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Published on February 05, 2018 12:12

February 4, 2018

Desert Orchid, Chapter Six…

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Chapter Six

As she inserted earrings of fragile gold into her earlobes, Charisse refused to let the butterflies in her belly morph into bats.

The jewels were tissue thin and dangled like chandeliers to skim her shoulders. She’d tied her hair back to the nape of her neck, and Yasmin had added a matching bracelet to her narrow wrist.

With a critical eye Charisse stood and studied her reflection in the vast mirror leaning against the wall of her dressing room. Delicately applied mineral powder lightly covered her skin, making it appear pearlescent. Smudged kohl lined her eyes, and her mouth wore clear lip gloss.

“I never wear makeup, Yasmin. I don’t see why I need to start now.” Charisse leaned closer into the mirror to inspect her sister-in-law’s handiwork. The fluttering in her heart bothered her—it bothered her a lot. It had been going on all day since The Kiss. “I don’t look like me.”

“You do look like you, only more you.”

“That comment doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t need to make sense, it just is. Now turn around and let me look at you.”

Charisse did as she was told.

Her dress had been specially designed for her by the house of Chanel. It was made of heavy black silk to just above the knee with a high round neck and tight sleeves to her elbows. The neckline, hemline and sleeves were stitched with fine gold and silver embroidered leaves, which matched the embroidery at the hem of narrow legged Capri pants the colour of pewter. On her slim feet were open toed sandals of soft gold leather, which tied at the ankle. A waterfall of tiny gold balls fell from the ankle strap across her lightly tanned feet.

“You look beautiful, habibiti,” Yasmin told her as she placed a slim gold band around her neck.

Since Charisse regarded her supposed beauty as nothing more than a curse, vanity had never been a problem. After all, her looks had brought her nothing but fear, rejection and horror. Unlike most women her age, she never wore artificial enhancements. Until the arrival of Khalid there had been no one in her immediate sphere of influence to tell her she looked sexy or desirable. Why would they? Certainly Asim had taken absolutely no notice of her appearance. He’d taught her, showed her, that her mind was a beautiful and wondrous thing. And he’d encouraged her to voice whatever entered her mind as long as the thought was worth hearing. Their debates on the pros and cons of global communication technology, along with the positives and negatives of social networking, used to rage for days. If something didn’t make sense to her, Asim had encouraged her to unravel the facts, seek the alternative point of view, and to get to the heart of the matter.

To Charisse’s way of thinking Khalid might be a handsome (okay, stunning) man, but he was a man with real issues of character. He might have made a promise to his father and say he was reformed, but she wasn’t buying it.

In her world actions spoke louder than words. His well-documented behaviour, how he’d partied his way through three continents, living and bedding woman after woman, was a recorded fact not fiction. How could he expect her to accept his word that he was happy to give up his way of life, to change the habits of a lifetime, and embrace the polar opposite in just few days? Then rule a country, marry a complete stranger, father a child and live happily-ever-after was too incredible for Charisse to believe. Remembering the passion in his eyes when he spoke of making the oath to his father, Khalid had certainly sounded sincere. But would a promise be enough for an enduring change in his behaviour?

These thoughts and more spun around her brain.

Perhaps the words Asim had written in his letter about her helping Khalid fulfil his potential should be her goal? It sounded arrogant, but if Asim reckoned his nephew had potential, then surely it was up to her to help Khalid realise that the life he’d promised to embrace was now full of fantastic possibilities. That there was nothing he could not do, if he put his mind to it.

If anyone had told her she had an impossible task ahead, Charisse might have argued that no one, not even a spoiled prince, deserved to be tossed onto the scrap heap of life. As far as she was concerned, she’d been given a chance to live a full life, therefore Khalid deserved the same opportunity.

Ultimately, for their relationship to work, it was up to Khalid to make a real effort.

As Yasmin dabbed a light floral scent behind her ears, Charisse had to admit that the signs, thus far, were not favourable. Except, of course, for the amazing sexual chemistry that burned between them. But she understood enough of the human condition to acknowledge the fact that when attraction burned too hot it tended to burn out too fast.

And then where would that leave them?

The common bonds that underpinned a successful relationship were friendship and a deep mutual respect. As for love, well, she didn’t dwell on such a fickle emotion. It was much better to focus on reality rather than to wish upon a distant dream.

But tonight was only about dinner. Nothing more.

She would keep it casual, after all Khalid was a healthy male in his sexual prime and it was only natural that she felt attracted to him. But the trouble was he only had to enter a room and her hormones went crazy.

Charisse gave Yasmin a poor excuse for a smile and pressed the flat of her hand to her stomach. “I feel sick with nerves.”

Yasmin merely cocked her head, took her hand to lead her to the door.

“You have nothing to worry about. My nephews’ behaviour has been a welcome surprise. They’ve been very polite and respectful to me.” Charisse zoned out the older woman’s voice as they left the apartment and entered the elevator with Arabella bringing up the rear. Her sister-in-law appeared not to notice her lack of a response as she added in a sly tone, “And they are both incredibly handsome, don’t you think?”

Over Yasmin’s head Arabella sent Charisse a wicked grin as her dark-brown eyes danced into hers.

That grin made Charisse narrow her eyes. “Why are you not dressed?” she demanded to know. “I’m certain I invited you to join us for dinner this evening.”

He bodyguard gave her wide eyes.

“Did you? I don’t remember. Perhaps another time,” Arabella said in a silky voice that didn’t fool her queen for a moment. She knew her bodyguard regarded the invitation to dine with the princes as a break of protocol. Arabella had a stubborn streak a mile wide. However, as far as Charisse was concerned, Arabella had disobeyed a direct order. But before she could respond, they entered the formal reception room to find both El Haribe Princes waiting beside the magnificent fireplace of black marble. Logs crackled and flames danced in the grate. The nights were cold in the mountains. And Charisse was aware that her bodyguard had snapped to attention at her side.

Khalid strolled towards them like a big black cat, his eyes scanning Charisse from head to toe and back again. A smile of appreciation, of approval, tugged the corners of that marvellous mouth. He was dressed in a suit of dark grey silk with a white shirt and no tie. His glossy hair was tied at the neck accentuating his slashing bone structure. He looked like a rock star.

Without hesitation he moved in to take both her hands in his and brought them to his lips. All the while those penetrating eyes pinned hers. The familiar scent of his cologne mingled with the clean male heat from his body. The smell of him wound around her heightened senses, and her throat went bone dry.

He bent to kiss her, his breath burning a path across her cheek as he whispered in her ear,

“You look amazing.”

Before she could respond, he’d taken her hand in his while the other snuck around her narrow waist and pulled her into his side in a possessively masculine gesture that weakened her knees.

“Sarif, meet Her Royal Highness Queen Charisse,” Khalid drawled in a way that made her cheeks burn along with an overwhelming urge to run for her life.

Prince Sarif El Haribe sent his brother a bland look before his dark eyes, sharp and watchful, met hers.

He smiled.

Charisse realised she’d been holding her breath wondering what kind of reception she’d receive from the eldest of King Abdullah’s sons. But Sarif was kindness personified as he took her hand from his brother and bent to press his forehead to her fingertips.

He straightened and returned her hand into his brother’s keeping.

“My pleasure. I am so sorry for your loss. My uncle was a very private, a very unique, man.”

Sarif’s accent was British rather than American, although she picked up the slight transatlantic drawl in his speech, too. He was as tall and certainly as charismatic as his brother, but she didn’t receive that strange hum of attraction when she held his hand as she did with Khalid.

Her eyes stung as she returned his smile. “Thank you. Amir was a wonderful man.”

As Yasmin exchanged greetings with Sarif, Charisse found herself towed to a low couch.

Khalid tucked her into a corner and sat next to her, his big body turned towards hers and his arm stretched across the back of the couch, effectively blocking her in. His hand found hers and her eyes rose to meet his as again he took her fingertips to his lips.

Not used to public displays of affection, she couldn’t help the heat that scorched her neck and her cheeks.

His little chuckle of delight made her bite down hard on her bottom lip.

Her eyes flew to his and the proprietorial look in those eyes seriously unnerved her.

What they talked about over dinner she never knew since her entire being was too aware of Khalid. Of the stroke of his finger over the back of her hand. Of his solicitous attention to her every need. An attention that had Yasmin beaming benevolently upon them. But his behaviour left Charisse feeling terribly trapped and claustrophobic.

Swallowing her growing anxiety about the way she was being treated in public, Charisse wondered if the night would ever end. But Sarif spoke directly to her now and she paid attention to the conversation realising it was about literacy, specifically adult literacy.

More than delighted to discuss her favourite topic, she leaned over the table and for many minutes she forgot all about Khalid, forgot all about her overwhelming attraction to him, forgot all about wedding plans and her future as she explained the programme of mobile education centres, which had Sarif firing questions.

Perched on the edge of her dining chair, and using her hands to express her enthusiasm for her pet project, Charisse spoke, “The point is that our people are nomads. They pack-up and travel to who knows where, but the Sheiks keep in touch with our education centres and mobile health centres via satellite technology powered by solar energy. If there’s one resource we have plenty of it is the sun. Of course things change, but when the tribes arrive in Onuur we have in-depth records of births, deaths and marriages, which make it reasonably simple to plan ahead.”

Sarif frowned.

“So bringing the tribes into the twenty-first century, into the cities and towns is not where you see growth?”

Charisse shrugged.

“For many years Asim studied the histories of our peoples. As I said, they are nomads and often do not adapt well to city living. Asim firmly believed it was up to each tribe to decide how they wanted to live. It is not for us to force our technology and modern ways upon them. Surely that’s the whole point of being free? To be free to choose their own destiny? Therefore we decided to take education, support and medical help, to them. The key was to gain the trust of the men but more importantly, the women. Even though they defer to their men folk, women are the most forward thinking and open minded people among the tribes. We’ve sent four bright students, girls, to Oxford this year and many more to medical school in the United States and the United Kingdom, funded by those countries, and the students are all determined to return home to help their people.”

Enthusiasm gleamed in Sarif’s dark eyes as he leaned forward and he was about to speak when Charisse became aware of strong fingers massaging the sensitive skin of her neck in a possessive gesture that made her breath hitch in her throat.

“I believe we have a department of education who oversees all projects,” Khalid drawled in a silky voice that had her heart kick against her ribs. He continued, “Charisse promised to show me the gardens, particularly the orchids. And with the moon full this evening, I cannot think of a more romantic setting for me to woo my future wife.”

By her jolt of surprise, Charisse hoped it wasn’t obvious that she’d made Khalid no such promise.

Sarif bowed his head and sat back, deferring to his brother.

Khalid stood, took her hand and Charisse realised she had no choice but to go with him as Sarif wished them goodnight.

They strolled through the palace, out into the cool night, and into the garden.

And Charisse was acutely aware that Khalid El Haribe was not a happy man.

The tension rolling off him in waves made the jumpy nerves in her tummy wind even tighter. Something had upset him. Even though she wracked her brain, she couldn’t imagine what on earth she’d said to make him so angry.

Leading the way past a magnificent fountain trickling water through many rock pools, she sank to the edge of a wide bench made of cool marble. Tipping her head back to study the night sky, she wondered what on earth was the matter with the man she’d promised to marry,who now paced back and forth like a big black panther.

Hands thrust into his trouser pockets, Khalid stood before her and glowered and glared into her face.

“Just what the hell was all that about?”

Charisse was tired.

She was stressed.

And she was, she realised, seriously ticked off with his appalling attitude.

Her chin came up.

“You’ve lost me. Your brother and I did nothing more than exchange ideas about his education programme in Quaram, comparing it to the one we’ve implemented here in Onuur.” Her eyebrows rose. “What’s the matter, Khalid? If you’re not the centre of the known universe you simply throw a little temper tantrum and interrupt a serious conversation about vulnerable people?”

She stood.

And realised immediately that those dark eyes had narrowed into slits.

The way his mouth went tight, she realised they were going to have a scene.

Oh, God, she hated scenes.

Then annoyance with him, and with herself, that she’d even consider appeasing a person who was behaving like a spoiled and indulged child, Charisse decided it was just too bad if Khalid didn’t like the truth because he’d better get used to it.

Okay, her legs felt like rubber and her stomach lurched.

But she forced herself to get over it.

Her hands rested on her hips and she spread her legs.

“What the hell is your damned problem?”

Khalid blinked twice.

And simply stared at someone who’d morphed from a shrinking violet into a spitting kitten and who was looking at him entirely without fear.

What had happened to the shy, retiring, broken-hearted widow?

The woman standing before him now looked as if she could rip out his heart.

Those big blue eyes stared into his in a way that made his lungs tight and he found himself trying very hard not to laugh.

God, she was simply amazing, standing there looking ready to punch him and seriously annoyed that he’d interrupted her cosy little chat with his brother.

And that thought brought his mind back to how he’d felt sitting between them like a lemming listening to his brother and Charisse discuss things that had made him feel increasingly uneasy.

Why?

The realisation now hit him that he’d felt uncomfortable because Charisse and Sarif spoke the same language. They cared desperately about their people and the way they lived their lives. They worried about what was best for them and how to help them prosper.

And yes, he was honest enough with himself to admit that the way his brother and his future wife had connected did make him feel somehow… inadequate.

But was it their fault that he felt somehow less than they were?

For the first time in his life Khalid had to admit that he was responsible for his own feelings.

All these thoughts and more raced through his mind as he stood staring down at the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and so did something else.

Fear.

A heavy stone of fear settled in his gut.

Fear that he’d never measure up to his father, his mother, his brother and his future wife.

Fear that he’d fail again to be a man, a good husband, a good father and a good son made something like panic grip him by the throat.

Jesus, what had made him think he could do this?

Watching him very carefully, Charisse narrowed her blue eyes into slits now as she stared up at him, and Khalid had the deeply uncomfortable feeling that she could read his mind.

“I do believe you’re jealous,” she murmured.

He opened his mouth to refute the outrageous suggestion because it had been crystal clear to him that although his brother and Charisse were evenly matched intellectually, they were not remotely attracted to one another.

But then again, surely it might sound better to appear jealous rather than insecure?

There had always been a competitive sibling rivalry between him and Sarif, which brought into his mind the one thing that had seriously annoyed him.

“You were the one who said you would much rather marry my brother, remember?”

Her eyes never left his as she frowned now and said nothing for an unremitting moment.

And all the while those narrowed blue eyes never left his.

Again, he had the spooky feeling she was reading his mind.

Charisse, Khalid was coming to realise, was one sharp cookie.

“You don’t want it, do you?”

Confused, he blinked.

“It?”

“The country, the people, and me. You don’t want us. Do you, Prince?”

Deliberately testing him, Charisse had made the tone insulting.

She didn’t miss the spark of sheer temper in his dark eyes, quickly hidden, but she noticed something else, too. The hand in his trouser pocket was fiddling with what appeared to be worry beads.

