The Sheikh's Secret Baby: Nothing stays hidden forever ...

  THE SHEIKH’S SECRET BABY

  Clare Connelly

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and have no existence outside the author’s imagination. They have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names and are pure invention.

  All rights reserved. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reprinted by any means without permission of the Author.

  The illustration on the cover of this book features model/s and bears no relation to the characters described within.

  First published 2016

  (c) Clare Connelly

  Photo Credit: dollarphotoclub.com

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  http://www.clareconnelly.co.uk

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  “The baby was more than just that; the infant was Hope.

  A birth of newness and a promise of stability –

  With his arrival came splendour and wealth and the kingdom was blessed once more.”

  - The tale of The First Sheikh of Delani, 17 A.D

  PROLOGUE

  “The wedding is off.”

  Four words, so simple and precise, seemed to reverberate around the ceremonial temple with undue force.

  From where she sat in the front row, Jalilah couldn’t see the response her brother’s statement had wrought.

  But she could feel it.

  Murmured words raced at her like a high-speed train.

  He was upset.

  Not many in the room would be able to discern that fact, but Lilah knew him well.

  His handsome face was grim, his expression intentionally kept blank, but there was something in his eyes that Lilah alone understood. A muscle flexed in his jaw and his shoulders were tense.

  She clasped her hands in her lap and leaned forward subconsciously. What’s happened? She thought the incantation over and over, until his eyes clashed fiercely with hers.

  She stood without meaning to, and as she moved towards him, the room silenced. A simple look from her brother stilled her movement.

  “The wedding is off.” This time, he addressed the words straight at her, before sweeping from the room with the confidence that came naturally to a man such as him. He had been born to power and that power ran through his veins as blood did mere mortals’.

  For as long as she could remember, this wedding had been spoken of. The union between the dashing, powerful Kiral Mazroui and the stunning princess Melania of the distant kingdom of Assing had been planned for almost their entire lives.

  What could possibly have happened to put an end to such a perfect plan?

  CHAPTER ONE

  One week earlier.

  The sun was completely unrelenting. Just as Abi had imagined it might be. Though the ocean curved around the distant capital city, the monoliths of steel and glass were thick and heavy between her and the sea’s cool relief. There was no refreshing breeze offered here.

  Only sultry sunshine and dust, and the ceaseless din of fevered crowds.

  Her eyes scanned the assortment of people crushed against the palace gates. Beggars in tatty clothing had their slender hands extended in the hope that the royal household would favour them. With money or food, Abi couldn’t have said. She only knew that she would soon be doing exactly the same thing – asking the palace for money – and the thought filled her with despair.

  Oblivious to the fettered crowd of paupers stood tourists like her. Yet not like her. They were smiling happily, selfie-sticks extended high against the backdrop of the crisp blue sky, eyes crinkling as they pulled picture-perfect faces to immortalise a single moment. The palace was the backdrop they all chose. And why not? It was a splendour beyond comprehension.

  Her throat was dry and it had little to do with the temperature, or the fact she’d felt almost unbearably hot since she’d arrived in the capital that morning. No. It was the palace itself, and the man contained somewhere within its sprawling walls.

  Abi had come to Delani with no idea what to expect. How could she have? By the time he’d told her that he was a powerful ruler of a faraway desert kingdom, it had been impossible for Abi to ask him about his country. He had broken the news to her at the same time that he’d broken up with her: in one fell swoop she’d lost the man she’d fallen in love with and realized that he’d never existed.

  Delani, then, was a mystery to Abigail. She had a vague understanding of its geography, and she knew that it was supremely wealthy, but beyond that, she was clueless.

  Now, staring at the palace she’d seen only once before – in the pages of the guidebook the travel agent had excitedly shown her when she’d booked her flight – she was engulfed by a sense of wariness.

  This was going to be a disaster.

  Her nerves bundled inside her chest and her heart hammered hopelessly. The guard who’d refused to help her was still at his post, his outfit unmistakably military; his weapon undoubtedly real – and loaded.

  Sweat had beaded around her neck and was running in rivulets between her breasts. She wished, more than anything, she was back in New York in the comfort of her apartment, with Michael in her arms.

  Ordinarily the thought of her adorable son would have brought a smile to her face, but this was not an ordinary day. She’d come to Delani to beg for help from a man she had sworn she would never contact again. Her success was vital. If she didn’t succeed … she couldn’t bear to contemplate what she’d do if he refused her request.

  She couldn’t let any harm befall Michael. She couldn’t! And surely he wouldn’t. After all, Michael was his son too. His responsibility.

  She swallowed.

  The knot of tension was palpable. It was a noose around her mind; a nail in her heart.

