Married For The Sheikh's Duty

Tall windows above and behind her cast just the right amount of golden light onto his face as if they, too, had been beat into submission by the will of this man.

A single brow rose imperiously, his gaze very much on her face. A gesture filled with a dark sarcasm. Was it because she had given the glass back to him, as if he was a servant? Was his sense of consequence so big that he was insulted by her innocent gesture?

He had short, thick, curving eyelashes that shaded his expression—a tactic she was sure he used to intimidate people. Light turned the brown of his eyes into a hundred golden hues, the eyes of a predatory cat.

Square jaw, rough with bristles, sat below high cheekbones and a straight nose that lent his features a hardness she didn’t like. His mouth was wide and thin-lipped. A mouth given to passion; the strange thought sent a shiver down her spine.

Amalia was tall, only two inches short of six feet. He topped over her easily by four or five inches. His neck was the same glistening tone as his face—a dark golden, as if he had been cast from one of those ancient metals that Khaleejians had used several centuries ago. Her father had had a small knife whose handle gleamed like his skin tone.

He propped a finger under her chin and lifted it up. All of her being seemed to concentrate on that small patch of skin. “Your appraisal is very thorough after being so flustered.”

Heat poured through Amalia’s cheeks. “I wasn’t flustered.”

“No?” The brow-rise again. “A lot of women lose their composure when they see me.”

“Second of all,” she continued, “you look like a man who needs to be met square in the eye, Your Highness.”

Amusement filtered through the implacability in his eyes. “That is a bold statement to make. Tell me your name.”

“Ms. Christensen.”

“Did your parents not give you a first name?”

She didn’t want to tell him her name, which was the weirdest thing Amalia had ever felt.

He waited and the silence grew. “Amalia Christensen. I was dehydrated. Now I’ve found my bearings again.”

Taking the coward’s way, Amalia stepped back from the sheer presence of the man and made a meandering path through the room.

A haunting memory of listening to one of her father’s stories of ancient history of Khaleej gripped her. A traditionally designed curved dagger, almost the size of her lower arm, hung against a beige-colored rug on the wall, its metallic hilt gleaming in the afternoon light. She ran reverent fingers over the handle.

Yet, she couldn’t leave the infuriating presence of the man behind. It was like trying to ignore a lion that was sitting two feet away from you and eyeing you for his next meal. Neither could she curb the rising panic that the longer she took to explain herself, the harder it was going to be to convince him to help Aslam.

The scent and heat of him rubbed up against her senses.

“This is a fifteenth-century khanjar, isn’t it?” she said, just to puncture the building tension around them. “Men used to wear them on their belts. It was a sign of status, a sign of prowess.”

“Among other things, yes,” he said drily, and a fresh wave of warmth washed over her.

“A sign of their macho-ness, in modern words,” she added, tongue-in-cheek.

It seemed they didn’t even have to look at each other for that almost tangible quality to build up around them. Was it just awareness of each other? Attraction? Or was it her fear of the consequences of her pretense that was making her heart ratchet in her chest so violently?

“Decorative pieces now.”

His surprised gaze rested on her face but Amalia looked straight ahead. She couldn’t rid herself of the lingering sensation in her gut.

“You’ve studied the history of Khaleej in preparation for this interview?” he said, a thread of something in his tone. “I have to admit to both surprise and admiration for that. Having a knowledge of Khaleej and its customs is a huge point in your favor.”

Interview? For a position with him?

For the first time in two months, luck was on her side. If it was a job among the palace staff, a position closer to the sheikh himself, much better. Maybe she wouldn’t have to blurt out the truth this minute and risk getting on the wrong side of the man.

Would waiting only make it worse for Aslam? Which option was better?

“Yet, I didn’t receive a file on you from Ms. Young.”

Face coloring, Amalia pulled her phone out of her bag. “I can email you my résumé in a minute.”

“No, that is far too...strange, even for me.”

Now, what did he mean by that?

