Alex Ryder - The Barbarian's Bride

Cover Page

Excerpt “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.”

About the Author 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.

Title Page The Barbarian’s Bride Alex Ryder www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Copyright

“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 RYDERwas 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.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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.