The Sheikh's Convenient Bride

Someone rang the doorbell.

She looked up, frowning. Who’d drop over at this hour on such a wet, cold night?

The sheikh’s courier, that was who. Her smile disappeared as she dropped the telephone. She’d told him what he could do with his money but that hadn’t stopped him and now one of his rain-soaked flunkies, probably Hakim of the icy eyes, was at the door with one hundred thousand bucks in his pocket.

Pin money, to a man who owned a couple of dozen oil wells. A fortune to her, and he knew it.

He figured she’d leap at it like a dog jumping for a bone.

Bzzz bzzz bzzz.

The flunky was impatient. Megan’s eyes narrowed. Right. So was she. How many times did a woman have to say “no?”

The almighty prince needed a lesson. What better than to see his check shredded into as many bits as there were raindrops pattering against the roof? Even a thick-skulled despot would get that message.

Bzzz bzzz bzzz bzzz.

Megan grabbed a pair of scissors from a pottery jug filled with kitchen tools and hurried to the door. Bristling with anger, she flung it open.

“Doing your master’s bidding, are you, Mr. Hakim? Okay. It’s time I showed you and him what he can do with—with—”

Her eyes widened. It wasn’t Hakim on the tiny porch.

“Such a warm greeting,” the sheikh said. His gaze fell to the scissors clutched in her hand. A wry smile tilted across his mouth. “Do your always greet your guests with shears in your hand?”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“At the moment, I’m standing in the rain.”

“You know what I mean. How did you get my address?”

“I’ll be happy to answer your questions, Miss O’Connell, but not while I’m drowning.”

She almost laughed at the sight of the man standing beneath the steady stream of water pouring from the sagging rain gutter. Her landlord had ignored her complaints about it.

Now, she was glad he had.

“Consider it a bonus for turning up unannounced,” she said sweetly. “What’s the matter? Don’t you trust your henchman with your money?”

“You’re wrong about Hakim.”

“And you’re wrong in thinking I’ve changed my mind about taking your bribe.”

Good. That sent a little shot of color into his face. “I haven’t come here to offer you money, Miss O’Connell.”

“And I’m not going to let you in. So, goodbye, your highness. Seems to me, that concludes our bus—’’

“We have things to discuss.”

“You’re wrong. It’s late, and you have nothing to say that would interest me.”

“It is late, yes. As for what I might say that would change your mind…” Caz took a deep breath. “How about, ‘I was wrong?’”

“Look, your highness…What did you say?”

Caz cleared his throat. A little while ago, he’d thought nothing could taste as bad as the bitterness of the food he’d eaten with Frank Fisher. He’d been wrong. Humble pie tasted a hell of a lot worse.

“Wrong about what?”