Khalid was nervous?

And he hadn’t once participated in the education debate with his brother.

Interesting.

Let’s see what you’re made of, Khalid.

“You are nothing but a party animal who’s made a career out of avoiding any semblance of responsibility for himself, his family and his country. Drinking and whoring are hardly the requisite skills for running a country. And by your behaviour this evening, you’ve just proved to me that the ability to discuss serious issues is beyond you.”

For a moment Charisse thought she’d pushed him too far, but the stunned shock on his face made her reckless.

The time had come to shove him over the edge.

She took a step towards him.

He took a step back.

“If you were me, Prince, and had a choice, how would you feel about marrying a whoring tom-cat like you?”

Completely thrown by the face of an angel with the voice of the Devil, Khalid shook his head to clear his thoughts.

One minute she’d been pleasant and purring to his brother, the next she was hissing and spitting at him. Plus, she had unerringly put her finger on the crux of the matter.

He gave her a tight little smile.

“Of course, you are correct. I wouldn’t choose me over Sarif, either. However, in the spirit of plain speaking, you still haven’t explained to me how a sixteen year old was paid over three million Euros to marry a man old enough to be her grandfather?”

Silence.

Their eyes clashed with mutual loathing.

When she remained silent he simply shrugged.

And then unwittingly hammered another nail into his own coffin.

“Now who’s the whore?” he drawled.

Unrelenting grey eyes bored into hers.

Khalid studied her with an intensity, a focus, Charisse found terribly disturbing.

Then he turned to walk away.

But a righteous anger burned the very marrow in her bones.

How dare he call her a whore?

“Coward!” she yelled at the top of her voice.

He stopped dead.

Very slowly Khalid turned and now those furious eyes found hers.

A shiver of apprehension slid down her spine as that deep voice drawled,

“What did you just call me?”

Later, she’d wonder what had possessed her as sheer temper won the struggle with common sense.

Trembling, she dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands as the air around them crackled and sparked with their joint fury.

She lifted her chin. “I said you are a coward. And if you ever call me a whore again, I will make you very, very sorry.”

In one stride he stood before her and it took every ounce of courage she had not to step back or turn and flee.

He might be bigger, stronger, and breathtakingly gorgeous, but she refused to let him intimidate her.

If he hadn’t smiled like a big hungry tiger and looked at her as if she was dog dirt she might have just held onto her temper. But since he did both, her arm swung back and the sound of the crack of her fist against his hard jaw reverberated around the garden.

His head jerked back and Charisse gasped as agony lanced up her arm and into her shoulder.

“You little witch. You hit me!”

Stunned, Khalid pressed his fingertips to his lip, checked out the blood, and stared at her as if she’d lost her mind.

Wondering if she’d broken her fingers, Charisse saw with something like horror those eyes go black with utter fury.

Omigod.

Ignoring the pain in her hand, and with her heart hammering in her throat, Charisse decided she’d lost her mind. There was something about him that seemed to bring out the worst in her. She’d never struck another human being in her life. A horrible mix of guilt, shame and sickness burned in her throat.

But the time had come to make a stand.

She refused to back down now, because if she lost the battle for consideration from him this evening, she’d lose the war in the long run.

“And I’ll do it again in a heartbeat if you don’t begin to show a little respect,” she yelled at the top of her voice.

The look in his eye made her want to flee for her life.

Something must have shown in her face because he actually growled the words,

“If you run I’ll catch you and things will be even worse for you, my little wildcat.”

Her terrified heart pumped even more adrenaline through her system, but pride rode to her rescue. And that pride made her chin jerk. Her nostrils flared as her eyes clashed with his.

“Lay one finger on me and you’ll be sorry. You’re nothing but a big blowhard and a bully. And you can’t take it when someone smaller and weaker and smarter stands up to you.”

He grabbed the hand that had struck him to check out her fingers, which were already swollen.

His touch made the strange ache low in her belly get worse.

Charisse couldn’t tear her eyes from his split lip.

Oh God, what had she done?

Those dark eyes narrowed now on hers.

“You think hitting me is the best way to earn my respect?”

Of course she didn’t, but Charisse would rather lie naked on hot coals than admit it.

Her whole body was trembling now and she cursed herself for it as their eyes battled and all logical thought evaporated.

“I hate you.”

He flashed her the predatory smile that seemed to press every single hot button in her system.

Her hand fisted in his.

“Fuck it,” he said.

For a big man he moved fast, and Charisse found herself slung over his shoulder like a bag of coal and marched through the garden and into the palace.

Her hair had come loose and dangled over her hot face.

Khalid held her knees close to his chest as her fists battered his strong back.

It was like hitting solid rock.

Her cheeks went nuclear as a weird sort of dark excitement fought with fear and rage.

“Put me down you frog-faced baboon!”

The flat of the hand that connected with her bottom landed hard enough to hurt, a lot.

Her howl of utter fury coincided with a deterioration in her language that was frowned upon even in the gutter.

Sarif, Yasmin and Arabella all entered the hall, and watched with wide-eyed interest as Khalid strode past them carrying a queen who had apparently lost all sense of decorum.

“I don’t think that is the best way to endear yourself to your future wife, Khalid,” muttered Sarif as he folded his arms and leaned against a wide sandstone pillar to catch the show.

His brother merely growled.

“It appears her impressive education is sadly lacking in discipline,” came the clipped response. A response that had her small fists ineffectually pummelling his back.

Charisse’s blonde head snapped up. And her wild eyes settled with something like evil relief on Arabella.

She pointed to her bodyguard.

“Shoot him!” she commanded in her best queenly tone.

Then completely ruined the effect as she blew a strand of blonde hair out of her face.

And she almost screamed in frustration when her friend, her protector, simply shook her head.

“Nope. I never get involved in domestic disputes. And you’ve forgotten every single move I taught you.”

What had Arabella taught her?

Charisse desperately tried to recall a single self-defence move, but her loss of temper meant her brain was refusing to co-operate. So instead of thinking, she gripped the silky black tail of her tormentor’s hair and pulled with all her might.

His howl of pain was music to her ears.

However, retaliation came down swift and hard on her backside.

Her cry echoed through the vast hall.

“That was such a girly move, Highness,” Arabella called out in disgust.

Sarif sent Arabella slitty eyes as Yasmin grinned behind her hand.

“Oh my! She never really had a proper childhood, you know. It’s so lovely to see my darling girl having fun.”

“Yeah, they’re nothing but a couple of crazy kids,” Arabella muttered.

They all watched as the elevator door closed behind a seriously steamed Khalid, and a Charisse promising a slow and painful death.

Entering his rooms, Khalid kicked the door closed and slid his future wife down his body so slowly that her shocked gasp echoed the ache of his own physical response.

With her small feet dangling off the floor, he held her close, hip to hip, his hand to her tight little ass pressing her soft body against a rock hard erection. Rolling his hips in a way that made her gasp again, big eyes stared into his before flickering to his mouth. And even as the heat of mortification burned her cheeks, he watched her temper drain away to be replaced by an honest regret that made his chest tight.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” she whispered.

Her hands slid up his arms to grip his shoulders.

Any residual anger with her leaked away to be replaced by a dark desire.

Again, she’d shown a lot of courage.

The memory of how she’d ordered her bodyguard to shoot him tickled Khalid’s highly developed sense of humour.

“I’m sorry for calling you a whore,” he said, studying her face. “When you’re ready, you must tell me the story of how you met my uncle.”

He didn’t miss the flash of anguish in those blue eyes, even as a dimple appeared next to her full mouth. “One day, I will.”

The scent of her, the feel of her soft body in his arms, made his breath hitch.

Now he slid her down until her feet hit the floor.

And he cupped her chin to tilt her head back.

He kissed her with care, since he wouldn’t put it past her to bite his split lip.

But she returned the kiss just as tenderly, and in a way that calmed the anxieties spinning in his overactive brain.

He pulled back to study the expression in her fabulous eyes.

“Promise?” he asked.

Again he didn’t miss the ghost of pain in those blue eyes.

“I promise.”

However, the chattering gremlins of self doubt that lived in his mind taunted him that he wasn’t good enough for Charisse. That everything he touched he destroyed and everyone he’d ever loved in his life was now gone or hated him. Since he’d given up booze sleep eluded him. These days he was lucky to get two or three nightmare-filled hours a night. To cope he’d buried himself in his art. His agent was going to be over the moon at his creative output. And even if he said it himself, some of the new work was the best he’d ever done.

Charisse stared up at him, wrapping her arms around his waist, as her big blue eyes held his.

“Speak to me, Rock Star. I can almost hear the wheels spinning in that overactive brain of yours.”

Rock Star?

The feel of her soft body pressed against the hardness of his made the breath hitch in his lungs. All negative thoughts fled as his groin swelled in response.

Of course he could do this.

With Charisse in his arms he could do anything.

His big hands cupped her beautiful face and tilted her head back as his eyes searched hers. “What did you just call me?”

Her cheeky grin reminded him of a child caught with its hand in the cookie jar.

A grin that ripped his heart wide open. And Charisse stepped right in.

“When I first saw you I thought you looked like a Rock Star.”

His mouth twitched as he stared into her lovely face, and Khalid decided he could live with that. “Yeah? Which one? Chris Martin, Bon Jovi?”

She gave him a dead on stare and said, “Nope. Alice Cooper.”

Shock made him simply blink at her before he roared with a laughter that made her grin up into his face.

“You little devil!”

He desperately wanted to make love to her and make her his.

Now.

Tonight.

But something in her eyes, something that looked like trust, made him take a step back.

The time had come to put his money where his mouth was.

She wanted, demanded, his respect. And despite the fact that he’d thought she was someone only looking out for number one, his intuition told him he’d been wrong about her. Charisse had no idea she already possessed his respect.

However, he needed her respect, too.

They’d had their first real fight and got through it relatively unscathed. Plus, the fact she was openly teasing him told Khalid she might be learning to like him and he didn’t want to do anything to spoil the precious moment.

And he also understood that she wanted him to talk to her, to open up to her.

“I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Before we met I had no idea what you looked like or how old you were,” he admitted now. “After everything I’d heard about you I thought you were a woman with her biological clock ticking. I was praying you didn’t have a squint and had all your own teeth.”

She threw her head back as her delighted laugh bounced of the high ceiling and echoed around the room.

“Poor Khalid, you had no idea what you were getting yourself into.” Then her eyes went serious as they held his. “Why did you agree to do this if your heart is not in it?”

He didn’t attempt not to understand her and spoke from the heart.

“Because it’s a chance for me to right a wrong.”

After staring at him for an endless moment, she nodded, pressed her cheek to his chest and gave him a hard hug that brought a lump to his throat.

He stroked her hair.

Her voice was soft and low.

“That’s as good a reason as any,” she whispered.

The heady scent of her hair mingled with a hint of jasmine and warm, sexy, woman.

Her soft breasts pressed against him and as her nipples pebbled he prayed for the strength to deny his aching arousal.

He pulled back and took her hands in his.

“Let me walk you to your rooms.”

And his heart leaped at the flash of bitter disappointment in her blue eyes.

For a man used to having anything he wanted, when he wanted it, denying himself the instant gratification and release of plunging into her willing body was a salutary lesson in self-restraint.

Later, as he strolled through his rooms and stripped to his skin, Khalid hit the shower and turned it as cold as it could go. And all the while he pumped his aching shaft in his tight fist until he gasped out his release.

But it wasn’t enough.

Charisse was under his skin.

She was in his blood.

And he wondered now how long he’d be able to refuse himself the pleasure of that soft, sexy, body.

Chapter Seven tomorrow…..

Christine x

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Published on February 04, 2018 11:15

February 3, 2018

Desert Orchid, Chapter five… an understanding…..

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Chapter Five

“Why are there no children?”

Heart thundering in her ears Charisse stared up into that flushed but harsh face and wondered what had just happened? Her mouth felt swollen, throbbing with a pulse that matched her frantic beat of her heart. She licked her lips. She could still taste him.

Why wouldn’t her brain function?

Why were there black spots in front of her eyes?

The room spun.

Khalid pushed her down onto the couch and sat next to her as she blinked up into that incredible face.

His eyes went dark as they dropped to her mouth.

Then he drawled in that incredible voice, “Stop licking your lips, Charisse, or we will end up naked on the floor.”

She pressed her burning lips together and found that her hands were shaking.

“I’m sorry,” she said and clasped her hands tightly. “Did you just ask me a question? I can’t think.”

“Know the feeling,” he muttered. Then he shook his head as if to clear it and she caught the flash of a twisted smile. “I asked you why there are no children.”

She had nothing to hide, so why was the truth so painful?

How could she tell him that her relationship with his uncle was one of a father and daughter rather than as husband and wife?

How could she tell him she’d never known a man?

That until a moment ago, she’d never even been kissed?

How could she have agreed to marry this man?

She couldn’t do it.

Then something like despair burned in her heart, her mind.

But then if she left Onuur, where would she go?

Onuur was the only home she’d ever known and she loved the country and its people with her whole heart. But she couldn’t think of all that now, he was waiting for an answer.

She took a shaky breath.

“Asim had a congenital heart condition. He was unable to father children. Or even…”

Her voice broke as the scorch of utter mortification burned her cheeks.

She stared down at her hands.

Khalid hissed out a breath. “Poor bastard. So he was married to you and couldn’t touch you?”

She shook her head, and risked a peek at his gorgeous face.

He was frowning now and that face appeared tougher, even more forbidding.

“We loved each other very much,” she said. “He’d come to terms with his physical limitations many years before he met me.”

As if he couldn’t help himself, Khalid’s hand reached out and stroked her hair.

And that darkly possessive look in his eyes made her tremble. “Don’t kid yourself, baby. To see you every day and not be able to touch you must have been its own kind of hell.”

She frowned.

And knew that this was the perfect opportunity to tell him the truth.

But when his eyes stayed on hers Charisse found the words trapped in her throat as he took her in his arms and inhaled the scent of her hair. When he gently stroked the length of her from shoulder to hip and back again, she found herself almost overwhelmed by the need to sink further into his strong embrace.

And that need made her pull back.

She stared up into that dark and brooding face and wondered what he was thinking.

“Have you settled into your rooms? The redecorating of the main apartments will take a few weeks.”

Those grey eyes narrowed in a way that told her she’d annoyed him.

But why had her question annoyed him?

Taking her hand, he stood and hauled her to her feet.

“Actually, my rooms were not at all suitable. Let me show you where I live.”

The dogs rose to accompany them, but Khalid sent them a sharp look.

Confused, they turned to Charisse to give them direction.

“Stay,” she ordered, and felt her heart break at their woeful expressions.

The animals had no idea what was happening, and if the truth be told neither did she.

Hand in hand he led her out of her apartments.

They walked down the stairs to find Arabella studiously ignoring one of the ugliest men Charisse had ever seen in her life. His eyes, small and black, flicked to their joined hands.

