His Christmas Conquest: The Sheikh's Christmas Conquest / A Christmas Vow of Seduction / Claiming His Christmas Consequence. Maisey Yates
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far away from the fast-paced world she’d once inhabited? And if that was the case, then wasn’t this an ideal opportunity to show him that she liked the life she’d chosen—to show him she was completely over Rupert?
But if you’re over him—then how come you still shut out men? How come you must be the only twenty-nine-year-old virgin on the planet?
The uncomfortable trajectory of her thoughts made her bold. So let it go, she told herself. Let the past go by setting it free. ‘Do you know Rupert de Vries?’ she asked slowly.
‘I met him a couple of times—back in the day, as they say.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I didn’t like him.’
‘You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better.’
‘I can assure you that I never say things I don’t mean, Livvy.’ There was a pause. ‘What happened?’
She stared down at the rug, trying to concentrate on the symmetrical shapes that were woven into the silk. She pictured Rupert’s face—something she hadn’t done for a long time—fine boned and fair and the antithesis of the tawny sheikh in front of her. She remembered how she couldn’t believe that the powerful racing figure had taken an interest in her, the lowliest of grooms at the time. ‘I expect you know that he ran a very successful yard for a time.’
‘Until he got greedy,’ Saladin said, stretching his legs out in front of him. ‘He overextended himself and that was a big mistake. You should always keep something back when you’re dealing with horses, no matter how brilliant they are. Because ultimately they are flesh and blood—and flesh and blood is always vulnerable.’
She heard the sudden rawness in his voice and wondered if he was thinking about Burkaan. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘So how come it got as far as you standing at the altar before he got cold feet?’ Black eyes bored into her. ‘That’s what happened, isn’t it? Didn’t he talk to you about it beforehand—let you know he was having doubts?’
Livvy shook her head as her mind raced back to that chaotic period. At the time she’d done that thing of trying to salvage her pride by telling everyone with a brisk cheerfulness that it was much better to find out before the wedding, rather than after it. That it would have been unbearable if Rupert had decided he wanted out a few years and a few children down the line. But those had been things she’d felt obliged to say, so that she wouldn’t come over as bitter. The truth was that the rejection had left her feeling hollow...and stupid. Not only had she been completely blind to her fiancé’s transgressions, but there had been all the practical considerations, too. Like paying the catering staff who were standing around in their aprons in the deserted marquee almost bursting with excitement at the drama of it all. And informing the driver of the limousine firm that they wouldn’t be needing a lift to the airport after all. And cancelling the honeymoon, which she’d paid for and for which Rupert had been supposed to settle up with her afterwards. He never had, of course, and the wedding that never was had ended up costing her a lot more than injured pride.
And once the initial humiliation was over and everyone had been paid off, she had made a vow never to talk about it. She’d told herself that if she fed the story it would grow. So she’d cut off people’s questions and deliberately changed the subject and dared them to continue to pursue it, and eventually people had got the message.
But now she looked into the gleam of Saladin’s eyes and realised that there had been a price to pay for her silence. She suddenly recognised how deeply she had buried the truth and saw that if she continued to keep it hidden away, she risked making herself an eternal victim. The truth was that she was over Rupert and glad she hadn’t married him. So why act like someone with a dirty secret—why not get it out into the open and watch it wither and die as it was exposed to the air?
‘Because I allowed myself to do what women are so good at doing,’ she said slowly. ‘I allowed myself to be wooed by a very persuasive man, without stopping to consider why someone like him should be interested in someone like me.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Oh, come on, Saladin—you haven’t held back from being blunt, so why start now? He was known for dating glamorous women and I’m not. The only thing I had to commend me was the fact that my father owned a beautiful house. This house. My mother was dead and my stepmother long gone—and since I don’t have any brothers or sisters, I stood to inherit everything. From where Rupert was sitting, it must have looked a very attractive proposition and I think he made the assumption that there was lots of money sitting in a bank account somewhere—the kind of money that could have bailed out his failing business.’
‘But there wasn’t?’
‘At some point there was. Before my stepmother got her hands on it and decided to blow a lot of it on diamonds and plastic surgery and then demand a massive divorce settlement. By the time my father died there was nothing left—not after I’d paid for the nurses who helped care for him in his final years.’
‘You didn’t think to tell de Vries that?’
Livvy gave a snarl of a laugh as she picked up the poker and gave the fire a vicious stab. ‘Most brides labour under the illusion that they’re being married for love, not money. It would look a bit pathetic, don’t you think, if one were to have a conversation on the lines of, “Look, I’ve just discovered that I’m broke—but you do still love me, don’t you?” And the truth of it was that I didn’t realise how little money there was—at least, not until just before the wedding.’
‘And then you told him?’
‘I told him,’ she agreed. She would never forget the look on her prospective groom’s face. That leaching of colour that had left him with a curiously waxy complexion and the fleeting look of horror in his eyes. In that illuminating moment Livvy hadn’t been able to decide who she was angrier with—Rupert, for his unbelievable shallowness, or herself for having been too blind to see it before. Maybe she just hadn’t wanted to see.
‘I told him and he didn’t like it. I wish he’d told me right then that he’d changed his mind, so that I wouldn’t have to go through the whole pantomime of dressing up in a big white frock with my bridesmaids flapping around me in nervous excitement. But obviously that was something he couldn’t face doing. So there.’ She looked at him defiantly. ‘Have you got the whole picture now?’
There was silence for a moment—the firelight flickering over his ebony hair as he studied her. ‘Not quite,’ he said.
Defensively, she stiffened. ‘You want a blow-by-blow account of my subsequent meltdown?’
He shook his head. ‘I meant that not everything you said is true.’
His words were softer than before, as if they’d suddenly been brushed with velvet. Or silk. Yet despite their softness, all the time Livvy was aware of the underlying steel underpinning them, and that made him sound even more attractive. Dangerously so.
‘Which bit in particular?’
He smiled. ‘That you have nothing to commend you other than a house.’
‘Oh, really?’
Saladin heard the disbelief in her voice and felt a surge of rage that someone as worthless as de Vries had smashed her confidence and made her hide herself away like this.
‘Yes, really.’ His gaze drifted over her. ‘Would you like me to list your more obvious attributes?’
Splaying her hands over her hips, she struck a pose. ‘My old jeans and sweater?’
‘Your complexion, for a start, which makes me think of honey and cream.’ His voice dipped. ‘And, of course, your freckles.’
Her fingers strayed to her nose. ‘I hate my freckles.’
‘Of course you do, but in my country they are highly prized. We call them kisses from the sun.’