The Sheikh's Convenient Bride

Or be as persistent as an ant at a picnic. The phone rang again. And again. The fourth time, she kept her eyes on the wet road and dug the phone from her purse.

“This better be important,” she said, “because I am knee-deep in rain and traffic and—”

“Megan?”

“Yes?” she said cautiously. It was a male voice, familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.

‘‘Thank God,’’ the voice said, and sighed with relief. ‘‘It’s Frank.’’

‘‘Who?’’

“Frank Fisher. From the office.”

“Frank?” Her mind buzzed with questions. Why was he calling her? And why did he sound so…panicked?

“Look, I hate to bother you, but—but, uh, I guess Mr. Simpson spoke to you about, uh, about things.”

Mr. Simpson? Her eyes narrowed. “If you mean, did he tell me that you’re stealing my work and claiming it as your own, yes. He spoke to me about, uh, things.”

“Hey. I didn’t steal anything. This wasn’t my idea, it was Mr. Simpson’s.”

Oh, hell. Frank was right, it wasn’t his fault. It would have been nice if he’d spoken up and told the Worm he wouldn’t take credit for something that wasn’t his, but Frank was spineless. Everyone in the office knew it. Intelligent, but spineless. Simpson had chosen him wisely.

“Forget it,” she said wearily.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

A horn bleated behind her. She looked in the mirror, saw, through the water racing down the rear window, a small, low, obscenely expensive sports car. Typically L.A., and no doubt driven by a typically L.A. jerk who thought the car would make him look more important than he really was. She couldn’t see the driver, thanks to the rain, but she didn’t have to. She knew the type.

“Yeah, well, it’s good of you to call, Frank. I mean, the apology doesn’t change anything, but—”

“The apology?” Frank cleared his throat. “Uh, right, right. I’m glad you understand but actually—actually, I called to ask you something.”

Megan frowned. “What?”

“Well,” Frank said, and paused. “Well, see, I was reading through your—through my—through the proposal—”

Megan felt the blood start to drum in her ears. “Get to it, Frank. What do you want?”

“There are a couple of things here I don’t quite follow…”

Frank began to babble. A couple of minutes later, it was clear there were lots of things he didn’t follow. Like, for instance, the entire purpose of her suggestions for the investments the sheikh was seeking.

“He’s rich, right?”

“Stinking rich,” Megan agreed.

“And they’ve already got oil coming out of the faucets in Suminan, right?”

“Suliyam. Yes, the oil’s pumping. But there’s more to be found, and there are minerals in the mountains…”

And what was she doing, giving Frank a quick education based on her research? The man was an idiot. Why should she help him? Damn it, the jerk behind her was beeping his horn again.

“What?” she snarled, shooting an angry look in the mirror. Did Mr. Impatient expect her to fly over the cars ahead of her?

“I need answers, Megan. That’s what.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, Frank.”