“We do not require either of you in our private apartments. You may leave,” Khalid commanded in a tone that told Charisse he was a man who gave an order and expected it to be obeyed without question.

Arabella’s eyes met hers and Charisse gave her an infinitesimal nod. The sudden squeeze of Khalid’s firm fingers on hers told her the nod had not gone unnoticed.

He pulled her through large double doors.

She smelled fresh paint and turpentine.

Her gasp of alarm as the doors banged and he backed her up against the wall.

His smile wasn’t friendly.

He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to each finger sending fiery bolts of arousal through her system. Those grey eyes watched her with an intensity that dried her throat. They scanned her hair, her face, and settled hungrily on her mouth before rising to meet her eyes.

“When I give an order, Charisse, I do not expect your protection officer to look to you. If it happens again, she’ll be on the next flight out of the country. Do I make myself clear?”

Again, she wondered what on earth she was doing to even think of marrying him. He was nothing like the man she’d imagined. He was harder, tougher, more uncompromising than she’d anticipated. From what she’d read in the press she’d expected a playboy prince so laid back he was horizontal. But this man appeared to have no soft edges and absolutely no empathy for her recent loss.

Irritation with him for treating her life a serf stiffened her spine.

Her chin lifted.

“Crystal.”

He smiled again, and it wasn’t nice.

His fingers stroked her cheek, her chin.

Those eyes lasered into hers.

“Brave little thing, aren’t you?” he said softly. The words held an implicit threat. But before she could wonder at their meaning, he spun to turn into the room. “Do you like what I’ve done to the place?”

She wasn’t sure what he referred to since the room was an empty space except for the most enormous four poster bed she’d ever seen in her life sitting slap bang in the middle of the room. The deep mattress was covered in white cotton sheets. A pile of fat, white pillows sat at one end.

The walls and ceiling had been lime washed white, which made the space feel bigger, lighter. Endless. Vast doorways were open to the elements and the wind sang its unique song, stirring large ceiling fans made of hardwood. He’d turned the entire space into an artist’s studio. In one corner, she noticed two large workstations, which held tubes of paint and jars of brushes grouped by size. Another workstation, organised to within an inch of its life, held pallet knives, tins of chalks, and sticks of charcoal. Enormous blank canvases were stacked against the walls. Four paintings at various stages of creation were propped against another wall.

Above the workstations ran a line of white pin boards crammed with drawings and photographs. While across the room on a wide desk was a super-slim computer, state-of-the-art, along with a printer and phone connection. Running along the back wall were two massive sofas in soft suede the colour of dark toffee covered in throws of various materials in jewel shades.

Khalid, she realised, liked vivid colour and coarse textures.

Off to the right were the bathrooms and bedroom wing.

He’d taken up residence directly below her apartments.

She turned to find him watching her.

“I apologise for placing you at the wrong side of the palace. It didn’t occur to me you might need the correct light for your work,” she admitted in a conciliatory tone.

She was prepared to compromise, but thinking of the type of subjects he painted, she couldn’t help but curl her lip.

Without taking his eyes off her face, he moved into her and his fingertip tapped her chin.

“See, right there, that look in your eye, is going to be a big problem for me.”

Alarm that he could read her so well made her eyes wide.

As if he’d read her mind, he continued in that slow drawl that already had the ability to make her system hum, “I’m an artist, baby. An observer of life. I adore women. I can read them. And you have a very expressive face.”

Stung, she lifted her chin.

“I can’t be someone I’m not. My feelings, my thoughts, are my own.”

Black brows winged into his hairline.

“Very true. And I wouldn’t want you to be anyone other than your authentic self. But I’m warning you now to dump the preconceived ideas and very low opinion you have of me. It’s not as if you are as pure as the driven snow, is it? From the glowing reports of you I received from my aunt Yasmin I’d expect you to at least give me a chance. Get to know me, before judging me.”

The truth of his argument struck her with incredible force.

Her hand flew to her cheek.

He was right.

She had pre-judged him.

And she’d found him wanting.

The contents of Asim’s letter spun through her mind reminding her of his sentiments that Khalid had potential. She had a huge respect for her late husband’s opinion of others. He’d never been wrong, yet.

Taking a deep breath, she reached for Khalid’s hand and his fingers found hers.

“I apologise. You are correct. I have not been fair to you.”

A wicked glint appeared in his eyes as he gave her his first genuine smile.

Long fingers squeezed hers.

And her breath hitched.

The smile changed his whole face and made him look much younger, kinder.

“I bet that statement stuck in your throat, honey.”

Still reeling from being called ‘honey’ for the first time in her life, she couldn’t help but admit the truth. “It almost choked me.”

He laughed. “Ahh, a sense of humour. Excellent.”

Wondering why she was breathless all of a sudden, Charisse reclaimed her hand and wandered through the room.

Khalid simply stood and watched her.

“What’s the bed for?” And as soon as the stupid words were out of her stupid mouth she wished she’d kept it shut.

He leaned his shoulder against the wall.

The glint in his eyes was more pronounced now.

He loosened his tie, slid open the top buttons of his shirt.

“It’s for my muse to lie on while I paint her,” he said in a silky voice.

She frowned.

No way.

Her eyes flew to his and he bit his lip as if trying too hard not to laugh.

“I’m not at all comfortable with strange women being brought here,” she said in a tone that meant business.

His tongue ran over his top teeth as those grey eyes went too dark, too intense, as they held hers.

“I have no intention of bringing strange women here. Now I’ve met you, I’ve decided you will be my muse. In fact, right at this moment I have a vision of you lying right there, naked.”

Face too hot, her heart going wild in her chest, she shook her head.

Dream on.

Not a chance.

“Then you’ll have a very long wait. Because there’s no way you’re going to paint my private parts and add them to your vast collection of lady bits.”

Her voice was firm.

But it was the tone and the scorn in it that made Khalid push off the wall and stalk towards her.

Oh, his little wife-to-be couldn’t seem to help but challenge him. And there was nothing Khalid El Haribe loved more than a challenge. After the way she’d responded to him upstairs, he knew it wouldn’t take much to have her naked on his bed.

But the genuine alarm in those vividly blue eyes held him back from showing her just who was the boss in this relationship.

There was no point in scaring her half to death, he decided.

He’d have plenty of time to make her his.

Plenty of time to have her naked and her legs spread wide if he so desired.

And that brought another issue to the front of his mind.

He had no intention of waiting six weeks to make her his wife.

It hadn’t taken Khalid and Sarif more than a couple of days to realise that Charisse wielded immense power in Onuur. She was adored, almost revered. The brothers had agreed it was crucial that Khalid brought her under his control sooner rather than later. There was no way he would take a back seat in his own country to someone who was nothing more than a girl. The quicker he got her pregnant and busy with a baby, or two, the better.

And that thought had his groin fire in a way that caught his breath as he stood before her and read sheer defiance in those blue eyes.

He could see how much it cost her not to step away from him and he found himself, yet again, admiring her courage.

Charisse was an interesting character, he decided.

She was beautiful, brave and bright. And, he realised, with some surprise, that if it wasn’t for the fact she was a greedy little witch, he could quite easily like her.

“Whether I paint you or not is not something we need to discuss here and now, honey. Can I look forward to the pleasure of your company for dinner this evening? My brother is looking forward to meeting you.”

Her flush of guilt almost made him laugh out loud.

“Ah yes, I believe you mentioned you’d much rather have married him.” The way her blue eyes went wide as her jaw dropped made him bite down hard on his bottom lip. God, she was adorable. “However, let me give you fair warning. If you repeat those words again, you won’t find me terribly forgiving.”

His hand reached out to cup the soft skin of her neck.

And she went absolutely still as he pulled her into him.

The mad pulse in her neck beat like a trapped bird’s and he rubbed his thumb over the spot. He didn’t miss the dilation of her pupils or the sharp inhale of breath. Ah yes, in spite of herself, she was attracted to him.

Excellent.

It would make his life a hell of a lot easier to have a willing wife in his bed rather than a reluctant one.

And now he wondered how many lovers she’d had.

Best not to go there, he decided.

Then his eyes narrowed as they examined her face with his artists’ eye.

Something… something about her didn’t quite add up.

The woman who’d sold herself to a sick old man for money, even if she had been a loyal wife who’d nursed her husband until the bitter end, didn’t add up with the vibrant, sensual and sexy woman he now knew her to be.

Studying her stunning face with the clear skin, big eyes and that tempting mouth, Khalid found himself again desperate to kiss her.

But he understood the weakness of his character well enough to know that he wouldn’t stop at kissing.

His thumb rubbed the alluring fullness of her bottom lip as his eyes met and held hers.

“I don’t see any reason to wait six weeks for our wedding. Do you?”

Something like fear flashed those eyes even as she gave a microscopic shake of her head.

“We need to honour Asim,” she whispered.

He nodded. “True. I understand you are an orphan?” For the first time her eyes slid from his. A tiny nod was all the response he received. Hmm, a tender spot. “We’ll have a small ceremony here in the palace with my family in attendance.”

His eyes narrowed fractionally as he continued to study his thumb stroking her vulnerable bottom lip. And that vulnerability worried him, tugged at something buried inside him, in a place he didn’t want tugged. In his conscience.

Khalid was well aware he wasn’t an easy man to live with. It didn’t bother him. It was simply a fact. He had needs, dark sexual needs. Her eyes went wide now as she studied him, perhaps picking up his mood? Her mouth trembled as she took a breath. And a vision of her on her knees, taking his manhood in that mouth, along with him doing other things, dark things, to her made him go too hard, too fast.

She was an incredibly beautiful woman.

And in his vast experience in dealing with beautiful women, Khalid had found that honesty was always the best policy.

“I have a very strong sexual appetite with specific… needs.” He let the last word hang between them. Saw heat scorch her cheeks. “Are you quite certain you want to do this?”

Her eyes flew to his.

And he caught a glimpse of heartbreak along with something dark lurking at the back of her eyes. Add in the way she trembled under his fingers, and his instincts now screamed that something about her, and about this situation, was very wrong.

Her response was no more than a whispered, “I have no choice.”

He frowned.

And just what did that mean?

Of course she had a choice.

She had a fortune in Swiss banks.

“Everyone has a choice, Charisse.”

The shake of her head was so tiny he almost missed it.

“I don’t even know you,” she admitted now.

He understood perfectly well that she was evading.

And decided to permit the change of subject, for now.

“Did you know my uncle before you married him?” Her cheeks went radioactive as her eyes again dropped from his. She shook her head. Pleased with her reaction, he continued, “Then I don’t see your problem. I’m younger and can more than satisfy your sexual needs. And by your reactions to me you will satisfy mine. I can give you a child. Surely you want to be a mother?”

Taking a deep and shaky inhale of breath, she looked up to search his face.

“Yes. But will you be a good King? A good husband? A good father?”

And those, Khalid had to admit, were very good questions.

Would he?

So far he’d failed as a brother and as a son.

But staring down into that lovely face Khalid had the strangest feeling that with Charisse at his side there was nothing he could not do. Then he told himself he was being fanciful. She was simply a beautiful face with big blue eyes and a greedy heart.

“I’ve no idea. But I promise to do my best. What about you?” he asked.

She gave him a sad little smile that again stirred something in his chest.

“I’ve already fulfilled two of those roles. It is up to you to give me the third.”

By the way his groin stung, he could certainly do that, so he pressed his lips to her smooth forehead and felt her tremble.

Delighted by her reaction to him, and by his to her, Khalid looked down into those big eyes. The sensation was like sinking into the deep blue sea.

“It will be my pleasure, Highness.”

Chapter Six tomorrow.

Christine X

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Published on February 03, 2018 11:38

It’s the Ludlow Hall Sneak Peek…

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Hi guys,

This weeks peek at a day in the lives of the Ferranti family is a day late. And never fear, the next Desert Orchid chapter will go live later today – and it’s a doozy!

***

Bronte, Tonio, Luca and Sophia are in the car on their way home…

Sofia Ferranti had to pee.

Nerves, and fear, plus the very rare Coke she’d had for being a good girl while her mamma had shopped in the supermarket all combined to fill her seven-year-old bladder to bursting.

Today had been one of the worst school days of her life.

Ever.

Ms. Brown was not happy with her.

And man, was she in big trouble when her mama and papa found out?

She wriggled in her car seat and wished she was home.

Bronte reckoned her children were very quiet considering it was a Friday afternoon. In the rear view mirror she kept a weather eye on Sofia.

A Sofia who was staring out of the window as if she was watching her favourite movie, Frozen. And a Sophia who’d been unnaturally quiet during supermarket shopping. A miracle, because her daughter loathed supermarket shopping with a passion only matched by that of her papa.

“We are nearly home,” Bronte sang.

No response.

Tonio who sat in the front passenger seat of the car turned to look at her.

The boy was growing like a weed. They’d just purchased his second pair of school shoes within three months.

When Bronte caught his eye, he made a face as if to say, what’s the matter with them?

In response Bronte shrugged.

“Is Luca asleep?” Bronte asked Tonio.

Tonio craned his neck to suss out what was happening behind him.

He nodded. “He’s out for the count.”

Bronte again checked on Sofia in the mirror.

She frowned at how pale her daughter looked.

Maybe she was sickening for something?

Please God, not the flu.

So far, they’d managed to escape the virus.

“We’re nearly home,” Bronte said again.

Silence.

She decided to give up.

No point in causing drama while she was driving the car.

By the time Sophia had raced to the bathroom to do her business, washed her hands, changed her school uniform for her favorite soft jeans and cozy sweater it was time for dinner.

Every Friday the family all ate together, that was the rule, if Papa got home in time.

Tonight Papa was running thirty minutes late.

And Sofia didn’t know whether to be happy or sad.

Thing was, she was in what her auntie Rosie would call – a hot mess.

Miss Brown, had given Sophia a sealed letter for her mamma and Papa.

A letter which she was sure described in glorious detail exactly what sin Sophia had committed today.

The thing was, Sofia didn’t want to give her mamma and Papa the letter.

She was in enough bother after setting the toaster oven on fire and causing chaos in the house last week.

But how was she to know that taking a baby book to school would have caused so much trouble?

The book was called A Child is Born.

And had the most amazing pictures of how a baby grew inside a mummy’s tummy.

The problems had started when Johnny Lacy had gagged when he saw the picture of a child being born.

And when Sophia had taken time to explain to him exactly how the child had ended up inside the mummy’s tummy in the first place, the Stoooooopid boy had thrown-up all over her best friend Emily’s new shoes. Which meant Miss Brown had not been happy with Sophia. She’d even confiscated book and refused to return it.

Sophia new perfectly well that her mamma and Papa would not have allowed her to take the book to school in the first place.

But she’d wanted to prove to Johnny Lacy that his explanation of how a baby got into a mummy’s tummy was wrong.

And now Johnny’s mummy was upset with Sophia too.

