Chosen As The Sheikh's Royal Bride

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Then there was the last one, shorter than the rest, and rounder. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright, her light brown hair wavy and wild. Against his will, his eyes traced over her. Her curves were invisible beneath the baggy hoodie and jeans. But his body stirred, becoming instantly hard.

Why her?

Omar couldn’t answer the question, even to himself.

As the women entered the grand salon one by one, he stood near the end of the banquet table in his full sheikh’s robes, making eye contact with each one, giving each a welcoming nod, as he did during any other diplomatic endeavor. The women each smiled, or preened, or nodded back coolly, in their turn.

And in spite of his best efforts to be open-minded, he found himself unimpressed, in spite of all their obvious charms. He was bored by them, beauty, success and all.

Except for the woman who came in last, looking pink-cheeked and miserable, hanging in the back of the salon. The one who wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Dr. Edith Farraday. And again he felt it, along with his powerful attraction—that mystery he couldn’t solve. As Khalid had pointed out, Omar had already made it clear by his attentions that she was his favorite. So why did she hang back, behind the rest? Why did her hazel eyes look haunted and guilty, as if she’d committed some crime?

He didn’t like ambiguity. He wanted her mystery solved. Now. Tonight.

And in a perfect world, he would have solved the mystery with them both naked in bed.

“Welcome,” his vizier said formally, spreading his arms wide in his robes. “I will be presenting each of you in turn to His Highness, the King of Samarqara. Please—” he indicated the tables full of drinks and lavish food “—until your name is called, please feel free to mingle and relax.”

Omar sat down at the chair at the end of the table. Standing beside him, Khalid motioned to the first woman.

“Miss Sia Lane.”

The beautiful blonde came forward and gave a slightly ironic nod, then at his motioned invitation, sat down in the chair beside him. His vizier said gravely, “Sire, Miss Lane is a very well-known actress from Los Angeles, California.”

“Pleased to meet you, Your Highness,” she said.

“And you, Miss Lane.” It wasn’t surprising that his vizier had chosen her to make the cut. She was the world’s most famous beauty, and her chilly glamour reminded him of many of his past mistresses. On paper, Sia Lane would make an excellent bride, a prestigious new member to join any royal family, as when Grace Kelly had become Princess of Monaco or Meghan Markle became Duchess of Sussex.

But when Omar reached out to shake Sia Lane’s hand, her skin felt cold and dry. He felt nothing, in spite of her beauty. He dropped her hand.

“Welcome,” he said gravely. “Thank you for coming to meet me.”

“My pleasure,” the blonde murmured, fluttering her eyelashes at him, arrogantly sure of her own appeal. He recalled Dr. Farraday’s tart assessment: She’s the kind of person who would kick a dog, unless, of course, she believed the dog might be helpful to her career.

Taking his wry smile for praise, the movie star tilted her chin in a practiced move he’d seen in her films. They spoke briefly, then he dismissed her with a polite nod. She seemed almost surprised, as if she’d expected to be proclaimed his queen, here and now.

Khalid called the next woman forward. “Dr. Bere Akinwande.”

“Your Highness,” she said politely, with a short bow. Speaking with her as she sat beside him, he thought Dr. Edith Farraday’s character assessment was correct once again. She seemed an excellent choice to be his queen—a doctor, she spoke six languages, and had been nominated for a Nobel prize. She spoke earnestly of the work she was doing, the difference it could make in the world, and thanked him twice for the “donation” he’d given her. She did not try to flirt. She’d clearly come for the money, but then—he thought again of Dr. Farraday’s important research—could he blame her for that?

Dr. Bere Akinwande was accomplished, intelligent and pretty, but when he shook her hand, again, he felt nothing.

“Laila al-Abayyi,” his vizier intoned, his voice solemn.

Omar repressed his feelings as he was formally introduced to the young Samarqari heiress. Looking in her lovely face, he saw the same black eyes, the same dark beauty, the same masses of long, shiny dark hair that he remembered seeing in her half sister Ferida, fifteen years ago. Ferida, whom he’d arrogantly demanded as his bride, before it had all ended in death and sand—

Dropping her hand, he said shortly, “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye?” Laila said, looking bewildered at being cut off when she’d been in the middle of shyly praising the improvements of his rule.

“You may return to your room. I will not meet with you later.”

“You—you won’t?”

“I thank you for your intercessions with your father. But any further contact between us would be unwelcome.”

Laila turned pale. “Oh. I—I see...” With a hurt glance toward the vizier, the brunette fled the salon.

“Sire,” his vizier said in a low voice for his ears alone, “that was unconscionable—”

“She should not be here.” Omar’s jaw was hard as stone as he turned on him. “Do you understand? I will not marry her. Ever.”

His vizier’s eyes narrowed, then he gave an unsteady nod. Turning, he called the next potential bride’s name.

Omar was glad of the chance to calm the rapid, sickening beat of his heart, as he offered the same polite courtesy to the next woman, then the next, expressing gratitude for their visit to Paris. They always thanked him in return, smiling, their eyes lingering appreciatively over his face and body. So far, so good.

But after that, he started to feel like a bank manager, not a king. The entrepreneur from Germany, tossing her hair, explained in detail that she was seeking investors for her tech start-up. The gymnast from Brazil, smiling flirtatiously, told him of her desire to build an expensive new training facility in São Paulo. The senator from California, her gaze falling to his mouth, wished to discuss favorable trade negotiations for her state’s dairy farmers. And so on.

