The Sheikh's Convenient Bride

Mmm-mmm-mmm. He looked spectacular. You had to give him that. The tabloids were right. The man was gorgeous. They had his eye-color wrong, though. It wasn’t gray. The color reminded her of charcoal. Or slate.

Or storm clouds. That’s how cold those eyes were as they fixed on her.

There was no mistaking that expression. He didn’t like her. Not in the slightest. Jerry must have told him she’d been a problem.

So be it.

I don’t like you, either, she thought coolly, and couldn’t resist raising her glass in mocking salute before she turned away.

Why care what the sheikh thought? Why care what Jerry thought? Why care what anybody thought? She had her own life to live, her own independence to enjoy—

“Miss O’Connell,” a deep voice said.

Megan swung around. The sheikh was coming toward her, his walk slow, deliberate and masculine enough to make her heart bump up into her throat, which was silly. There was nothing to be afraid of, except losing her job, and that wouldn’t happen if she used her head.

He reached her side. Oh, yes. He was definitely easy on the eyes. Tall, lean, the hint of a well-muscled body under that expensive suit.

D and D, she thought, and her heart gave another little bump. What she and Bree always joked about.

Dark and Dangerous.

He gave her what the people at the other end of the room would surely think was a smile. It wasn’t. That look in his eyes was colder than ever, cold enough to make the hair rise on the nape of her neck. How could such a gorgeous man be such a mean son of a bitch?

Megan drew herself up. “Your Mightiness.”

His eyes bored into hers again. Then he lifted his hand. That was all. No wave, no turning around, nothing but that upraised hand. It was enough. Someone said something—her boss, maybe, or one of the sheikh’s henchmen—and people headed for the door.

Scant seconds later, the room was empty.

Megan smiled sweetly. “Must be nice, being emperor of the universe.”

“It must be equally nice, not caring what people think of you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

His gaze moved over her, from her hair to her toes and then back up again. “You’re drunk.”

“I am not.”

“Put down that glass.”

Megan’s eyebrows. “What?”

“I said, put the glass down.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Someone should have told you what to do a long time ago,” he said grimly. “Then you’d know better than to try to threaten me.”

“Threaten you? Are you insane? I most assuredly did not—”

“For the last time, Miss O’Connell, put the glass down.”

Megan’s jaw shot forward. “For the last time, oh mighty king, stop trying to order me ar—”

Her words ended in a startled yelp as Sheikh Qasim al Daud al Rashid, King of Suliyam and Absolute Ruler of his People, picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder and marched from the room.

CHAPTER TWO

CAZ hadn’t intended to sling the O’Connell woman over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

He hadn’t intended to deal with her at all. Oh, he wanted to, all right. Hell, yes, he wanted to. Simpson had told him how he’d given the woman a simple assignment, how she’d tried to make it seem as if he’d promised her something he hadn’t…

And how she’d threatened to discredit him and Suliyam if she didn’t get a job she wanted.

How dare she attempt to blackmail him?

He’d felt the rage churning inside him. His ancestors would have known how to deal with the woman.

Damn it, so did he.

Caz was the one who snorted now as he strode down the hall, past startled faces, the O’Connell woman beating her fists against his shoulders and yelling words a decent woman should not even think.

There was no need to go back to an earlier generation. Ninety percent of the men in Suliyam would know how to deal with her, and that was just the problem. After his hurried conversation with her boss, he’d known that if he let himself show his anger, he might as well put up a sign in Times Square that told the world he and his nation were still living in the dark ages.

So he’d decided to ignore her. There was no reason for him to get involved. After all, Simpson said he’d made it clear to her that he was not going to give her the job.

“I took care of things, your highness,” he’d said. “She’s just one of those prickly feminists. You know the type.”

Caz did, indeed. The western world was filled with them. They weren’t soft-spoken or soft and welcoming, a safe harbor for a man who spent his days on the financial and political battlefields where empires were won and lost.

They were hard-edged and aggressive, unattractive and unfeminine.

He didn’t enjoy their company. He certainly didn’t understand them. Why would a woman want to behave like a man? But he’d learned not to underestimate their business skills, as long as they followed the rules.

If a woman wanted to play in a man’s world, Caz expected her to play a man’s game.

Threatening a lawsuit when none was warranted, pretending that things had been promised you when they hadn’t, were things a woman would do.

Not a man.

Megan O’Connell slammed a fist between his shoulder blades. Caz grunted, stalked into Simpson’s office and dumped her on a tweed-covered sofa. Then he stood back, folded his arms and glared at her.