“Tell me about yourself. I’m curious why Ms. Young picked you to be a candidate when it’s clear you don’t have a royal connection or any other advantages.”

Royal connection? How high up was this job that there were candidates with royal connections applying?

“I didn’t actually prep for the interview,” she said, deciding to dole out truth little by little and see how he reacted. She needed to get a sense of what kind of man he was—if he was fair-minded or just like his cousin.

“I was born here in Khaleej and lived here until I was thirteen. My...father is a historian at the Sintar University and an expert on antique objects. He...” The sudden lump in her throat made it hard. “My twin, Aslam, and I...it used to be our favorite pastime to sit in his study and listen to his long, rambling stories about Khaleej. He is, or used to be, a consummate storyteller.” So good that she’d utterly believed him when he had said he’d send for her very soon. That had been more than a decade ago.

“Used to be?”

“I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“You seek to make a home in Sintar again, to reconnect with him?”

“No. And I have no intention to.” He frowned and she added, “No intention to reconnect with him, I mean. I have other reasons for being here.”

“But you do not have a Khaleejian name.”

She shrugged. “My mother and he divorced and they split us up. She took her name back and asked me if I wanted to, as well. I said yes.”

“You should have your father’s name. You should have something that speaks to that part of your heritage.”

“I don’t really see why when he and I have had nothing to do with each other,” Amalia retorted, angry with him, angry with herself for reacting at all. She was supposed to learn about his temperament, not pour out her own nonexistent relationship with her father.

His frown sliced through her anger. “My point is I would be an asset in any position with my understanding of the cultural norms. My Arabic is rusty but I can polish that up, too.”

He gave her one of those considering looks again. Never had she struggled so much to hold a man’s gaze. “That is good but might not be completely necessary. Both parts of your heritage could be put to use. You could be the western connection that Khaleej needs.”

So it was a position in close quarters with him? Excitement and alarm twisted in her stomach.

“Tell me more about yourself, Ms. Christensen,” he invited in a languorous voice.

Keeping her gaze on some point left of his face, she began, “I worked for five years as an executive assistant to the CEO of a multimillion-dollar company. I’m fluent in four languages. I never lose my cool.” The raised brow again, damn it. “And I work extremely well under pressure. Also, I’m very good at managing public relations and media, too.”

“You sound like a paragon of hard work and efficiency, Ms. Christensen.”

“You sound like it’s a bad thing,” she retorted.

He smiled, and Amalia for the first time understood the meaning of knee-buckling. Her fingers tingled to trace the grooves in his cheeks.

“I should warn you that this is unlike any job you’ve worked at before. What are your expectations?”

“That I would be compensated well and dealt with fairly.”

He laughed then. She’d been right. Full of his own consequence he was, but he also had a sense of humor. The laugh lines around his mouth sat easily on the hard contours of his face. “Your bluntness is refreshing. You know that monetarily, you will be set up very well for the rest of your life.” He sobered up. “As to being treated fairly, I always treat women well.”

“Have I convinced you that I am right for this...position, then?”

“I’m holding judgment on that. As you know,” a glint in his eyes made Amalia aware of her own skin, the rapid beat of her heart, the slow tingling low in her belly, “it is not a decision I can make in a half hour. But you will be glad to know, on paper, I would have rejected you immediately. I have to hand it to Ms. Young. She made a bold but different choice with you.”

“You would’ve rejected me? When I’m supremely qualified?”

“Defiant as you are in rejecting your Khaleejian heritage, I can’t believe you can be that naive about your suitability, Ms. Christensen. Khaleej is at the most troubling and exciting point in history now, straddling ancient traditions and the modern world. Everyone around me reflects on me.”

Amalia prided herself on the career she’d worked so hard for. She’d dedicated years to it, had looked after her mom before she’d passed away last year, paid for her endless treatment... His dismissal of her stung. “Just tell me why,” she demanded.

“A career woman full of her own ideas about independence and gender equality and with a grudge against her own father is the last thing I need on my hands.”

