Royals Untamed!

EPILOGUE

Eighteen months later

AMBER HAD BEEN so happy she thought that nothing could top it. Returning to Barazbin with Kazim had been like a dream come true. Not once since he’d told her he loved her had a day gone by when he hadn’t said it again.

She walked out onto the balcony to join Kazim, who was enjoying a rare moment of peace. He smiled and pulled her close against him. ‘You look amazing,’ he said as he brushed his lips lightly over hers. ‘Motherhood suits you.’

‘Our son has made a difference to so many,’ she teased lightly. ‘Your father is a different man.’

‘My father and I have both dealt with demons in our past and are stronger for it, but I never want my son to go through what I did.’ He looked at her intently.

‘That will never happen, Kazim.’ She smiled up at him. ‘But we will be in trouble with your father if we don’t attend this evening’s festivities.’

‘Peace in our land is a cause for celebration and it is thanks to your father. He may have acted wrongly, but it was your honour he sought to defend. Since then he has worked tirelessly to expose the rebel leaders. I owe him much.’

‘It means so much to me that you forgave him.’ Amber had been stunned to discover her father’s involvement with the rebels but, even more so, that he was doing it in a bid to punish Kazim for rejecting her. He’d been avenging her honour.

‘I have a surprise for you this evening,’ he said as he walked back into the luxury of their suite. ‘But first we need to celebrate with everyone.’

As they entered the opulence of the hall the celebrations began. She loved the dancing and laughter, and very soon she was caught up in the atmosphere of the evening. Kazim, who had been talking to others, moved back to her side.

‘Hasim is here.’ Kazim’s words had her scanning the room. If Hasim was here, would Annie be too? She’d missed her friend so much.

She looked up at Kazim. ‘And Annie? Is she here too?’

‘She’s here.’ He smiled at her, his dark eyes full of happiness. ‘Now go, catch up with her, or whatever it is you ladies do.’

‘I love you, Kazim.’ She pressed her palm against his cheek, wishing they were alone and that she could show him just how much.

* * * * *

Read on for an extract from DELUCCA’S MARRIAGE CONTRACT by Abby Green.

PROLOGUE

‘THAT’S THE DEAL, Delucca, take it or leave it. I don’t think I need to tell you that if you leave it the O’Connor brand won’t be affected.’

Giancarlo Delucca gritted his jaw at the arrogant tone. The unspoken insinuation from the older Irish man wasn’t subtle: But the Delucca brand might languish in European shopping aisles for years before making it globally.

Gianni, still reeling slightly, looked at Liam O’Connor, who sat in a leather chair with his back to the impressive view of Dublin’s financial district.

‘And what does your daughter think of this proposed arranged marriage?’

O’Connor’s grey eyes narrowed, and there was a barely perceptible tightening around his mouth. ‘Keelin is loyal to the family business.’

Gianni responded with a hint of incredulity. ‘Loyal enough to agree to a marriage of convenience?’

Suddenly feeling agitated, Gianni didn’t wait for a reply and went to stand at one of the huge floor-to-ceiling windows. He put his hands in his pockets to stop himself from running them impatiently through his hair—a bad habit. He felt claustrophobic. Marriage. That word called up all sorts of dark images and bad memories. He’d only ever seen the worst a marriage had to offer so he’d vowed never to take that route himself. But the unpalatable fact was that he needed this merger with the vastly successful O’Connor Foods brand to break into the more lucrative global market, and namely, America.

That would take him away from the bitter memories of his childhood and young adulthood. It would civilise the Delucca name, make him invulnerable, and in time no one would ever remember that Delucca had once been one of the Mafia’s most notorious names.

O’Connor’s voice came from behind him. ‘Keelin is a beautiful woman. Well educated. She’ll be an asset on your arm as you move forward and expand.’

Gianni’s mouth tightened as the kind of domestic scenario he hadn’t ever envisaged took root in his mind, much to his disgust. He didn’t want O’Connor to see the myriad emotions he was feeling in his eyes, so didn’t turn around. ‘You think that I can’t find a wife of my own choosing?’ Not that he’d contemplated it!

