The Sultan's Choice. Эбби Грин
‘I won’t be kept in the castle like some bird in a cage.’
With an air of desperation tinging her voice, she said, ‘You can’t stop me from doing what I want.’
Sadiq looked down at the woman in front of him. The adrenalin was finally diminishing and being replaced by something hot and far more dangerous.
Giving in to the twisted inarticulate desires this woman roused inside him, he said throatily as he reached for her, ‘I have no intention of stopping you doing anything once you’re safe. But I can stop you driving me crazy.’
‘What do you—?’ Samia didn’t get anything else out in time. Sadiq had pulled her into his tall, hard body with two hands and everything was blocked out when his head descended and his mouth unerringly found hers.
About the Author
ABBY GREEN got hooked on Mills & Boon® romances while still in her teens, when she stumbled across one belonging to her grandmother in the west of Ireland. After many years of reading them voraciously, she sat down one day and gave it a go herself. Happily, after a few failed attempts, Mills & Boon bought her first manuscript.
Abby works freelance in the film and TV industry, but thankfully the four a.m. starts and the stresses of dealing with recalcitrant actors are becoming more and more infrequent, leaving her more time to write!
She loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her through her website at www.abby-green.com She lives and works in Dublin.
Recent titles by the same author:
SECRETS OF THE OASIS
THE RESTLESS BILLIONAIRE*
*Bad Blood
The Sultan’s
Choice
Abby Green
MILLS & BOON
Before you start reading, why not sign up?
Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!
Or simply visit
Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.
This is for Ann K. Thank you for everything.
CHAPTER ONE
‘I’M not marrying her for her looks, Adil. I’m marrying her for the myriad reasons she will make a good Queen of Al-Omar. If I’d wanted nothing but looks I could have married my last mistress. The last thing I need is the distraction of a beautiful woman.’
Princess Samia Binte Rashad al Abbas sat rigid with shock outside the Sultan of Al-Omar’s private office in his London home. He hadn’t been informed that she was there yet as he’d been on this call. His secretary, who had left momentarily, had inadvertently left his door slightly ajar—subjecting Samia to the deep rumble of the Sultan’s voice and his even more cataclysmic words.
The drawling voice came again, tinged with something deeply cynical. ‘That she may well appear, but certain people have always speculated that when the time came to take my bride I’d choose conservatively, and I’d hate to let the bookies down.’
Samia’s cheeks burned. She could well imagine what the voice on the other end of the phone had said, something to the effect of her being boring.
Even if she hadn’t heard this explicit conversation Samia already knew what the Sultan of Al-Omar planned to discuss with her. He wanted her hand in marriage. She hadn’t slept a wink and had come here today half hoping that it would all be a terrible mistake. To hear him lay out in such bald terms that he was clearly in favour of this plan was shocking. And not only that but he evidently considered it to be a done deal!
She’d only met him once before, about eight years previously, when she’d gone to one of his legendary annual birthday parties in B’harani, the capital of Al-Omar, with her brother. Kaden had taken her before she’d gone on to England to finish her studies, in a bid to try and help her overcome her chronic shyness. Samia had been at that awfully awkward age where her limbs had had a mind of their own, her hair had been a ball of frizz and she’d still been wearing the thick bifocals that had plagued her life since she was small.
After an excruciatingly embarrassing moment in which she’d knocked over a small antique table laden with drinks, and the crowd of glittering and beautiful people had turned to look at her, she’d fled for sanctuary, finding it in a dimly lit room which had turned out to be a library.
Samia ruthlessly clamped down on that even more disturbing memory just as the Sultan’s voice rose to an audible level again.
‘Adil, I appreciate that as my lawyer you want to ensure I’m making the right choice, but I can assure you that she ticks all the boxes—I’m not so shallow that I can’t make a marriage like this work. The stability and reputation of my country comes first, and I need a wife who will enhance that.’
Mortification twisted Samia’s insides. He was referring to the fact that she was a world apart from his usual women. She didn’t need to overhear this conversation to know that. Samia didn’t want to marry this man, and she certainly wasn’t going to sit there and wait for humiliation to walk up and slap her in the face.
Sultan Sadiq Ibn Kamal Hussein put down the phone, every muscle tensed. Claustrophobia and an unwelcome sense of powerlessness drove him up out of his leather chair and to the window, where he looked out onto a busy square right in the exclusive heart of London.
Delaying the moment of inevitability a little longer, Sadiq swung back to his desk where a sheaf of photos was laid out. Princess Samia of Burquat. She was from a small independent emirate which lay on his northern borders, on the Persian Gulf. She had three younger half-sisters, and her older brother had become the ruling Emir on the death of their father some twelve years before.
Sadiq frowned minutely. He too had been crowned young, so he knew what the yoke of responsibility was like. How heavy it could be. Even so, he wasn’t such a fool to consider that he and the Emir could be friends, just like that. But if the Princess agreed to this marriage—and why wouldn’t she?—then they would be brothers—in-law.
He sighed. The photos showed indistinct images of an average sized and slim-looking woman. She’d lost the puppy fat he vaguely remembered from when he’d met her at one of his parties. None of the pictures had captured her fully. The best ones were from last summer, when she’d returned from a sailing trip with two friends. But even in the press photos she was sandwiched between two other much prettier, taller girls, and a baseball cap was all but hiding her from view.
The most important consideration here was that none of the photos came from the tabloids. Princess Samia was not part of the Royal Arabian party set. She was discreet, and had carved out a quiet, respectable career as an archivist in London’s National Library after completing her degree. For that reason, and many others, she was perfect. He didn’t want a wife who would bring with her a dubious past life, or any whiff of scandal. He’d courted enough press attention