She glared straight back. Didn’t she have any sense of shame? Of guilt? Nobody glowered at him. Nobody! Didn’t she realize who he was?

Of course she did. She just didn’t care. He had to admire her courage.

He had to admire her looks, too. She didn’t appear unfeminine, even in that shapeless blue suit. And she certainly wasn’t unattractive, despite the blouse buttoned to the neck and the auburn hair tied back so tightly from her face that it made her sculpted cheekbones stand out like elegant arches. Her shoes were better suited to the legs of a soccer player than to ones that were so long, so artfully curved, so…

The woman sprang to her feet. ‘‘Who in hell do you think you are!”

“Sit down, Miss O’Connell.”

“I will not sit down. I will not tolerate this kind of treatment.” Eyes bright with anger, she started toward the door. “And I will not stay in this room with you for another—”

Caz kept his eyes on her as he reached back and slammed the door.

“I said, sit down.”

“You have no authority here, mister! All I have to do is yell for help and—”

“And?” He smiled unpleasantly. “What will happen, Miss O’Connell? Do you really expect your boss to come running to your assistance after the threats you made?”

“What threats?” She folded her arms, lifted her chin and set one of those ugly shoes tapping with impatience. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Caz narrowed his eyes. Oh, yes. She was tough. She was also beautiful, but that didn’t change a thing. She was prepared to ruin his plans for his country and his people for her own selfish purposes, and he would not tolerate it.

“Perhaps you’d like to tell me what threats I made.”

“Don’t waste my time, Miss O’Connell. The head of your office told me everything.”

“Really.” The foot-tapping increased in tempo. “And just what did he tell you?”

Caz’s glower deepened. Simpson had told him more than enough to brand this woman as a schemer ready to lie and cheat and do whatever it took to get what she wanted, and what she wanted was the Suliyam account. She’d stop at nothing to get it, including threatening to file a lawsuit on the grounds that she was being discriminated against because of her sex.

“He explained what you said, your highness, that you cannot permit a woman to work alongside you.”

Caz had never said any such thing. Not exactly. He’d simply explained that the status of women was an evolving issue in his country.

Simpson had assured him he understood. Obviously he hadn’t. And now, Megan O’Connell was talking about hiring a lawyer.

Caz didn’t give a damn about that. His attorneys would have the complaint dismissed without trouble. Suliyam’s traditions were its own. No one could tell him or his people what to do or how to do it, not Megan O’Connell or all the lawyers and judges in the world.

Besides, the issue of her sex was secondary.

The woman was demanding a position for which she wasn’t qualified. The man who’d actually created the proposal—someone named Fisher—was right for the job. His work had been excellent. It was the reason Caz had signed a contract with Tremont, Burnside and Macomb.

Megan O’Connell didn’t have a legal leg to stand on. She knew it, too. Hadn’t she admitted it to Simpson? You’d never win a lawsuit, Simpson said he’d told her, and she’d countered by saying she didn’t care about winning.

Impugning Suliyam’s name in the press and, worse still, in business and financial circles, would be enough for her.

Caz couldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t let it happen. He’d spent the last five years readying his people for emergence from the past, but some among them would grasp any opportunity to end the progress he’d made. There were too many factions aligned against him. One whiff of scandal, one headline…

“Are you deaf, Sheikh Qasim? Or have you decided you made a mistake, conversing with a mere female?”

She was all but breathing fire now. Her face was flushed, her eyes were wide and dark; her hair was coming undone and tumbling around her face in wild curls. The suit and shoes were still ugly as sin but from the neck up, she looked like a woman who’d just risen from bed.

His bed.

The thought was unsettling. She was beautiful, yes, but her heart wasn’t a woman’s heart. She was intent on blackmail, and he was the target.

“It was your Mr. Simpson who made the mistake, Miss O’Connell, by letting things go too far.”

Megan blinked. “What things?”

“It serves no purpose to pretend innocence.” Caz folded his arms. “I told you, I know about your threats. Your Mr. Simpson—”

“He is not my anything!”

“He is your boss.”

“He’s a fool. So what?”

“He did what he could to keep the peace.”

“Excuse me?”

“He was foolish to try. As soon as you began demanding undue credit for the little work you did, helping to draft that proposal—”

“Helping?” Megan gave a brittle laugh. “I wrote that proposal.”

“No, you did not.”