So today had turned into a complete nightmare for Sophia Ferranti.

Her best friend Emily had promised faithfully to say nothing to her mummy because she was a good pal of Sophia’s mama. And Tonio and Luca had promised to say nothing too. Now Sophia sat on the couch cuddling Jimmy Chew and felt that her dog was her only friend in the whole wide world.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Her mother asked for like the tenth time.

Actually, Sofia is feeling a bit sick in her stomach.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, and wished bedtime would hurry up and come.

Nico Ferranti was in a good mood.

He’d had a great day at Ludlow Hall.

It looked liked the flu virus from hell had finally burned itself through his staff.

And just to put a cherry on top of the cake, his PA Julie had returned to work.

Yay!

And now he got to spend quality time with his family for the whole weekend.

In his plans were an early night and plenty of good loving with his wife.

Whistling a happy tune, he strolled through the back door The Dower House, and got hit right between the eyes with a scent sent from heaven—his wife’s famous Italian red sauce, featuring basil and oven roasted tomatoes and garlic bread warm from the oven.

His mouth watered.

And then he got all soppy when he spotted the fat glass of Chianti sitting on the worktop, just waiting for him.

His wife knew exactly how to look after him.

He was a lucky man.

To show his appreciation and love, he grabbed Bronte around the waist and kissed the breath from her.

He loved the little purr in her throat. He loved the way she ran her fingers through his black hair.

Her nails scratched his scalp.

“Wow,” she said, when they came up for air. “What did I do to deserve that?”

He grinned at the dazed expression on her face.

“You look after me. You look after everyone. And I love you.”

She stroked the back of her hand down his cheek, her emerald eyes filled with love for him.

Yes, Nico reckoned he was one lucky bastard.

During dinner, Bronte put the lack of conversation from Sophia down to tiredness. After all, the kids had had a busy week at school. However, the little niggle in her belly just refused to quit. Bronte decided that tomorrow was another day. A day where she’d spend time with Sophia and get to the bottom of what was bothering her.

Once the children had teeth brushed, bathed and put to bed—after three rounds of story time of course, Nico and Bronte had time to themselves.

On the couch, he’d just taken her in his arms for a bit of heavy petting, when baby Eve’s tired cry came over the intercom.

Nico looked to Heaven. “Teething is hell,” he said to Bronte.

His wife stood, lifted her arms as if reaching for the sky, and yawned hugely.

“Her little cheeks are so hot. I’ll give her Calpol. That should sort it.”

Nico stretched out his long legs clad in loose black jeans, and wiggled his bare toes.

It looked as if his plan for an early night and romance may not happen.

Then he counted his many blessings, and shrugged.

He was a lucky man.

“Papa?”

The voice of one of his blessings came from behind him.

Nico looked to heaven.

“Sophia, cara mia, what is the matter?”

He turned, and found his daughter looking pale.

She was dressed in brushed cotton pink frilly pyjamas with the picture of Elsa on the front.

A gift from auntie Rosie.

And in her arms she clutched her Raggedy Ann doll.

A sure sign that something was up.

He watched her as Sophia crept closer.

And it wasn’t until she stood right before him that she looked him dead in the eye and said, “Promise you won’t be a grumpy Papa?”

Uh oh.

Trouble.

Nico leaned back and placed his hands behind his head.

He took plenty of time to study his daughter’s guilty face.

Maybe they were too soft with her?

Maybe she needed a firmer hand?

He rubbed the spot above his heart.

He couldn’t do it.

“On a scale of one to ten,” he said, “One being nothing too awful, what have you done this time?”

Her bare toes made little circles on the thick rug of ivory wool.

And she clutched Raggedy Ann even closer.

“It might be an eight? Maybe? I have a letter from Miss Brown to you and mamma in my schoolbag. And I don’t wanna give it to you.”

Nico’s brows rose into his hairline and he puffed out his cheeks.

“A letter from your teacher?”

Sophia nodded. “Yes.”

And now Sophia’s chin began to wobble and her eyes filled.

And in that moment, Nico knew he was toast.

No way could he harden his heart against tears.

He opened his arms and found his baby girl’s arms wound tight around his neck.

He let her cry.

Sometimes it was good to cry.

He didn’t want to think about the contents of the letter.

He couldn’t begin to imagine.

“What on earth is the matter?” Bronte said as she walked into the room.

Nico found his daughter holding him even tighter.

He made a face at his wife.

“Sophia has a letter for us from her teacher.”

“So what’s the problem?” Bronte asked.

“I don’t think it’s a friendly letter,” Nico said.

Bronte took a seat and tucked her legs beneath her butt.

“Hit me with it.”

By this time Sofia’s sobs were down to a snuffle.

“It’s in her school bag,” Nico said.

Bronte rose and padded to the boot room in her bare feet, and returned with Sophia’s schoolbag.

She sat down opened it and rummaged through the detritus until she found the letter.

For a long moment her eyes held his before she opened it and read the contents.

After reading it through twice, she bit down hard on her bottom lip and blinked frantically.

Nico heaved a heavy sigh.

He had a horrible feeling.

“That bad?”

By this time Sofia was sitting on her Papa’s lap, her cheek tucked against his chest and with one eye on her mamma.

Her cheeks were hot.

Bronte shook her head

“Well, it seems Miss Brown wants to know if we’ve been teaching sex education to our kids recently. Because it seems Sophia has been very busy informing her classmates about the birds and bees and vivid descriptions of natural childbirth.”

Nico shifted to catch Sophia’s eye.

“Seriously?”

Sophia drew circles on his T-shirt with her fingertip and all the while her big emerald eyes held his.

“It was all in the baby book,” she said in a small voice.

“What baby book?” Her mama asked.

“A Child is Born.” Sophia told her.

Bronte’s eyes went wide.

“Good Lord, you took that book to school?”

Sophia nodded. “Johnny Lacy said that babies came from heaven. That the stork brought the baby and left it at the hospital for mummies and daddies to collect. I said he was a big fat liar. He pushed me and I pushed him back. So I took the book into school. Because he can’t argue with the photographs, can he? I told him not to spread fake news.”

Silence.

No matter how hard Nico tried he couldn’t stop laughing.

His big body shook and he knew he daren’t meet his wife’s eyes.

Bronte meanwhile was reading the rest of the letter.

“Well, Miss Brown says that Sophia Ferranti did a better job than she could have done and that she will return the book the next time she sees me.”

Sophia blinked at her like a baby owl.

“You mean, I’m not in big trouble?”

Bronte leaned over and went nose-to-nose with her daughter.

“See what happens when you don’t give me a letter when you’re supposed to? You worried yourself for hours for nothing. All I am going to say is that you do not take any books from our library without asking permission. You okay with that?”

Sophia climbed off her Papa’s lap and went to receive a hug from her mamma.

A big hug.

Bronte lifted her and headed for the stairs.

“Say goodnight to Papa.”

“Night Papa.”

Nico topped up his glass of Chianti, sat back and closed his eyes.

There was never, he reckoned, a dull moment at the Dower house.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

FINE

Aw, no fake news for Sophia.

I’m busy writing Desert Captive, Our Rules, and have Gregorio Ancelotti’s story cooking on the back burner.

Big hugs,

Christine X

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Published on February 03, 2018 07:19

February 2, 2018

Desert Orchid, Chapter 4… and the battle lines are drawn…

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Chapter Four

The startling hum of sexual attraction tingling up her arm shocked Charisse in its intensity.

With infinite care she removed her hand from his strong grip and tried to tear her eyes from his, but she couldn’t look away.

Good God, the glamorous pictures of him in the society pages didn’t do the man justice. She’d never seen him smile in a photograph. He certainly wasn’t smiling now. He looked like an austere rock star. His skin was smooth and the colour of spun gold. His ebony hair was tied back at the neck in a slippery tail. But his eyes were the palest grey and so vivid they seemed to burn right through her.

He was long and lean. Too thin, was her first thought, quickly followed by, what an amazing bone structure. His face was all angles and plains with a long straight nose and a fabulously sculpted wide mouth that had a tendency to appear brooding, along with a purely masculine jaw, which already had a faint five o’clock shadow.

It was the face of a man who meant business, tough and uncompromising.

It was a face that could have been carved out of granite.

He blinked as if waking up from a dream.

Then he frowned at her in a way that caught her breath.

It made him look like a bad tempered warrior.

“How the hell can this be? How old are you?” he demanded.

The deep American drawl had initially thrown her, and it did the same thing now.

However, his question didn’t surprise her.

“I am twenty-two. I have been married for six years.”

Silence.

That dead-on stare was made her nervous.

He made her nervous.

To keep her hands busy Charisse took a sip of coffee.

Those eyes went dark now and ice cold.

She shivered at the look in them for her.

“He bought you, didn’t he?”

The clutch of fear in her belly was an old and familiar foe.

She hadn’t felt the presence of that foe for six years.

Charisse straightened her spine, reminded herself that she was no longer broken.

And she wouldn’t be intimidated by anyone, certainly not by the man looking at her as if she was a bad smell.

Her chin lifted. “Excuse me?”

Khalid sat back on the sofa, all relaxed and in control, and with an arrogance that made her palm itch. He didn’t fool her. The way his eyes narrowed flicking over her body as if she was an object rather than a human being made the ache in her heart burn. It felt as if the organ was being squeezed in an iron fist. Fear. It rose up from her belly into her throat in a way that brought back hellish memories of a time when the world as she’d known it had ended. Of a time when powerful men had looked upon her as a commodity to be bought and sold.

She shuddered with a memory that had a cold sweat trickle down her back. A flashback of lying naked, bloody, freezing cold and in pain entered her mind. And it took everything she had not to tremble in front of Khalid.

A Khalid who now looked at her as if she was something he wanted to scrape from the sole of his Italian handmade shoe.

“My accountants are very thorough. I’ve been through a variety of bank accounts with them. Six years ago, my uncle Asim paid three and a half million Euros—for you.” The drawl was now filled with utter disdain. “And he’s left ten times that amount in Swiss bank accounts in your name.” He leaned into her. “Well, I hope he got his money’s worth.”

Heady relief that he had no idea of the awful truth of her past fought with a righteous outrage that he believed she would marry a man for his money. That she had no moral compass or cared nothing for her country or her people.

How dare he?

Bastard.

“Do not look at me like that, as if I am a piece of meat,” Charisse warned in a tone of solid ice.

She rose and found her legs far from steady. She stalked to the doors open to the balcony and back again, all the while trying desperately to hang onto her temper. Picking up the tension in the room, the dogs growled and she silenced them with a hand signal. Her eyes remained glued to the dark angel lounging on the sofa and staring at her in a way that made her hand hurt to smack him, hard.

She didn’t attempt to hide her fury as she spoke, “How dare you of all people sit there in judgement of me? You know absolutely nothing about me.”

The sneer corrupting his beautiful mouth was an ugly thing. “Drop the contempt, baby. Right back at you. And you know nothing about me other than what you’ve read in your glossy magazines or listened to gossip while you’ve been holed up here in your ivory tower.”

Baby?

The way her stomach churned made the room spin, so she took deep breaths until the black spots in front of her eyes receded.

Charisse counted to ten and prayed fervently for patience. “I do not, and have never, lived in an ivory tower. I care about the people of this country, this continent. I care…”

His imperious flick of his hand shocked her into silence.

The need to pick up a giant fishbowl crammed with fresh roses and pour it over his dark head was so overwhelming she had to fist her hands.

“Spare me,” he drawled in a tone she was coming to hate. “Unlike you, I’ve never been anything less than honest about how I live my life and what I choose to do with it. What do you think your loyal subjects would think if they knew you were bought and paid for by my dear uncle? What do you think the starving, the needy, would think of you—a beautiful young woman—paid millions to marry a man old enough to be her grandfather? And a woman who now happens to have tens of millions of Euros in banks in Switzerland?”

When he put it like that, what had happened to her sounded so terribly sordid. But there was more to the truth than the bald facts he’d spat at her.

She’d been avoiding Khalid, that was true.

But she’d clung to the fragile hope that even though Khalid had, to put it mildly, a regrettable reputation, as a person he might be amenable and reasonably easy going. Perhaps even a little simple-minded. Never, in her wildest dreams, had she imagined a man with the tongue of a viper.

And now he was threatening to expose what he thought he knew of her past to her people?

But why?

How on earth was she going to be able to live with a man who held her in such deep contempt?

The room spun as his words pierced her fragile heart with hot knives and left it bloody and broken.

She sank to the couch and simply could not tear her eyes away from his.

“I knew nothing about the money until I read Asim’s letter. You must believe me.”

Jet brows flew into his hairline.

“Must I? I don’t have to believe anything. From what I’ve heard, few people saw my uncle in his final months except you and my aunt Yasmin who thinks the sun shines out of your cute little ass.”

Cute little ass?

Charisse blinked.

Never had anyone spoken to her like this.

Never.

And it appeared he regarded her as a… as a… con artist. Her hands fisted and her nails dug into the palms of her hands as Charisse battled the urge to scream with utter frustration.

“I adore Yasmin. She’s been like a mother to me.” Her voice broke and she cursed her wayward emotions. She’d never been good with overemotional dramas, they reminded her too much of her childhood. “Why are you behaving like this? Why have you judged me without even giving me a chance?”

Those grey eyes, cold as ice, narrowed into hers in a way that made Charisse brace herself. “Not fair. Is it, darlin’?”

Bewildered, she blinked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? The palace staff knows exactly what I’m talking about. ‘He’s a dick-swinging party animal and a waster.’ And I see from the colour draining from your face you know what I’m talking about.”

Her mouth went bone dry.

Charisse cleared her throat.

There was no point in denying it.

To do that would make a horrendous situation even worse.

She found herself wringing her hands, the words coming too fast. “I was upset at the time. Asim’s letter was… a shock. I’d no idea he’d even considered me marrying anyone, never mind marrying a…”

His grey eyes went wide with a warning that had heat scorch her cheeks.

Dear God, she’d nearly insulted him to his face.

He was angry and who could blame him? But what dismayed her was the fact that members of her staff had been gossiping about her.

She simply could not believe it.

His thin smile told her he was more than aware of the near insult.

“Good job you stopped right there, Highness. I gave my word to my father that I’m a changed man. No drinking. No women. And apparently if you and I get it together we’ve to make a baby sooner rather than later. A baby which will, according to my father, bring the hill tribes together. With us as parents, the poor little bastard has my deepest sympathy.”

The way he said, ‘Highness’ and the way he looked at her with eyes filled with a mix of lust and dark contempt made her heart thunder too loud in her ears.

This was a complete nightmare.

Khalid placed the fragile cup and saucer on the table and stood.

And she realised he was very tall.

Big.

Strong.

Masculine.

The dogs rose and he simply sent the animals a look that had them immediately drop their butts on the floor, and then lie down in a submissive gesture that had her jaw drop.

Boris and Rufus obeyed her and no one else.

