The Sultan's Virgin Bride

Sarah Morgan

THE SULTAN’S VIRGIN BRIDE

For Nicola Cornick, whose books

I love and whose friendship I value.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

EVERYTHING was in place.

Like a predator he lay in wait, his powerful body still and his eyes alert and watchful.

Remote and unapproachable, Sultan Tariq bin Omar al-Sharma lounged silently in his chair and surveyed the ballroom from the best table in the room. The arrogant tilt of his proud head and the cynical glint in his cold dark eyes were sufficient to keep people at a respectful distance. As an additional precaution, bodyguards hovered in the background, ready to apprehend anyone brave or foolish enough to approach.

Tariq ignored them in the same way that he ignored the stares of everyone in the room, accepting the attention with the bored indifference of someone who had been the object of interest and speculation since birth.

He was the most eligible bachelor in the world, relentlessly pursued by scores of hopeful women. A man of strength and power, hard and tough and almost indecently handsome.

In a room filled with powerful, successful men, Tariq was the ultimate catch and the buzz of interest built to fever pitch. Women cast covetous glances in his direction, each one indulging in her own personal fantasy about being the one to draw his eye because to do so would be the romantic equivalent of winning the lottery.

Ordinarily he might have exploited that appeal to ruthless advantage, but tonight he was interested in only one woman.

And so far she hadn’t arrived.

Nothing about his powerful, athletic frame suggested that his presence in the room stemmed from anything other than a desire to patronize a high profile charity ball. His handsome, aristocratic face was devoid of expression, giving no hint that this evening was the culmination of months of meticulous planning.

For him, tonight was all about business.

He needed control of the Tyndall Pipeline Corporation. The construction of the pipeline was essential to the successful future of Tazkash—crucial for the security and prosperity of his people. He needed to pump oil across the desert. The project was economically, environmentally and financially viable. Everything was in place.

But Harrison Tyndall, Chief Executive Officer, wasn’t playing ball. He wasn’t even willing to negotiate. And Tariq knew the reason why.

The girl.

Farrah Tyndall.

Daddy’s baby. Spoiled little rich girl. Party girl. ‘It’ girl. The girl who’d always had everything she wanted.

Except him.

Tariq’s hard mouth curved into a smile. She could have had him, he recalled. But she hadn’t liked his terms.

And Harrison Tyndall hadn’t liked them either. Weeks of delicate negotiation between the state of Tazkash and the Tyndall Pipeline Corporation had broken down and there had been no further communication on the subject for five long years.

It was a sorry state of affairs, Tariq mused silently, when the wishes of a woman dictated the flow of business.

Seated at his elbow, Hasim Akbar, his Minister for Oil Exports, cleared his throat respectfully. ‘Perhaps I should walk around the room, Your Excellency. See if the Tyndall girl has arrived yet.’

‘She hasn’t arrived.’ Tariq spoke in a lazy drawl, his fluent, perfectly accented English the product of the most expensive education money could buy. ‘If she were here, I would know.’

Hasim tapped his fingers on the table, unable to conceal his mounting anxiety. ‘Then she is extremely late.’

Tariq gave a faint smile. ‘Of course she is extremely late. To be on time or even slightly late would be a wasted opportunity.’

He had no doubt that Farrah Tyndall was currently loitering in the wings somewhere, poised to make her entrance as dramatic as possible. After all, wasn’t socializing the entire focus of her shallow, pampered existence? Having spent all day with her hairdresser and her stylist, she would be more than ready to display the fruits of their labour. Living up to her mother’s reputation. Farrah Tyndall was just like every other woman he’d ever had dealings with. She cared about nothing more important than shoes, hair and the state of her nails.

‘It is getting late. Maybe she’s here somewhere,’ Hasim suggested nervously, ‘but we just haven’t noticed her.’

‘Clearly you’ve never seen a picture of Farrah Tyndall.’ Tariq turned his head, a slightly cynical inflection to his tone as he surveyed the man next to him. ‘If you had, then you would know that being noticed is the one thing she does really, really well.’

‘She is beautiful?’

‘Sublime.’ Tariq’s gaze slid back to the head of the staircase. ‘Farrah Tyndall can light up a room with one smile from her perfectly painted mouth. If she were already here then the men in the room would be glued to the spot and staring.’

As he had stared on that first day, standing on the beach at the desert camp of Nazaar.

Her beauty was enough to blind a man. Enough to blind him to her truly shallow nature.

But it wasn’t her beauty or her personality that interested him now. For the past few months his staff had been dis-creetly buying every available share in the Tyndall Pipeline Corporation. Control was finally within his reach. All he needed to take over the company and guarantee the pipeline project was a further twenty per cent.

And Farrah Tyndall owned twenty per cent.

Hasim was breathing rapidly. ‘I still think this plan is impossible.’