Liam O’Connor laughed dryly. ‘Delucca, I have no doubt that you could click your fingers and find a wife in seconds. Your reputation—’

Gianni swung around then, cutting the other man off. He forced his voice to sound calm when inside he felt hot, irritated. ‘Be very careful, O’Connor.’

The other man stood up from behind his desk and came around it. He was tall and imposing. Handsome, with a head of thick silver hair. The older alpha male squaring up to the younger one, even if Gianni was taller, younger and infinitely more handsome than O’Connor ever had been. Gianni knew all about alpha males; he’d squared up to the most alpha of them all: his father.

O’Connor spoke bluntly. ‘No other company can give you the instant sheen of respectability that we can, merely by association. If we merge, people trust our name enough to automatically trust you. Your products will be on shelves across the world within months. I am offering you the chance to prove your commitment to both your brand and your family name. You don’t need me to tell you that the people you will be dealing with will be more likely to put their trust and investment in a family man.’

Again the unspoken rang as loudly as a bell in the room: And in someone who didn’t have links to the underworld, or who had the damaging reputation of a playboy. Damn him. O’Connor was right. So how badly did he want this? Badly enough to embark on a union he’d never wished for? For the sake of a deal? Social acceptance? Professional respectability?

But it’s the deal of a lifetime, whispered a little voice.

Wanting to assert his position more, Gianni pointed out, ‘That may very well be the case but don’t forget that your own business will be reinvigorated by a new association with a luxury Italian brand of products, the first merger of its kind.’

O’Connor inclined his head with a spark in his eyes. He obviously didn’t like to be reminded that his motives weren’t exactly altruistic.

And then Gianni asked abruptly, ‘Why is it so important to you that marriage to your daughter is part of the deal?’

The spark in O’Connor’s eyes was quickly veiled as he said easily, ‘She’s our only child and heir. I’m an old-fashioned man, Delucca. I want her future to be secure, and through her and you, we keep our name alive.’

Gianni felt a niggle of suspicion but then something caught his peripheral vision and he looked past O’Connor to where a group of framed photos were hung on a wall. He walked over. There were pictures of O’Connor with various celebrities, including two American presidents, and then presumably his wife—an attractive woman with strawberry blonde hair and green eyes.

And below them all was an image of a young woman on a horse, head back and wide generous mouth open, clearly laughing. Slim shoulders. A snug T-shirt hugged generous firm breasts. He could just make out a narrow waist, gently flaring hips. Taut thighs. She was stunningly beautiful. Almond-shaped green eyes, lighter than her mother’s. Vibrant red hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. Pale skin with flushed rosy cheeks. Freckles.

Something deep in Gianni’s gut clenched at her unadorned beauty. Even though she wasn’t remotely his type.

He barely picked up on the faintly smug tone in O’Connor’s voice when the man said, ‘That’s my daughter, Keelin. So have you come to a decision?’

Gianni didn’t answer out loud. He didn’t need to. They both knew the answer.

Copyright © 2015 by Harlequin Books S.A.

“Are you okay?”

She steadied herself on the wall, taking a deep breath of relief before turning to speak to her rescuer. But the words died in her throat.

Bright blue eyes and a broad chest obstructed her view. Even on a dark Paris night those blue eyes would have attracted her attention. He was tall, dark-haired, with a broad chest, wearing a simple white T-shirt and jeans with a dark wool coat on top.

He smiled as he looked down at all the people below. “I'm sorry if I startled you. But you looked frightened.”

“I was. Thank you.” She shook her coat free, letting some air circulate around her, and pulled her red hat from her hair. “There—that's much better.”

“It certainly is.”

He was smiling appreciatively at her and for a second she was unnerved. But, no. There was nothing predatory about her rescuer. He had kind eyes. And the man exuded sex appeal from twenty paces. If her up-close-and-personal alarm was going off it wasn't because she was scared—it was because it had been jolted back into life. About time too.

