The Sheikh's Pregnant Bride. Jessica Gilmore

the villa, every need catered for, she was going to be pocketing a nice profit by the end of the contract. He turned the page and stopped, rereading the words again before tossing the contract contemptuously onto the table as he glared at Saskia.

      ‘You’re being paid for this?’ It took everything he had not to spit the words out. His cousin and his glowing wife, desperate for a baby. How hard must it have been for Maya to watch Saskia do so easily what she couldn’t, knowing that the baby was just a way for the surrogate mother to make money?

      Saskia flushed. ‘That is none of your business.’

      ‘I think you’ll find it is very much my business,’ he reminded her silkily and her colour heightened. ‘I don’t know why I’m surprised. You always did like to play games. But this isn’t a game, Saskia. This was Fayaz and Maya’s life!’

      Her colour was still high but her eyes flashed as she shifted. ‘Maya came to me, asked me to do this. I didn’t play games or negotiate on payment. I took what was offered, yes, why wouldn’t I? I have given this baby over a year of my life. Restricted my diet, my liberty, taken fertility drugs, undergone invasive procedure after invasive procedure to give this baby the best possible start in life. So don’t throw the fact I’m to be paid in my face as if it makes me some kind of whore. Of course I was happy to help Maya, but I was in no position to give her a year of my life for love alone.’

      ‘It’s not a payment as such, that’s illegal under British law and the baby was conceived in the UK,’ the lawyer interjected quickly. ‘It’s compensation for Miss Harper’s loss of income and freedom. The compensation is to be paid at the end of the contract if every condition has been adhered to and if Sayeda Saskia ensures that she prioritises the baby’s well-being until it reaches the age of three months.’

      Taking a deep breath to quell his anger, Idris turned to his great-uncle. ‘I know what my grandfather’s will says, but surely my name, my heritage precludes me from taking the throne? Isn’t there anyone more qualified in another branch of the family? Your branch?’

      Sheikh Malik shook his head. ‘Not without tremendous upheaval and turmoil, Idris. The kind of turmoil your grandfather spent his life trying to ensure the country would never go through again. Yes, your father is French but more importantly you’re the grandson of the Great Reformer. I don’t think the people will reject you. Your name doesn’t matter but if it worries you it’s easy enough to change it to Delacour Al Osman.’ He paused, leaning forward, his gaze intent on Idris. ‘I can’t force you to accept the throne, but, Idris, I can and will beg you to. For your grandfather’s sake, for your cousin’s sake, for your country.’

      A great weariness descended on Idris. His destiny was as clear as it was unwanted. He’d never appreciated his life properly before, the old chateau lovingly restored piece by piece, the vineyards, finally back in profit, and making wines he was proud to put his name to, the family coffers filling again despite his parents’ best efforts. It was hard work involving long hours but it was satisfying and he was in control. Best of all it was quiet. No drama, no press, no obligations beyond those of the people who worked for him. How could he swap that for life in the spotlight, an entire country reliant on his success? For a child who wasn’t his?

      How could he not? His parents showed him all too well the consequences of living for nothing but self. Thanks to them he had grown up always worrying how the next bill would be paid, where they would be living next, even what they would be eating that night. Thankfully he had been able to escape to his grandfathers, to the two men who had never met but would have liked and respected each other, if their paths had ever crossed. The men who had taught him that duty and honour and responsibility weren’t burdens but the measure of a man.

      Sometimes he envied his mother, her carefree waltz through life, her refusal to be bound by convention. But such a path was selfish, had consequences for all those around.

      A King’s life wasn’t his, he knew that all too well. His own needs, his own desires, his own likes always second to duty. And Idris saw his duty all too clearly. All of it.

      His mind raced as he ruthlessly ousted all emotions from his mind, concentrating on the cold, hard facts, looking for the path ahead. First, it was clearly in the baby’s best interests to have a mother’s care right from birth. Second, he, Idris, was the legal heir, whether he liked it or not. But, third, at the same time the unborn baby was the rightful heir. Fourth, he was said baby’s guardian. The pieces began to fall into place one by one.

      What had the lawyer said? That if a man was married to the mother when a child was born then he was automatically that child’s legal father regardless of actual paternity? He looked over at the other man. ‘Let me get this straight. If I marry Sayeda Saskia then the baby will be my child, my heir, in both law and in the eyes of the world.’

      The lawyer’s words were drowned out by Saskia’s indignant, ‘There is no way I am marrying you, Idris Delacour, not if you were the last man alive!’ But Idris saw the nod and he knew what he had to do. For Fayaz, for the country, for the baby. He had to marry the only woman he had ever come close to loving. The woman he had walked away from. He had to marry Saskia Harper.

       CHAPTER THREE

      IT WAS ALL very well being told not to allow herself to become agitated but how was Saskia supposed to stay calm when Idris dropped a bombshell more explosive than she could possibly have imagined, and then calmly wrapped up the meeting and disappeared as if she had meekly fallen into line with his insane plans? Marry Idris? The man who had ripped her heart and self-esteem to shreds and then stomped on them without mercy? The man who had let her down at the lowest point in her life?

      ‘Sorry, baby,’ Saskia told it that sleepless night. ‘I know it’s scary now that Maya isn’t here to look after you, but marrying Idris isn’t the best thing for either of us. I’m not ready to be a mother yet, and you deserve more than that. He’s going to be King. He can give you everything you need.’

      But he couldn’t give the baby a mother who would love it unconditionally—and she knew that was the only thing Maya would ask of her. Saskia’s eyes filled and she hurriedly blinked back the tears, trying to focus on her indignation instead. The only positive thing to come out of this whole mess was that her anger with Idris helped her to manage the shock of losing Maya and Fayaz. She was so busy thinking of one hundred ways to tell him that she would rather marry Jabba the Hutt than him that the grief had released some of its painful grip from her chest—although she did keep reaching for her phone ready to text Maya with a planned, clever comeback, only for the grief to descend again with all its painful intensity when she remembered she would never be able to text her again.

      Not that she had had an opportunity to test even one of her scathing put-downs on Idris yet. Twenty-four hours had passed with no word from him and she had no way to contact him. Saskia stared out of the window. Of course, he had been a little busy burying his cousin and closest friend. She choked back a sob, the lump back in her throat. She wished she had had the opportunity to say goodbye too. No, that wasn’t true. She wished more than anything that she could have handed her newborn baby over to Maya and seen the moment her friend fell in love with her much-wanted child.

      Yes, she had agreed to be a surrogate for the money, she had never pretended her motives were anything more altruistic, but she had also wanted to be the one to make her friend’s dreams come true. At least Maya had died knowing she would soon be a mother. Saskia twisted her hands together. Would Maya have wanted Saskia to raise her baby for her? She knew how much Saskia had sacrificed already raising Jack; surely she wouldn’t have expected her to sacrifice more?

      ‘His Highness Sheikh Idris Delacour Al Osman,’ the houseboy announced and Saskia jumped. She hadn’t even heard the car pull up, too absorbed in her thoughts. She turned, glad she had dressed ready for his return whenever it might be, in a severely cut grey linen shift dress, her hair coiled in a businesslike knot on the top of her head.

      She sat upright in her chair—no more reclining, no more weakness—and folded her