All those fluttery, useless sensations that she was beginning to recognize died a sudden, much-appreciated death as Amalia tried to wrap her head around the sheikh’s statement.

If he didn’t want a professional, dedicated, experienced career woman for the position, how did he expect to get anything done? What use would a woman who couldn’t think for herself be in—?

Her heart sank to the soles of her sensible pumps.

It wasn’t a job he was interviewing for.

And if it was a stripper or a belly dancer she’d insanely thought, well, he’d have asked questions about that field, wouldn’t he? Maybe even asked her to give a trial performance. But even that crazy idea was better.

Her pulse skidding everywhere, her eyes wide, Amalia stood rooted to the spot as the last piece of the puzzle slotted into place.

That was why the palace was mostly empty, why women had been brought in all morning. The Ms. Young he kept mentioning wasn’t a headhunter but a matchmaker.

Sheikh Zayn Al-Ghamdi of Khaleej was interviewing eligible candidates for a wife, for his sheikha, and Amalia Christensen, dedicated career woman and valuer of her independence, had inadvertently applied for the position.

Her pulse skittered as fear filled her veins.

What if she had ruined Aslam’s only chances for release with her dangerous charade?

CHAPTER TWO

AMALIA CHRISTENSEN WAS the kind of woman who made men grateful for being men, who brought forth all the uncivilized, rampantly aggressive instincts that men pretended they didn’t feel anymore to cater to the modern feminist’s sensibilities.

He had never been struck by an attraction so hard and so fast.

The way she’d been so hotly flustered when he’d let his gaze sweep over her lithe form had been incredibly interesting and stroked his masculinity in a way he hadn’t needed in more than a decade.

Zayn couldn’t turn his gaze away from the color seeping up her cheeks or the way her expressive eyes flashed her dismay, confusion, followed by the resolve. He could practically see her spine lock into place.

Khaleej had always been a progressive nation. Even Zayn agreed there was a place and reason for gender equality and the feminist movement.

Just not in his life. Or in his bed. He had no doubt that he, in particular, would be deemed a male chauvinist or an antifeminist devil for there was no room for another strong personality in his life, let it be a lover or a wife.

He liked and preferred women who understood and accepted that he was the dominant one in bed, that he would take care of all their needs as long as they trusted him. As long as they were equally wild as he was.

Every aspect of his life had been controlled, first by his father and then by himself, and would continue to be until he was dead. But his private life, his sex life—it was where the wildness in him ran free.

With the little time he had, contrary to the Celebrity Spy! lurid exposé about his alleged orgies and depraved tastes, he needed his sex life to be easy and simple, not an ongoing battle of sexes.

So Amalia Christensen—with her long, wavy, dirty-blond hair tightly pulled back in a ponytail that brought her exquisite features into stunning focus, her pillowy, lush mouth that argued that she wasn’t flustered when she so obviously was and her hot little body hidden in her buttoned pencil skirt and long-sleeved top—was not the kind of woman Zayn would engage with sexually.

If she was the innocent type who couldn’t even own her sexuality, he didn’t have the time or patience to teach her. If that innocence was a cunning act to attract his attention, he didn’t want to play that game.

Neither was her vehemence that her father’s heritage had no part in her life something he liked. Clearly, she had been raised to disrespect authority figures, encouraged in her rejection of an important part of her identity. He would bet her mother, who had given her those light brown eyes and the stunning golden-blond hair, was the author of that disillusionment, too.

So Ms. Christensen was not fit to be his wife in any form or way.

Was this Ms. Young’s rebellion because he had ruffled her sensibilities with his requirements in a wife? She couldn’t have believed Zayn would choose this contradiction of a woman to be his sheikha in a hundred years.

But after a morning of meeting eligible candidates—all lovely virginal women with connections in high places and with a full understanding of what it meant to be the future Sheikha Al-Ghamdi, docile and respectful of his country’s norms and traditions, and even more important, thoroughly and admittedly bowled over by what he represented—this woman was a maddening, arousing novelty. His response to her and her rough, almost insulting manner was both curious and irrational.