Charisse stood and felt the full force of an invincible will and an even stronger temper as his eyes held hers with an intensity that caught her lungs.

Real fear crawled up her spine as he moved towards her and she forced herself not to back away.

Negative energy hissed and spat in an atmosphere filled with a tension between them that was combustible. Dangerous. The dogs growled low in their throats.

She gave a hand signal and they whined their anxiety.

Khalid stepped right into her personal space and she couldn’t help the tiny shudder of panic that ran through her.

“If those animals so much as twitch I’ll have them destroyed. I refuse to live in my own home in fear of having my throat ripped out.” The drawl was no longer lazy but clipped and harsh.

She read the truth in those chilling grey eyes.

He meant every single word.

His hand lifted and strong fingers gripped her chin as he tipped up her face to his. For the first time in six years a man was treating her like a thing. A possession. And it was as if this man’s touch scorched her skin, branded her as his.

“So very beautiful. So very young,” he murmured. Then his eyes narrowed and she read annoyance. “You’ve kept me waiting for many days, Highness. What’s it to be? Marriage to me and a life of duty and sacrifice? Or a life of leisure on the French Riviera? With those looks you’ll have no problem bagging yourself another sugar daddy.”

The insulting tone told her he was certain he knew exactly which life she would choose.

His touch burned her flesh and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the utter loathing in his.

His breath, the heat of his body spun around her over-heightened senses.

The cologne he wore was a spicy, peppery scent mixed with a citrusy top note.

But most potent of all was the scent of an aroused man in his prime.

A scent that sizzled through her system sending a liquid ache low in her belly, her breasts. Charisse had read enough that she understood the laws of chemistry, the fickle law of attraction, as well as pheromones, and what was possible between a man and a woman.

What she simply could not understand was how on earth her body was attracted to this man?

He hated her.

She despised him.

And yet she read arousal in those dark eyes, even as they studied her mouth for an eternal moment.

Charisse couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

It was as if her life was poised on a knife edge, on the decision she must make.

The strong fingers holding her chin squeezed hard, telling her he was becoming impatient for a response.

He lowered his head and his mouth was a mere whisper from hers.

“Choose.”

Khalid watched her big blue eyes widen as she stared up into his.

The delicate pulse in her neck beat a frantic tattoo.

She was trembling now.

And guilt that he frightened her made him pause.

He took a deep inhale.

God, he loved how she smelled. She wore a light floral scent, could be jasmine, but most of all he loved the scent of a warm, soft, and willing woman. Her hair was fabulous, like a silver river of pure silk. And he had no trouble imagining her in his bed, that slim body under his, long legs spread wide, taking his manhood to the hilt. No trouble at all. And her full mouth was a lesson in vulnerable temptation for a hungry man who hadn’t tasted a woman in a very long time.

He wondered what his brother would say if he knew the women he entertained at his home in London were in fact real life models for his work? Yes, he drank too much, but he’d already begun to cut back if for no other reason because too much alcohol had a detrimental affect on his creativity, never mind his libido. Khalid couldn’t help but enjoy the heady excitement this woman appeared to bring to his over stimulated senses. He read real fear in those blue depths as well as a courage and dignity that made his chest ache.

Her eyes searched his face before flickering to his mouth, and back, to search his eyes.

“Marriage,” she whispered.

Khalid blinked.

Again, she’d caught him by surprise.

Well, well, and he wondered for a moment if he’d misjudged her? But then the tip of her pink tongue flicked over her full bottom lip and he shrugged the thought away. Oh no, Charisse knew exactly what he was doing to him with those big innocent eyes.

She had the face of a seraph.

And the heart of a harlot.

Temptation whispered in his ear that she might be a harlot, but now she was his harlot. And Khalid decided to help himself to the offer of those trembling lips.

First his teeth tugged gently on the full bottom lip in a way that had her gasp into his mouth. Lord, she was so soft and tasted so fucking sweet. His libido roared like a formula one racing car on the starting line as blood surged into his erection so fast he shuddered with the pleasure pain of it. For the first time, he thanked God he’d given up alcohol. Then his mouth took hers. He plundered, in a crushing and bruising kiss that had her moan deep in her throat. And at last he gathered that silvery waterfall of scented hair in his hand to tip back her head to get the angle just right. His hand skimmed down her back, past a tiny waist, to that tight little bottom, jerking her against the hard evidence of his need.

He never took his eyes off her stunning face as she shivered in his arms, shaking uncontrollably in reaction. Slim arms wound tentatively around his neck. Little tease. Someone had taught her well how to act the artless ingénue. He bet there wasn’t a man alive who wouldn’t be turned on by this supposed naïve performance.

And all the while her eyes were tightly closed as she pressed her soft body against his in a way that told him she’d completely surrendered.

Dear heaven he was trembling, too.

Alarm bells pealed loud and long in his brain.

The need to taste her was like a drug.

But needs were dangerous things because needs led to addiction. And addiction led to the destruction of the soul and of the body and of the mind.

A little thrill of panicked excitement whipped through Charisse.

His mouth, hungry and hard, devoured hers. His big hands bruised, branded. This was not the gentle, soft kiss, or the murmur of whispered promises by the man of her dreams. This was something dangerous, something dark, and something she simply could not defy.

Charisse felt her blood heat, sizzle under her skin as his hands, rough, impatient, ran from her shoulders down to her hips and back again. There was an urgency, almost a ferocity, about the way his mouth took hers. She tasted dark needs, and a complete lack of self-discipline. And a little voice told her to be very, very careful. She ignored it, straining her body against the hardness of his, willing, impatient and ready to go wherever he took her.

Then her body shivered once, a violent whip of the senses, as needs, long dormant, rose to take her up and over a ragged peak.

He heard her smothered cry, swallowed it, tasted the sweetness of her. And by God she was so addictive as her fingernails clung onto his shoulders digging deep with a desperation that thrilled him. Khalid knew it was crazy, they’d just met, but he wanted her now, here, on the floor. Dragging his mouth from hers, he watched her through narrowed eyes as he tried to catch his breath. His mouth had gone bone dry. His heart made a desperate bid to escape through his ribcage.

On a vicious curse, he shoved her back to stare into her eyes. Huge. Her skin, flushed with arousal as the pulse in her neck fluttered erratically. Her soft mouth was trembling, swollen, from his. And he found it so erotic he cursed, yanked her back to devour that willing mouth again. And again he heard her smothered cry against his mouth and he caught her hair, slippery in his hand, pulling her head back. His mouth plundered hers, and even as she trembled and cried out again he could do nothing to stop.

Then she went stiff in his arms.

Her short little breaths panting into his mouth.

And reason finally battled through insanity.

No one was that good an actress.

She was unskilled.

The truth hit him hard.

What the hell was he doing?

This time when he thrust her away he took a careful step back.

She was too pale and her eyes appeared dazed with what looked like shock.

And, by the physical signals her body sent, she was aroused and in as bad a state as he was.

He could also see she was terribly scared.

Well, that made two of them.

“Do you have any idea what you are doing? How dare you respond to me like that.”

Unfair.

That comment was unjust and hit well below the belt and he knew it.

But the fear tickling his gut made him lash out. “If I wanted to I could take you now. Right here, on the floor.”

He realised Charisse was breathing as if she couldn’t pull enough oxygen into her lungs, her small breasts rising and falling under her T-shirt.

The look in her blue eyes for him now was fear warring with a vicious fury.

Fury won.

Her chin lifted.

Her gaze dagger sharp.

She looked as if she could conquer Poland with one hand tied behind her back.

She looked magnificent.

Well, well, what a turn up for the books this was.

Who’d have thought his uncle Asim would have had the exquisite taste to take such a woman to wife? He took another step back even as his hand itched to smooth her hair. The heavenly scent of it spun around him. He wanted to feel that hair again, so soft and so silky, as it slid between his fingers. And the crazy need to bury his face in her hair had him take yet another very careful step back.

Now those blue eyes filled to the brim with absolute loathing mixed with utter contempt. A look that told him more than words ever could that she’d summed him up and found him wanting.

For an unremitting moment their eyes clashed in a silent battle of wills.

“You,” she said in a low and shaky voice. “Are a lower form of life.”

Khalid never disputed a stated fact.

“Too true, baby.”

Oooooh, things are about to get hot for the pair of them. Hehehe.

The Ludlow Hall sneak peek is coming later tonight!

Christine x

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Published on February 02, 2018 09:41

February 1, 2018

Desert Orchid, Chapter Three….

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Chapter Three

Prince Khalid El Haribe leaped out of the helicopter, closely followed by his bodyguard, Omar, and four close protection officers belonging to his father’s guard.

He glanced at the tribes gathered around their tents.

Men, lean and mean, with guns and ammunition strapped across their chests and dressed in loose black robes, watched him through dark eyes filled to the brim with suspicion. While dusty haired toddlers clung to their older brothers and sisters.

No sign of the women.

No sign of a welcome either.

And again Khalid asked himself what the hell he was doing.

The dry heat was brutal.

Add in the stirring scent of camel dung, unwashed flesh, and his delicate stomach lurched.

The crisp collar of his white cotton shirt felt too tight, like a noose, around his neck. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn a monkey suit. This one was black silk with a black tie, all by Armani.

Eyes narrowed behind dark glasses, he surveyed his new home, The White Palace.

He’d read up about it. Built fifty years ago from granite blasted from a quarry near Aberdeen in Scotland, the palace was an unforgiving structure designed by an architect who’d rigorously followed minimalist principles. Behind walls three feet thick, the imposing structure glistened and gleamed under a merciless sun. It should have looked incongruous, perched on the edge of a mountain in the middle of the desert, but it blended seamlessly into the harsh and unforgiving landscape.

As they approached, monumental entrance gates, which appeared to be constructed of a heavy metal painted silver, swung open with a smooth movement that told him they were electronically operated. Then he spotted what appeared to be a huge field of solar panels following the path of the sun.

Interesting.

But he had no time to dwell on modern technology as a welcoming committee descended upon him consisting of a dozen men wearing a thwab and a ceremonial besht denoting their high status.

Omar moved to Khalid’s left side while his brother stood to his right.

Sarif was here for moral support and to help him settle into his kingly duties, which was just as well because he didn’t have a clue how to run a meeting never mind an entire country.

Once the bowing and scraping of the ceremonial duties were over, the senior ministers of his small government led the way into a wide and open courtyard constructed of sandstone.

The hair on the back of Khalid’s neck prickled.

Looking up he spotted a woman standing on a top floor balcony watching him. She wore a white prayer burka.

Probably his soon-to-be-wife.

Khalid’s stomach lurched.

Two days without alcohol and although he wasn’t exactly suffering, the heat made him thirsty for a beer.

They entered a stunning entrance hall the size of a cathedral. Wide double staircases flowed away to the right and to the left, up to the higher levels for at least four floors.

Good God, it climbed right up the middle of the mountain and was open to the elements, which made it amazingly cool and airy. The wind made an unusual whispering sound. It wasn’t quite a moan and it gave the place an otherworldly, almost ethereal feel.

A wave of dizziness washed over Khalid, probably the altitude.

His pulse kicked as perspiration beaded on his top lip.

Invited to sit, he thankfully accepted refreshments as Sarif addressed the Sheiks in the local dialect. He spoke on behalf of his father, King Abdullah, who was recovering from minor heart surgery, an event with which his youngest son had not been acquainted. Khalid was not fluent in khaliji Arabic and had difficulty following what was being said.

Yet another obstacle to overcome.

Again he wondered what the hell he was doing?

Why had he agreed to this fiasco?

Because, the little voice in his head told him, he needed to atone, to make amends to his family, and this was the first chance he’d had in over six years to do so.

He needed to do his duty, and get on with it, so he forced himself to pay attention.

Two hours later Khalid’s head was pounding.

He was taken to what, he assumed, was his late uncle’s extensive library. It smelled of old books, incense and had a strangely spiritual feel.

It was a room that had belonged to a scholar.

He didn’t belong here. He was way out of his element and he knew it. And looking at the men who were watching him like black crows sitting on a tree branch, they knew it, too.

Witnessed by his brother and the Sheiks of eight tribes, Prince Khalid El Haribe signed away his freedom and life as he knew it.

In return he was King of a tiny state peopled by nomads whose way of life hadn’t changed for hundreds of years. Listening to the sonorous tones of his Prime Minister, Khalid realised these men were looking to him to bring Onuur into the twenty-first century and prosperity.

Well, God help them.

And God help him.

Six hours later, the inside of Khalid’s skull threatened to split wide open.

His hand shook as he poured himself yet another glass of water.

What a time to go on the wagon.

The lecture from his father still rang in his ears. Family honour, his duty to the people of Onuur and his duty to its Queen, which apparently including producing an heir ASAP, made him wonder if he’d lost his fucking mind.

He had no idea what the Queen looked like, or even how old she was.

Considering his uncle had died at the relatively young age of sixty-five, he imagined she must be in her late thirties or early forties. The information he’d managed to glean was the couple had been married for six blissfully happy years. Apparently, his future wife was a modest and devout woman who’d been devoted to his uncle. She never travelled outside the country and was, ‘A little eccentric.’ And, ‘Fond of animals and children.’

He could only hope to hell she had all her own teeth.

Now he frowned.

She might sound like a saint, but today he’d learned something very interesting about his future wife. And now he wondered how she was going to explain to him why she had millions of dollars deposited in her name in Swiss banks. It looked like the queen that everyone was so fond of had feet of clay. And that was a complication he could do without.

Hell, he needed a drink.

***

Two endless days later, Khalid was beginning to get his bearings.

The palace was a vast building that would take weeks to fully explore.

However, it seemed the queen’s domain was strictly off limits to everyone, including him.

She’d asked for time to grieve, to be left alone.

Since Khalid was still drying out and not exactly feeling his best, he’d been more than happy to comply with her wishes.

On the queen’s instructions, he’d been allocated sleeping chambers and a studio for his art at the opposite end of the palace from her quarters. For some reason it stung his pride that it appeared she wanted him as far away from her as physically possible. Okay, he was the first to admit that he might not exactly be cut out to rule a tiny rock in the middle of a desert. But at least he was willing to give the role his best shot. All she had to do was to meet him halfway. Surely that wasn’t too much to ask?

Since his art came first with him before any other consideration, including ruling a stinking dust bowl hotter than hell itself, and marrying its elusive queen, Khalid had absolutely no qualms in overruling her orders. He’d discovered the space with the best light was directly below her apartments and he wasted no time in organising his environment to suit his own needs.

The one family member he had met, and already grown fond of, was his elderly aunt Yasmin who joined Sarif and himself at dinner each evening. She made sure they were comfortable and had everything they required. From her he’d learned that Charisse, apparently the name meant Beloved, yeah right, was hands-on when it came to educating the populace particularly the women and children. As his aunt droned on, Khalid hid a yawn behind his hand and decided benevolently that he didn’t have an issue with his future wife’s interests. He was quite happy to leave her to it. Sarif, however, was vastly intrigued about the educational programmes and was, he said, looking forward to meeting Charisse to discuss how Onuur’s syllabuses compared to the systems he’d implemented for his people in Quaram.

