Chosen as the Sheikh's Royal Bride

The music ended, and he abruptly dropped his hands. “Then I will go ask Laila to dance.” He gave her a short dismissive nod. “Farewell.”

“Goodbye,” she replied in Samarqari. Omar looked startled, and she sucked in her breath. “D

id I say that wrong, too?”

“No.” Omar’s hot dark gaze crushed her heart. “You said it perfectly.”

And he left her.

* * *

Omar’s heart was full of anger. At his vizier. At Beth. At himself.

He wanted Beth. And every fiber of his being told him that she wanted him. Why else would she have signed the contract that morning?

Yes, her language skills were abysmal and her attempt at diplomacy a disaster. His council already disliked her. But he could have dealt with all that.

The problem was her career. Her research was her life. She’d never give it up. She’d said it outright. And Samarqara needed a queen, not an invisible scientist in a lab.

But no other woman was Beth’s equal. Certainly none who had made the final five.

How could his vizier have made such a ghastly mistake?

It had been one of Omar’s only requirements, that every potential bride sign a contract in black and white, stating that she understood the seriousness of the bride market and chose to participate with a free heart. After what had happened in the past, Omar would never again try to take a bride whose heart was not free.

But when Omar had arrived in Samarqara that afternoon, his vizier had informed him of his mistake. Omar had been outraged.

“The contracts were supposed to come first!”

Khalid had bowed deeply. “I am so deeply sorry, sire. And ashamed by my error.” He paused. “So do you wish to cancel the bride market?”

“Cancel?” he’d sputtered.

His vizier had met his eyes coolly. “Or you could choose Laila al-Abayyi. She signed. She’s ready.”

Laila, always Laila. Even Beth had pushed the Samarqari girl on him, when Omar had desperately hoped instead to hear her say she’d consider giving up her career to be his queen. One hint of that, and he would have forced his council to give her another chance.

Instead, he had two unacceptable choices: marry Laila, or let the bride market end in failure and see his culture turned into a laughingstock.

Omar had stared down at Beth on the dance floor. She’d felt so warm and soft in his arms. Her beautiful face was rosy from the heat, her hazel eyes luminous with emotion. And she’d just told him to marry another woman.

Anger had ripped through him.

Setting his jaw, Omar had turned on his heel and stalked away. He walked past Sia Lane, who was bragging loudly about her films’ total cumulative gross to several cornered-looking council members. He glanced briefly at Anna, the Sydney attorney, and Taraji, the Silicon Valley executive, both of whom were watching him with big eyes. But he was sure, any moment now, they’d both wake up from their Cinderella fantasy and wonder what the hell they were even doing here.

That left only one.

Fine, he thought tightly. So be it.

Omar crossed vengefully through the crowded ballroom of the vizier’s palace.

Stopping in front of Laila, who was perfectly dressed as she stood talking, with impeccable manners, to the council members, including her powerful father, Omar bowed with a flourish. The Samarqari girl’s beautiful face lit up.

“Dance with me,” he bit out.

“I’d be honored, Your Highness,” Laila whispered, her dark lashes trembling against her cheeks.

Holding out his arm, he escorted her to the dance floor. There was an audible sigh of satisfaction across the ballroom as his nobles watched them. No one was chanting Sia Lane’s name anymore.