“Damn it!” Megan could almost feel the adrenaline racing through her veins. A couple of hours ago, she’d have voted Jerry Simpson Idiot of the Year. What a mistake that would have been. The barbarian barring the door was winner of the title, hands down. “You know what? I’ve had it.” Resolutely she started toward the door again. “You get out of my way.”

He bared his teeth in a smile. “Or?” he said pleasantly.

“Or I’ll go right through you.”

He laughed. The son of a bitch laughed! Oh, how she wanted to slap that arrogant smirk from his all-too-perfect face.

Unfortunately, she could hardly blame him. Talk about empty threats! She could no more go through him than through a brick wall.

The Sheikh of the Endless Names was big. Six foot two, six foot three. He was as tall as any of her brothers and she’d never been able to go through them in a zillion touch football games. She’d hardly ever managed to go around them, except with a bit of subterfuge.

And then there were those shoulders wide enough to fill the doorway. The muscles that bulged even under his expensive suit. Except, they didn’t bulge. They rippled.

Rippled? Megan did a mental blink. Who cared if his muscles undulated? The Prince of All He Surveyed was a male chauvinist jerk, and she’d be damned if she’d stand here and take his verbal abuse one more second.

“Perhaps it’s the custom to detain women by force in your country,” she said coldly.

That got a response! Red patches bloomed on his cheeks. The man didn’t like hearing the truth. Good. She could use that to her advantage.

“Or maybe it’s the only way you can get women to pay attention to you. You know, snatch them up, carry them off, lock them up—”

“You’re trying my patience, Miss O’Connell.”

“And you’re trying mine.”

“I promise you, I won’t take much more.”

‘‘And I promise you—’’

That was as far as she got. He reached for her, wrapped his hands around her arms and lifted her to her toes. His fingers pressed into her flesh and his eyes…Whoa, his eyes! Cold as that sea-ice again. He was angry. Enraged. Megan could see it, feel it, even smell his fury in the male musk coming off him.

She’d never seen or sensed such passion in a man before.

What would he be like in bed?

The thought shocked her. She didn’t think about men that way. Oh, she could joke with her sisters, sit in a bar sipping a glass of white wine and giggle with them over the buns on one guy, the biceps on the next, but she’d never looked at a man and actually wondered what it would be like to sleep with him.

That was exactly what she was doing now.

What if the sheikh turned all that rage into desire? If he were lying above her, holding her this same way, holding her so she couldn’t turn away from him, so she didn’t want to turn away from him, so she could feel the heat of his body against hers?

She felt her heart do a slow, unsteady roll.

‘‘Let go,’’ she said, and thanked whatever gods were watching that her voice didn’t tremble.

He didn’t. Not right away. He went on looking at her and her heart did that same little turn again because something changed in his eyes and she knew he was thinking the same thing, seeing her as she saw him, not here in this office but in a wide, soft bed, their bodies slick with sweat, their mouths fused.

Her pulse went crazy—but not as crazy as that thought.

“I said, let go!” she repeated, and twisted free of his hands.

A moment passed. She could hear the rasp of his breath. Then his expression changed and it was as if nothing had happened.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” he said.

Megan nodded. “I agree.”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Fifty thousand, Miss O’Connell. Surely that’s ample payment for the time you’d like me to think you put in on this project.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “Are you offering me a bribe?”

“I’m offering you payment for the job you claim to have done.”

“My God, you are! You think you can buy my silence!”

His eyes darkened. “Let’s not make a melodrama out of this. You’ve threatened to derail a project that’s of great importance to me. I’m simply suggesting there’s no need for you to do that.” He smiled, and she wanted to wipe the smile off his face. “I don’t carry a checkbook with me, of course—”

“Of course.”

“But I will have a courier deliver a check to you here within—”

“No!”

“Ah. You’d rather we kept the transaction private.” He reached in his breast pocket, took out a small leather notebook and a pen. “If you’ll give me your home address—”

“I am not for sale, Sheikh Qasim!”

Caz looked up. The woman’s face was white, except for two slashes of crimson across those elegant cheekbones. She was going to be more difficult to deal with than he’d anticipated.

“How much?” he said coldly.

“I just told you, I am not—”

“One hundred thousand.”

“Are you deaf? I said—”

“I’m weary of this game, Miss O’Connell, and of your act. Name your price.”

She laughed. Laughed! At him! And edged toward the door, still laughing, as if he were a lunatic howling at the moon.

“Goodbye, your Mightiness. It’s been interest—”

She gasped as he grabbed her shoulders and swung her toward him.