Because staring into those long-lashed, honey-colored eyes, he couldn’t help wishing he’d met her a few months ago. Even a month ago, before the episode of Celebrity Spy! and ruffled sensibilities of his countrymen.

She was nothing like the women he slept with but she completely intrigued him—a novelty—and that would have made the chase and the final victory that much more exciting.

For a minute he wondered if he could give her a position in the palace and keep her close. Until he was married and Mirah was happily married and the dust settled around his image. Until he was free to pursue her... No. Even for a man who considered marriage nothing but an advantageous step in his preordered life, the idea was utterly distasteful.

He had long been resigned to the idea that, like his father, after a few years of marriage, he would find sexual satisfaction with other women. But beginning his marriage with a mistress in mind was repugnant.

He should be sending her on her way. He should think back to the women he had met this morning, make a decision and get it over with. Move on to the next task in his unending list of state duties.

“Have I insulted you by that statement, Amalia?” he said instead, using her given name on purpose.

Just as he expected, her mouth tightened. Her shoulders went back into a ramrod line, which thrust her breasts out provocatively. He had a feeling she’d never do that if she knew how alluring that gesture looked.

“I’m wondering why you’re not sending me on my way if I’m such a bad candidate, Your Highness. I’m also wondering how to make the best of this situation. It seems my options are lose-lose.”

Something in her eyes, a conflict, a hesitation, made him think she wasn’t just sparring with him anymore. She was upset by the sure outcome of this meeting and she was mustering defenses.

Had she been so sure that she would impress him? Would this alliance mean so much to her?

Or had she conspired with Ms. Young to lure him into an alliance of a different nature? Why not? Women tried to attract his attention in every which way. He was known to be a kind and generous lover. If there was a connection he could use in high places, or a recommendation he could make to advance the current woman in his life’s career in some way, he’d always been open to it.

Was this Amalia’s game? Had she somehow inveigled this invite so that she could present herself as a candidate, but for something altogether different?

Doubts ensnared him.

He didn’t forget that even though she’d lost her footing, she’d recovered her composure very well. She had been the most interesting woman he had met today among all the candidates. The most interesting woman he had met in a while, if truth be told. But was that interest being cultivated and engineered with a purpose in mind?

“In your life, are there any skeletons I should know of?”

Instantly, her gaze shuttered; a paleness touched her skin. Guilt was a shining emblem on her forehead. He’d been right. The woman was here under false pretenses and convoluted motives.

Send her away, one voice inside his head said.

Play her at her own game, another said.

“You’re hiding something. Or are you counting your lovers in your head?” something savage and out of control goaded him to ask.

Outrage filled her eyes. “That’s none of your business. Unless you’re offering to do the same count for my benefit. Will you reveal what you ask of me? Should I pull out the Celebrity Spy! exposé and tally your number against theirs to verify the veracity of your claim, Sheikh?”

Utter scorn, for him as a man and for his position, reverberated in her defiant question.

Instead of being infuriated, Zayn smiled. He deserved that after his probing remark. Still, he found himself unwilling to give up this sparring match with her. With every back and forth, he knew he was indulging himself in something that was fundamentally against his principles. Against the little personal respect he had put aside for his wife’s position.

But the compulsion was fierce, the urge too primal to be denied. There was something about her that called to things he’d never before experienced. “It is my business if we are going to consider this, Amalia. And I will not apologize for having lovers in the past.”

He hadn’t decided on a candidate yet. Technically, he was still a single man. Even if that line was very thin right now. He ran the tip of his finger over her cheek. Her skin was gossamer silk under his hands. “Every past and present aspect of your life is going to be considered fair game. There has been enough scandal in my life and I do not want to deal with jealous ex-lovers.”

She didn’t push his hand away. A fine tension began to vibrate from her. “That’s a double standard, and you know it.”

Why didn’t the infuriating woman just tell him about her past? What was this curiosity that drove him to learn about a woman he could have nothing to do with? “The world is full of them.”

