The Sheikh's Convenient Bride

“Sit down,” he said quietly.

“I will not sit down! This—this pig just kicked me.”

Qasim’s eyes darkened. “I will deal with him later. For now, you must sit down.”

“This is a horrible place.” Megan’s voice trembled as her anger gave way to the fear it disguised. “I want to leave. I want—”

“Sit!” Qasim roared.

She sank down on the stool, shaken and shaking. She sensed him glaring at her. Then he said something and everyone laughed.

She’d had never felt so alone in her life.

After a moment, Qasim cleared his throat. She heard the rustle of papers, the drone of his voice as the meeting continued, but she wasn’t listening. Why had she ever agreed to his demands? He’d turned her into a woman she didn’t know, brought her to a place where civilization didn’t exist, abandoned her to the less-than-tender mercies of a gang of cutthroats…

“Miss O’Connell!”

She looked up. Hakim’s face was like stone.

“My lord the Sheikh asked a question.”

“I didn’t…What question?”

“I will ask him to repeat it.”

“Just tell me what it was.”

“There is a procedure to follow,” Hakim said coldly. “You will follow it.”

He turned away from her to start the entire roundabout process again. Now she was supposed to sit patiently while Hakim posed a question to Qasim, wait again while Qasim replied in English, then in his own tongue. After that, she’d sit here docilely while Hakim repeated words she already understood. Then, only then, would she be permitted to speak.

To hell with that.

The English words were hardly out of Qasim’s mouth when she replied to them.

For a second time, an awful silence filled the room. The men gave her startled, condemning glances.

Ahmet looked straight at her.

Megan had never had a man look at her that way, but the meaning was clear as glass. It sent a chill straight to the marrow of her bones.

She dragged her eyes from his and struggled to stay calm. All right. She’d made a mistake. Two of them, in one morning. She’d be more cautious from now on. When in Rome, Qasim had said, and he was right. Surely she could manage that for another couple of—

A hand closed on her wrist. She looked up, straight into Ahmet’s ugly face. He grinned, revealing rotting teeth and revolting breath.

‘‘May-gahn.’’

“Yes?” she said politely, and tried not to inhale.

Ahmet jerked her to her feet. “You come.”

“No. No, thank you, Mr. Ahmet, but—’’

“You come now.”

“Really, I don’t think—”

Qasim stood up. His lips drew back from his teeth in the semblance of a smile and he said something to Ahmet. Ahmet smiled, too, even more coldly. His hand tightened around her wrist.