Tariq gave a slow smile, totally unperturbed. ‘The challenge and stimulation of business comes from making the impossible possible,’ he observed, his long fingers toying idly with the stem of his glass, ‘and to find a solution where there appears to be none.’

‘But if you carry out your plan then you will have to marry her—’

Confronted by that unpalatable truth, Tariq’s fingers tightened on the glass. Despite his outward display of indifference, his internal reaction to the prospect of marriage bordered on the allergic. ‘Only in the short term,’ he drawled and Hasim’s expression transformed from mild concern to one of extreme anxiety.

‘You are seriously considering invoking the ancient law that allows you to divorce after forty days and forty nights?’

‘Everything my wife owns, and I do mean everything,’ Tariq inserted with silken emphasis, ‘becomes mine on marriage. I want those shares but I have no wish to stay married.’

The plan was perfect. Masterly.

Hasim fiddled nervously with the cloth of his suit. ‘To the best of my knowledge, that particular divorce law has not been applied for centuries.’

‘And most people have forgotten its existence, which is clearly to our advantage.’

‘It is an insult to a bride and her family, Your Excellency.’ Hasim’s voice was hoarse and Tariq lifted an ebony brow.

‘How is it possible to insult a woman who thinks only of partying and possessions?’ His tone was sardonic. ‘If you’re expecting me to feel sorry for Farrah Tyndall then you’re wasting your time.’

‘But what if she doesn’t come tonight? Everything depends on the girl.’ The Minister shifted on his chair, beads of sweat standing out on his brow as the prolonged wait started to affect his nerves.

By contrast Tariq, who had nerves of steel and had never doubted his own abilities, sat relaxed and confident, his gaze still focused on the sweep of stairs that led down into the ballroom. ‘She will come. Her father is patron of this charity and she’s never been one to miss a good party. You can safely leave the girl to me, Hasim.’

And even as he said the words she appeared at the top of the staircase.

Poised like a princess, her golden hair piled high on her head in a style no doubt selected in order to display her long slender neck to greatest advantage, the dress a sheath of glittering gold falling from neck to ankles and hugging a body that was nothing short of female perfection.

Clearly he’d been right in his assumption that she’d spent the entire afternoon at the hairdresser and with her stylist, Tariq thought with cold objectivity, his expert gaze sliding slowly down her body.

Which meant that her priorities hadn’t changed at all in the five years since they’d last met.

But there were changes, he noticed, as he watched the way she drifted down the stairs with the effortless grace of a dancer. She carried herself differently. No longer the leggy teenager who had appeared slightly awkward and self-conscious, she’d developed poise and sophistication. She’d grown into her stunning looks.

The girl he’d once known had become a woman.

Although he was careful to betray nothing, he felt everything inside him tighten in a vicious attack of lust. Desire, hot and fierce, gripped his lean, athletic frame and, for a moment, he was sorely tempted to drag her from the ballroom and make use of the nearest available flat surface.

Which just went to prove, he thought grimly, that the male libido was no judge of character and completely disconnected from the brain.

Irritated by the violence of his own response to her, he watched in brooding silence as she weaved between tables, pausing occasionally to meet and greet. Her smile was an intriguing mix of allure and innocence and she used it well, captivating her male audience with the gentle curve of her lips and the teasing flash of her eyes.

She was an accomplished flirt. A woman of exceptional beauty who knew exactly how to use the gifts that nature had bestowed upon her to best advantage. And she used each gift to its full as she worked the room, shining brighter than any star as she moved towards her table with a group of friends.

Her table was next to his. He knew that because his instructions to his staff had been quite specific and, like a jungle cat lying in wait for its prey, Tariq remained still, poised for her to notice him.

The tension inside him rose and anticipation thrummed in his veins.

Any moment now…

She exchanged a few words with a passing male, who laughed and kissed her hand. Then she dropped her tiny bag on the table and turned, the smile still on her lips.

And saw him.

The colour drained from her beautiful face and the bright smile died instantly like a vibrant flame doused by cold water.

Something vulnerable flared in the depths of her amazing green eyes and, for a brief moment, the woman vanished and he saw the girl again.

She looked like someone who had sustained a severe shock and then she dragged her gaze away from his, closed her fingers over the back of the chair to steady herself and took several deep breaths.

Observing the effect his presence had on her with arrogant masculine satisfaction, Tariq reflected on the fact that his task was going to be every bit as easy as he’d imagined it would be.

Simple.

He watched as she straightened her narrow shoulders and let her hands fall from the chair that she’d used for support. Her eyes blank of expression, she looked at him, inclined her head gracefully in his direction and then turned back to her friends, nothing in her demeanour suggesting that he was anything other than the most casual of acquaintances.

Playing it cool.