Chin tilted at a defiant angle, she stared back at him. “So let me get this straight. If I have my hymen intact, it will give me a few more points on this list of yours?”

The fire in her eyes, the soft tremble of her lips...it made Zayn think of sultry nights and damp, tangled limbs.

“I will tell you my expectations, then. You will be given a certain amount of freedom. Your primary role will be to present an image of a healthy marriage and to give birth to our children. An affair with another man will have disastrous consequences. The media will rip us into shreds and the country will be in uproar.”

“Is Your Highness promising the same fidelity in marriage, then?”

It was already a fantasy, this game they were playing with each other. This pretense they were both playing at, knowing that it was leading nowhere. Only one thing they both wanted.

She had to know that he would never marry her. He had told her that. And yet, she was still here, provoking him, luring him in for a taste. An affair with him—was that truly what she wanted, then?

Even in the charade, Zayn wouldn’t lie. “On the contrary, I fully expect that within a few years, the reality of our marriage and the pressures of this life will make us, if not hateful, at least indifferent toward each other. And when that day comes, I intend to seek another woman. I’m sure you’ll be glad to not have to bear my unwanted attentions. I enjoy sex and I do not intend to give it up.”

“And this is your idea of marriage? This is what you’ve been offering all the women you’ve been meeting all morning?”

“No. All those women already understood these terms and accepted them. They knew even before they saw me today, that that was reality. It is only for you I see the need to set the expectation.”

“Because you think I’m naive enough to believe in love? To believe that a man like you will offer fidelity and respect and love?”

The cynical light in her eyes shocked him. Why, when she was clearly here with not so pure motives... “No, I explained it all because I thought it would tell you that I’m as unsuitable a husband for you as you are a wife for me. Marriage to each other would be war, Amalia, and I have enough of them to contend with in the other areas of my life.”

“Wait, you thought I’d be heartbroken that you’re rejecting me for the role of your wife and this is you softening up the loss for me?”

“Yes.” Before she could skitter away from him in her outrage, Zayn cupped her neck and arrested her movement. The small indent at the base of her nape was the sexiest part of a woman he had ever touched.

He swallowed his shock at how swiftly lust rose through him.

Her breath fell in rough exhales while a tight stiffness entered her body. He held her loosely enough to not threaten her, leaving it in her hands if she wanted to move away. Other hand sliding to her waist, he exerted enough pressure to bring her closer to him.

Gorgeous brown eyes widened into innocent pools. Very likely, the vulnerability in her eyes was a well-rehearsed act, but still it turned him on incredibly. Pursuing one sophisticated woman after the other, sleeping with women who knew the score, Zayn had forgotten, or maybe he had never known, how hot this kind of vulnerability was.

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to make her all flustered again. He wanted to see if she would taste sweet as her soft sigh said or tart as her words suggested. When it came to women, Zayn had always taken what he wanted, pursued models and actresses ruthlessly. He wasn’t going to let this rough-around-the-edges woman slip past him.

“I’m going to kiss you, Amalia. This is your moment to go all outraged on me and call me a savage beast.”

If possible, she stiffened even more in his hold. “I...refuse to provide you with any more entertainment. I was right in thinking that you would be just as bloated and corrupt with power as—”

* * *

Whatever outrage Amalia had amassed to fight the man’s autocratic ideas and her own out-of-control senses, all of it disappeared as Zayn’s mouth touched hers.

The scent and taste of him was an overwhelming assault on her senses. He tasted of mint and some dark potency that stirred everything in her to waking. Heat poured through her in rivulets as he pressed one tender kiss after the other, from one corner of her mouth to the other. The softness of his mouth—who could know such a hard man could have such soft lips?—was a delicious contrast against the rough scrape of his jaw, tugging Amalia’s senses this way and that.

If he had kissed her with the aggressiveness she sensed within him, or if he had employed that sensual mastery that had made him a favorite lover of women, maybe she would’ve resisted.