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The Barbarian's Bride
Alex Ryder
The bartered bride!To Kassim Riffik, Janene was worth fifty thousand pounds of cool hard cash. That was the exact amount her wayward boyfriend owed him and Kassim always collected on his debts. Being abducted by the sexiest man on two legs, even if he was a Barbarian, was clearly no joke for Janene.Especially when he had made it clear that he regarded her as little more than payment in kind! He had stolen her away to his desert home intent on getting his money's worth! But it seemed that Kassim had more in mind than making Janene his desert mistress… . She was to be his forever!
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u79375970-d9ce-504a-8ee7-edc9a860bc40)
Excerpt (#ucbf73edc-a39a-5701-b1f3-1d959e27da22)
About the Author (#u0b7b3108-af0d-5346-bef8-9cba69ae601d)
Title Page (#udb73b321-f8e5-5eb5-9e15-5a72acd4ac63)
Chapter One (#u4edea235-3dff-5467-9dd2-736196d57511)
Chapter Two (#ubfbae241-b3ed-507f-8335-dfab33db7948)
Chapter Three (#ud89c30e0-56df-5047-99b6-280652fe9198)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Fifty thousand pounds sterling.”
“That was the amount Damien owed my family,” Kassim continued blandly. “When I went over to England to collect it, he couldn’t come up with the cash. Your ex-lover offered you to me instead. The man is a fool, Janene. You’re proving to be more of a bargain than I thought.”
ALEX RYDER was born and raised in Edinburgh, Scotland, and is married with three sons. She took an interest in writing when, to her utter amazement, she won a national schools competition for a short essay about wild birds. She prefers writing romantic fiction because at heart she’s just a big softie. She works now in close collaboration with a scruffy old one-eyed cat who sits on the desk when she doesn’t get it right, but winks when she does.
The Barbarian’s Bride
Alex Ryder
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_e735b79d-a831-5fb1-85e6-9631215bf7f6)
IT WAS the usual kind of party—too noisy, too overcrowded, too smoky—and she could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on. Right now she was standing by the French window, alone, feeling awkward and wishing that she was back in her own comfortable flat curled up on the settee with a cup of cocoa and a good book. The glass of champagne in her hand was warm and flat and she surreptitiously hid it behind the nearby cheese-plant, then looked around in quiet desperation for some sign of Damien. He’d promised that he’d only be gone for a minute or two but she’d had to fend off, politely but firmly, two advances already. It looked as if it was the open season on green-eyed redheads.
Suddenly there was a man’s voice in her ear, enquiring softly, ‘Miss Janene Peters?’
Oh, no! Not again! This would be the third. And they were even going to the trouble of finding out her name first. She longed for the safety of her flat even more.
She turned to look at the man who’d spoken, but the rebuff forming on her lips died as her mouth went dry. For a moment she could only wonder at the odd feeling of apprehension that sent a tingle down her spine. Recovering quickly, she offered him a bland smile and arched her brows questioningly. ‘Yes. That’s me.’
He held out a hand and smiled. ‘We’ve never met, but don’t be alarmed. I’m not quite as disreputable as I look. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Kassim Riffik.’
His fingers were long and tapering and his handclasp firm and cool, and again she felt that inexplicable tingle. He didn’t look like the type who went on the prowl for casual pick-ups. Tall, at least six feet two, he had the lean, dark and hungry look that would have kept most women awake at night. His complexion was the dark olive she associated with sun-scorched deserts, his thick hair raven-black and his eyes the most startling blue she’d ever seen, hard and brilliant as sapphires. Beneath a thin straight nose his mouth was wide and there was a suggestion of cruelty in those thin lips, although they were now drawn back in a friendly smile to reveal perfect white teeth. His suit of dark silk and his dazzling white shirt were handmade to accentuate the wide shoulders and slim hips.
‘May I get you a drink, Miss Peters? Something a bit more palatable than the one you’ve so cleverly disposed of.’
His voice was deep and resonant and his English tinged with a faint French accent. Aware that she’d been staring at him in awestruck silence for the last few seconds, she gathered her scattered wits together and stammered, ‘No—no thanks. It’s very kind of you but I—I’m waiting for my fianc£. He—he should be here at any moment.’
