The Sheikh's Convenient Bride

Then she sat by the window, stared out at the fog-shrouded plain and wondered what was happening to her because something was, something she didn’t understand, didn’t want, h

ad never wanted.

When darkness came, she lay her head back and drifted off to sleep.

Caz came awake all at once, heart pounding, fighting his way out of a nightmare that involved himself, Ahmet and a room choked with the stench of alcohol.

He blinked, forced his eyes open, and groaned. Bloody hell. He was lying on the floor. What…?

And then he remembered. Ahmet. His unbelievable demand. His response. The endless hours of finding a way out of a situation that could, in an instant, turn into disaster…and then the solution and the glass after glass of a clear liquid that had the smell of rotten potatoes and the kick of a mule.

His head felt as if it were going to explode. Slowly, carefully, he sat up and looked around him. A single oil lamp flickered on a low table. This room wasn’t his. It was Megan’s. Yes, he saw her now, asleep in a big chair near the window.

His heart turned over as he thought of what he had to tell her. How would she deal with it? She was brave—he’d never known a woman with more courage. And she was intelligent. With luck, she’d understand what he’d done, why he’d done it, that he had no choice and neither did she. Yes, she’d say, of course, I’ll do it if I must.

She might even lift her arms to him, whisper that it wasn’t such an awful fate, that what they had to do might be—might be—

“Idiot,” Caz mumbled, and tore his eyes from her.

Megan wouldn’t tell him anything but what he deserved. She’d say he was an arrogant fool for having gotten her into this mess, but she’d agree to the terms he’d set.

It wasn’t as if either of them had a choice.

He took a steadying breath and got to his feet. A red-hot lance of pain drove through his skull. There had to be a way to clear his head. He had to, before he told Megan that they—that he and she…

Black coffee. There was an earthenware pot of it on the table. It was cold and would probably taste like old socks, but he needed caffeine and to hell with the taste. Sugar, too. That would help. Caz filled a cup with viscous black liquid, added six misshapen lumps of raw sugar, stirred the resultant mess and slugged it down. He gagged on the last mouthful but a couple of deep breaths helped keep the stuff in his gut. Then he poured another cup and went through the whole process again.

Better. Much better. Damn, what he’d give for a shower.

His eyes fell on the pitcher and basin that stood on a small table in the far corner. One quick glance at Megan. Yes, she was still sleeping. Quickly Caz unbuttoned his shirt, unzipped his trousers, kicked off his leather boots, stripped down to his skin. He took a mouthful of the water—God, it was cold—and spat it into the basin. Then he gritted his teeth, raised the pitcher and dumped the contents over his head.

God!

His teeth banged together like castanets; he shuddered from his head straight down to his toes, but the coffee, sugar and icy water combined did the trick. He was stone cold sober and the pain in his head was almost—almost—bearable.

He dressed quickly, wishing he could put on stuff that didn’t bear the lingering scent of the rotgut he’d had to swallow to convince Ahmet it wouldn’t be wise to screw with him. Going toe to toe, matching him drink for drink, had been the only way to deal with the ugly son of a bitch.

Caz ran his hands through his wet hair, shoving it back from his face.

Okay. He was as ready as he’d ever be. It was time to wake Megan and explain the devil’s bargain he’d made.

He made his way quietly across the carpeted floor, paused beside her chair and looked down at her. Her head was thrown back; her lashes lay against her cheek. Her pulse beat slowly and steadily in the hollow of her throat. He had kissed her there; he remembered the sweet taste of her flesh, the erotic whisper of her heartbeat against his lips.

Yes, she was beautiful and bright and courageous, but how had she gotten under his skin in so short a time? He’d known lots of women, had many lovers, been with a couple of them for months, but none had ever stirred his emotions this way. As often as he’d wanted to turn Megan over his knee and teach her some manners, he’d wanted to take her in his arms and make love to her.

And sometimes, sometimes it was enough just to know she was in the same room, that he could look over and see her face, enough to know she was part of his life…

A chill danced down his spine.

Amazing, what effect stress could have on a man, he thought, and hunched down beside the chair.

“Megan.”

She didn’t stir.

“Megan,” he said briskly, “wake up.”

Her lashes fluttered, the lids rose. She stared at him, her eyes dark and unseeing, and then a smile flickered across her mouth.