  For years she’d avoided this. For years she’d worried about the words she’d use if she ever had to tell him the truth. What would she say to him? How could she explain to one of the most powerful men on earth that their brief union – it hadn’t even been a month – had resulted in a little boy? A son she’d kept from him? She had worried endlessly about that conversation over the years, and yet she’d never imagined that she wouldn’t have it. That she would be prevented from even speaking to him again.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, furious at herself for the foolish miscalculation. He was an Emir, and she’d expected what? That she could just fly into his country, drop this particularly messy bombshell, beg for his help and then fly home again unscathed?

  She cursed herself now for throwing out his business card. He’d given it to her so reluctantly; his expression had been one of cold detachment. It had obviously been a sop. Something he’d aimed to placate her with despite the fact he was leaving her heart broken. And so she’d ripped it up and sworn she’d never, not in a thousand years, think of him again. Of course she hadn’t known then about the tiny little life in her belly.

  How many hours had she been sitting in front of the palace? Several. Her skin, despite its natural caramel colouring, had begun to burn. She looked left, then right, but there was no shade to be had.

  She stood up and ran her hand around her neck before taking another step towards the guard. His eyes flicked to her speculatively. He’d been watching her. This pretty little foreigner who seemed to be demanding an interview with his supreme highness Kiral Mazroui.

  She must have been crazy. He would lose his job if he actually passed
her name up the ranks.

  She was just a fan. Perhaps even psychotic. His eyes scanned her again. She was small in size, petite and slim, and nice enough to look at. But there was something in her face – a determination that spoke of true desperation.

  He watched as her eyes scanned the crowd, and she lifted a hand to mop her brow. A small urchin boy approached her from the side, his face covered in dust. The child must have been four or five – only young. Such beggars were common near the palace. The young boy’s hand curled around the bottom of the woman’s shirt and the guard stood a little straighter, preparing to intervene if the child threatened her in any way.

  The woman crouched down, so that her eyes were at the child’s level. She smiled at him gently and nodded, though the guard highly doubted the child had said anything intelligible to a foreigner.

  He caught the sound of her words on the breeze but could not discern what she was saying. Then, she reached into her bag and lifted something out and handed it to the child. The guard had to squint to make out what she was holding: a sandwich and bottle of water.

  The child looked nervous; shy, suddenly, but the woman was insistent and her expression encouraged the child to relax. Finally, he took the proffered food and then ran quickly through the crowd, as though she might change her mind and demand these gifts back.

  The American watched him skip away with a forlorn look on her face and then returned her attention to the palace. Her eyes were focused on the walls, scanning them as though she could intuit facts from the marble that others could not.

  The guard could not afford to lose his job. With four brothers to support, and he the only one old enough to work, his duties were sacred. Yet her small act of kindness had touched something deep within him, for it was a similar kindness that had, at one point, saved his family from ruin.

  With a suppressed sigh, he signaled to one of the guards in the tower and waited until a relief sentry came towards him. Only then was he able to step away from his post and march swiftly towards her.

  “Madam?” His English was poor but his tone was insistent enough to draw her attention.

  “Oh, yes!” She spun around, her small nose covered in beads of sweat and tiny little freckles. “Yes! Thank you! You’re going to help me after all, aren’t you?”

  His expression was lacking conviction, as though even he couldn’t believe what he was about to do. “I do not know yet. But I will let someone else decide. Okay?”

  Her heart hammered. It presented yet another bridge to cross but she wasn’t going to complain. She was one step closer to the most excruciating and essential conversation of her life.

  Michael. She thought of his sweet little body and bright green eyes and straightened her spine. “I must speak to him. It’s imperative. I know he’ll be … glad to see me.”

  The guard wondered if he was signing his own arrest warrant but nonetheless, he nodded slowly. “I cannot promise a thing, Madam.”

  “It’s enough that you’re trying,” she said in a rush, her whole body tense. “Thank you. Whatever happens.”

  He didn’t lead her through the main gate of the palace. That was thronging with tourists. Instead, they walked the length of its fence line and around the corner, and then he paused at a checkpoint. There were four men like him inside, with identical uniforms. Though as they spoke quickly, in their own language, she saw that one of the men had three yellow arrows on his pocket, and he seemed to be speaking most. Apparently, he was in charge.

  She stared at him directly and cut him off mid-sentence. “I need to see His Royal Highness Kiral Mazroui on a matter of enormous importance.”

  The man in charge stared at her with obvious disdain. He didn’t speak, but his eyes seemed to say, “What could you have to say of any importance to our King?”

  “Please,” she whispered, the word barely a breath.

  “He is not available to waste time speaking to tourists,” the man said with a cold sneer. “Perhaps you have not heard, madam, that he is due to be married in a matter of days.”

  Oh, she’d heard. She’d heard about little else since landing in this country of his. How excited his people were to be welcoming a new princess to the royal palace. She hid her hurt well, though her heart was barbing with tiny darts of pain. Pain was nothing new when it came to her relationship with Kiral. There had been pain all along. Pain in the intense pleasure he wrought. Pain in his departure. Pain in his deception. Pain, horrible pain.

