“Right,” she said, feeling incredibly stupid but relieved he hadn’t pushed her further. She changed the subject. “So you work for the king? What are you doing out here? Why aren’t you in the ballroom?”
His dark eyes glinted.
“Because I don’t want to be.” It struck her as the obvious answer—and yet no answer at all. A cold breeze, a vestige of the last throaty gasp of winter, blew against her bare arms and chest. Looking at him, she shivered. But not from cold.
The man towered over her, his dark suit fitting perfectly over his broad shoulders and powerful, muscular body. She’d never been so attracted to anyone like this. She felt shivery inside, overwhelmed just from being close to him. He was taller than her, bigger in every way. She felt power emanating off his body in waves. But even more dangerous than his powerful body were his eyes.
Black pools reflecting scattered bits of light, they lured her, pulled her down like a dark sea, treacherous and deep, threatening to drown her.
Beth forced herself to look away. “Well,” she said unsteadily, “I should probably go inside. And wait for the king to crook his finger at me.” She sighed. “It’s what I’m getting paid for, after all.”
“Paid?”
She looked back in surprise. “Yes. Each of the women gets a million dollars, just for showing up. And an extra million for each additional day they’re invited to remain.” Her lips lifted.
“Just the chance to be Queen of Samarqara should be enough,” he said irritably. “A bribe shouldn’t be necessary.”
“Yeah, right,” Beth scoffed. “I’m not sure why all these incredibly accomplished women are here, but I’m guessing the money might be a part of it.” She frowned, thinking of her own sister. “After all, even if you’re famous and really good at your job, you might still need money.”
“And you?” Opalescent, dappled moonlight caressed the edge of his dark brows and slash of high cheekbones. “Is that the reason you’re here?”
“Of course,” she whispered. She’d never had a man like this pay attention to her. What was she saying? She’d never met a man like this before, never, not in her whole life. He was straight out of a fairy tale, straight out of a sexy dream.
Every time this stranger looked at her, every time he spoke, her heartbeat grew faster. He was just a foot away now, and she was starting to hyperventilate. With each rapid breath, her full breasts pressed up against the overly tight sweetheart bodice of her red strapless cocktail dress. They were threatening to pop out entirely. Especially as he drew closer in the shadowy Parisian garden.
“So you’re only here for money,” he said flatly.
“Cancer research is expensive.” Her voice trembled a little in spite of her best efforts.
“I imagine so.” He stopped, looking down at her. “But I never imagined the women would be paid just to come here.”
“You didn’t?” Beth exhaled. He obviously wasn’t close to the sheikh, then. She was relieved. At least he wouldn’t tell his boss what an idiot Dr. Edith Farraday had looked like in the garden, trembling and panting over a few careless words from a stranger. The real Edith would be horrified. Or—she paused suddenly—maybe she shouldn’t make assumptions.
“Who are you to the king?” she said hesitantly. “An attaché? A bodyguard?”
He shook his head, staring down at her incredulously. “Do you really not know?”
“Oh, are you some kind of cousin? Someone famous? I’m sorry. I told you, I’ve been busy. I was so tired I fell asleep on the plane. And today, I’ve been walking around Paris...”
She was babbling, and she knew it. The man lifted a dark eyebrow, his towering, powerful body now just inches from her own. In the play of moonlight and shadow, his hard, handsome face held hers, as if she were a mystery he was trying to solve.
Beth, a mystery? She was an open book!
Except she couldn’t be, not this time. Whoever this man was, she couldn’t let him find out her secret: that she wasn’t Dr. Edith Farraday.
Until this moment, it had all just seemed like a favor, a chance to help sick kids, and see a bit of Paris. But the king was paying all that money for a reason. To meet Dr. Edith Farraday, not some ordinary shop girl from Houston.
And to her horror, she suddenly realized there was a legal name for what she and Edith were doing: fraud.
Nervously, Beth yanked up the stupid neckline of the red silk gown. She was in danger of falling out of it, especially as the man drew closer and her breaths became hoarse. No wonder he kept glancing down at her, then sharply looking away.
She felt ashamed, cheap and out of place. She wished she’d never come here, and was safely back at home wearing her usual baggy outfits she got for almost nothing at the thrift shop. No man ever looked at her in those for long.
“I should go,” she choked out. But as she turned to go back inside the ballroom, the man’s voice was husky in the shadows behind her.
“So what do you think of them?”
She turned. “Who?”