She held out her hand towards him. “Ruby. Ruby Wetherspoon from England.”

His warm hand closed around hers. “Alex,” he said simply.

Her eyes glanced up and down his body. The dark wool coat seemed a little strange for a young guy—a little formal.

“Are you from here?”

The corners of his lips turned upwards. “Close enough.”

Mystery. She liked it. Perfect for New Year's Eve.

SCARLET WILSON wrote her first story aged eight and has never stopped. Her family have fond memories of Shirley and the Magic Purse, with its army of mice, all with names beginning with the letter M. An avid reader, Scarlet started with every Enid Blyton book, moved on to the Chalet School series and many years later found Mills & Boon® novels.

She trained and worked as a nurse and health visitor, and currently works in public health. For her, finding Mills & Boon was a match made in heaven. She is delighted to find herself among the authors she has read for many years.

Scarlet lives on the West Coast of Scotland with her fiancé and their two sons.

This book is dedicated to our newest family addition, Luca Cole Dickson, already gorgeous, well-behaved and utterly charming.

The ladies in his later life won't stand a chance!

PROLOGUE

Ten years earlier

SHE COULD FEEL the electricity in the air, feel the excitement. It seemed as if everyone in the world had decided to celebrate New Year’s Eve in Paris.

She was jostled along with the crowd, being practically carried off her feet on the route from the Champs-élysées towards the Eiffel Tower.

‘Aren’t you glad you came?’ her friend Polly screamed in her ear, sloshing wine over her sleeve. ‘This is the best place in the world right now.’

‘Yes, it is,’ murmured Ruby.

It certainly beat sitting at home in her flat, brooding over the job that wasn’t to be or the boyfriend who never should have been.

Polly gave a squeal. ‘The fireworks will be starting in an hour. Let’s try and get near the front!’

Ruby nodded as she was shouldered from behind. There were ten in their group but it was getting harder and harder to stick together. ‘I need to find a bathroom before we head to the fireworks,’ she whispered to Polly. ‘Give me five minutes.’

There were cafés and bars open all the way along the Champs-élysées, but unfortunately for her just about every female in the city seemed to have the same idea that she had.

She waved to Polly, ‘Go on without me. I’ll meet you at the sign we saw earlier.’

The group had already planned their night with precision. Dinner on a riverboat. Drinks in the hotel. A walk along the Champs-élysées and rendezvous at the Eiffel Tower for the fireworks. They’d already picked the spot they planned to stand at in case anyone got lost—which on a night like tonight was a certainty.

She stood in a queue for an eternity before finally heading back out to the thronging crowds. In the thirty minutes it had taken to get access to a bathroom it seemed the whole of Paris had started to congregate in the streets.

The crowds were sweeping along the Avenue George V, carrying along anyone who happened to be standing close enough. It was one part terrifying, one part exhilarating.

The crowd was even thicker at the Rue de l’Université. The street was packed, with everyone heading directly to the base of the Eiffel Tower. Ruby glanced at her watch. Visiting the bathroom hadn’t been such a good idea. There was no way she was going to be able to find her friends in this crowd.

But she wasn’t too worried. The mood of the crowd was jubilant. People were drinking wine and singing. The atmosphere and heavy police presence made her feel safe—even if she was alone.

Around her she heard dozens of different accents: snatches of English, Italian and Japanese all mixed in with French. The streets were lit with multi-coloured lights and a variety of decorations and garlands left over from Christmas. She unfastened the buttons on her red wool coat. She’d expected Paris to be cold in December, but the heat from the people around her meant the temperature was rising.

She clutched tightly onto the bag strung diagonally in front of her, keeping her hand clasped over the zipper. Pickpockets were rife in Paris at New Year’s. They’d all been warned to keep a close hold of their belongings.

Her phone beeped just as she was in sight of the Eiffel Tower and she struggled to move out of the thronging crowd. It had practically ground to a halt, with people from behind still pressing ahead. The streets were packed. There was no way forward.