His gaze slid over her with slow and deliberate provocation, lingering for far too long on the amount of cleavage visible over her low-cut dress, and every nerve in her body twitched like a nervous candle-flame. Finally he drawled with quiet amusement, ‘Damien will be here shortly. I believe he’s involved in some kind of business deal with one of his clients. As a matter of fact, it was he who suggested that I keep you company until he can rejoin you.’
Her face and voice were suddenly stiff with embarrassment. ‘Oh… I see… Did—he say how long he’d be?’
In spite of his expression of sympathy there was a hard edge of irony in his voice. ‘No longer than necessary. I’m sure he misses every precious moment of your company.’ His blue eyes regarded her innocently, then he made an eloquent gesture with his hands. ‘Of course, I’ve no wish to impose my unworthy presence where it isn’t wanted. If you’d rather be on your own…’
She could recognise a piece of subtle manipulation as well as the next person. If she rejected his offer she was guilty of discourtesy, to say the least. On the other hand, if she accepted his offer, then, by implication, she wanted him to stay. The truth was that he was making her more nervous by the minute, but she could hardly tell him that without making a fool of herself. In spite of his expensive clothes and the veneer of civilisation, it wasn’t too hard to imagine him bare-chested, sword in hand, engaged in an orgy of rape and pillage.
Wondering if she was in danger of becoming paranoid, she said primly, ‘It’s thoughtful of Damien and very obliging of you, Mr Riffik.’
He grinned. ‘The pleasure is all mine, Miss Peters… or may I call you Janene? It’s much friendlier. You don’t mind, do you?’
Her mouth was going dry again and she gulped. ‘N— not in the least.’
‘Good.’ The white teeth flashed in another broad smile. ‘Then you must call me Kassim.’ Reaching past her, he deftly opened the French window, then took her by the elbow. ‘Let’s step outside. It’s much quieter and cooler on the balcony.’
A moment later, wondering why the thought of resisting had never even entered her head, she found herself outside, high above the late-night traffic of West London. Across the buildings to the south she saw the lights of Chelsea Bridge in the distance. Overhead, a jet, landing-lights piercing the thin clouds, thundered towards touch-down at Heathrow.
His hold on her elbow was light yet electrifying, and she swallowed nervously. There had been a time when she would have known how to deal with a situation like this. She might even have treated the whole thing as a joke and laughed it off. She might even have flirted with him a little, but those days were gone. The only things she wanted out of life now were stability and security, and she already had those with Damien. Marriage to Damien was going to be her salvation and anything that threatened it was a hazard to be avoided at all costs.
‘Have—have you known Damien for long?’ she ventured awkwardly.
He gave a slight shrug. ‘We know each other through our mutual business interests. It’s because of him that I’m paying this all-too-short visit to London.’
‘I see…’ It sounded plausible enough. Damien seemed to know so many people and he was forever introducing complete strangers to her. It was impossible to remember them all. She had no reason to doubt this stranger’s story but, if that predatory grin on his face was suddenly translated into action, she could easily side-step him and dash through the window back into the anonymity of the crowd.
‘And now we’ll talk about you, Janene,’ the dark stranger murmured softly. He reached for her hand and glanced at her engagement-ring. ‘Damien tells me that you’re to be married soon. How long have you known each other?’
‘We—we met six months ago,’ she answered haltingly, wishing he would talk about something else.
He stepped closer and, with her back to the balustrade and his body between her and the window, there was no chance of escaping. ‘How old are you, Janene?’
Right now she felt like a very nervous seven-yearold, but she answered shakily, ‘Twenty-four.’
His face was hovering over hers like a hawk over a helpless rabbit. Those blue eyes seemed to impale her, making her incapable of movement as he raised a hand to finger her thick red tresses. ‘You are breathtaking in your beauty,’ he whispered in a soft, husky voice. ‘In my country, such a desirable woman as you would have been a bride at sixteen. Lovers would have begged for a kiss from those sweet red lips. Men would have fought like tigers over you. Gold, silver and precious jewels would have been yours for the asking…flowers strewn at your feet.’ He paused, and studied her expression with amusement. ‘Ah! You are embarrassed and you think I am too effusive in my praise of your charms?’ He gave a throaty chuckle. ‘I know all about English women. Cold and remote and suspicious of anyone south of Dover. Breeding inhibits the true expression of their feelings.’
Her heart was thudding in her ears and she could feel herself being drawn under by those compelling blue eyes. With an effort she tore her mesmerised gaze from his, but his soft voice continued to provoke and inflame her.
