Marrying Her Enemy & Stolen by the Desert King Read online

  MARRYING HER ENEMY & STOLEN BY THE DESERT KING

  CLARE CONNELLY

  Contents

  MARRYING HER ENEMY

  STOLEN BY THE DESERT KING

  EXCERPT - IN THE HANDS OF THE SHEIKH

  EXCERPT - THE GREEK TYCOON’S FORBIDDEN AFFAIR

  Books By Clare Connelly

  MARRYING HER ENEMY

  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 2014

  (c) Clare Connelly

  Contact Clare:

  http://www.clareconnelly.co.uk

  Blog: http://clarewriteslove.wordpress.com/

  Email: [email protected]

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  “Hear my soul speak:

  The very instant that I saw you, did

  My heart fly to your service.”

  -William Shakespeare

  Chapter 1

  Luca Abramo would have given his eyeteeth to be anywhere else.

  The painfully chic art gallery was filled to overflowing with the crème de la crème of London’s society. Women so thin they looked like a breeze could snap them in two, dripping with diamonds and couture; men in tuxedos and double bow ties, with styled hair and an air of self-importance that sat ill on Luca’s broad shoulders. The scent of expensive canapés permeated the confined space, and the strains of the jazz band lilted in his ears. A charming scene; but one he nonetheless hated.

  His self-made fortune dwarfed the bank balance of half the room combined, but how he loathed the trappings of wealth. With an impatient sigh, he pressed his back against one of the stark white walls. To an onlooker, he might have seemed indolent and at ease. Only someone who knew him very well would have noticed that his squared shoulders and knitted brows were signs of total distaste.

  Most of the guests were familiar to him, from events such as this, despite the fact he avoided them wherever possible. If it weren’t for his friendship with Davies, he would have avoided this one too. Even his almost brotherly relationship with the host was almost not enough to have induced Luca to waste a perfectly fine Friday night at a stifling society affair.

  But Davies and he went back a long way, and there wasn’t much Luca wouldn’t do to show his loyalty for the man. After all, he owed what he’d become to Davies and Davies’s father. He shifted his view sideways, careful to keep any appearance of disdain off his rugged face.

  He had the kind of looks that women crossed rooms for. A dark, swarthy complexion; generous, wide lips, an aristocratic nose with a knot halfway down its length from when he’d broken it playing football as a teenager. His eyes were almond shaped and rimmed with thick, dark lashes. His hair, though, was what seemed to confuse and excite the fairer sex. Shoulder length and brown, it had a natural wave, and a wildness to it that was perfect for a man like Luca Abramo. Though he’d climbed to the top of the corporate world, he was anything but tame, and his hair was a none too subtle reminder.

  Beneath the five thousand pound tuxedo and hand crafted shoes stood a man both feral and wild, more comfortable in nothing but his own skin and the hills of his native Italy.

  His eyes continued to inspect the room, careful not to linger too long on any one person. He did not wish to speak to people; to make small talk with those he privately despised. He had no need. Many of the people assembled at the gallery had come to network and be seen, presumably with the goal of furthering their wealth and status. Luca cared little for social order. Even if he had, his place in society would have left him more than satisfied. At thirty six, he was spectacularly wealthy and highly-sought after. His lack of interest in social affairs gave him an air of mystery that seemed to increase his popularity, rather than having the desired effect of being left in peace.

  Two women were talking and nodding his way. One of them, he’d slept with the year earlier, and yet now he couldn’t remember her name. Francine? Fiona? His lips curled in a derisive twist before he continued his lazy inspection. Face after face offered little interest to Luca.

  There, by the door though, was one woman he hadn’t yet come across at one of these things. A small frown creased his face as he took the time to properly scrutinise her appearance. She looked like she belonged as well as the next woman. Her hair was so pale it was almost silver, cut short and shaped around her pixie-like face. She was small. Not just slender, but short too. She was not so skinny that she lacked any appeal, though, he credited dispassionately. The buttery lemon yellow dress she wore was cut just low enough to show the hint of her cleavage, and it was fitted to her knees, leaving him in little need of employing his imagination. Yes, an eleven out of ten for figure. That was nothing new. The women in this room did whatever it took to maintain their physical appeal. Surgery, absurd diets, gruelling work-outs. Lifting a book, though, and reading it from cover to cover was beyond most of them.

  The color of the dress shouldn’t have suited her. She was fair. So pale her skin seemed to glow beneath the bright halogens of the gallery. Even at a distance, he could see that her nose had been kissed with a smattering of dainty freckles. He found himself leaning forward imperceptibly, trying to get a better look at her face. She was talking to someone, though. A man he had met once or twice. Connor someone or other. A middling banker who fancied himself the next Donald Trump. A rather ambitious aspiration given Connor’s obvious lack of aptitude for investments.

  His lips twisted in a snarl of cynical amusement. Better and better. If he was to take a woman from someone, who better than an arrogant piece of work who had only gained a mild degree of success in life by employing every ounce of nepotism available to him?