She moved sideways, unzipping her bag and pulling out her phone.

Where are you?

It was from Polly. Her friends were obviously waiting at their designated meeting point.

She typed quickly. Not sure if I can get to you, but I’ll try. She pressed Send just as someone bumped her from behind and the phone skittered from her hand.

‘Oh, no!’

It was kicked one way, then another, quickly going out of sight. She tried to push her way through the crowd sideways, but that proved impossible. It was a sea of people. And she was heading in the wrong direction.

‘Hey, watch out. Ouch!’

Her feet were trampled, her ribs elbowed and the wind knocked from her. It was impossible. She looked up for a few seconds, to try and make her way through the crowd, then looked down again amongst the stampeding feet, trying to track down her phone.

A thud to her shoulder sent her flying into a group of rowdy Germans.

‘Sorry...sorry.’

They were laughing and joking and smelling of beer. She tried to find her way through but it was virtually impossible. There seemed to be nowhere to go.

Her chest started to tighten. They weren’t doing or saying anything untoward, but the sheer amount of people meant they’d started to crowd around her, closing in. She tried to take a deep breath and lifted her elbows up, edging her way to the side. But the only place she seemed to be moving was closer and closer.

There was a waft of beer-soaked breath on her cheek. Too close. Too invasive. A hand at her back, someone pressing against her hip.

‘Let me out. Let me through. Move, please!’

A hand reached down between her shoulders, grabbing her coat and pulling her upwards. The air left her lungs momentarily and her feet were still stuck amongst the crowd. A strong arm wound around her waist and pulled her clear. Her feet stopped unsteadily on a wall at shoulder height to the throng.

‘Are you okay?’

She was teetering on the wall. The hand and arm that had steadied her had pulled away the instant she was free. She reached and grabbed hold of the dark sleeve in front of her, trying to regain her balance.

The voice sounded again. ‘Are you okay? Are you drunk?’ There was a slight edge of disappointment to the voice.

She steadied herself on the wall, taking a deep breath of relief before turning around to speak to her rescuer. How dared he accuse her of being drunk?

But the words died in her throat. Bright blue eyes and a broad chest obstructed her view.

Even on a dark Paris night those blue eyes would have attracted her attention. He was tall, dark-haired, with a broad chest, wearing a simple white T-shirt and jeans with a dark wool coat on top. Trust her to find the best-looking guy in Paris and have no reliable witnesses. No one would believe her.

She automatically lifted her hands. ‘No. No, I’m not drunk. I just got stuck in a crowd going in the opposite direction from me.’

His demeanour changed. The skin around his eyes creased as he smiled. ‘What? You’re going home already? You don’t want to see the fireworks?’

His accent sent tingles across her skin. He sounded French, with a little something else.

He was teasing her, and now she could actually breathe she could take a little teasing.

She sighed. ‘No. I’m not going home. Not tonight anyway. Of course I want to see the fireworks.’ She held out her hands to the bodies pressed below. ‘Just not like this.’ The crowd had ground to a halt. She stared across at the sea of people. ‘I was supposed to be meeting my friends.’

‘You are lost?’ He sounded concerned.

‘Not exactly.’ She turned back to face him, getting a whiff of woody aftershave. ‘We were meeting at a sign near the Eiffel Tower.’ She shook her head. ‘I have absolutely no chance of getting there now.’

She had no intention of leaving the safety of this wall any time soon. She only hoped his friends weren’t all about to join them and there’d be no room for her to stay here.

He smiled as he looked down at all the people below. ‘You could be right. I’m sorry if I startled you but you looked frightened. I thought you were beginning to panic in the crowd.’

Her heart had stopped fluttering in her chest and her breathing was settling down. It had been an odd feeling, and so not like her. Ruby Wetherspoon didn’t tend to panic.

‘I was. Thank you. I’ve never really been in a crowd like that before.

It had definitely been a bit claustrophobic.’ She shook her coat free, letting some air circulate around her, and pulled her red hat from her hair.

