The Marriage Deal Read online

  The Marriage Deal

  Clare Connelly

  Contents

  About the Author

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  The Marriage Deal

  Regret Me Not

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  Now in Audio

  Books By Clare Connelly

  About the Author

  Clare Connelly grew up in a small country town in Australia. Surrounded by rainforests, and rickety old timber houses, magic was thick in the air, and stories and storytelling were a huge part of her childhood.

  From early on in life, Clare realised her favourite books were romance stories, and read voraciously. Anything from Jane Austen to Georgette Heyer, to Mills & Boon and (more recently) 50 Shades, Clare is a romance devotee. She first turned her hand to penning a novel at fifteen (if memory serves, it was something about a glamorous fashion model who fell foul of a high-end designer. Sparks flew, clothes flew faster, and love was born.)

  Clare has a small family and a bungalow near the sea. When she isn't chasing after energetic little toddlers, or wiping fingerprints off furniture, she's writing, thinking about writing, or wishing she were writing.

  Clare loves connecting with her readers. Head to www.clareconnelly.co.uk to sign up to her newsletter, or join her official facebook page.

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  The Marriage Deal

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

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

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

  First published 2020

  (c) Clare Connelly

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  1

  Amy

  I’VE ALWAYS HATED SHEIKH Zahir Al Adari with all my heart and that will never change, even if marrying him is inevitable. Marriage, after all, is little more than a piece of paper. My name and his side by side; our signatures etched on a certificate of marriage, for all the world to see. My family’s name is the only thing he cares about, an ancient political feud settled by our deal. His ability to undo the hurt he inflicted on my father the only price I’ve asked for in exchange for my hand in marriage.

  He definitely doesn’t want me. He’s made it apparent he’d rather marry anyone but me, if he had a choice. But that’s not how this works. Fate has cast us into these roles, and we must both play our part.

  Fortunately for Zahir, I have no intention of making his life difficult.

  He can continue exactly as he did before, as though I weren’t even here.

  I’d prefer that, to be honest.

  It’s bad enough I was wrenched away from my life in the States and brought to Qabid, but we both understand why this is necessary. I want my dad to be able to come home before he dies. I want his exile to be at an end.

  And Zahir wants to remove, once and for all, any likelihood that my family’s supporters will rally, demanding a change in leadership, ousting Zahir from the rule of Qabid.

  Hatred runs deep in our blood. This should make for a good marriage, no?

  “You must walk faster.”

  Irritation flares in my blood as I angle a cool glance at my chief of staff. Her name is Aliya and she has been nothing but disapproving since I arrived in Qabid two days ago. Her job, so far as I can tell, is to make my transition easier, but she does very little except shake her head when she thinks I’m not looking, and criticise just about every choice I make.

  You should try the alshari ya for breakfast, rather than this American monstrosity.

  You cannot wear jeans within the palace.

  Your hair must be tied back neatly, rather than wild as you prefer.

  It’s become something of a running joke – one she has no idea about – so that I am beginning to enjoy frustrating her by doing the exact opposite of what she’d like. The day after she made the comment about my jeans, I made sure to wear a short denim skirt instead, my blonde hair deliberately teased and very, very wild down my back.

  Aliya didn’t arrange any outings for me that day, and I seem to be largely at her whim. That will change – and soon – but for now I have bigger fish to fry. Like speaking to the man I’m supposed to marry but have never met. You would think he’d have come to see me before this, but apparently not. I’m not on his radar, which serves to reinforce that I’m simply a means to an end.

  Good.

  I deliberately slow down, a saccharine smile on my face as Aliya casts me a furious glance.

  I would have thought palace servants might be more deferential but apparently my outsider status engenders pretty universal dislike.

  “Through here.”

  Everything about the royal palace of Qabid is overwhelming, and not just because I’ve grown up in small town North Carolina, without a lot of spare money. This would be overwhelming for anybody. My ‘bedroom’ is actually a huge suite with a super king-size bed, marble floors, a sitting room fit for a Queen and a bathroom that’s the size of my old apartment. The corridor we’re walking down now is all marble and gold, with ceilings that reach for the sky, lined with life-size portraits of royal family members on one side and ornate windows framing a view of the desert sands the other. Flower arrangements burst with colour, showcasing native blooms and fruit, the fragrance sweet and addictive.

  Despite my dislike for Zahir, I can’t help but feel a bubble of anxiety as we draw closer to his quarters. How do I know we’re getting there? Because security has increased by tenfold, the uniform guards now appearing every few metres, staring straight through me like I don’t exist.

