Chosen as the Sheikh's Royal Bride

“Not the international airport, miss?”

“No! Here!”

She nearly cried when she saw Omar’s huge private jet still on the tarmac. They’d obviously already refueled and were getting ready to leave when she raced up the steps to the open door, Edith behind her.

“You must take me back to Samarqara,” Beth panted.

The pilots and flight attendants looked at each other, then at Edith behind her.

“I’m sorry, Dr.—er—Miss Farraday,” one said awkwardly. “The vizier said—”

“I don’t care what the vizier said. The king’s in danger.” When they didn’t move, she said desperately, “I will pay you fifty million dollars to take me back!”

When they still didn’t move, Beth marched into the cabin of the jet and sat down. Nervously, Edith followed her lead.

Looking at the pilots and flight attendants, she ordered, “You will start the engine. Now!”

The pilots and flight attendants looked at each other, then with a bow, rushed to obey.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Edith whispered in her ear as the engine warmed up.

“I didn’t, either,” Beth muttered. As the jet started down the runway, she looked out the window at the wing, wishing she could go out and push it to make them go faster. Because as fast as they were going, she might not be in time to save the man she loved.

* * *

Omar paced in the moonlit palace garden where, in just a few moments, he’d be wed in a small private ceremony. There had been no time to arrange a grand public affair, but this was even smaller than he’d imagined. The only guests would be Laila and himself, with the vizier and Laila’s father as witnesses. There would be no reception. A small table had been set up for the traditional wedding toast, right there in the garden, with the garden’s verdant flowers and a few torches to decorate the ceremony.

“We’ll have a more formal public coronation later,” his vizier had said brightly. “But for now, after all the...publicity of your last bride—” He’d paused and then continued, “it’s best to keep this private.”

Khalid had seemed almost too happy about it. But he had wanted Omar to marry Laila al-Abayyi from the beginning.

Omar looked down at his formal robes, with a silver dagger at his belt, the mark of the bridegroom. Marrying Laila was a necessary sacrifice. He’d spoken with her that afternoon, and she’d confirmed she was still willing to marry him. He had to marry someone sometime. It might as well be her, now.

So why did it feel so wrong—wrong in every way?

Why did he feel like his vizier was forcing him to wed a woman he didn’t even like, let alone desire?

No. That wasn’t fair. It wasn’t Khalid’s fault. Omar was the one who’d demanded the bride market. He was the one who’d chosen Beth, then secretly married and seduced her. And he was the one who’d demanded the immediate ceremony with Laila tonight. He’d wanted to put some barrier between himself and the past.

Between himself and Beth.

She was gone now. Gone to be happy in Houston, with her sister. Beth was rich now, famous. Special to all the world. But she’d always be more than special to him.

Taking a deep breath, Omar looked at his watch, an heirloom from his great-grandfather’s day. Just a few minutes until midnight.

He paced through the dark palace garden. Moonlight frosted the edges of the palm trees sighing above like shadows. He heard the burble of the nearby fountain and, against his will, remembered that other garden in Paris, when Beth had first exploded into his life like a comet.

His heart twisted. He’d let her go so she could find happiness. So she’d find true love. At least he could be proud of that.

But he had to think of his nation. A low, ugly undercurrent of anger had spread across the city at the news of Beth’s departure. Apparently, many of the common people still loved her. Whoever had thrown rocks at her in the crowd had disappeared without a trace. Many people said they didn’t care if Beth was a scientist or a shop girl. They demanded she return as queen.

“The people are fickle, sire,” his vizier had said with a shrug. “Who knows what they’ll demand next? But I’ll put the palace on lockdown, just in case.” His thin lips had curved as he’d said, “They’ll soon learn who’s in charge.”

Who was in charge? Omar wondered as he paced the moonlit garden. He stopped. Surely not he. If he were in charge, he would have Beth in his arms right now. He would be kissing her, feeling her soft body against his own. She would be his wife, now and forever.

But he’d divorced her. Set her free. He didn’t want her to be trapped in this palace. He didn’t want her to be unhappy.

He loved her.