Sheikh's Scandal

He touched the name badge attached to her black suit jacket. “Amari is not your name.”

“It is.” Her voice came out husky, her throat too tight for normal speech.

“Not your given name.”

“Aaliyah,” she offered before her self-protection kicked in.

“Lovely.” He brushed the name tag again and, though it was solid plastic, she felt the touch as if it had been over bare skin. “Your parents are traditionalists.”

“Not exactly.” Liyah didn’t consider Hena’s decision to make an independent life for herself and her illegitimate daughter traditional.

Hena had simply wanted to give Liyah as many connections to the country of her mother’s birth as she could. Hena had also said she’d wanted to speak hope for her daughter’s life every time she used her name, which meant high exalted one.

It was another example of the deceased woman’s more romantic nature than that of her pragmatic daughter.

Liyah doubted very much if Gene Chatsfield had anything to do with naming her at all.

“Your accent is American,” Sayed observed.

“So is yours.”

He shrugged. “I was educated in America from the age of thirteen. I did not return to Zeena Sahra to live until I finished graduate school.”

She knew that. His older brother’s tragic death in a bomb meant for the melech had changed the course of Sayed’s life and his country’s future.

Further political unrest in surrounding countries and concerns for their only remaining son’s safety had pushed the melech and his queen to send Sayed to boarding school. It wasn’t exactly a state secret.

Nor was the fact that Sayed had opted to continue his education through a bachelor’s in world politics and a master’s in management, but having him offer the information made something strange flutter in Liyah’s belly.

Or maybe that was just his nearness.

The guest elevators at the Chatsfield were spacious by any definition, but the confined area felt small to Liyah.

“You’re not very western in your outlook,” she said, trying to ignore the unfamiliar desires and emotions roiling through her.

“I am the heart of Zeena Sahra. Should my people and their ways not be the center of mine?”

She didn’t like how much his answer touched her. To cover her reaction she waved her hand between the two of them and said, “This isn’t the way of Zeena Sahra.”

“You are so sure?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“So you have studied my country.” He sounded way too happy about that possibility.

“Don’t take it personally.”

He laughed, the honest sound of genuine amusement more compelling than even the uninterrupted regard of the extremely handsome man. “You are not like other women.”

“You’re the emir.”

“You are saying other women are awed by me.”

She gave him a wry look and said dryly, “You’re not conceited at all, are you?”

“Is it conceit to recognize the truth?”

She shook her head. Even arrogant, she found this man irresistible and had the terrible suspicion he knew it, too.