dimly, she acknowledged that this was it. The long years of waiting were over. She would find out what it felt like to be
