More Precious than a Crown. Carol MarinelliЧитать онлайн книгу.
d="u384fb082-1fde-5ba1-8c23-1e6abfcdb024">
‘I have not chosen my bride yet,’ Zahid said, and he took her champagne glass and placed it on a window ledge, then pulled her back to where she had been just a second or two ago. ‘If I had I would not be about to kiss you.’
‘Oh …’
Well, that settled that, then, Trinity thought. There was nothing to stop them other than her fear and the fact that she could not stand being held by a man. Except she was being held now and there was no urge to run—there was no urge to do anything other than receive the lips softly descending on hers.
Would he be able to tell her terror from her kiss? Trinity wondered.
No, she quickly realised, because there was no terror—just the melting of fear and the bliss of his lips and the stroke of his tongue.
She sank into his embrace without thought, and the press of his body against hers felt like a reward.
His mouth did make the pain disappear, his kiss did allow her to forget, and Trinity found out something new—it was very hard to kiss and smile at the same time, but she was trying.
CAROL MARINELLI recently filled in a form where she was asked for her job title and was thrilled, after all these years, to be able to put down her answer as ‘writer’. Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation and, after chewing her pen for a moment, Carol put down the truth: ‘writing’. The third question asked, ‘What are your hobbies?’ Well, not wanting to look obsessed or, worse still, boring, she crossed the fingers on her free hand and answered ‘swimming and tennis’. But, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights, and the closest she’s got to a tennis racket in the last couple of years is watching the Australian Open, I’m sure you can guess the real answer!
More Precious than a Crown
Carol Marinelli
To my lovely Facebook friends,
who cheer me on when my heroes misbehave.
Contents
‘HAS ANYONE SEEN TRINITY?’
Dianne’s voice carried through the still night. It had become a familiar cry this past year or so, and one that Sheikh Prince Zahid of Ishla had grown more than a little used to whenever he spent time at the Fosters’ residence.
Zahid had been a regular guest to the household since he had been sixteen but now, about to turn twenty-two, he had made the decision that this would be his last time he would stay here. The next time he was invited he would politely decline.
Zahid walked through the woods at the edge of the Foster property. He could hear the sounds of laughter carry across the lake on this clear summer night. Zahid was flying back to Ishla soon and he hoped that his driver would arrive early rather than promptly, for he really would rather not be here. The Fosters were throwing a party to celebrate their son Donald’s graduation and, given that they had added the fact that Zahid too was graduating, it would have been rude to decline.
Next time he would.
Zahid did not enjoy their company, he never really had. Gus Foster was a politician and it seemed to Zahid that he never switched off. His wife Dianne’s sole purpose in life seemed to be to stand by her man whatever Gus did. Since Zahid had known the family, there had been the humiliation of two very public affairs as well as the scandalous revelations of sleazier encounters and not once had Dianne’s plastic smile wavered.
After tonight he would not have to see it again, Zahid thought. Neither would he have to make polite small talk with the obnoxious Gus. He only did it because he was a friend of their son Donald.
Well, as much as Zahid had friends.
Zahid was a lone wolf and very independent. He preferred the company of a beautiful woman on a Saturday night rather than this type of thing, but obligation had brought him here.
When he had been sixteen and a boarder at a top school there had been a random locker inspection and a wad of cash and drugs had been found in Zahid’s locker. They had not been Zahid’s. It hadn’t been the mandatory suspension that had been the problem, though. It had been the deep shame that such a scandal would cause his family.
On hearing the news, Zahid’s father, King Fahid, had immediately boarded his jet to fly from Ishla to speak with the headmaster, not to cover things up, for that was not how things worked in Ishla. Instead, Zahid had explained to Donald, the king was on his way to England to apologise and take his disgraced son home. Once in Ishla, Zahid would have to publicly