Many of the women had clearly come to Paris to pursue their career goals, as Dr. Farraday had. Only a few of them seemed blindly ready to toss their important careers away for a Cinderella fantasy that had little to do with the rigors of actual leadership.

He wasn’t sure which was worse.

But he was always aware of the one woman in the background, standing by the wall, hovering in the corners, moving in the shadows. One woman who, in spite of her obvious determination to be invisible, shone out for him like no other.

Finally, his vizier’s voice said grudgingly, “And finally, sire, Dr. Edith Farraday. A well-known cancer researcher from Houston, Texas.”

Watching her as she came forward, Omar could have sworn that she flinched at the sound of her own name. Why? Was she so unwilling to meet with him?

Her earlier words came floating back: I don’t know why any of these women would want to marry the sheikh.

Was it possible that, even though he was so attracted to her, she wasn’t attracted to him at all?

No, surely not. Women always fell at his feet. He was the King of Samarqara, billionaire, absolute ruler of a wealthy kingdom.

But then, was Dr. Edith Farraday, child prodigy, high-minded scientist, the sort of person to be impressed by money and power? For all he knew, she had a boyfriend back home. An ordinary but perfectly satisfying man who was content to let her be the superstar, while he cooked her dinners and rubbed her feet. She might find that sort of man much more appealing to her lifestyle than some playboy king who, until this very moment, had been unable and unwilling to commit to anything beyond his own rule.

It was a discomfiting thought.

“Oh. Hello again,” Edith said uneasily, her eyes darting to the right and left, as if she felt guilty. Guilty?

Was there a boyfriend?

The question set him on edge.

“It’s a pleasure to finally be properly introduced,” Omar said gravely. He looked over her outfit, the exact same hoodie and jeans that she’d worn when he’d knocked on her hotel room door that morning, and tilted his head curiously. “Did the new wardrobe I had sent to your room not meet with your approval?”

“The clothes are beautiful, thank you,” she said, her eyes guarded.

“And yet you are not wearing them.”

“They really weren’t necessary. I’m only going to be here one more day.”

“And a night,” he pointed out.

She looked away evasively. “I suppose. But I knew if I wore them, your people couldn’t return them to the store. So I didn’t touch them.”

Omar stared at her incredulously. “You’re worried about the cost?”

She actually blushed. “I suppose it’s silly but... I don’t like taking advantage of people...”

Then her voice abruptly cut off. Her cheeks turned from pink to bright red.

He frowned, puzzled by her reaction. “You’re not taking advantage. You’re my guest. I want you to be comfortable.”

“Oh, I am,” she said in a strangled voice. She tried to smile, but her face was stiff and awkward.

“Is there some reason you wish to rush back to Houston?” He watched her. “A boyfriend back home?”

Her eyes flashed wide. “What?” she said quickly. “No!”

Omar relaxed. “So you miss your work at the lab, then.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course I do.” She paused, then blurted, “I’d hoped to see more of Paris today. But I was just told that we won’t be allowed to leave the mansion this afternoon?”

“An unfortunate circumstance, with all the paparazzi outside the gate.”

She bit her lip. “I know I’m being silly, it’s just... I didn’t get a chance to see the Louvre yet, or climb the Eiffel Tower. The line for tickets was too long. I was hoping...” Squaring her shoulders, she shook her head. “Ah, well, it doesn’t matter.”

“The Louvre? You like art?”

“I wanted to see the Mona Lisa. Who doesn’t?”

“You’ve never seen it?” It seemed strange she’d never been to Paris before. He was sure the other women had visited many times, for school trips or family vacations, or, as in the case of Laila al-Abayyi, because their families owned lavish penthouses with a view of the Seine.

Dr. Farraday was indeed very busy in the lab, it seemed. Totally and utterly dedicated to her cause since she was a teenager.

Not a bad quality for a queen, an important part of him argued. Sadly it was the part of him that wanted her in his bed.

But Dr. Farraday had a quiet beauty, in a way that perhaps a man wouldn’t notice right away, especially in those baggy jeans and hoodie, with her hair pulled up in a ponytail. She wasn’t even wearing makeup.

As accustomed as Omar was to women constantly trying to get his attention, it was strange indeed to meet a woman who seemed determined to evade it. In fact, if he hadn’t seen her in that tight red dress yesterday, he might have easily overlooked her even now.

Surely not. Was he so shallow as that?

When she didn’t sit down beside him, Omar rose abruptly to his feet. “Thank you for coming to Paris to meet me, Dr. Farraday.”

“No problem.” She gave him a crooked smile. “Thanks for the two million for cancer research.”

He couldn’t look away from her smile, or the way her eyes suddenly sparkled beneath the chandeliers. “You must tell me about your latest scientific breakthroughs.”

The smile on her face dropped away. Why? Because he’d reminded her of the important cancer research she was neglecting to be here? She gave an awkward laugh. “I, uh, don’t like to talk about it. Most people find the details very dull.”

“Try me. I’m not a scientist, but I do keep up on developments in the search for the cure for biphenotypic acute leukemia.”

Her voice was a croak. “You do?”

Omar gave a short nod. “Perhaps later, while discussing your research, we could also discuss an additional donation from my country’s charitable fund.”

There. The perfect bait to make any scientist talk.

And yet she still didn’t.

“Uh—maybe later,” she managed. She glanced around the salon, then leaned forward to whisper, “Why did you really want me to stay in Paris? For an insider’s opinion on your potential brides? Or just for comic relief?”

“Maybe I like your company,” he said. “I enjoyed talking to you in the garden.”

“You should have told me who you were...” Then she shook her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”