  “I’ll wait,” she muttered through gritted teeth. And then, as if remembering she was speaking to the very man who might hold her fate in his hands, she softened her words with an attempt at a gracious smile. “If there’s somewhere to do so.”

  Her original saviour, the guard from the main gate, said something in his own language. Whatever it was, it had more effect on the lead officer. With a look of disapproval and a slow, insulting inspection of Abigail from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, he drawled a few words and then spun on his heel.

  “What did he say?” She whispered, her breath bottled in her chest.

  The original guard swallowed. “He said you may wait. But first, you must go through security.”

  She nodded. She’d expected as much. In other circumstances she might even have made a joke, asking if she looked like the kind of person who might pose a threat to someone like Kiral. But she couldn’t joke. She couldn’t say or do anything that might jeopardize this very fragile bubble of hope she had.

  And so she waited. She waited in the small, hot room until yet another guard beckoned for her to follow. By the time she stood, she felt almost faint from the heat. She had to put a hand on the wall for support but two more guards immediately moved towards her and began speaking harshly in foreign words. She startled and stood upright.

  “Don’t touch the walls,” the guard she had been following cautioned. But he was kind. She could see a look of pity in his eyes as he took in her appearance. His words were heavily accented. “Would you like a chair with wheels to be brought?”

  She had imagined meeting Kiral again, after all this time, and at no point had she imagined that she would have such a disadvantage. She needed to face him with at least some of her pride in tact. She would have liked to be looking her best, but she was sweaty and covered in a fine layer of dust and sand. She shook her head. “I’m fine,” she lied. Having given her water away, her throat was dryer than it had ever been. She would have drunk water from a camel’s bowl, if they’d offered it.

  Two doors opened seamlessly as they arrived; they led deeper into the interior of the palace. She was so relieved to have crossed this barrier that she didn’t, at first, notice the grandeur of her surroundings. But two steps down the corridor, she couldn’t help but appreciate the overwhelming luxury. Enormous marbled tiles met walls that were glistening white. Everything was white, in fact, and bright. Except where it was gold — and there was a lot of gold. She swallowed as the guard quickened his step. At the end of the first hallway there was a security scanner, the likes of which she was familiar with from the airport.

  “Pass me your shoes and bag, madam,” a separate guard invited, his accent much easier to understand.

  She slipped her feet out of the sensible ballet flats she’d chosen and unhooked the bag from across her shoulder. They looked pathetic and dirty in the plastic tray. The guard, with gloved hands, began to inspect the contents of her life and then pushed them through a small scanner. He studied a screen and then nodded. “Okay.” He nodded towards his left. “Through here.”

  She walked under the arch, her nerves leaping exponentially with every hurdle she crossed, for each one brought her closer to Kiral.

  “You have identification?”

  She nodded and reached for her handbag. “May I?”

  He nodded. She slipped her passport from the bag and handed it to him. He studied it and then put it into another tray.

  “Oh.” Abi’s eyes were enormous as she looked at his face. “May
I have it back?”

  “Not now. After.”

  “After?” She licked her lower lip. “What are you going to do with it?”

  His smile was reassuring. “Have it checked and keep it safe. You need not worry, madam. You are in the royal palace of Delani. We have little interest in identity fraud, eh?”

  She felt small and silly. How could she explain to him that it was not identity fraud she feared so much as a loss of her liberty? She couldn’t. Not when so much was still at stake. Not when she still had no idea if Kiral would even see her. If he would help her.

  “All visitors surrender their passport, madam. It is a necessary security measure.”

  “Right,” she felt slightly mollified by his assurances. She nodded jerkily and, when he extended the tray to her, slipped her bag back over her shoulder and her shoes onto her feet. They were hot. So hot. This guard was kind-seeming and so she felt emboldened to say, “Would it be possible to get some water, please?”

  He nodded and said a few words over her shoulder. A woman appeared with a bottle.

  “This is Anushka. She will perform a pat-down, madam. Then you may have your water.”

  “Fine,” Abigail nodded. Weariness sapped her like a spell. What time was it? She scanned the room, looking for a clock. Anushka’s watch was the closest she came. As the woman deftly moved her hands over Abigail’s body, she saw it was almost three o’clock in the afternoon. She’d arrived at the palace at ten that morning, and prior to that it had been a long flight out from New York. No wonder she was tired and hungry.

  Anushka said something to the guard Abi had originally followed into the room and he nodded efficiently towards Abigail. “This way.”

  She fell into step beside him, focusing on the details of the building to keep her mind off the meeting that was, surely, coming closer and closer to fruition.

  Did the guard intentionally take her past the statue? Or was there no other way to enter the inner sanctum of the palace? It towered over her; it was at least five times as tall as her, and built of marble. It was Kiral, though. She knew his body intimately, and she knew that this statue had been perfectly carved to resemble his form. She stared at it with a sinking feeling of desperation. How had she ever felt she loved him? How had she ever believed she knew him? He was a man that sculptures had been made for! He was a King!