‘There—that’s much better.’

‘It certainly is.’

He was smiling appreciatively at her and for a second she was unnerved. But, no. There was nothing predatory about her rescuer. He had kind eyes, even if the man exuded sex appeal from twenty paces. If her up-close-and-personal alarm was going off it wasn’t because she was scared—it was because it had been jolted back into life. About time too.

He nodded slowly. ‘Crowds can be...difficult.’

It was an odd choice of words, but then again her hesitant French would sound much poorer than his English.

‘And you’d know?’ She was curious.

His face crinkled. It seemed her half-inquisitive, half-sarcastic question was lost on him.

She held out her hand towards him. ‘Ruby. Ruby Wetherspoon from England.’

His warm hand closed around hers. ‘Alex,’ he said simply.

Her eyes glanced up and down his body. White T-shirt, blue jeans and black boots. But the dark wool coat seemed a little strange for a young guy—a little formal.

‘Are you from here?’

The corners of his lips turned upwards. ‘Close enough.’

Mystery. She liked it. Perfect for New Year’s Eve.

Under normal circumstances she might have felt a little nervous, a little wary around a mysterious stranger. But Alex didn’t give her those kind of vibes.

Trust your instincts. That was what her gran had always told her. And she should have. Because if she had she probably wouldn’t have found her boyfriend in bed with her ex-best friend. Truth was, she couldn’t wait to see the end of this stinker of a year.

She glanced around. For the moment they were the only two people perched on this precarious wall. ‘Well, Alex from “close enough”, where are your friends? Am I about to get trampled and thrown back to the crowd when they all want a place on this wall?’

She sent a silent prayer upwards. What was the betting they were all gorgeous and female?

He shrugged. ‘I lost them too. I climbed up here to look for them. Then I decided I liked the view.’

She turned to face where he was looking. Of course. A perfect view of the Eiffel Tower. For now it had a row of white lights running up the outside of its edges. The sun had set a few hours ago and it stood out like a beacon in the dark sky.

She’d been so busy fighting her way through the crowd that she hadn’t really had time to stop and take in the sight.

‘Wow. I just remembered why I came here,’ she breathed.

A few people shouldered past beneath them, knocking into her feet, and she wobbled again. His arm rested around her waist to steady her, and he didn’t move it once she’d regained her balance.

‘So, why is an English girl in Paris for New Year’s Eve?’

Why, indeed? She was still asking herself that question. And Mr Gorgeous Mysterious Stranger didn’t really need the whole truth. Maybe just a tiny part.

‘Visiting a boyfriend?’ he added.

It was a loaded question. Was he really testing to see if she was taken?

She sucked in a deep breath and tried not to let the idiot smile that was whooping and dancing around in her brain actually appear. ‘My flatmate Polly persuaded me it was time to try something new. We usually spend every New Year’s in London. We did try a Scottish lodge once, but that was a disaster. Snowed in with no power and no booze.’

He was laughing at her now.

She held out her hands. ‘What girl would say no to Paris on New Year’s? This place is just amazing...’ Her voice tailed off. ‘And, to be honest, I’m not sorry to see this year go.’

‘You’ve had a bad year?’

‘Somewhere between a wrecking ball and a demolition derby.’

She could almost see his brain trying to make sense of her words.

‘Ahh. You sound sad. But surely not everything about this year can have been bad?’

Perfect. Her own Pollyanna.

He was right. Of course he was right. She’d just needed someone to remind her.

She gave a little nod. ‘Of course not. There have been a few good things. I qualified this year.’

‘As what?’

‘A speech and language therapist.’

‘Well, that sounds great. Congratulations.’

She nodded. ‘Yeah. Yes, it is.’

Three years doing a course she’d absolutely loved. Her placements had been fabulous, letting her practice all her skills and making her realise exactly what she wanted to do.

‘So why aren’t you jumping for joy? You’ll get to do the job that you want. Some people would give anything for that.’

His voice sounded a little wistful.