  Not that he was going to take her, was he? He was done with spoiled brats who wanted little more than to lounge about in one of his luxurious hotel rooms, and beg trips on his private jet. Sure, it had been fun at first, but he’d grown up in the last few years. Women like this were high maintenance. Always more trouble than they were worth, in the end.

  At that exact moment, she angled her head to admire a piece of art hanging just to his left. He’d looked at the painting himself for some time. It was a confronting work of art. The blonde’s expression was filled with rapt awe as she swept her eyes over the broad brushstrokes and angry use of color.

  Fascinating.

  The painting had nothing on her, though. Far better than any of the canvases on display, he was lost in the endless depths of her eyes. They were green like the ocean, and they seemed to glow with the strength of her emotion. Her lips were soft and pink, full and naturally pouted, and in her chin, there was a little cleft that deserved to be tickled by tongue. If he hadn’t sworn off women like her, he would have crossed the room and channelled the full force of his intent on her.

  But he was done with demanding socialites.

  At her neck, she wore a thick, golden chain, and in her ears, diamonds that sparkled like stars in the night sky. As he watched, her date put a possessive arm on her elbow. She tilted her head to him, straining to hear his words. She laughed, then, and the sound carried across the crowded room to him. It was musical and natural. Complet
ely unforced. He felt himself harden a little, in immediate response.

  He willed her to look in his direction. To look at him. And yet, when her mossy eyes landed on his face, he was surprised. He felt a sharp tug of awareness as her face registered him, and scanned him in detail. Almost as much detail as he’d used to observe her.

  With a small curl of his lips, he looked away.

  He would not waste his time on another society princess. Life was too short. Even for petite vixens who could make his body ache with a single look.

  “So, what do you think?” Davies’s smooth, cultured voice broke through his fog of contemplation.

  “The art?” Luca grunted, pushing up from the wall and thrusting his hands into his pockets.

  “The art. The soiree. The women.” Davies’s grin held the boyish mirth that Luca recalled from their school days. “The whole shebang.”

  Luca lifted his brows, wanting to enthuse for the sake of his friend. “The art is accomplished,” he agreed, finally, nodding towards one particularly impressive abstract canvas on the opposite wall.

  “High praise from you,” the fair-headed man said with a laugh. He beckoned a waiter and retrieved two flutes of Cristal from the almost over-flowing tray. “Here. Loosen up. The room is pumping. The wine is flowing. Go. Have fun.”

  Luca’s expression was bland. “What makes you think I am not?”

  Davies laughed, slapping Luca on the shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe the way you’re glaring at my guests?”

  Luca’s gaze was unwavering. “I do not mean to glare. You know I find these occasions… oppressive.”

  “I do indeed. Could you perhaps just try to look like you’re having fun? You’re my A-list guest, after all.”

  Luca lifted his brows, though he wasn’t really surprised. When he’d first met Davies, he, Luca Abramo, had been the slightly uncertain, certainly inexperienced, boy of the pair. But more than two decades had passed since then, and now Luca was in command of his life, his businesses, and everyone he met. Despite the fact he loathed attention, his endless success in the business sphere had made him a household name.

  “I’ll do my best, for you, old friend.” He plastered a smile on his face. One that Davies immediately recognised as long suffering. He laughed, as he moved through the crowd, wondering how he and the antisocial megalomaniacal tycoon had ever become such firm friends. For as gregarious and outspoken as Henning Davies was, Luca Abramo was brooding and watchful. A true case of opposites attracting.

  At least the music was good, Luca thought, focussing on the upbeat saxophone solo that was coming from behind him. As he turned towards the band, he saw her again. Now, she was talking to a group, gesticulating wildly as she told some kind of story. She didn’t simply speak though. Her whole body seemed to resonate with the purpose of relating a tale; arms, hands, head, legs. Every part of her was pressed into service. There were six or seven people listening, most of them men.

  Possessive jealousy warred with curiosity.

  He didn’t like the way the other men were looking at her. Such clear devotion. Complete interest. Slavish desire.

  He shook his head and looked away. The waitress was moving in his direction, a tray of cocktails balanced on the upturned palm of her hand. Luca watched distractedly as the waitress weaved in and out of the partygoers, casually surveying and inspecting. As she neared the blonde, a man lifted his hand, and it caught the edge of the tray. It sent it flying right out of the waitress’s hand, and down to the polished marbled ground.

  With an enormous noise, the glasses splintered into pieces, spilling their expensive, bright liquid everywhere.

  Luca straightened immediately, ready to intervene. But a strange watchfulness kept him still.

  The rest of the room silenced. The band lulled for a moment. Haughty expressions were raised, whilst not a hand was lifted.

  In a sea of people, only the blonde seemed to react. With alacrity, she lifted a hand to her mouth and gasped, the sound tearing through the silent room.

  “Oh, goodness!” Her voice, when he first heard it, was so much softer than he’d expected. More common, too. “We must have bumped you. I’m terribly sorry. Are you hurt?” She cut across the short distance to the shocked looking waitress and cupped a hand on her wrist.

