The Sheikh's Convenient Bride

“Miss O’Connell’s flight, lord.”

“Is this a riddle, Hakim? Her flight to where?”

“To the United States.”

Hakim was looking at him as if he were slow-witted. Hell, one of them was.

“WWhy would Miss O’Connell think she’s flying to the States?”

“Because her arrangement with you is at an end, sire.”

“What?”

“Is it not so? The woman says—”

“You didn’t think it necessary to speak with me?”

“I was only trying to save you the bother, lord. The woman—”

Caz took a step forward, his fists bunched at his sides. “The woman,” he said, his voice low and menacing, “is my wife. The Sheikha. You will refer to her by title. Is that clear?”

“But my lord…”

“Is it clear, damn you?”

He watched his aide’s face whiten.

“Yes, lord. Of course. Forgive me, sir.”

But Caz wasn’t listening. He’d already started running toward the palace.

Megan had almost finished packing when the door burst open.

“What in hell are you doing?”

His voice roared through the room. He was angry, but she’d expected that. She’d expected him to confront her, too. Hakim had been happy to make the arrangements for her departure without involving Caz—the aide made no pretence of how eager he was to see her gone—but she’d suspected it wouldn’t be possible.

Nothing happened in this antiquated corner of the world without the involvement of Sheikh Qasim, and she’d known he would not take kindly to letting her leave without some sort of confrontation.

All week, she’d sensed that his behavior—polite, formal, distant—masked a growing anger. And what in hell did he have to be angry about? She was the same woman she’d always been; Caz was the one who’d changed. One moment he’d been her passionate lover, the next he’d become…

There was no way to describe what he’d become. Cold, uncaring, disinterested. All that, and more.

And it hurt.

Still, she wasn’t prepared for the rage flashing in his eyes. Well, she thought, taking a blouse from its hanger, that was fine.

She’d rather deal with his anger than with his disinterest. Better to go toe-to-toe with him than to lie in his bed, alone and unhappy, crying herself to sleep, and wasn’t that a stupid thing to have done all these nights? What was there to cry about? She’d figured out, days ago, that she’d never really fallen in love with Caz. Pretty pathetic, when a modern woman had to feed herself a lie about love rather than admit all she’d wanted was to sleep with a man.

“Did you hear me? I said—”

“I heard you. What does it look like I’m doing?” Megan folded the blouse neatly. Damn, her hands were shaking. “I’m packing.”

“The hell you are!”

She told herself to keep calm. He was trying to upset her, and she’d be damned if she’d let him succeed.

“Packing is generally the first step before a person leaves,” she said calmly.