Chosen as the Sheikh's Royal Bride

What more obvious sign could there be, than that in just the short time it took for Beth’s palanquin to travel through the souk, she’d somehow already made them love her?

Beth stood at the bottom of the royal palace’s wide steps, her eyes wide and uncertain as she looked from Omar, to the crowds cheering wildly behind her, then to the rejected brides now simmering with fury—especially Laila al-Abayyi. He could hardly blame the Samarqari girl for being upset. She must have heard of the council’s decision, and expected her patience would be rewarded today.

But they could never suit. She’d eventually realize that.

Omar saw Beth whisper something to her nearest palanquin bearer, and the man whisper back, nodding his head toward the palace steps.

Beth took a deep breath. Holding up the edge of her elaborate Samarqari gown so the hem didn’t get dirty, she started to climb the stone steps toward him.

When their eyes locked, all of his senses heightened. He heard birds singing in the blue skies, and smelled sweet roses and the soft, salty wind off the Caspian Sea.

When Beth reached the platform, she looked pale and scared. He saw her sway, and reached out and grabbed her arm. Trembling, she looked up at him, her eyes huge.

And he did what he’d longed to do from the moment he’d first seen her in the dark cool shadows of the Paris garden, wearing a too-tight dress as she’d artlessly informed him that no sensible woman would ever wish to be his bride.

Now, pulling her roughly into his arms, Omar lowered his head to hers and claimed her with a hard, hungry kiss.

He felt her intake of breath, felt her shake. But he held her fast, kissing her deeply, crushing her smaller body against his own. Her hands, raised to push against his chest, surrendered and instead wrapped around his shoulders. To the delight of the crowd, she kissed him back, slowly at first, then with a passion that matched his own.

He barely heard the crowd’s deafening cheers. With Beth in his arms, he forgot his vizier, his nobles, the other women.

He felt only this. Her.

It was as if Beth were the first woman he’d held in his arms, the first he’d ever kissed. He felt like an untried virgin, kissing her. Excitement electrified his body, turning sinew and muscle and bone to molten honey. He felt dizzy with need. He leaned her back to deepen the embrace, overwhelmed by the ravenous hunger that consumed him—

“Sire,” his vizier hissed, and Omar again heard the shouts of the crowds, and remembered he was holding the future queen in his arms.

Straightening, he pulled away from the kiss. But his heart was still racing as he looked down at her.

Beth’s eyes were wide and her cheeks pink. She sagged against him, as if her legs were weak.

“Omar,” she whispered. “There’s something I should...” Glancing out of the corner of her eye at the council around them, then at the huge crowd in the square, she bit her lower lip. With a shuddering breath, she choked out, “We need to talk.”

His eyes, which had fallen to her deliciously red mouth, swollen from his kiss, rose to meet hers. “Talk?”

“You don’t—” She swallowed, then said in a low voice for him alone, “You don’t know who I am.”

“You’re Dr. Beth Farraday. Brilliant, a prodigy, one of the most famous research scientists in the world. And the woman I want to marry.”

She’d looked scared before. Now she looked sick. “I’m not...” She glanced at the nobles, who’d come forward to listen. “Not worthy of you.”

Not worthy? He marveled at her modesty. “Are you worried about your career?” he said quietly. “We’ll figure it out. You can move your lab here.”

She didn’t smile. “My lab.”

“Who knows.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “As queen, you might lead an explosion of scientific and technological advancement in Samarqara.” His smile lifted into a grin. “Even the tourist board will be thrilled.”

But she wouldn’t smile back.

Was it possible she didn’t want to marry him after all?

No, Omar couldn’t believe that. She’d signed the contract. And after the way she’d just kissed him—

She wanted him. He’d stake his life on it.

For nearly a thousand years, Omar’s ancestors had ruled this land. He was the last heir. The al-Maktoun line was threatening to die out completely.

But now, as Omar looked at his bride-to-be, he suddenly knew he’d made the right choice. Because he could imagine no outcome that did not involve him getting her pregnant repeatedly. Perhaps they’d have five children. He looked over her face and body hungrily. Ten?