His gaze lingered on the soft swell of her breasts and he reflected that, although he had a personal rule of never mixing business with pleasure, he had no objection to indulging in pleasure once the business was over. And, although his marriage to the Tyndall heiress was business, the wedding night would most definitely be his pleasure.

Forty days and forty nights of pleasure, to be exact. With a clear mental vision of how he intended to pass his limited time as a married man, Tariq gave a slow smile of anticipation.

It appeared as though this business deal would not be anything like the arduous task that he’d initially imagined.

Marriage had suddenly taken on an appeal that had previously escaped him.

She had to get away.

Farrah stood in a dark corner of the terrace overlooking the manicured grounds. The rain had long since stopped and the August night was warm and muggy, but she was shivering like a whippet. She ran her hands up and down her arms in an attempt to warm herself but it made no difference. The chill was deep inside her. If there had been any way of leaving without her absence being noted she would have done so because to stay in the same room as Tariq bin Omar al-Sharma was nothing short of agony.

She hadn’t even known he was in the country.

Had she known, she would have stayed at home, she would have gone abroad, she would have dug a hole and hidden—anything other than risk finding herself face to face with him. Especially with no warning. No chance to prepare herself mentally for the anguish of seeing him again.

One glance from those exotic dark eyes and she’d turned into a schoolgirl again. An awkward, wide-eyed, besotted teenager, weighed down by more insecurities than she could count.

She hadn’t been good enough for him.

He’d taken her fragile, fledgling self-confidence and ground it into the dust. Misery and humiliation mingled inside her and she wanted to curl up in a dark corner and hide herself away until she was sure he’d flown back to Tazkash.

People always said that you could leave your past behind, but what were you supposed to do when your past had his own fleet of private planes and could follow you anywhere?

Dinner had proved a long drawn out ordeal, an exercise in restraint and endurance, as she’d talked and laughed in a determined attempt not to reveal her distress to her companions. And all the time she’d been aware of him.

Fate had seated her with her back to him and yet it had made no difference. She’d been able to feel the power of his presence. Feel his dark gaze burning into her back. And in the end, unable to sit a moment longer, she’d made her excuses and slipped outside.

It was odd, she thought dully, that however much you changed yourself on the outside, the inside stayed the same. No matter how glossy the outside, inside lay all the old insecurities. Inside she was still the same gawky, awkward, overweight girl who didn’t look right, wasn’t interested in the right things and was a massive disappointment to her glamorous mother.

Memories of her mother intensified her misery and she lifted a shaking hand to her throbbing head. It had been six years since her mother’s death, but the desperate desire to please, to make her mother proud, still lingered. She felt herself unravelling and suddenly she knew how Cinderella must have felt as the clock struck midnight. If she didn’t escape then all would be revealed. People might catch a glimpse of the real Farrah Tyndall and she owed it to her mother’s memory not to let that happen. She needed to go home, where she could be herself, without witnesses.

She heard laughter from the ballroom and then footsteps, a purposeful masculine tread, and she stiffened her shoulders, trying to make clear from her body language that she sought neither company nor conversation.

‘It’s unlike you to miss a party, Farrah.’

His voice came from behind her, deep, silky and unmistakably male, and everything in her tensed in response.

Once she’d loved his voice. She’d found his smooth, mellifluous tones both exotic and seductive.

She’d found everything about him exotic and seductive.

They called him the Desert Prince and the name had stuck, despite the fact that he’d been the ruler of Tazkash for the past four years and was now Sultan. And, Prince or Sultan, Tariq bin Omar al-Sharma was a brilliant businessman. Fearless and aggressive, as Crown Prince he’d transformed the fortunes of a small, insignificant state and turned Tazkash into a major player in the world markets. As Sultan he’d earned the respect of politicians and business institutions.

He spoke and people listened.

Now the sound of his voice transported her to the very edge of a panic attack.

Part of her wanted to ignore him, wanted to deny him the satisfaction of knowing that she even remembered him, and part of her wanted to turn and hurt him. Hurt him as much as he had hurt her with his cruel rejection.

Fortunately she’d been taught that it was best never to reveal one’s true feelings and her tutor in that lesson had been Tariq himself. He was a man who revealed nothing. She was ruled by her emotions and he was ruled by his mind.

She’d shown. He’d mocked. She’d learned.

Remembering the harsh lesson, she turned slowly, determined to behave as if his presence meant nothing more than an unwarranted disturbance. They were as different as it was possible for two people to be. And he’d made it painfully clear that she didn’t belong in his world.

‘Your Highness.’ Her voice was stiff and ferociously polite and she was careful not to look directly at him. To look into those eyes was to risk falling and she had no intention of falling. A glance behind him told her that they were alone on the terrace although she saw a bulky shadow in the doorway, which she took to be that of a bodyguard. They were never far from him, a constant reminder of his wealth and importance. ‘I find it warm in the ballroom.’

