The Sheikh's Convenient Bride

Caz reached for the phone and pressed a button.

“Hakim? Have my plane readied. Yes, now. Miss O’Connell will be flying to the States. Have someone come for her.” He hung up and turned back to Megan. “I really think it’s best that you leave right away, Megan. I’m sure your brother would prefer to have you back among civilized people as soon as possible.”

He started to the door. Megan took a step. “Caz? Caz, please. Don’t—don’t walk away from me. I want to—I want to—’’

“What do you want?” He swung toward her, and now, at last, she could see the rage in his face. “A final roll between the sheets? Another reminder of what it’s like to lie in the arms of a barbarian?’’

“That’s cruel! I never—”

“Perhaps my assurance that I won’t try to claim our marriage is valid.” He came toward her, his eyes the color of slate after a winter storm, and she stumbled back against the wall. “Believe me, I won’t. Did I mention that our marriage could be dissolved, just like that?” He sn

apped his fingers an inch from her face. “It’s one of the perks of being a man in my country. If a husband doesn’t want his wife, all he has to do it tell her so.” Caz’s lips pulled back from his teeth. “I don’t want you for my wife anymore, Megan O’Connell. I divorce you.”

“You mean, all along, any time, you could have—”

“Anytime at all,” he said smugly.

Why should that shock her? And yet, it did. The easily spoken words, the realization that she’d been little more than a toy, filled her with rage.

“Bastard,” she hissed, and slammed her hand against his face.

He caught her wrist, twisted it hard enough so she gasped.

“Go back where you belong, Megan O’Connell. Where life is safe and sanitized, where nothing can touch you.” He yanked her forward, crushed her mouth beneath his. She tasted him, tasted salt, tasted blood…

And then he was gone and she was alone, and the lifetime she’d lived in a few short weeks was little more than a dream.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BRIANA O’CONNELL leaned into her sister’s refrigerator, surveyed the shelves and muttered an unladylike word under her breath.

“Honestly, Meg, there’s nothing to eat in this thing!”

Megan, sitting on the living room sofa, hunched farther over the employment section of the Sunday Times and circled an ad with her pen.

“Unless you think cottage cheese is edible. Or yogurt.”

Megan turned the page, circled another ad, then crossed it out.

“And what, pray tell, is this green thing? Yuck!”

Only one column of advertisements left and only one decent prospect so far. Just her luck, to be job-hunting when the economy was heading south.

“Megan,” Bree said, slamming the fridge door closed, “I love you with all my heart, sweetie, but your taste in food leaves something to be desired. Do you hear me?”

“The entire city of Los Angeles hears you,” Megan grumbled. “Order a pizza.”

“Good idea.” Bree yanked the takeout pizza menu from under the magnet that held it to the fridge and strolled into the living room. “How’s this sound? An extra large with garlic, olives, onions, bacon, anchovies, sausage…”

Megan looked up. Bree grinned.

“Figured that would get your attention.” Her voice softened. “Come on, sis. Put the paper away and let’s go out for something to eat.”

“I’m really not—”

“Hungry. Yes, I know.” Bree plopped down on a chair opposite the sofa. “Well, who would be, considering the choice of yummy things in your refrigerator?”

“I haven’t been paying much attention to what I buy lately. You want anchovies and bacon? Go ahead. Order it.”