‘It merely increases a man’s pleasure to strip the shell of cold reserve away bit by bit and release the storm of fire and raging passion beneath the surface. And there is a fire in you, Janene. I sense it. A raging volcano, ready to…’ Suddenly he spread his hands and heaved a sigh. ‘But I forget myself. A thousand pardons. You are promised to another. If it were to anyone other than my good friend, Damien, I would steal off with you in the night and take you to my tent, and there, under the stars, we would lie in each other’s arms and…’
She chanced a quick glance into those dangerous eyes and smiled in spite of herself. ‘Tent? Did you say tent?’
‘A mere figure of speech,’ he admitted with a crooked grin. ‘Some day you will see my humble abode… Well, it’s not that humble. Quite luxurious, in fact. I’m sure you’d be favourably impressed. You and Damien must be my guests some time.’
His display of dry humour made him seem just a little less threatening, and she murmured, ‘I’m afraid that you’ll have to ask Damien about that.’
He inclined his head. ‘But of course. It is always up to the man to make the decision and it is the woman’s place to defer to his wishes in all things. However, I’m sure he couldn’t deny you anything you’ve really set your heart on. He loves you greatly, is it not so?’
She detected something beneath the bantering tone— a subtle edge of interrogation—that once again put her on her guard. ‘He wants to marry me,’ she answered firmly. ‘I think that should answer your question.’
There was a moment of silent tension between them, then he gave a thin smile. ‘Yes. He would be a fool not to love a woman such as you. And since you’ve known him for six months and accepted his ring as a token of your promise, I can only assume that you reciprocate that love.’
She swallowed. ‘I’d never dream of marrying a man I wasn’t in love with.’
‘Of course not,’ he murmured. ‘And I’m sure you’ve thought long and deep about it—’
‘It’s getting chilly now,’ she interrupted prudently. ‘I’d like to go back inside now, if you don’t mind.’
He gallantly removed his jacket and draped it over her bare shoulders. ‘In a moment. Meanwhile, this will keep you warm.’
She could feel his body-heat on the material, and the protest she had been about to make died on her lips and her eyes fell away in confusion.
Her passive acceptance of the situation seemed to please him, and he said huskily, ‘You don’t belong with that crowd in there, Janene. A garden of weeds is the wrong setting for a rose.’
He leaned closer, and for a terrified moment she was certain that he was going to sweep her in a crushing embrace and kiss her. Would she have the strength or the will to resist? And, if she didn’t, would he take it as permission to go even further?
‘Look…’ she said, near to panic, ‘I—I don’t think that Damien had this in mind when he asked you to— to look after me.’
His dark eyebrows arched upwards, mocking her feeble protest. ‘Had what in mind? Surely it would please him to know how much I approve of his taste in women. He would surely take it as a compliment. Anyway, I’m sure he’s not the jealous type.’
He was just playing with words now…not to mention her feelings and peace of mind. ‘Well…just stop all this talk about how—how beautiful I am.’ She nodded in the direction of the window. ‘There are plenty of women in there a lot more glamorous than I am. There’s nothing special about me.’
‘Damien thinks there is,’ he countered smoothly. ‘When he told me about you he became quite lyrical. So lyrical, in fact, that I put it down to over-zealous exaggeration. Now, however, I can see that he didn’t do you sufficient justice.’
His persistent flattery was wearing away at her defences and she couldn’t deny the fact that her heart was beating faster than normal, nor that she was starting to feel light-headed. But then, a woman would have to be an unfeeling lump of clay not to be overwhelmed by that potent blend of polished charm and raw sex appeal.
Pulling herself together and trying to keep a firm grip on reality, she diverted the talk towards safer ground. ‘You said that you’d come to London to see Damien. Are you and he in the same kind of business?’
For some reason he seemed to find that suggestion amusing. ‘Not really, Janene. You could say that fate has caused our paths to cross.’
She kept the conversation going. ‘I see. And what exactly are your interests, Kassim?’ She’d never yet met a successful man who could resist the temptation to talk about himself, and she didn’t suppose that he’d be any different.
His blue eyes glittered and there was another flash of white teeth. ‘At the moment, my interest is in an enchanting woman with hair like the setting sun and eyes the colour of emeralds.’
Oh, God! she thought. Why was Damien taking so long? ‘I was referring to your business interests,’ she said with quiet reproach. ‘I just wondered what you did for a living.’
