The Sheikh's Determined Lover (Zahkim Sheikhs 2)

Chapter One

Maybe there were worse fates than marrying a sheikh. Christine Harper had figured Tess had lost it when she'd said she was marrying a sheikh. But then, Tess Angel's life, what with her singing career and her production company, was like something out of a movie—exotic and fabulous. So was this wedding.

And I get to be the boring friend.

Christine wrinkled her nose. She was not going to start down that path. Not today. This was a celebration, and she'd better start cheering up and stop being so nervous and negative. But she had a lot to lose—and her dad had even more—if she didn't achieve her aim in coming to Zahkim.

She sat at one of fifty linen-covered tables, turning her sparkling lemonade as if it was her dance partner. Music—modern and a little bit jazzy—floated in the air. She tapped her toes to the beat and glanced around the gardens where Tess's wedding had taken place.

The Zahkim palace gardens were even more vast and lush than Tess had said, and all Christine wanted to do was get out of here and go exploring. She knew parts of the palace dated back to the sixth century, when Zahkim had flourished as a center of learning. Her Dad would love this.

But she had another idea for how to get him more committed than he was to beating his cancer. It centered on getting access to the Zahkim palace archives. For now, she had a party to enjoy.

Around her, white marble pillars turned to gold in the sunset. Flowers scented the air like perfume. The rustle of green plants moving in a cooling breeze and the splash from a huge fountain in the middle of the garden added a romantic touch. Next to the fountain stood the arbor draped in white jasmine where the couple had exchanged vows. The ceremony had been lovely, and Christine had even found herself starting to tear up. She'd almost wished she didn't understand Arabic as well as she did, but she got though it without getting too sappy because Tess looked happy. If anyone deserved that, it was Tess, who'd always put others first in all her business ventures.

The guests—a mix of traditional Middle Eastern robes among the groom's family and Western tuxes and dresses from Tess's Hollywood friends—now milled around refreshment tables that had been whisked from nowhere by what looked to Christine to be a professional catering staff. Or maybe they were just the palace staff, all dressed in discreet black. The aroma of beef, lamb, and something spicy tempted, but right now Christine was content to sit back and stay on the sidelines. She felt comfortable there. She always had.

The wedding had been a lot more modern than she'd expected from a small Middle Eastern kingdom tucked near the east coast of Africa, but Tess had always had good taste. She'd managed to mix Eastern flair with Western comfort. She also looked amazing in a green traditional Arabic robe trimmed in gold, which set off her green eyes and auburn hair. She'd changed from her wedding dress for the reception, and she was dazzling. Best of all, Tess seemed to have found a guy who looked to be utterly in love with her, if his expression was any clue. Sheikh Tarek was also a hunk—tall, dark, and taken.

Christine sighed. Why were the good ones always spoken for?

Sipping her drink, she wondered when she'd get a chance to congratulate Tess. They'd been best friends growing up in New Hampshire, but Tess had left to find her fortune, and boy had she found it. They'd reconnected with emails and texts over the years, but Tess had become a bigger-than-life character by then, with a recording career that had left Christine feeling distinctly provincial. It also seemed Tess had found her Prince Charming—or at least a Sheikh Charming. Sheikh Tarek Rahim to be specific.

Christine suppressed another sigh. She shook her head. If she kept this up, she'd soon be the gloomy girl at the party, comparing her dull life in academia to Tess's amazing one.

Straightening, she tugged the neckline of her gown up. It was just a touch lower than she liked. Tess had supplied the loose, flowing dress in a deep-red silk with silver embroidery around the neck, sleeves, and hem. To please Tess, Christine had worn it. She was almost glad she had, now. This was al

l about Tess's big day.

Tess looked happy—ecstatic to judge by the glow on her face. Christine smiled, but a small ache settled around her heart. She didn't know why fairy-tale loves happened to other people, not to practical women who preferred books, museums, and antiquities to hot dates. Oh, well, she'd just have to focus on the other reason she'd come to Zahkim, other than to be here for Tess.

The jazz band, playing at the far end of the gardens, brought the song to a close. A smattering of applause rewarded the musicians, and Christine glimpsed Tess dragging Sheikh Tarek toward where Christine was sitting. She stood. What the heck did you say to a sheikh, other than that he'd gotten a great girl and he'd better treat her right?