Each evening, Sarif went through the day’s endless events with Khalid, to instruct his brother on the personalities and politics involved. Sarif would spend three days a week in Onuur as a special advisor to Khalid until the wedding was organised and the couple had returned from their honeymoon.

One thing that continued to elude Khalid was sleep, which was why he was awake and aware enough to hear horses riding out in the early hours every night under a moonlit sky teaming with constellations glittering like diamonds.

During his single visit to the impressively organised and immaculate stables it had been made crystal clear, very politely of course, that the queen’s horse Diablo was strictly off limits. The black stallion was colossal, at least nineteen hands high. And Khalid couldn’t imagine any woman managing to control the great beast never mind the slight woman he’d spotted on his arrival.

But maybe his eyes had been deceiving him. Maybe Charisse was a woman strong enough, big enough, to handle the stallion. Khalid was six foot three. But the thought of bedding an Amazon with heavy muscled thighs made his mouth go bone dry.

By day five, Khalid had a distinct picture of his wife-to-be in his head.

She was a big-boned woman. Her biological clock was ticking. She was a conservative believer in tradition and seriously devoted to her people. She enjoyed reading and listening to music. And, he thought bitterly, sounded a right barrel of laughs.

Luckily for him he had Omar in his corner.

One of his bodyguard’s many skills was that he kept his ear very close to the ground. Therefore he made sure Khalid was kept up to date with the comings and goings in the palace. It was Omar who’d informed him, with great reluctance, that the gossip in the palace was that his future wife was somewhat less than impressed with the selection of her husband-to-be. Apparently, she thought Sarif would have been a more acceptable choice.

The blow was brutal to his ego, but Khalid was honest enough with himself to admit that he understood where the woman was coming from.

He was also honest enough to admit that Charisse’s rumoured low opinion of him, before she’d even met him, stung.

Which was a pity for the future success of their marriage, because Khalid was prone to dark moods.

Always had been.

And not a man who was good with a lot of time on his hands. As the old saying goes, The Devil finds work for idle hands. And now he found himself brooding all day over a deepening sense of injustice. As time passed, the sting of that injustice burned too brightly in his belly.

Feeling very hard done by, he was sitting behind an antique desk in the dark cave of the library. His tired brain pondering on how much his life had changed in a matter of days.

He’d lost his freedom.

He’d cleaned up his act.

He even shaved every day.

Although he’d drawn a line at cutting his hair.

Much to Sarif’s disgust, Khalid merely tied his hair back at the neck.

What more did his brother want from him?

Glowering at the endless piles of papers on his desk, the brisk knock at the door was a welcome distraction.

Omar entered.

“Miss Arabella Faulkner requests a moment of your time, Highness.”

Khalid’s dark brows rose into his hairline.

Did this mean a sign of life from Charisse?

At last.

“Show her in.”

Khalid knew Arabella was the queen’s bodyguard, companion and friend, and that she was British ex-special forces. He’d expected a woman built like a tank. So the tall, slim woman who entered caught him by surprise.

She bowed her head as Omar closed the door behind her.

Dressed in black military cargo pants, soft boots, black short sleeved T-shirt with a web belt and automatic pistol harness, Ms. Faulkner was an impressive sight. He gauged she was five foot nine, about one hundred and twenty pounds.

Expression carefully neutral, she stood with her feet shoulder-width apart, hands behind her back.

Tough, was Khalid’s first thought.

Closely followed by committed, professional, and—not impressed.

Not that she showed it.

Most men might not have picked up on the finer nuances of her attitude but Khalid was an artist and an expert on women, their body language, and he could almost taste her disdain.

Annoyance now joined the injustice burning in his belly.

He narrowed his eyes.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Faulkner?”

Dark brown eyes stayed level on his.

“Her Royal Highness invites you to join her for afternoon tea.”

So, the waiting was over.

Khalid couldn’t say he was looking forward to meeting his future ball and chain. But he had a duty to his family and he’d promised his father faithfully that he wouldn’t let him down.

Again.

The sense of relief that the wait was over lifted his spirits, not that he showed it to the woman watching him as if he was a smear on a Petri dish.

Khalid stood.

“Please, lead the way.”

Omar’s eyes never left Arabella as he opened the door. His bodyguard was hot on their heels. His towering presence followed them as they entered the reception hall and the main staircase and began to climb to the next level.

Arabella stopped on the wide first floor landing.

“We’ll take the elevator. It’s six floors to Her Highness’s apartments. We’ll exit on the fifth floor. No one is permitted entry to the apartments without permission,” she said as she indicated he precede her into the elevator.

“Especially me? Hmm, Ms. Faulkner?” Khalid spoke softly and Omar stiffened by his side as Arabella placed herself between Khalid and his protection officer.

“I’m sorry. Your bodyguard is not permitted beyond this point.”

Seriously?

The woman was prepared to stand there and tell him where he could and could not go in his own palace?

Omar spread his legs and went for his weapon.

His bodyguard was not used to women issuing orders and the act was a deliberate act of aggression, to show her who was boss.

The woman didn’t flinch.

Khalid, in spite of himself, was impressed by how she didn’t flicker as much as an eyelid.

“Put the gun away, Omar. Ms. Faulkner will keep you company.”

He met the cold fury in his bodyguard’s eyes and stared at him until Omar tucked away his weapon and took a reluctant step back.

Khalid gave a tight little smile as he entered the elevator. He pressed the button, and the elevator doors closed on Arabella Faulkner and Omar. He decided his soon-to-be-wife needed a salutary lesson in manners. After all, he’d been more than fair since he’d arrived. Plus, since Charisse was grieving, he’d been prepared to give the woman a certain amount of leeway.

However, he was not prepared to be treated like a guest in what was now his own home.

The elevator rose smooth and swift. And he couldn’t help but wonder what his future wife was like. Was she sturdy? Big hipped? Or was she a bag of bones with no meat on her? Khalid liked his women womanly with breasts and ass. Something for a man to grip, to hold onto.

The elevator doors opened.

An elderly maid bowed deep before him.

For some reason his nerves boogied in his belly, and he didn’t like it, not one little bit.

He was a king for God’s sake. And it was time he started acting like one.

The maid led him up a wide stone stairway to arched doors painted a glossy black.

She knocked once, opened the doors and bowed for him to precede her.

Khalid entered an airy and light space with huge doors on all sides open to the elements and stopped dead.

Well, well, this was a pleasant surprise.

While the rest of the palace was luxurious and furnished with heavy teak. It was decorated in a traditional Arabic style that tended to make it dark and claustrophobic. In this space walls had been painted chalk white and hung with huge paintings, slashes of modern art, arranged strategically around the room. A log burner in brushed stainless steel rose majestically through the cavernous ceiling. The space throbbed with energy and life.

It smelled of candle wax, flowers, and warm woman.

The maid indicated a couple of seven foot sofas, covered in ivory linen, set at right angles and groaning under the weight of silk cushions in bright jewelled colours edged with gold tassels. “Please sit, Highness.”

She closed the double doors behind her.

Khalid picked a seat which gave him the best view of the room.

He made himself comfortable.

Nice place.

Tasteful.

Feminine.

Intrigued, he leaned back and crossed his legs and made himself right at home.

Glass bowls teaming with fresh flowers scented the air.

Beeswax candles, thick as a man’s fist, marched down a wide coffee table made of tempered glass holding a variety of books on antiquity along with the latest glossy western magazines for women.

A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

He blinked.

Two wolfhounds with rough shaggy coats of dirty grey sat like statues guarding the entrance to another space. Dark hazel eyes studied him with interest.

“Would you like tea or coffee?” A young woman’s voice called out.

His brows rose.

Must be another maid, and one who didn’t know her place.

Domestic staff did not shout at an El Haribe prince.

Imagining his brother’s outrage at the break of strict protocol, Khalid grinned.

“Coffee, please.”

The dogs rose, moving as one and padded before a metal and glass tea trolley pushed by one of the most beautiful young women Khalid had ever seen.

And he’d seen more than his fair share.

He thought she looked vaguely familiar.

His mind flicked through a mental file of women, but he couldn’t place her.

A silver waterfall of hair fell to a narrow waist.

She was dressed in pale blue designer jeans that fitted her in all the right places and a pale grey Rolling Stones short sleeved T-shirt. She was tall. Five feet eight inches and about one hundred and ten pounds. A bit on the skinny side. Her small breasts were high and firm. The long limbs and fine bones were all in proportion. Combined with a lightly tanned skin, she was simply stunning.

But it was the large eyes that caught Khalid’s breath and seemed to stop his heart.

They were a sparkling blue, the colour of a Mediterranean sky in summer, and edged with thick dark lashes.

He read a fierce intelligence, curiosity and a deep sadness in their beautiful depths.

Those marvellous eyes blinked into his.

“Would you like milk?”

Her soft voice was well-educated with a hint of France, and that voice slid over his senses like warm honey.

She smiled and Khalid’s mind went blank.

“Ah, black… thank you.”

He accepted a bone china cup and saucer and frowned at her, almost certain that he’d seen her before. “Have we met before?” he asked now.

Those amazing eyes stared deep into his.

And he was sincerely shocked to read something like contempt.

“Oh, I know who you are, Prince El Haribe. My late husband followed your… exploits very carefully.”

Using small tongs of solid silver, she placed a couple of tiny pastries on a plate and offered it to him. Another too polite smile had him narrow his eyes.

He took the plate as she poured herself a coffee, popped a pastry in her sensual mouth and sat next to him.

Then she leaned back to study him.

“Your late husband?” Khalid murmured unable to tear his eyes away from hers.

Cocking her blonde head in a way that made him decide she looked utterly adorable, her smile curled his toes as more mischief entered those fabulous eyes.

She placed her cup and saucer on the table and held out her hand.

Khalid placed his hand in hers.

It wasn’t electricity that jolted up his arm but a buzzing attraction that made his heart beat too fast. He went rock hard. He couldn’t help but savour the moment, it had been a very long time since a woman had affected him like this.

Her hand was delicately boned.

The skin was soft, silky smooth to his touch as the scent of vanilla, honeysuckle and shampoo along with warm woman spun around his heightened senses.

Her blue eyes glittered into his and her voice sounded so husky it tingled the base of his spine and shot liquid fire into his groin.

“Charisse El Haribe. Your future wife. How do you do?”

***

Chapter Four coming tomorrow.

Christine X

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Published on February 01, 2018 08:01

January 31, 2018

Desert Orchid, chapter two……..

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By CC MacKenzie

Chapter Two

Unfolding the stiff pages of the letter written by the fragile hand of her late husband, Charisse El Haribe’s fingers shook with the emotion that squeezed her lungs, her throat, and stung her eyes.

She shivered even though the temperature outside the palace, under a relentless sun, scorched the land at a steady forty-two degrees. Asim’s passing had been a blessed release for the ravaged shell of his body. But she still found it hard to believe he was gone. Poor Asim, his had been a life filled with suffering. His heart condition had been congenital, which meant no heir for the kingdom of Onuur. And Asim had borne his infirmity with grace, with a highly developed sense of humour and with fortitude.

As was the custom in her adopted land, Asim had been buried within twenty-four hours of his death.

Now she wondered how she could possibly carry on her life without him? The phrase was a cliché, but it was nevertheless very true that Asim had been her rock. And it wasn’t overly dramatic to say he’d saved her life, her heart and even her soul from certain destruction.

Had it really been six short years since he’d brought her, a traumatised sixteen year old, to this fabulous white palace? The structure had been built with Asim’s needs in mind, two thousand feet above sea level on the top of a mountain where the air was cool and clear, and where clouds sprinted across a magnificent expanse of a sky so blue it hurt the eye.

The faint scent of Asim’s signature cologne clung to the thick papers and his presence returned to her in an instant. With a deep inhale, Charisse pressed the missive to her lips. The scent eased the unremitting agony in her heart. And an extraordinary sense of Asim standing at her shoulder overwhelmed her. Even as the feeling brought her comfort, she knew he would expect her to face an uncertain future with bravery, with dignity. After all that he had suffered, the way he had courageously coped with the personal insults of a body reduced to skin and bone, the memory gave her strength.

Asim used to say that she’d given him extra years of life and Charisse hoped he’d been right. He’d been like a beloved father to her, a teacher, and most important of all, a true and loyal friend. And she’d loved him deeply with all of her fractured heart.

Ever since Charisse had been handed the letter from her darling Asim, by a stern-faced Minister of the Interior, she’d had the distinct sensation of waiting for an axe to fall.

The two women who sat opposite stared at her with eyes filled with grief and concern.

With a snuffle and a deep sigh, Boris’s immense head rested on Charisse’s knee. Big hazel eyes locked on her face. They were filled with unconditional love and an intensity that had her press a kiss to his shaggy head of fur the colour of tarnished silver. Charisse raised her index finger. The dog moved with a reluctance that made her bite down hard on her lip to lie on the floor beside his brother Rufus. Her raised brow had Boris hide his face in his paws and heave another great breath from his massive chest. Her Irish Wolfhounds were suffering the loss of Amir, too. She’d take them out for a run later with Diablo. Her stallion needed to vent his excess energy, and it would do her good to escape from the palace for a little while.

Clearing her throat, Charisse blinked to clear her vision and read the letter aloud to her captive audience.

“My darling, Charisse,

I am sorry to leave you. Please find it in your heart to forgive me, but God has need of me in heaven.

You brought joy, laughter, companionship and love to a lonely old man. You opened my eyes and my heart to what is possible for our people and for the future of Onuur. Namely, the children.

It is crucial that you continue your work, Charisse. And you must resume your studies! I know – nag, nag, nag.”

Charisse smiled into the swimming eyes of her sister-in-law, Yasmin. And into the brown eyes, sharp with a ruthless intelligence, of Arabella Faulkner, her bodyguard and trusted friend. Then she took a deep steadying breath and continued,

“You cannot return to the land of your birth. HE now wears a cloak of respectability and has become too powerful. You know too much, and that is dangerous. As I await to leave this earth, my greatest fear is that HE will attempt to strike you down. To prevent such an event I have already set in motion plans to secure your future. Plans that even a man such as HE dare not defy.

I have named Prince Khalid El Haribe as my heir. You must marry him within six weeks.”

Stunned disbelief had Charisse blink once, twice.

Her heart rammed to an emergency stop then roared too loud in her ears. She shook her head in denial of what she held in her hands written in black ink by that fragile hand.

She read it twice, three times.

Why?

Why on earth would Asim do such a terrible thing to her, to Onuur?

Looking up, she read her incredulity mirrored in the shocked eyes of her companions.

The dogs whined, and she silenced them with the lift of her forefinger.

