The Sheikh's Convenient Bride

And Caz, waiting for her. Caz, in a white silk shirt and black breeches with riding boots the color of the night. Caz, his face serious, his eyes locked to hers. Words spoken by Ahmet, who’d managed to look human for the occasion. Caz’s husky responses, her choked “Yes” when he told her it was time to say the word. And then a roar went up from the throats of Ahmet’s men, and Caz’s arms went around her, and the roar grew louder as he crushed her mouth beneath his.

“You are my wife,” he said softly, and she told herself it was all a game even as her arms went around his neck and she drew his head to hers for another deep, deep kiss.

Hands reached for her. Women’s hands. Laughing, they dragged her away, surrounded her, tugged her along with them while the men did the same thing to Caz. The women brought her to another room, seated her on an intricately carved chair that stood on a high platform. The men seated Caz beside her. Music—the hot beat of drums, the haunting cry of a flute—filled the room.

The women danced. The men strutted. There were platters of food and endless glasses filled with a liquid that had no color.

“Don’t even take a sip,” Caz said, leaning toward her.

Megan looked at him. My husband, she thought. He’s my husband. “Poison?” she whispered.

“Of a sort,” he said solemnly. “It’s what got me so polluted last night.”

He grinned. She laughed. How strange, to hear such an American word in such a foreign setting. To hear the word on her husband’s lips.

“Stand up, sweetheart.”

“Why?”

“It’s time for us to leave.”

To leave. To be alone with this man who she’d just married. Her heart bumped again. “Won’t that be rude? Ahmet might think—”

“Are you afraid to be alone with me?”

She was afraid of what she was feeling, but how could she tell him that?

“No, certainly not. I just—”

Caz rose to his feet and reached for her, lifting her from her chair and high into his arms. A roar went up from the crowd. She felt a rush of heat along her skin; she wound her arms around his neck and buried her face against his throat as he strode from the room.

“Hold tight, kalila,” he said softly, and she did, clinging to him, inhaling his scent until she was dizzy with it as he crossed the floor, climbed and climbed and climbed a staircase that she thought might be winding its way to heaven.

Hakim called out to them. “My lord! Lord Qasim!”

“Leave us,” Caz growled.

“But my lord…”

Megan lifted her head. They had reached a narrow landing. Hakim stood halfway down the steep staircase. His eyes met hers and the hatred she saw in them made her catch her breath.

A massive wooden door loomed ahead. Caz shouldered it open, then kicked it shut behind him.

They were alone.

She knew it even before he slid her slowly down the length of his body and stood her on her feet. All she could hear was the beat of her heart and the snap of logs blazing on an enormous stone hearth.

Slowly she looked around her. They were in a silk-draped room lit by hundreds of white candles. The sole furnishing was a bed draped in sheer white linen and piled high with silk blankets and pillows.

“Megan.”

Caz put his hand under her chin and lifted it. “It’s all done now, sweetheart,” he said softly. “Nobody’s watching us. You can relax.”

Relax? She almost laughed. Or cried. It was hard to know which was the better choice.

“Megan? Are you all right?”

“Fine,” she said briskly. “I just…It’s been a difficult day, you know?”