‘And yet you are shivering.’ With an economy of movement that was so much a part of the man, he stepped closer and panic shot through her.

Her throat dried and her fingers tightened around her jewelled evening bag, although why, she had no idea. The richest, most eligible man in the world was hardly likely to be planning to steal her possessions. And anyway, she thought dully, he’d already stolen the only part of herself she’d ever valued. Her heart.

Determined to send him on his way, she glanced up and immediately regretted the impulse.

His shockingly handsome face was both familiar and alien. When she’d known him, at the beginning at least, she’d always seen humour and warmth behind the cool exterior that he chose to present to the world. It hadn’t taken her long to realise that she’d seen what she wanted to see. Looking at him now, she saw nothing that wasn’t tough and hard.

‘Let’s not play games, Your Excellency.’ She was proud of herself for keeping her voice steady. For behaving with restraint. ‘We find ourselves at the same event and that is an unhappy coincidence for both of us, but that certainly doesn’t mean we have to spend time together. We have no need to pretend a friendship that we both know does not exist.’

He looked spectacular in a formal dinner jacket, she thought absently. As spectacular as he did dressed in more traditional robes. And she knew him to be equally comfortable in either. Tariq moved between cultures with the ease and confidence that others less skilled and adaptable could only envy.

He was totally out of her league and the fact that she’d once believed that they could have a future together was a humiliating reminder of just how naïve and foolish she’d been.

An expensive dress and a slick hairstyle didn’t make her wife material as he’d once cruelly pointed out.

Tariq had never met her mother, which was a shame, she thought miserably, because they would have had plenty in common, most notably the belief that she didn’t fit into the glittering society they both frequented.

It didn’t matter, she told herself firmly as she felt a sudden rush of insecurity. She had her own life now and it was a life that she loved. A life that suited her. She’d learned to do the glossy stuff because it was expected of her, but that was only a small part of her existence.

And it wasn’t the part she cared about. Wasn’t the part that she considered important.

But that was something she had no intention of sharing with Tariq. Her brief relationship with him had taught her that being open and honest just led to pain and anguish. And she’d learned to protect herself.

Music poured through the open doors, indicating that the dancing had begun. Farrah knew that in half an hour the fashion show would be starting. The fashion show in which she’d been persuaded to take part. But how could she? How could she walk down that catwalk, knowing that he was in the audience?

She’d call Henry, the family chauffeur. Ask him to come and get her.

The best way to protect herself right now was to leave.

Having planned her escape, she made to step past him but he caught her arm, long strong fingers closing over her bare flesh in a silent command.

‘This conversation is not finished. I have not given you permission to leave.’

She almost laughed. For Tariq, the use of power was second nature. He’d been born to command and did so readily. At the tender age of eighteen she’d been dazzled by that power. Hypnotized by his particular brand of potent sexuality. Mesmerized by the man.

Even now, with his hard masculine body blocking her escape, she felt the hot, hot sizzle of excitement flare inside her. And ignored it.

‘I don’t need your permission, Tariq.’ Her eyes flashed a challenge and anger rose inside her. Anger at herself for responding to a man who had hurt her. ‘I live my life the way I choose to live it and fortunately it no longer includes you. This was a chance meeting which we’d both do well to forget.’

And she was going to forget it, she vowed dizzily, as she struggled to control the throb of her heart and the slow, delicious curl of awareness in her stomach.

These feelings weren’t real. They weren’t what mattered.

‘Do you really think that our meeting tonight has anything to do with chance?’ He was standing so close to her that she could feel the heat of his body burning through the shimmering fabric of her gold dress and, even as she fought against it, she felt her limbs weaken in an instinctive feminine response to his blatant masculinity. Even though she was wearing impossibly high heels, his height and the width of his shoulders ensured that he dominated her physically. Being this close was both torment and temptation and she felt a helpless rush of wild excitement that she was powerless to quash. And she knew, from the sudden harshness of his breathing, that he was feeling it too.

It had always been that way between them.

From that first day at the beach.

From their first kiss at the Caves of Zatua, deep in the desert.

It was the reason why she’d made such a total fool of herself. She’d been blinded by a physical attraction so powerful and shattering that it transcended common sense and cultural differences.

For a moment she stood, frozen into stillness by the strength of his presence. There was something intensely sexual about him. Something raw and untamed. Something primitively male. She’d sensed it from the first moment of meeting him and she felt it again now as she stood, trapped by her own uncontrollable response to him. Her nipples hardened and thrust against the fabric of her dress and something dark and dangerous uncurled low in her stomach and spread through her body.

And then sounds of laughter from the ballroom broke the sensual spell that had stifled her ability to think and move.

With a flash of mortification, she stepped away from him and reminded herself of the lessons she’d learned in the wild desert land of Tazkash. She’d learned that a deep enduring love combined with wild, ferocious, untamed passion wasn’t always enough.