A deep frown creased her forehead as she continued more slowly,

“I know you will be confused, even dismayed, by my choice of a husband for you, child. But please permit me to explain. Yes, Khalid is flawed. Yes, he is a womaniser. Yes, he is wild, wilful and out of control. But Charisse, there is nothing and no one you cannot tame if you can find it in your heart to forgive him and open your clever mind to his potential. Believe me, he has potential to be a great man and a good husband.

Now I am gone the stability of the country and the region is at risk. Greedy eyes are turned to Onuur. They will surely inflame unrest and undo all the good work we have achieved. Bloodshed, pain and loss must surely follow for the people of this land, which is why I have chosen Khalid.

He will bring with him the security and the stability of the house of El Haribe. The King and his sons are powerful and will protect you and our Kingdom. The King is in agreement with my plan. Look upon him as your father. The Queen will come to love you, too, if you give her a chance.”

Charisse gasped and jumped to her feet, the correspondence fluttering to a floor of polished white marble.

Two giant heads snapped to attention as the dogs rose as one and their butts hit the floor.

“I will not!” she cried.

The wolfhounds’ eyes, the colour of jet, tracked her as she paced to the open balcony and back. Wearing a loose top and flowing pants of ivory silk, her soft leather ballet pumps made little sound.

With a fluid movement of her long and lean body, clothed in black military fatigues, Arabella picked up the pages from the floor.

She stood and held out the letter to Charisse.

“Read all of it, Your Highness. We can have a nervous breakdown, if we need to, after we have all the facts.’

Charisse took a steadying breath even as her pulse was hammering in her throat and her eyes stung.

Arabella was quite right.

Where was her self-control?

Having a temper tantrum like a child changed nothing.

She wanted to cry enough tears to fill an ocean.

But tears changed nothing.

With a single nod, she took the letter and sank to the edge of the chair.

The dogs didn’t relax and their black eyes, anxious and watchful, never left her face for a moment. She couldn’t help it, her hand shook as she cleared her throat.

“Should you find yourself unable to marry Khalid, the White Palace shall remain yours in perpetuity. On your death it will return to the State. A sum of (she gasped) has been placed in banks in Switzerland for your personal use.

There are conditions to the marriage:

Khalid must not take concubines or another wife whilst you live.

He must provide you with a child within one year of marriage.

Good God!

If the marriage is annulled, the child will remain with you.

So you see, Charisse, you have a choice to make. Get to know Khalid. Open your mind. Help him find joy in service to our people. And at all times remember you are a Queen, beloved by the people of Onuur.

I die a happy and contented man, my darling, and for that I thank you.

Have courage.

All my love, Asim.”

Eyes stinging and with a hot rock lodged in her throat, Charisse folded the letter with great care and placed it on the table.

She felt the eyes of her companions on her as she stood, shoulders back and head held high. Like an automaton she moved towards open vast doors and stepped onto a wide stone terrace, which soared high above the valley below. Her sumptuous apartments covered the entire top floor of the palace. Asim had spared no expense ensuring her comfort, providing rooms that were light and spacious with the added luxury of private balconies. There was her office, a state-of-the-art kitchen, gymnasium, a lap pool, and covered deck for lazy days.

Not that she had many of those.

Charisse gazed out, unseeing, over the mountain tops and into the sea, miles beyond.

Up here, the climate was never still, never quiet.

A brisk wind toyed with the long tail of her platinum hair, whipping it around her face. The salty tang of the sea mixed with the scent of jasmine and tea roses planted in huge terracotta pots. A cry from above had her look up and narrow her eyes. A single raptor circled, gliding in the updraft of a cloudless sky.

Dear heaven she missed Amir so much.

But why had he never discussed his plans for the future with her?

They’d agreed never to keep secrets.

The ache in her heart swelled into unbearable pain as her face crumpled.

Her delicate fists pounded the top of the balcony.

A sympathetic hand touched her shoulder.

“Why didn’t he talk to me about this? Why am I not given time to grieve?” Charisse turned into Yasmin’s wiry arms and sobbed into her neck.

As she would an infant, her sister-in-law rubbed her back in lazy circles.

Her voice, filled with sorrow, was the merest whisper, “Hush, child. It has always been thus for the rulers of this land.”

Yasmin’s hand, the skin paper thin and wrinkled with age, tipped up her chin. Dark eyes identical to Asim’s stared into hers and Charisse recognised grief and a hideous loss. Gentle fingertips wiped the tears from her cheeks. Yasmin had lost her favourite brother and here she was acting like a spoilt child. And shame for her selfish outburst smacked her too hard. Yasmin kissed one cheek and then the other. “He prepared you for this day. The men have buried him and the women will weep. Asim was revered in this land. Your Prince has large shoes to fill.”

Charisse couldn’t stop the sting of outrage.

“My Prince?”

She whirled, blue eyes blazing as she paced back and forth.

Alert, the dogs took positions in the shade and sat on their haunches like sentinels, one either side of the ornate arched doorway. Not once did their eyes leave her face.

“He’s a tom-cat,” she spat the words. “A drunk. A waster.”

“That’s right, your Highness, tell it like it is,” Arabella drawled and added. “Apparently, his art sells for a small fortune.”

Temper won the war of attrition with grief, and surged through Charisse.

She spun to face her friend with wide eyes.

“Have you seen what he calls art? If I want a visual lesson in what the intimate body parts of the female form look like, I’ll refer to a gynaecological compendium for facts, not fiction.”

Arabella winced at the tone.

“To be fair his work in oils has gathered critical acclaim.”

Bullshit.

Charisse wasn’t having that.

“Yes, by men who need to be titillated by Khalid’s so called interpretation of a clitoris, labia and perineum.” Utter fury spiked through the top of her head as her eyes pinned Arabella’s and it took everything she had to stop her voice shaking, to articulate every syllable, “There are children living in this continent who do not know what it is like to live without the unparalleled burn of an empty belly, who cannot imagine a future further than their next meal.” She took a very deep breath. “While he, who’s never known anything but health, wealth and a fawning society, does nothing but piss away his opportunity to make a real difference to his people.

“Oh, they might not have the good fortune to be born within the hallowed borders of Dhuma or Quaram, but our people are nomads. We are all brothers and sisters and we who rule have a responsibility to the hungry, the sick and the vulnerable of this region.”

Having heard it all before, and more, Arabella nodded.

“I’m not defending him. But he’s not had an easy time of it…”

Charisse flicked a hand, rudely interrupting her bodyguard and friend.

She wasn’t having any of that, either.

“He needs to get over himself and grow a pair. Onuur needs a real man, not a dick-swinging fool who cannot go six hours without a drink or a woman or three.”

“Charisse!” Yasmin’s soft voice held a censure that had anger leak out of Charisse like a deflated balloon.

God, she felt physically ill at the mere thought of such a man touching her.

She couldn’t do it.

Arabella frowned now, and sat at a stone table in the shade, drumming her fingernails on the table top. “You know we can’t believe absolutely everything they print in the press? Much of it is bound to be exaggerated.”

Charisse let out an unladylike snort that had Yasmin send her a look of mild reproach.

“If it swims like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck – it’s a duck.”

Charisse’s temperament was usually easygoing. But now her temper bubbled and brewed quite nicely. And her chin tilted.

“He is not fit to lick my feet. And in my bed?” She hissed out a breath of sheer temper. “Never. I’d rather sleep with a…”

The shrill ring of the telephone, the land line, brought an abrupt end to her rant.

Arabella paused, waiting for her Queen’s nod of assent before picking up the receiver.

“Hello?” The bodyguard listened with a deepening crease on her forehead as her dark brows met over her nose.

Now what? Charisse wondered.

Arabella’s dark eyes flicked to hers. “Yes, I will inform her Highness.”

Arabella replaced the receiver and opened her mouth to speak when the distant whop- whop-whop of helicopters brought their attention to the land to the north of Onuur, to Dhuma.

Charisse stepped into her apartments, covered herself with a white hijab and stalked out to observe the approach of three vast military helicopters.

Vultures, she fumed.

As a mere woman, even as a queen, she had no rights.

The El Haribe Princes and their father would rule her land, her people.

Men who were so called modernists.

If she had to marry one, why couldn’t it have been the elder brother?

At least Sarif appeared to have standards, morals.

Although from what she’d seen on the news and on the internet his face appeared to be carved from stone, his dark eyes too hard. Plus, he had a reputation for being relentless, even ruthless, in achieving his goals.

Emotions gripped her throat as a tsunami of guilt for the anger she felt with her late husband washed over her.

“Oh, my darling, what on earth were you thinking?” she whispered.

Her eyes narrowed into slits as the helicopters thundered around the Palace in preparation to land.

The racket, the vibration under her feet, spooked the horses in the stables far below and even from here she could hear Diablo’s frantic screams. The magnificent black stallion was already edgy since he’d picked up her grief and her pain. She’d need to take him out later and give him his neck or he’d be impossible for the stable boys to handle.

Helicopters the colour of the desert descended kicking up mini tornadoes, sand devils, in their wake.

And the analogy was not lost on Charisse.

One of them carried the very devil himself.

A man so bent on his own pleasure, on his own self-destructive needs, he’d even turned his back on his country, his people and his own family.

She needed time. Time to think. Time to plan.

Determination filled her heart. “I am in seclusion. I will receive no one,” she said, her voice firm and the tone harsh. And she hardened her heart to Yasmin’s sigh of disappointment.

“They won’t like it,” Arabella warned her.

Charisse kept her burning gaze on the helicopters hidden now among huge clouds of dusty sand as they settled outside the palace walls. Her people were covering their eyes and mouths with cloth to protect themselves from the sting of swirling sand. Since they’d never seen a military helicopter up close and personal, some of the children were holding their ears and screaming with fright and shock.

Anger felt a hell of a lot better than guilt and Charisse gave it free rein now.

Stupid, ignorant, macho fools.

Did they not realise the damage they were inflicting on a people and animals unused to such arrogant behaviour.

How dare they arrive at her home in such a manner.

“I will come to them when I am ready. Not before.”

Chapter Three coming tomorrow…..

Christine X

Desert Orchid is available at:

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Published on January 31, 2018 06:19

January 30, 2018

Who wants to read a chapter a day – right here – from beginning to end of Desert Orchid?

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Hello, my darlings.

Isn’t the new cover gorgeous? My editorial and branding team and I are working hard on the second book of the Desert Princes duet, DESERT CAPTIVE. It’s taken too long to get all my ducks in a row with this project, but now we’re ready to move forward. Before DESERT CAPTIVE is available on pre-order, we decided to let you guys read DESERT ORCHID on the blog. Please note steamy scenes will not be shared on this open platform. To do that, I’d need to hide the blog behind an 18+ firewall, and I’m not prepared to do that. I’ve added DESERT ORCHID buy links for those who want to grab it. It’s on a $2.99 deal as I write.

So, grab a coffee, sit back and enjoy!

DESERT ORCHID

Think ‘Memoirs of a Geisha’ meets ‘Taken’.

A young Arabian Queen must marry a wild, wicked and wilful Prince to save her people from civil unrest and protect the wealth of her Kingdom.

Charisse never expected to find love with a darkly brooding man who looks and lives like a rock star.

Growing up as a member of royalty isn’t everything it’s proclaimed to be. Khalid El Haribe learned that heartbreaking lesson five years ago and isn’t interested in ruling a small desert kingdom or marriage but he cannot forget the debt he owes his family. Perhaps doing his duty will atone for past mistakes? Meeting the beautiful and feisty Charisse comes as a pleasant surprise…the attraction between them burns as hot as the desert.

But tragic events in Charisse’s past threaten to destroy her Kingdom and her life, too. Can their fragile love survive?

Chapter One

Blood is thicker than water – John Ray.

Water is thicker than blood – Queen Charisse El Haribe.

Prince Sarif El Haribe, arriving at Connaught Square in the wintry twilight, was informed at the door that His Royal Highness was immersed in his art and could not be disturbed. He received this news from his brother’s close protection officer without comment, but as the butler helped him take off his heavy cashmere overcoat, he eyed the mountain of a man who stood before him and inquired in an unemotional voice, “I feel quite certain that message does not apply to me, don’t you?” The bitter cold of a London winter made his deep voice no more than a growl.

Immaculate in a black suit, white shirt and black tie, Omar snapped to attention. He resembled a bulldog. And had a shaved flat head along with a face that bore the marks of a pugilist. Trained never to show emotion, a muscle jerking in Omar’s wide jaw was the only outward sign that Sarif’s unexpected arrival caused dismay. Perhaps it was the small bird like eyes but something about the man always made Sarif uneasy and looking at him now that feeling returned times ten.

Omar gave a jerky bow from the neck, turned and ran up the wide marble staircase. For a big man, he was pretty nimble footed.

Sarif couldn’t say he was looking forward to the meeting with his younger sibling. He should be in his own country, Quaram, dealing with his own issues rather than bringing a wild and out of control puppy to heel. It had been a while, months, since he’d seen his brother and their last conversation had not been a happy one.

Strolling into an airy room that on a good day would be an opulent drawing room, he studied the evidence of a sybaritic lifestyle. His eyes narrowing in distaste on a couple of empty champagne bottles. Khalid certainly enjoyed the high life. And the British and European tabloids were happy to document every single second of his partying and womanising.

The toe of Sarif’s polished shoe, hand-crafted in Italy, nudged an absurd fragment of acid pink silk, a thong. A matching padded bra hung on a table lampshade made of the finest silk. Knowing his brother, he’d probably paid for the impressive breasts that filled the bra, too. Then he studied another bra tossed on a low sofa, black silk this time, and revulsion fanned the flame of disgust deep in his belly.

In many ways it was unfortunate that his brother had been blessed with the face of a pagan god and the body of a top athlete. Which just went to show that looks were deceptive, since Khalid wouldn’t know one end of a gym from the other. Considering the amount of booze he put away, how he’d kept his looks was nothing short of a miracle. According to their American mother, he and Khalid had been blessed with good genes, which accounted for the height, the broad shoulders, and the raw bone structure of their faces. Faces, if his mother was to be believed, that came from an Apache Indian in the eighteenth century. Something she never failed to mention whenever she got the chance.

A soft knock at the door and Omar entered, bowed his head.

“My Lord, His Highness will be but a moment.” The high voice didn’t quite fit with the physical picture Omar presented to the world. Idly, Sarif wondered if that was why he found the man utterly repulsive? The bodyguard kept his head bowed.

“How many?” Sarif wanted to know.

Standing on a plush Persian carpet Omar kept his eyes glued to his shiny shoes.

“Two, my Lord.”

Beady eyes, black as jet, flicked to his and Sarif’s unremitting stare had the man swallow audibly.

Sarif kept his voice silky soft as a flick of his wrist indicated the discarded clothes, “Return these items to the, er…ladies.”

