Khalid blinked twice.
West had apparently collided with his traditional wedding, and he was uncertain if he had been saved or cast from one disaster into a worse one.
His father’s hand fell onto his shoulder, a heavy weight, and the sultan muttered, anger tight under his words, “Get your brothers. I do not know if there is anything of honor to be salvaged here.” Khalid shook his head. This was his wedding. His disaster to make right. Turning to the guests, he lifted his hands and his voice. “I do apologize for the interruption. Due to such inauspicious circumstances, this is obviously not a day for any wedding to be held. Please stay and enjoy the hospitality and the food provided.”
Turning, he headed after his brothers. They slipped into a smaller, side room. He had no idea what would be the consequences of this interruption. Was this wedding truly off? Or simply delayed? He honestly did not think he could ask Fadiyah to attempt this marriage again, not when she had made it clear that she was indeed being pushed into this.
“What was that all about?” Ahmed pulled off his keffiyeh and rubbed a hand through his short, dark hair.
Zaid folded his arms across his chest and leaned a shoulder against the wall. His expression mirrored that of the American businessmen—unhappy and uneasy.
“I don’t know,” Khalid said. “But somehow we’re going to end up paying for it.”
A moment later, Sultan bin Mohammed Al-Qasimi, burst through the door, slamming it shut behind him. He glanced from son to son, but spoke to Khalid. “If you hadn’t attracted so much attention on your last visit to America, this would not be happening. Your actions have brought dishonor upon our family, and a reporter to your wedding. You are not worthy of Mehmood’s daughter, not that he would have you for a son now. And now…now!”
Khalid lifted a hand. “And now your American business partners are most unhappy?” Khalid asked.
The sultan’s face reddened. His mustache—thick and black—twitched. “They expressed…sentiments that…that perhaps we should set a better example for our country. But they are not even remotely interested in a discussion of our traditions. So, that being said, and since it is obvious the bride I have chosen for you wishes to have nothing to do with you, you will now be forced to the other option.”
Khalid stiffened. “Ah, Father, I agreed to your choices—I made a choice.”
“To marry! But you are not married, are you?”
Khalid shook his head. The cords holding his keffiyeh slapped at him. He knocked them back and faced father. “Then I will marry. I made my choice. I will not face banishment.”
The sultan smoothed a hand over his face. “And what choice will you make? An American wife?”
With a shrug, Khalid asked, “Why not. Perhaps.”
With a snort, the sultan waved away such an idea. “You will not. You will delay and make excuses. So…I give you one month. Only one month. You will be married then, or every bit of your inheritance will pass to your brother, Zaid. And I will not wish to see you again or call you my son!”
Khalid shook his head and forced a hard smile. “Ah, but, Father, I will not fail. That is my promise. A wife wi
thin the month—and this time I will choose.”
2
Casey Connolly paced her cell, wishing she still had her cell phone or at least a hot bath. Seriously, it had been two days without so much as even a mention of a lawyer or the American Ambassador, and now she was starting to wonder if maybe she should have waited for that quote until after the wedding. But she wanted to see if the shock effect of her showing up would jar loose some honesty. It hadn’t. She kicked at her cot, more angry with herself than anyone else. But she was willing to vent on someone else if she could.
“Even prisoners of war are allowed to shower,” she shouted. No one answered. She turned and continued her pacing. At least she could keep up with her exercise routine, but this wasn’t much of a substitute for a five-mile run.
It also wasn’t the first time she’d found herself jailed. As an investigative reporter, and an opinionated one at that, she’d often had to call her boss, Luke Reynolds, to bail her out. But she hadn’t been able to make a call, and he wouldn’t start worrying about her for a few more days.
Facing the door, she called out, “I’m an American citizen. And I know damn well Sharjah signed the Geneva Convention.”
A smooth, confident voice answered from the hall. “Ah, but you are not a prisoner of war. In fact, I dare say that no one even knows that you are here.”
A tall man with broad shoulders stepped around the corner and into view. He stopped on the other side of the bars and gave her an appraising stare. She offered one back. He had on the Sharjah traditional white robes and headscarf. Of course, she recognized him at once—she’d seen his photo in more than one gossip rag. Sheikh Khalid Al-Qasimi, the Sultan of Sharjah’s eldest son, was a man with a playboy reputation for trouble and it was his wedding she’d crashed. Funny, he didn’t look unhappy with her—nor did he really fit the role of dissolute rogue.
His face seemed so…so youthful. Smooth, tan skin left him looking more like his early twenties, not his early thirties. A closely cropped, black beard marked a very square jaw, and when he smiled, his teeth looked movie star white. He had a wide mouth with a lower lip she’d call sinful and it was only those chocolate-brown eyes that put her on her guard—the man knew he was charming and was being so right now.
“What? I’m a prisoner of love instead?” His mouth quirked. Casey’s face heated. She waved a hand at him. “Sorry to bust in on your wedding. I just wanted a quote.”
One of his dark eyebrow lifted. She noticed they were arched high in the middle and black as sin. “Your little outburst, Casey Connolly, left me in more than my usual amount of trouble.” He leaned against the wall in front of her cell, his casual posture at odds with a situation that was, Casey had to admit, headed to dire. Reporters had been known to disappear into Middle Eastern prisons for a very long time.
She tilted her head and studied his face, trying to figure out just what he wanted from her. Because he must want something—even if it was only to gloat that she was behind bars. However, he didn’t seem the gloating type.
He did look like trouble on two legs. Those dark eyes—bedroom eyes, she’d call them—raked a stare over her body, his gaze moving slowly as if he was enjoying the view.