“Pleased to meet you, Your Highness,” she said.
“And you, Miss Lane.” It wasn’t surprising that his vizier had chosen her to make the cut. She was the world’s most famous beauty, and her chilly glamour reminded him of many of his past mistresses. On paper, Sia Lane would make an excellent bride, a prestigious new member to join any royal family, as when Grace Kelly had become Princess of Monaco or Meghan Markle became Duchess of Sussex.
But when Omar reached out to shake Sia Lane’s hand, her skin felt cold and dry. He felt nothing, in spite of her beauty. He dropped her hand.
“Welcome,” he said gravely. “Thank you for coming to meet me.”
“My pleasure,” the blonde murmured, fluttering her eyelashes at him, arrogantly sure of her own appeal. He recalled Dr. Farraday’s tart assessment: She’s the kind of person who would kick a dog, unless, of course, she believed the dog might be helpful to her career.
Taking his wry smile for praise, the movie star tilted her chin in a practiced move he’d seen in her films. They spoke briefly, then he dismissed her with a polite nod. She seemed almost surprised, as if she’d expected to be proclaimed his queen, here and now.
Khalid called the next woman forward. “Dr. Bere Akinwande.”
“Your Highness,” she said politely, with a short bow. Speaking with her as she sat beside him, he thought Dr. Edith Farraday’s character assessment was correct once again. She seemed an excellent choice to be his queen—a doctor, she spoke six languages, and had been nominated for a Nobel prize. She spoke earnestly of the work she was doing, the difference it could make in the world, and thanked him twice for the “donation” he’d given her. She did not try to flirt. She’d clearly come for the money, but then—he thought again of Dr. Farraday’s important research—could he blame her for that?
Dr. Bere Akinwande was accomplished, intelligent and pretty, but when he shook her hand, again, he felt nothing.
“Laila al-Abayyi,” his vizier intoned, his voice solemn.
Omar repressed his feelings as he was formally introduced to the young Samarqari heiress. Looking in her lovely face, he saw the same black eyes, the same dark beauty, the same masses of long, shiny dark hair that he remembered seeing in her half sister Ferida, fifteen years ago. Ferida, whom he’d arrogantly demanded as his bride, before it had all ended in death and sand—
Dropping her hand, he said shortly, “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye?” Laila said, looking bewildered at being cut off when she’d been in the middle of shyly praising the improvements of his rule.
“You may return to your room. I will not meet with you later.”
“You—you won’t?”
“I thank you for your intercessions with your father. But any further contact between us would be unwelcome.”
Laila turned pale. “Oh. I—I see...” With a hurt glance toward the vizier, the brunette fled the salon.
“Sire,” his vizier said in a low voice for his ears alone, “that was unconscionable—”
“She should not be here.” Omar’s jaw was hard as stone as he turned on him. “Do you understand? I will not marry her. Ever.”
His vizier’s eyes narrowed, then he gave an unsteady nod. Turning, he called the next potential bride’s name.
Omar was glad of the chance to calm the rapid, sickening beat of his heart, as he offered the same polite courtesy to the next woman, then the next, expressing gratitude for their visit to Paris. They always thanked him in return, smiling, their eyes lingering appreciatively over his face and body. So far, so good.
But after that, he started to feel like a bank manager, not a king. The entrepreneur from Germany, tossing her hair, explained in detail that she was seeking investors for her tech start-up. The gymnast from Brazil, smiling flirtatiously, told him of her desire to build an expensive new training facility in São Paulo. The senator from California, her gaze falling to his mouth, wished to discuss favorable trade negotiations for her state’s dairy farmers. And so on.
Many of the women had clearly come to Paris to pursue their career goals, as Dr. Farraday had. Only a few of them seemed blindly ready to toss their important careers away for a Cinderella fantasy that had little to do with the rigors of actual leadership.
He wasn’t sure which was worse.
But he was always aware of the one woman in the background, standing by the wall, hovering in the corners, moving in the shadows. One woman who, in spite of her obvious determination to be invisible, shone out for him like no other.
Finally, his vizier’s voice said grudgingly, “And finally, sire, Dr. Edith Farraday. A well-known cancer researcher from Houston, Texas.”
Watching her as she came forward, Omar could have sworn that she flinched at the sound of her own name. Why? Was she so unwilling to meet with him?
Her earlier words came floating back: I don’t know why any of these women would want to marry the sheikh.
Was it possible that, even though he was so attracted to her, she wasn’t attracted to him at all?
No, surely not. Women always fell at his feet. He was the King of Samarqara, billionaire, absolute ruler of a wealthy kingdom.