Omar scrambled around the room picking up underwear, scraps of fabric purporting to be dresses, along with two pairs of killer heels, before bowing as he backed out of the room.

The double doors closed behind him with a soft click.

Sarif moved to the bar, poured himself a soft drink in a heavy glass of Edinburgh crystal and a very large brandy for his brother. He would need it after he broke the news. All good things must come to an end. And he wondered how Khalid would take it, no more parties, no more whoring, and no more freedom.

The doors opened and he turned just as a voice hoarse from sleep demanded,

“You can’t just waltz into my home without notice, Sarif. What the hell do you want?”

The slow Texan drawl reminded Sarif forcibly of their American mother. Sipping his drink, he turned and met Prince Khalid El Haribe’s grey eyes with a bland stare. Studying his younger brother over the rim of the crystal glass, Sarif’s eyes narrowed now both at the insolent tone and the appalling decline in his brother’s physical condition. The last six months had not been good to him.

Khalid flushed under his scrutiny.

His eyes were bloodshot and underlined with dark circles. Deep lines of dissipation ran down either side of his mouth. Black hair, damp with sweat, curled over his ears, brushing his shoulders. The hair cried out for a cut and the gaunt face required a shave. Khalid wore soft denim jeans, which were white at the knees and seams and sat too loose on his narrow hips.

There were times when deep brotherly affection battled through anger and a desperate sadness that their relationship had deteriorated to the point where they barely tolerated each other these days, and this was one of those times. God, Khalid had lost too much weight, his stomach was concave and he could see his ribs. Loathing the feeling of utter helplessness, Sarif finished his drink and turned to place the glass on the bar to hide the swift shaft of anxiety that fisted in his gut.

He took a breath and turned back to find his brother tugging a tatty black T-shirt over his head, which told the world ‘Elvis Had Left The Building.’

Khalid ran a shaky hand through his hair.

Since he hadn’t been invited to sit, Sarif made himself comfortable on a plush couch of ivory silk. And decided that his brother’s manners were absolutely deplorable.

“If you spoke to me like that in my kingdom you would lose your tongue, little brother,” he reprimanded in a voice as soft as silk.

Heat rose over Khalid’s high cheekbones as he gave him an ‘Aw, shucks,’ grimace.

“Sorry, had a bit too much bubbly tonight.” He gave a jerky shrug. “You know how it is.”

“I know how it is with you,” Sarif drawled, then held up a hand as his brother’s eyes flashed with a temper that was always too near the surface. “Trust me, I’ve better things to do than to interrupt your busy evening. However, I’ve brought news. Sad news, from home.”

Alarm flared in Khalid’s grey eyes. And Sarif was very pleased to see it. Perhaps there was hope for his brother after all.

“Father? Mother?”

“No. They are well.” Sarif paused as the butler entered carrying an ornate gold tray holding tiny cups of aromatic thick black coffee and refreshments. He waited until they were served and the door closed before he continued, “Our uncle, King Asim of Onuur, died this morning. He was sixty-five. A heart attack.”

Khalid blinked, shrugged once and then helped himself to a coffee and sweetmeat.

Waiting for a response that wasn’t forthcoming, Sarif ordered himself to be patient.

“Do you remember him?” he wanted to know.

Khalid frowned and yawned hugely. “I met him years ago, before he fell out with papa. Into ancient history, that sort of thing. He was an eccentric, wasn’t he?”

“That might account for it,” Sarif muttered, his eyes narrowing again as they remained on his brother.

“Account for what?”

“Naming you as his heir, amongst other things.” Again he paused, and this time his smile didn’t reach his eyes, as he watched the blood drain from Khalid’s face. He continued, “Onuur is tiny, but wealthy, with plenty of natural resources that for some reason Asim was reluctant to mine. Something to do with the destruction of the natural flora and fauna, along with temples dating back to a time before Christ. Temples that are now protected as a world heritage site. It’s probably too much to expect from you, but if you’ve been following world events, you’d know that our uncle’s death could not have occurred at a worse time. Under the guise of freedom and democracy covetous eyes are watching and waiting to get their sticky fingers on that wealth. Father is in agreement that the strategic advantage of having an El Haribe Prince ruling the Kingdom ensures political stability for the people and the region.”

Khalid blinked twice.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?”

If only it was.

“The King is delighted,” Sarif told him. “I’ve been instructed to bring his prodigal son home. Tonight.”

His brother shook his head, even as those bloodshot grey eyes met his. Eyes that were filled to the brim with anxiety and something that looked like fear.

“I’m not King material, Sarif.”

Sarif nodded.

Too true.

“Apparently, our late uncle didn’t agree.” Watching Khalid very carefully, he took another sip of coffee and delivered the killer blow. “Oh, and you’re to marry his widow, Her Royal Highness, Queen Charisse. The time has come for you to pack away your paint box and sober up.”

End of Chapter 1

Chapter 2 is coming tomorrow and chapter 3 the following day until the end of the story.

Big hugs,

Christine X

Desert Orchid is available at:

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Published on January 30, 2018 07:10

January 29, 2018

It’s Monday and an exclusive book deal…

Happy Monday, my darlings.

The lovely people at Amazon have got BREAK THE RULES on #FREE exclusive deal for a limited time. Come and get it and tell your friends. (Link below new cover pic).

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GET IT HERE

Sean Kennedy had a simple rule when it came to women—if they were hard work—he didn’t bother.

Why put himself through unnecessary hassle?And then he met a blonde bombshell…

From the moment Sean Kennedy frisked T.C. he captivated her. The look in the bodyguard’s tawny eyes for her was too intense, insanely sexy and dominant. He was a powerful man who towered over everyone. And a man who believed he could have anything and anyone. Despite T.C.’s reservations, she had a night of passion with him. A night which brought the demons of her past into her present and her future.

Demons that have no intention of ever letting her go.

But Sean was a man prepared to fight dirty for the woman he wanted.

And a man who’d never lost a battle—yet.

Enjoy!

I’m working on the second part of the Desert Orchid duet, Desert Captive, coming soon. And beginning tomorrow I’m posting a chapter a day of Desert Orchid to get you in the mood.

Big hugs,

Christine X

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Published on January 29, 2018 13:35

January 26, 2018

A wake-up call – it’s the Ludlow Hall sneak peek…..

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Hello, my darlings!

It’s Friday and time for another slice of Ludlow life with our favourite family, The Ferranti’s…..

The Dower House – it’s two a.m. Nico’s cosy in his vast bed and all snuggled up to the love of his life. The Egyptian cotton sheets are crisp and smell lightly of lavender. His big body’s spooning and holding her close. Very close. With every deep inhale, his system seemed to absorb the scent of her hair, her skin, her very breath. Si, he cuddled to curve around her, and slid a heavy leg between hers, he was a very lucky man.

Right on cue his libido, tucked inside his Calvins, stirred.

His low moan was heartfelt.

No.

Behave, he told his lurve muscle.

Bronte’s exhausted.

His body settled and he slid deeper into the land of nod.

The night was still and clear and freezing cold.

A half moon spilled silver light through a gap in the heavy curtains.

Nothing stirred, not even a mouse.

Everyone was asleep—or were they?

The sound of the fire alarm had Nico explode out of bed, into jeans and a sweater.

He shoved bare feet into running shoes.

And Bronte wasn’t far behind him.

Shoving her arms in a black cashmere sweater, her head popped out of the neckline.

“I smell smoke.”

Emerald eyes wide, she grabbed her phone and dialled the emergency services.

Then she lifted her chin and, like a she-wolf, sniffed the air.

“Do you smell smoke?”

“Si.”

Shouts from Tonio and Luca had Nico run into the hallway, and here the smell of smoke was strong.

Both in pj’s their dark curls sticking up on end, Luca clutched a yapping Jimmy Chew in his arms, and Tonio carried a howling baby Eve wrapped a thick blanket.

He handed her to Nico.

“Quick,” Nico said, his brain speeding through likely scenarios. “Remember the fire drill.” Two pale-faced little boys stared at him, as if mute, as he rubbed the toddler’s back. “We go to the guest bedroom, out the window, onto the roof of the laundry room. Mama is calling for help.” His head spun around, and his racing heart seemed to screech to a stop before knocking against his ribs. “Where are Sophia and Emily?”

“Their beds are empty.”

“Omigod,” Bronte said.

Nico turned to her and thrust a screaming Eve into her arms. “Get the boys out, and I’ll find them.”

Heart pistoning in his chest, he spun and headed for the stairs and the kitchen.

Smoke belched through the open kitchen door into the hallway and drifted up, up, the stairs and into the cavernous roof space.

When he skidded to a halt in the kitchen-living space, he saw a weeping Emily dressed in her Elsa from Frozen nightgown, tucked into a corner of the sofa, her little face sheet white.

And the perpetrator of the night’s drama, his seven year old daughter, eyes streaming and gasping for breath, was standing on a chair dragged next to the black granite worktop, and frantically waving a dish towel over the entrance to a stainless steel toaster oven which belched dark grey smoke.

Nico whistled low through his teeth, pulled the electric plug from the wall, slammed the door to the toaster oven shut and grabbed his daughter by the waist. On his way to the kitchen door, he scooped up an Emily crying for her mummy, and headed through the boot room.

As he opened the door to the driveway, he thanked God when he found the rest of his family intact and, by the look of them, scared to death and blue with cold.

The sound of a fire-engine and ambulance, blue lights flashing, roared up the road and into the driveway.

Two firemen grabbed a girl-child each and handed them to the paramedics who got them into the ambulance to check them over. Meanwhile, three other fire-crew prepared their hoses. The leader entered the house. He didn’t loiter. When he flung open a kitchen window and popped his head out, he yelled to the crew,

“Need a fire blanket. Toaster oven.”

Immediately, all tension left the men.

They began rolling up their hoses and chatted to Bronte.

“We’ll open all the windows to let the smoke out.”

Her brain reeling, Bronte nodded.

Clutching a sobbing baby girl to her breast, she was shaking so hard, her teeth rattled like castanets in her head. On trembling legs, she jogged to the ambulance, to find Emily wrapped in a blanket and Sophia being given oxygen and checked over by paramedic, Susan Henshaw. Bronte had gone to school with Susan, and she found her eyes stinging as she caught her eye.

“Never a dull moment with this one,” Susan said.

Bronte puffed out her cheeks. “Tell me about it.”

She studied her daughter’s white face and the way her breath wheezed in and out.

“We’ll take Sophia to A&E just to make one hundred per cent sure she’s okay. Smoke inhalation can be nasty.”

Nico arrived and took the baby, his face pale as he watched Sophia cough so hard, she struggled for breath. “They were making toast,” he muttered, the vision of of the way his daughter had tried to fight a fire kept flashing in his brain. Dio mio, things could have been a lot worse. “Rosie and Alexander are on their way to look after the kids.”

And just as he spoke, a black shiny Range Rover sped up the drive.

Before Alexander had switched off the engine, a wide-eyed Rosie, wearing leggings tucked inside ankle Uggs, and one of Alexander’s hoodies over her pj’s, was out the passenger door and racing towards the ambulance.

“Who’s hurt?”

Susan poked her head out of the ambulance door and flashed Rosie a grin.

“Ah, I see the gang’s all here. Sophia’s inhaled a bit of smoke. Emily’s fine. A little shaken up, but her oxygen levels are good. We’re taking Sophia in, just to make sure she’s okay.”

Rosie puffed out a relieved breath.

“Okay. Gimme Emily.”

As Rosie carried Emily back into the house, the child wound her arms around her neck. “We were hungry and made toast.”

Rosie popped a kiss on her pale cheek. “Yeah, and nearly burned the house down.”

“We didn’t want to wake anyone. We wanted toast and peanut butter.”

When Rosie entered the kitchen-living space, the evidence spread around the worktop told its own story. Slices of wholemeal bread, toasted to a variety of degrees, were spread over the worktop. Clearly, the girls hadn’t had much luck in their endeavour. The toaster oven was buried in a fire blanket.

“Who’d have thought a toaster oven could cause this amount of mess?”

With his helmet tucked under his arm the fireman nodded.

“Everything electrical in a kitchen can be a hazard, especially in the hands of a child. On a positive note, it was clear they had a fire escape plan.” He jerked his chin. “There’s a fire extinguisher on the wall, but no way a child could use it. Everyone needs a fire blanket or an extinguisher in a kitchen. Preferably both, neither are expensive. And everyone in the house should be shown how to use them in case of an emergency.”

Rosie nodded and rocked a sleepy Emily.

“It’s certainly a wake-up call.”

***

Six hours later….

When Bronte and Nico, carrying Sophia, opened the door of the house and entered the kitchen, the reek of smoke still hung in the air.

His knots in his belly went tight at the thought of what might have been.

A hollow-eyed Rosie had Eve and baby Mila in their high chairs and was feeding them breakfast. The kids looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and none the worse for their evening excursion.

“Coffee’s ready,” she said.

Nico winked as he took his daughter upstairs.

Meanwhile, her best friend simply slumped into a chair and rested her blonde head on her folded arms.

Rosie poured her a cup of the black stuff, and then shifted to give her a shoulder rub.

“You’ve had a bad scare.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with that child,” Bronte whispered.

Rosie made a face. “My mother used to say the same thing about me.”

Bronte lifted her head. “You were bad.”

“To the bone.”

Bronte laughed, which had been Rosie’s plan all along. “God, do you remember the time we climbed onto the barn roof to see if we could touch the clouds?”

Rosie grinned at the memory. “Five years old and Stoooooopid.”

Bronte took a sip of her coffee, and stared unseeing through the glass sliding doors into the garden. “We’ve had a lucky escape.”

“What we’ve had is a wake-up call,” Rosie said and took a seat at the table. “I’ve already been online and ordered fire blankets for this kitchen and mine. Something a child could easily use if they found themselves confronting an emergency.”

Bronte reached out and took Rosie’s hand, and squeezed. “Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Rosie squeezed her back. “We’re family. We do what families do.”

Nico entered, and a made a face.

“It is going to take time to get rid of the smell of smoke.”

He took time to study his wife’s exhausted face, then picked her up and sat with her on his lap.

She rested her weary head on his strong shoulder.

“When Sophia and Emily have had a long nap, we will need to sit them down and have a serious talk about touching electrical appliances…. again,” he said, his voice deep and growly.

Bronte heaved out a sigh. “What’s the answer, punishment?”

“I think,” Nico said, rubbish his cheek on her head. “The fright they gave themselves, and us, may be punishment enough.”

“Can I just say one thing?” Rosie asked.

Nico nodded. “Anything.”

Rosie bit down hard on her bottom lip.

“Your toaster’s…. toast.”

FINE

Nothing like a little kitchen drama.

Don’t forget NO RULES is out today. We’re just waiting for the Google Play links and I’ll do an alert here and talk to you live right NOW on my Facebook author page! A new release is always a huge feeling of excitement tinged with hot white fear. It never gets any easier.

Love and hugs,

Christine X