  I wanted to annoy Aliya today. She’d chosen a silver grey dress for me to wear, simple and sensible, and I’d been very tempted to pull on a pair of torn denim jeans instead. But I didn’t. Even I could sense the importance of this occasion. So I compromised, eschewing her dress selection and opting for a buttery yellow gown with long sleeves and a loose top. It sat lower on my cleavage than Aliya approved of but by then we were already late for this meeting, so she let it slide.

  Nerves buzz through me as she speaks in Qabidi to a man in a white robe. His eyes, flint-like, run over me slowly, sending a shiver of something unpleasant down my spine. He nods, turning to the door and knocking once.

  A deep voice rumbles towards us. “Come.”

  My heart knocks into my ribs. The man in the white robe addresses me in accented English. “His highness has only five minutes. Do not get too comfortable.”

  I have to fight to stop my jaw from dropping. Anyone would think I was here against his will, forcing my way into the palace, instead of the truth: my company had been demanded, the Sheikh’s emails quite explicit about the consequences I’d face if I denied his marriage proposal.

  I square my shoulders, defiance running through me as I glare through the palace staffer. I refuse to thank him. Inste
ad, I walk towards the doors and he opens one to allow me to pass. As we’re basically face to face he adds with a deep hiss, “Remember. Five minutes.”

  I don’t look at him.

  This is not Zahir’s apartment. Instead, I find myself in a formal room, the blinds closed so that the space is dark, the furniture a heavy wood. Everything is very beautiful, very traditional, and very intimidating. Most of all, there’s the man behind the desk, his eyes – so dark they’re almost black – piercing me with the force of his intent gaze. He stands as I enter, and I suck in a sharp breath at the sight of him, because despite the fact I’ve seen myriad pictures of this man before, meeting him in the flesh is something I wasn’t – and could never have been – prepared for. He’s at least a foot taller than me with broad shoulders, and a body that looks as though it’s been cast from granite. His face is just the same, every angle and plane intentional and determined, from the slashed cheekbones to his straight nose and lips that look as though they’ve been carefully sculpted by a renaissance master. My mouth goes dry at this unexpected hurdle.

  I do not want to be aware of my future husband on a physical level. Not at all.

  This man single-handedly destroyed my father’s life, forcing him to live as an impoverished exile, away from a country he loves with his whole soul. This man is a beast and a monster.

  The thought is exactly what I need as it empowers me to regard him with a look of cool displeasure, rather than showing my fascination with his incredible physique.

  “I’ve been told you only have five minutes, so perhaps we should cut to the chase.” I stalk deeper into the room exuding a confidence I definitely don’t feel.

  His lips flex downwards, his disapproval obvious, reminding me of Aliya. Good. Dislike is fine – it suits me perfectly.

  “Fine. Take a seat.” His English is spiced, accented with his native tongue, the words deep and seductive. I swallow hard and move to the seat opposite his desk, perching on the edge of it before forcing myself to assume a more relaxed pose.

  “How are you settling in?”

  It’s a very normal question, but our situation is far from normal, and I don’t think we should start our marriage with pretence. “You don’t have to do that, your highness.”

  “Do what?”

  “Act as though my comfort is of any interest to you whatsoever. We both know why I’m here.”

  Something flashes in the depths of his obsidian eyes. “Our wedding.” He nods crisply. “Fine, let us discuss the details.” He presses a finger to his iPad, pulling up a document. I can’t make the text out.

  “My parliament approved the marriage contracts this morning. Our vows will take place tomorrow.”

  My pulse kicks up a gear. “So soon?”

  His smile is laced with mockery. “What did you expect?”

  Great question. A bit longer to adjust to this crazy idea, perhaps? After all, his email only arrived one week ago.

  This is all happening very, very fast.

  “I don’t know if I had any expectations whatsoever.”

  “Probably wise, given the circumstances.” His eyes flick to the iPad, giving me a moment to observe him like this. He is undeniably handsome. But no, ‘handsome’ doesn’t do him justice. He’s animalistic and feral, dark and intimidating without having said or done anything that should have rendered him thus. He has a latent power that exudes from every fibre of his being, so anyone – myself included – would be awestruck by him. It’s more than just this luxurious room, and the grandeur with which he’s surrounded. It’s simply him. I resent this – I resent finding him attractive so resolve not to.

  “I’ve had a prenuptial agreement drafted.” He holds the iPad towards me. “Would you prefer a printed copy?”

  I eye the iPad. “You want me to read it now?”

  His look shows impatience, as though I’ve disappointed him in some manner. “Given that we’re getting married tomorrow, I would say it’s a wise idea.”

  I shoot him a withering look. “The man outside said you only have a few minutes. I’m simply trying to respect your schedule.”

  “So read quickly.”

  My pulse kicks up a notch as I skim the document. It’s not long, and it’s not complicated. The details he proposed via email are clearly articulated here. In exchange for our marriage, my father’s state of exile will be revoked, his citizenship temporarily reinstated. Temporarily because there’s a clause in this document that ties his place in Qabid with my remaining married to Zahir.

