The Sheikh’s Wife Arrangement (The Safar Sheikhs 1)

“Yes?” He paused, swinging that devouring gaze back her way. Words evaporated in her throat. Kiss me again like that? All she could do was offer a smile.

“I’ll find you after I’m done talking to my mom,” she finally forced out. “So we can finish the wedding planning.”

Fatim smiled. Genuinely, and beyond the view of the camera. Like a little gift, meant just for her. “Sounds great, honey.”

The way the word rolled off his lips left her whole body tingling. When she turned back to the camera, her mother had that knowing smirk on her face. Somewhere between I-told-you-so and the dreamy eyes of a woman who knows her daughter is in love.

&n

bsp; Except she wasn’t in love. Not really. In lust, maybe. And the same crippling wave crashed over her again.

She needed to keep her heart out of this business deal. Except with kisses like that in the mix, it might be damn near impossible.

7

Fatim looked out at the sea of guests and tribal leaders. His wedding. His second wedding. They’d pulled it off. A cork popped loudly nearby, followed by shouts and laughter. The entire back garden of the palace had been converted into a lush and colorful tribal affair.

Orange and red rugs covered the natural curve of the sloped backyard. On the west end of the garden, a sitar soloist plucked mesmerizing music while belly dancers gyrated nearby. Long tables nearly overflowed with food—every style of hummus, flat bread, rice, curry and grilled meats, arranged in tiers—and an open bar tucked into the palm foliage featured endless champagne and local beer.

For arranging it in under two weeks, he and Calla had done an admirable job. He was even enjoying himself, despite the fact that his regal wardrobe—heavy, mauve robes that swished the floor as he walked—weighed about a metric ton.

Across the garden, Calla flit about like a fairy. She looked like one too. Her custom-made wedding dress was the talk of the wedding. The shimmery, iridescent corset hugged her torso well—maybe too well. The hint of cleavage there had been taunting him all night. Combined with her cocoa hair swept back, exposing that long, creamy neck, he could barely pry his eyes off her. Sure, this was his wedding—but he never expected to desire his new wife so much.

Though truth was, he’d been fantasizing about Calla a little bit too much over the past week. Ever since he’d stolen that surprise kiss in the sitting room, her soft pucker was all he could think about. Repeating the kiss. Drawing out that same starstruck look from her. The one that told him she’d be perfectly content taking things much, much further than the kiss.

Good thing tonight is your wedding night.

The thought wouldn’t leave him, no matter how much he knew that he’d stick to his word. The promise he’d made Calla—that they would fake the consummation. He was an honorable man. He would never force her to do something she didn’t feel comfortable with. But what if she wanted to consummate?

He hadn’t planned on his marriage becoming an affair with the same woman.

Calla looked over her shoulder, her honey brown gaze snagging his from across the garden. She sent him a small smile—one that made him feel like they’d been doing this for much longer than a week. More like months. Years, maybe. Something flickered to life inside him, but he looked away before he could spend too much time thinking about it.

“Congratulations, your Highness” Yaret was at his side, clamping a hand onto his shoulder. “You made the deadline.”

“Barely,” Fatim said, knocking his glass against Yaret’s in a toast. “I turn thirty in just a few hours. This is the definition of ‘under the wire.’”

“But you pulled it off. And that’s what counts.” Yaret smiled out at the party. “And you couldn’t have found a better wife.”

“Oh? Do you know something about Calla?”

“I can just tell—she’s about as sweet as they come. I see the way she looks at you. I don’t know how you managed to convince someone to fall for you with such a tight deadline, but I suppose those are the secrets of kings.”

Fatim smirked. He hadn’t convinced anyone to fall for him—but if the outside world saw it that way, who was he to correct them? Calla was doing her job and doing it well.

“Your new wife has enchanted several of the tribal leaders’ wives with her dress creation, as well,” Yaret went on. “I believe she has several new clients already.”

“She’ll be enchanting the whole nation soon enough,” Fatim remarked, downing the rest of his champagne. “And speaking of Calla—I believe there’s some business we must tend to.”

Yaret’s eyes went round with understanding. Fatim clapped him on the back and weaved through the crowd, heading for Calla. This was part of the tradition of Amatbahn weddings. At ten p.m., the groom whisked the bride off to the royal tent to consummate the marriage. A tent had been erected in the garden precisely for this moment. As heads turned his way, realization sank in. Chitchat ground to a halt as all eyes focused on the king. Phones and watches were consulted, and then the clapping started.

Calla took notice soon enough. She whipped around, scanning the crowd until her eyes found his. Fatim had warned her about this—Amatbahns liked to make a big deal about their king carrying off the bride to consummate the new marriage. As clapping filled the garden, Fatim strode more quickly toward Calla. A grin spread across her face, and the emotion of the night filled Fatim with a showmanship he didn’t normally possess. When he arrived, he scooped her up into his arms.

The shouts and cheers of the tribespeople spurred him on. He grinned down at Calla, the energy of his people swirling and throbbing around him.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be careful with the dress.”

A pretty flush stained her neck. “I didn’t think you’d be actually carrying me to the wedding tent.”