  Enchanted, Luca watched as the blonde leaned closer and whispered something into the waitress’s ear. He had to strain to hear, and only the fact that he was just metres away made it at all possible. “Don’t be upset, it’s not your fault. You’re not the first person to have spilled a drink!”

  The waitress smiled nervously, then crouched to the ground.

  The blonde’s face reflected her consternation. “Connor, get some towels.”

  The banker seemed discomforted, but he hid it swiftly. It was obvious that he wanted to impress the gorgeous woman. Enough to play along with her rescue mission. The band began to play their songs again, the conversations started to swirl in a normal patter, and Luca Abramo allowed himself to admit that he was properly interested.

  Not just because she was beautiful.

  No. He was interested because she was compassionate. And that was a rare quality indeed, particularly in the social circles he moved in. With that one move, she’d taken herself out of column A and straight into column B, for Bed.

  He was only human, after all.

  Luca was wryly amused when Connor returned with several extra wait staff instead of the towels. Evidently, getting help was the same to him as being of help. To be fair to the man, he was wearing an expensive tuxedo, and he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would risk his own clothing being destroyed because of a clumsy waitress.

  Casually, on the pretence of studying another painting, Luca moved closer.

  “I’m such a clutz,” the waitress whispered. “Thank you for being so kind.”

  The blonde shook her head. “Not at all. It could have happened to anyone. This place is packed so full there’s barely room to move.”

  “Thank you again.”

  The waitress moved away, her cheeks flaming, as her colleagues continued to efficiently remove any trace of the accident. And it had been an accident. A simple slip of the hand, the breaking of some glass, the spilling of some drinks. But it was an accident that had formed a resolution in Luca’s mind. And once he made a resolution, he was always certain to see it out.

  “Rosie, you are the most soft-hearted person I’ve ever known.” Connor said in a loud whisper. Though his words were perfectly benign, they were delivered in such a tone as to be insulting.

  The blonde woman, Rosie apparently, rolled her enormous green eyes. Luca couldn’t help the smile that tickled his lips. She was irreverent and unimpressed. He liked that very much. “What was I meant to do? Stand there and watch? The poor girl was humiliated!”

  “So? If I was as bad at my job as she is at hers, I’d be out on my arse.”

  Rosie compressed her lips. “Spilling a tray doesn’t mean that she’s bad at her job. It means some guy in here’s had a skinful and knocked her sideways. God, you can be such a snob sometimes.”

  Connor seemed to remember that his aim for the evening was to impress Rosie, and he plastered an agreeing mask into place. “Sorry, darling. You’re right. I should have been more helpful.”

  Rosie wasn’t buying it. Luca was pleased when she turned up her nose and addressed him in a cool tone. “In all the kerfuffle, my drink seems to have been misplaced. Would you mind?”

  Eager to prove his mettle, Connor nodded and strode purposefully in the direction of the bar.

  Luca was just about to pounce when Rosie, the woman firmly in his sights, shook her pretty little head and moved in the opposite direction to her date.

  Fascinated, he fell into step behind her as she walked with a sexy-as-sin swagger of her hips towards the large glass doors. It was Autumn in London, not exactly balcony weather, but she pushed the glass door outwards and headed into the frigid air regardless.

  L
uca paused just long enough to grab two glasses of wine from a waiter then followed suit.

  Rosie had wanted to come tonight. No. She’d needed to come. To be amongst people and crowds. She’d needed to prove to herself that she could carry on, much as normal. Despite the hole in her heart, left by the sudden loss of her father, she needed to show everyone that she was the same vivacious, outgoing girl as ever.

  But she wasn’t.

  She took in a deep, shuddering breath, as she pictured the man she’d loved all her twenty four years. Bertram Darling had taught her so much in life, including humility and egalitarianism. What would he think about her hanging on the arm of a man like Connor? Her smile was humourless. He’d be happy if she was happy. Only she wasn’t. Connor was a waste of time. Just a man she’d fancied years earlier, who was interested in her now that she’d grown into her colt like figure, and large green eyes.

  A man she’d known at primary school, before her father had lost his fortune, his wife, and been forced to remove Rosie and put her into the local comprehensive. A man she’d run into quite by chance, at a mutual friend’s Christmas party the year earlier. And her ego had made it impossible to resist his invitation. He was famous for the women he asked out. Now, he was asking her out, and she’d been just flattered enough to accept. And so they’d dated, in a very casual, platonic kind of way. He had made it obvious that he’d like to take things further, but Rosie had been equally firm. She didn’t feel anything for him beyond a mild affection. And even that had changed, of late.

  What had been an acceptable way to pass time a few months ago had recently become untenable. Losing her father had shown Rosie who her true friends were. Connor was not one of them. Just as he’d refused to get towels for the poor waitress, he’d never so much as called to see how she had fared after Bertram’s death. As for attending the funeral, there was simply no way he’d venture out of central London for such a morbid affair. Connor clearly had to go, and she’d known it for weeks.