“You think I just desire you?”
“I know you just desire me, Your Highness. You made me brutally aware of your lust from the first moment we met. It knocked you over. So when you got the chance, you paid five million dollars to force me to do what I told you I would never do willingly. But there is nothing you can say or do to make me change my mind about what kind of man you are. I already know what kind you are. I’ve met your kind before.”
“Oh, I doubt that, dear lady,” he said in a tone that sent shivers running up and down her spine. “In that case—” he ground out the words “—you leave me no alternative.”
Charmaine swallowed. “What do you mean? No alternative…?”
“I paid five million dollars for a few short hours of your company tonight. I will donate five hundred million dollars to your precious charity foundation…if you spend a week with me.”
Three Rich Men
Three Australian billionaires;
they can have anything and anyone…
except three beautiful women…
Meet Charles, Rico and Ali, three incredibly wealthy friends all living in Sydney. They meet every Friday night to play poker and exchange news about business and their pleasures—which include the pursuit of Sydney’s most beautiful women.
Up until now, no single woman has ever managed to pin down the elusive, exclusive and eminently eligible bachelors. But that’s all about to change. First Charles, then Rico and finally Ali will fall for three gorgeous girls….
A Rich Man’s Revenge #2349—Charles’s story
Mistress for a Month #2361—Rico’s story
Sold to the Sheikh #2374—Ali’s story
Available only from Mills & Boon
Sold to the Sheikh
Three Rich Men
Miranda Lee
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
HIS eyes had been on her all afternoon. Dark, beautiful eyes. Arrogant eyes. Presumptuous eyes.
Charmaine knew, soon after their introduction, that His Royal Highness, Prince Ali of Dubar, was going to make some kind of pass before the day’s races were over.
From the moment she became aware of the sheikh’s interest in her, Charmaine regretted accepting this particular job. The pleasure of being one of the judges for the ‘Fashion-in-the-Field’ competition during Flemington’s spring racing carnival did not override the displeasure of being pursued by yet another international playboy.
But by the time she’d completed the job she’d been hired for—the final judging on Ladies’ Day had been over by four—Charmaine had a firm handle on her irritation and began looking forward to that moment when her admirer put his mouth where his eyes had been, so to speak. Not literally, of course. The thought of such a man actually kissing her made her shudder. Nothing repelled Charmaine more than overly good-looking, overly wealthy men who thought any female they fancied could be had for the price of a dinner. Or even less.
And this one was more than overly good-looking and overly wealthy. The Arab prince and horse breeder was one of the most handsome men—and undoubtedly one of the richest—Charmaine had ever met. Taller and leaner in her opinion than most Arab princes, he was also clean-shaven and dressed that day not in traditional Arab dress, but a pale grey suit and brilliant white shirt which highlighted his richly olive skin and thick, jet-black hair. His face was as hard and lean as his body, his dark, deeply set eyes bisected by a strong nose that was underlined by a cruelly carved but not unattractive mouth.
He looked unlike any sheikh Charmaine had ever met. And she’d met a few. Supermodels met many of the world’s wealthiest men, both in the course of their careers and their social lives. The rich and famous liked having the bold and the beautiful at their dos.
Being invited to be a special guest of Prince Ali in his private box at the races had not surprised Charmaine. Having the sheikh think what he had obviously been thinking about her all afternoon didn’t surprise her, either. In her experience, billionaire Arab playboys had a tendency to overestimate their own irresistibility, as well as underestimate the morals of some western women. No doubt, in this sheikh’s mind, supermodel equated with superslut.
Charmaine would take great delight in cutting Prince Ali down to size a little. His inflated male ego, she decided as she sensed him watching her again, needed pruning.
She was right. He was watching her, his eyes never leaving her as she made her way back up into the stand, burning their way through her figure-hugging silk dress, stripping her of every stitch and leaving her feeling stark naked and almost bitter over her undeniable physical assets. Not for the first time, Charmaine had a moment of burning resentment over the genes which had combined her father’s height and Nordic fairness with her mother’s large blue eyes and womanly curves to produce a tall, head-turning blonde who’d first rocketed to modelling fame at the tender age of sixteen.
Nine years later, Charmaine’s precocious beauty had blossomed into a more mature but still widely recognisable look with her striking figure and extra-long but perfectly straight fair hair. Hourglass shapes were supposedly out of fashion, but Charmaine’s elegantly elongated version was eagerly sought after by designers, primarily because she could showcase their wares more effectively than her thinner colleagues. She was especially popular with swimwear and lingerie fashion houses and had made a small fortune being photographed in a state of dishabille.
Unfortunately, a side-effect of being seen on billboards and magazine covers in skimpy underwear and hardly there bikinis was that some men presumed her whole body was for sale, not just the image she projected. It was amazing how many wealthy men had thought they could buy her as their trophy girlfriend, or mistress, or even wife. Charmaine found this perversely amusing. Little did they know but she was the last woman on earth they would want in their beds.
The man staring at her at this moment would be severely disappointed if she agreed to whatever of those three intimate alternatives he had in mind. She was actually doing him a favour in rejecting his overtures.
With a small smile hovering on her lips, she lowered herself with an almost perverse pleasure into the seat he’d obviously kept clear for her, right next to his own and close enough for her to smell his expensive cologne and see that his black eyes were framed with the longest lashes she had ever seen on a man.
The rest of the box was empty, not even graced by the