Chosen as the Sheikh's Royal Bride

And so it was with this marriage. After the awful tragedy with Ferida, he’d put marriage off indefinitely. Until, in New York on a recent diplomatic visit, he’d seen an elderly couple walking down Fifth Avenue. They hadn’t been special, or rich, or beautiful. But they’d held hands tenderly as they walked together. The man had gazed down lovingly at his wife, and she at him. And Omar had felt a sharp pain in his throat.

He did not expect that kind of devotion. Why would he? His own parents’ marriage had been a disaster. Selfishly trying to find love only brought pain, or worse—death.

Coming home, Omar had ordered his vizier to begin the preparations for the bride market. He wanted this marriage finished. Done. Before he ever let himself again be tempted by something so destructive as a foolish dream.

He would take a bride who felt the same. A woman who’d put others first, as Omar did. Who would see the sacrifice not just as a burden, but an honor.

At least most of the time.

“One of the ten women would see it as a greater honor than the rest,” his vizier said slowly. “She has no other career than to be a dutiful daughter and the pride of her people. She already speaks our language, knows our customs—”

Omar cut him off with a glare. Setting his jaw, he said with some restraint, “Bring the ten in now.”

His vizier’s jaw tightened, and he looked as if he were biting back words. Then he bowed and went to open the door to the grand salon. Outside, in the elegant hallway, ten women were waiting.

Eight of them, he’d meet for the first time. The ninth, he was trying to avoid. The tenth, he could hardly stop thinking about. He’d speak with Dr. Farraday last. She would be his dessert. His whipped cream. His cherry on—

Realizing he was starting to get aroused, he stopped the thought cold.

Because his vizier was right. As much as he desired Edith Farraday, she seemed an unlikely queen. Aside from her lack of tact, it was almost impossible that she’d be willing to give up her life as a research scientist. It was obviously her obsession, in spite of her strange reluctance to talk about it. And Laila was a nonstarter.

So he needed to seriously consider the other eight. Any one of them could be an appropriate queen, one the council would approve of, and if he were lucky, one he could admire and respect. So, for the rest of the afternoon and evening, he’d meet with each woman privately, for as long or short a time as he deemed appropriate.

But the plans for today had been that he’d get to know his ten potential brides by touring the sights of Paris with each of them separately. That would be more difficult with paparazzi outside the gate, holding up their cameras as reporters yelled obnoxious questions. Anywhere they tried to go, the paparazzi would follow.

But at least it would not last long. Tomorrow morning, he’d send five more women home. The remaining five, the true contenders, would return with him to Samarqara to meet the council in preparation for the main event: the bride market itself.

Now, standing beside the banquet table, Omar watched as the ten women entered the grand salon of his Paris mansion.

Nine women looked like carbon copies, though all in different shades and colors—classically beautiful, slender, elegant, tall and perfectly dressed in sleek designer outfits.

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.”