‘Oh, this and that,’ he said airily. ‘I have a few acres of poor land. Some camels, sheep and goats. I manage to scrape by.’
She fingered the material of the jacket around her shoulders and said drily, ‘That’s hard to believe, Mr Riffik. People who “scrape by” can’t afford Italian silk suits.’
‘Expensive clothes…’ he murmured. ‘My only vice.’
She doubted that very much, but had no intention of probing any deeper. He had the look of a man who was used to walking through the darker alleyways of life and emerging unscathed.
‘Where exactly are these few acres of poor land?’ she asked, determined not to let him hijack the conversation again.
His eyes were fixed appreciatively on her cleavage again, and he shrugged and said dismissively, ‘Morocco. A little country in the north-west corner of Africa. Right next door to Algeria. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?’
‘Yes…’ she murmured with mild sarcasm. ‘I did do geography at school.’ She racked her brains now and wished she’d paid more attention to her lessons. Morocco… Mountains and deserts…Casablanca… ‘Play it again, Sam’… Marrakesh!…the Marrakesh express—wasn’t that a song? And there was Fez! Was that a city or a funny red hat? She knew that a kasbah was a fort and that a souk was a market. And that was about the sum total of her knowledge about Morocco.
‘I always thought that Morocco belonged to France,’ she said, trying to sound intelligent.
His lips stretched in a smile. ‘The French, Portuguese, Spanish—even the Romans. Throughout history many nations have tried to impose their will on us but now at last our country belongs to its rightful owners. The Berbers. Or, as the Romans called us, the barbarians.’
She wasn’t the least bit interested in history or politics, but she managed a fair impression of a student thirsting for knowledge. ‘Barbary!’ she said suddenly. ‘The Barbary Coast! Pirates! I saw a film about it once.’
He laughed mockingly. ‘Praise Allah! You saw a film about it. Ah, where would we be without Hollywood? But you’re quite right, Janene. Corsairs came from Morocco. Your ancestors knew us very well. Our ships roved north as far as England. Women and children would be snatched from their beds at night and taken back to be sold as slaves.’ His hand came up and his long fingers gently caressed her cheek. ‘A woman like you would have fetched a king’s ransom.’
Her mouth was drying up again and a pulse was fluttering in her throat. The mental image she’d had of him as bare-chested with sword in hand hadn’t been far off the mark after all. That was exactly what he reminded her of: a dangerous pirate! With a heavy gold ring in his ear and a pointed beard, he’d look the part perfectly.
‘Of course,’ he went on in a tone of regret, ‘civilisation has caught up with us at last. The authorities won’t tolerate such behaviour in these enlightened times. They’ve taken all the excitement out of life.’
‘Thank God for that!’ she said drily.
‘Hmm…’ His blue eyes gleamed with wicked amusement, then he murmured, ‘I imagine there are more than a few women in this cold land who wouldn’t object too strenuously if someone snatched them from their beds and took them to a warmer clime.’
‘We have tour operators for that kind of thing these days,’ she retorted. ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with the women in Morocco? Aren’t there enough to go round?’
He leaned down slightly, until his lips were only inches from her ear, and she felt the moist warmth of his breath as he whispered, ‘For men who have an insatiable desire for beauty, there never seem to be enough. But with a woman like you to share his life, a man could ask for nothing more.’
Her heart was palpitating and her legs felt weak, but she found the strength to raise her palms and push them hard against his chest. Enough was enough! It was time she began asserting herself and putting this brazen rogue in his place. ‘Now, look here, Mr Riffik…I don’t like the way you’re—’
‘Kassim,’ he whispered seductively in her ear. ‘Mr Riffik sounds far too formal. I would rather have our relationship on a more…intimate level.’
She pushed even harder and gasped, ‘I know you would! You’re making your intentions all too obvious. Now, will you please step back and give me room to breathe?’
He straightened up and gave a mock smile of contrition. ‘Please forgive me, Janene. You find the prattling of my foolish tongue disturbing. But please do not be alarmed. I would sooner be cooked slowly to perfection over a bed of hot charcoal than see any harm come to you. I would rather be cast naked into a pit of scorpions—’
‘All right!’ she said in exasperation. ‘Don’t make a meal of it. If it wasn’t for that look in your eyes I might be tempted to believe you.’
He shrugged and spread his hands in a gesture of supplication. ‘My eyes can only mirror the beauty they behold.’