  “So if I divorce you, my father has to leave the country?”

  Zahir’s eyes narrow. “That’s the point of this marriage, isn’t it?”

  My throat feels thick. Anxiety courses through my veins and for the first time I regret my decision to keep this secret from dad. I didn’t want to get his hopes up before I knew for certain that he’d be able to come home. It’s a gift I’ve dreamed of giving him for such a long time. Knowing it’s within my grasp is overwhelming. Even if the price is very, very high.

  On the second page of the document, financial details are laid out. I almost drop the iPad when I see the amount Zahir is proposing to transfer to me as a ‘wedding present’. My eyes find his. I wish I hadn’t looked at him though because he’s staring at me with an intensity that thunders all the air from my lungs.

  “That’s…a lot of money.”

  He shrugs nonchalantly, his broad shoulders drawing my gaze downwards. He’s wearing a stark white shirt, the button undone at the collar, revealing a thick, tanned neck. “It’s a small price to pay.”

  My lips twist at that. He’s not even trying to hide the fact he’s buying me. What he doesn’t know is that money is beside the point. No amount of cash in the world would have induced me into this. Fifteen years ago, when he was only eighteen years old, a young Sheikh Zahir Al Adari had my father’s citizenship revoked while he was in America visiting my mother’s family. His only crime? Coming from a powerful old family – and being someone people rallied behind, wanting him to take a place as a ruler of Qabid.

  My father didn’t even get a chance to pack up his house. The cruelty he suffered at this man’s command has ensured my hatred and enmity.

  “When will my father be flown in?”

  “Not for a while.”

  My heart drops. “What?”

  “We will marry, and give time for the dust to settle. If our wedding is to cause any – unrest – we will know quickly.”

  “And if it does?”

  His eyes narrow. “That will depend on your conduct.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “It means that if you do anything contrary to my interests, our deal is off.” He leans closer. “It means you’ll wish you never came here, Amy.”

  A shiver runs down my spine. “Are you threatening me, your highness?”

  “I’m making you aware of where you stand.”

  My heart turns over in my chest. “You need this marriage as much as I do,” I remind him, though my voice quivers a little.

  “I don’t need anyone.” He pushes back in his chair, regarding me with those very dark eyes, so my pulse shifts up a frantic notch. “Particularly not a Hassan.”

  I swallow past a knot in my throat. “I use my mother’s name,” I murmur.

  “Of course. Amy Williams.” He says the name with contempt, and for a moment I wonder why he hates me so much? After all, I’ve done nothing to him except exist. Then again, as a member of the Hassan family, perhaps my very existence is enough.

  I bring the conversation neatly back to the matter of my father. “You know the only reason I’m marrying you is because of dad. He wants to come home.”

  Zahir’s expression is inscrutable. “As I have said, once you’ve shown that you do not intend any…dangerous distractions, then I will arrange this.”

  Danger bleats in the back of my mind as I became aware of how foolish I’d been to expect a simple quid pro quo. “If you don’t agree to bring
him here, I’ll leave.”

  His eyes glitter with arrogance. “How naïve of you, Amy, to think it is so simple.”

  The knot in my throat tightens. “We’re not married yet,” I remind him coldly.

  “But we will be.”

  The words drop between us, little shards of reality that pull at my skin.

  I am all too aware he holds more cards than I do. I came to his country, a country which he rules with complete supremacy, and therefore handed him, in many ways, my freedom with my arrival. But I won’t show fear, and I won’t show obedience. I stand up, bracing my palms on the edge of the desk, glaring at him with icy determination. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

  His jaw is square, held tight.

  “I came here in good faith, intending to marry you, but the only reason I agreed to that was for the sake of my father. If you don’t bring him here once we are married, then our deal is off.”

  His lips lift in a small sign of amusement and despite the warning bells firing in my head, something like desire flares in my gut.

  “You do not know me.”

  I blink at his deep, gravelled words.

  He stands, mirroring my body language, so our faces are only a couple of inches away.

  “I am not a man who makes false promises. If we marry and you show yourself to be loyal to me, then your father will come back to Qabid.”

  My throat feels hollowed out. “And how exactly do I show my loyalty?”

  “By staying out of trouble.”

  My stomach twists. “I’m not here to make trouble.”

  His eyes bore into mine as though he can read the details of my soul. “I wish I could believe you.” His gaze shifts sideways, a frown on his face as he studies my golden hair. “But despite what you call yourself,” he lifts a hand to my hair, touching the thick ends then tucking them behind my ear. “And despite the fact you look like an American film star, you are in fact a Hassan.”