But then Tess grabbed another man's hand. What the heck?

Christine had time to smooth her gown and her hair—short and almost not curling in the dry desert air, thank you—and then Tess stood in front of her, grinning and nudging her elbow into her husband's side.

Sheikh Tarek smiled, his eyes warm, and he turned to Christine. "My Tess insists I make known to you my good friend and cousin, Sheikh Arif ben Iben, known in our country as the Hami Almaerifa. He is also one of my top ministers, heading up education and development. Arif, this is Christine Harper. Tess says she has a great deal of interest in our country."

Christine looked at the other man. The Protector of Knowledge? Well that sounded…impressive. And rather intriguing, given that he was also some bigwig in the Zahkim government. The title of sheikh wasn't handed out to just anyone, only to those rich and important, or just old and venerated. This guy looked to be in his mid-twenties.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said.

Dressed in the traditional white thobe and keffiyeh of the Zahkim royal family, the headscarf held in place with a black and gold knotted rope, he looked dressed for the desert. She couldn't see much of his hair under the keffiyeh, but his eyes fixed on her with an unsettling intensity. With the light changing from day to night, and torches starting to be lit in the gardens, she couldn't quite make out if his eyes were green or gray or a mix of the two. He smiled, and Christine's heart rate jumped. She also noticed a small crescent scar on the left corner of his mouth and wondered how he'd gotten it.

“And I am most pleased to meet you.” He stepped closer and his scent—sandalwood and spice—washed over her. Christine's mind emptied. He was six feet of male that set off every alarm bell in her head. The strong nose left him looking arrogant, and that sharp, chiseled chin outlined by a trim beard was made for stubbornness. He was also staring at her like she was Christmas and Easter and the end of Ramadan all wrapped up in one.

What was it Tess had said about royal protocol? A dozen cousins stood in line to the throne of Zahkim after Sheikh Tarek, but was Sheikh Arif one of them? She should have spent a little more time reading up on modern history instead of her usual area of ancient texts.

Managing a smile, she put out her hand and prayed that shaking hands wasn't on the forbidden list. It seemed okay, since he took hold of her fingers, dropped a kiss on the back of her hand, and then turned over her hand and kissed her palm. A charge shot up her arm and headed straight to her stomach, which did a backflip.

Okay, girl, you have got to get out more often.

She'd been buried with her dissertation for way too long. And she was still buried in research. She was here to do even more, but right now Sheikh Arif still held her hand and was leading her out onto the dance floor. Short of making a scene, Christine had to follow.

Glancing back at Tess, Christine lifted her eyebrows high with a clear what the hell have you gotten me into message. Tess shooed her with both hands, making it equally clear Christine was supposed to dance and have fun. Christine made a face. It was just like back at the high school prom with Tess pushing her out to dance with Bobby Benson—Christine had had a mad crush on him and had been too shy to say anything. She glanced over now at Sheikh Arif. Okay, so he looked nothing like Bobby Benson, who'd been blond and full of himself. Sheikh Arif just seemed full of himself, dragging her onto the dance floor as if he owned her.

A small thrill jumped through her. She wasn't used to this much male possessiveness, but it was kind of nice and left her feeling dainty and…protected. Not that she needed that. She pushed out a breath and told herself to stay grounded.

You can do this—it's just a dance.

The music settled into another jazz classic, and Sheikh Arif pulled her into his arms—they did that in Zahkim? Christine searched for light conversation.

Weather? Too boring. My, what a nice country you have? Too dumb. She stared at his broad chest and the neat line of buttons that went up his sternum to his neck. Could she say, I'd love to dig into the palace archives as soon as I can? Okay—way too much to the point and too abrupt. His hand shifted from her waist to her lower back. He pulled her closer against an alarming amount of hard muscle. Heat seeped into her body through the thin silk of her dress. Her pulse kicked up again.

She glanced up—she wasn't that tall at only five-two—and he glanced down. That electrical charge she'd felt before seemed to jump between them, leaving her mouth dry. His eyes darkened, and she decided they had to be gray. As deep as the Atlantic and just as easy for a girl to drown in. For a moment, she couldn't breathe. She couldn't do anything but stare up into those eyes and wonder what secrets they held.