“How dare you laugh at me?” he growled.

“Take your hands off me.”

“You’re a fool, Miss O’Connell. Did you really think you could threaten me and get away with it?”

Megan looked up into eyes filled with hostility. She knew that this was the moment to tell the sheikh that her threat, as he called it, had been made in the heat of the moment, that there’d be no lawsuit because Simpson, damn his soul, was right. The only thing she’d win, if she sued, was a reputation as a troublemaker, and that would mark the end of her corporate career.

That was the logical thing to do.

Logic, however, had nothing to do with what she felt at that moment.

The sheikh obviously thought he ruled the universe. Well, why wouldn’t he? During her research, she’d learned that women were treated like dirt in his country. Well, she was a woman, but she didn’t have to bow to this man. She was an American citizen, and she didn’t have to take this nonsense.

“I asked you a question,” he said. “Did you think—’’

“What I think,” Megan said, enunciating each word with precision, “is that you’re a tyrant. You’re so used to people treating you like a god, to you treating them as if they were your property—’’

“Stop it! How dare you?”

“What you mean,” she said, her voice trembling, “is how dare a woman speak to you this way? Isn’t that right, Sheikh Qasim? I’m a female. A worthless creature. And you are absolutely certain that women are only good for one thing.”

Caz could feel the anger rushing through him. Control, he told himself, control…but this woman needed a lesson.

“It’s time somebody showed you what women really are,” she said, and those few words pushed him over the edge.

“At least we agree on something,” he answered, and before she could twist her head away, his mouth came down over hers.

His kiss was harsh. Dominating. He was a man intent on proving his strength and her weakness, his power to subdue her.

Megan fought back. Hard. When he tried to open her mouth with his, she sank her teeth into his bottom lip. He grunted, turned, pushed her back against the wall; she shoved against his chest, freed her hands, beat them against his shoulders…

And then, in a heartbeat, it all changed.

Later, she’d think back and remember the sudden stillness in the room, as if the universe was holding its breath. Now all she knew was the feel of his mouth as it softened on hers, the gentling of his hands as they slid up her shoulders, her throat, into her hair.

It was happening again. What she’d felt minutes ago, except now it was real. She was in his arms, her body pressed to his, and what was happening had everything to do with desire instead of anger, with wanting instead of hating.

She moaned, parted her lips to the feathery brush of his tongue, let him take possession of her mouth. Of her senses.

He said something in a language she didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. She understood all the rest. What he wanted. What she wanted, and when he angled his mouth over hers, took the kiss deeper and deeper until she felt the earth spinning away, Megan raised her arms, wound them around his neck. He ran a hand down her spine, cupped her bottom, lifted her into him, into his heat, his hardness…

Someone knocked at the door. The sound was like a clap of thunder exploding within the confines of the quiet room.

Caz’s hands fell away from her. He stepped back; her eyes flew open. Breathing hard, they stared at each other like partners who’d lost their footing in some intricate dance.

The knock at the door sounded again. A voice called out. It took Caz seemingly endless seconds to realize it was Hakim, calling his name.

“Sire? Sire, forgive me for disturbing you…”

Caz stared at the O’Connell woman. What in hell had just happened? A shared hallucination? An aberration? His gaze hardened. There were those among his people who would say she was not just a liar and a cheat but a sorceress. He knew better. She was only a woman. A seductive woman, and he’d played right into her hands.

Perhaps she thought she could sleep her way into the job she wanted, rather than blackmail her way into it. Or that she could use the last few minutes against him, either in a court of law or in ways that had the potential to be even more damaging.

He could almost see the headlines in the Wall Street Journal. Wouldn’t his enemies love it if she denounced him to the press?

“Sire?”

She was still staring at him, her green eyes huge and seemingly clouded with confusion. If nothing else, she was an excellent actress.

Caz forced a smile to his lips. “Thank you for the taste of your wares, but you’re wasting your time. I’m not interested.”

“You arrogant son of a bitch!” Her face went white and she raised her hand, swung her fist at his jaw, but he slipped the punch with ease, caught her wrist and dragged her hard against him.

“Be careful,” he said softly, “or before you know it, you’ll be in water so deep it will be over your head.”

“Don’t you ever, ever, touch me again!”

A chilling smile angled across his mouth. “That’s the first thing you’ve said that pleases me.” He let go of her, took a breath to compose himself and opened the door. Hakim stood just outside, his expression as inscrutable as always.

“What is it, Hakim?”

“I am sorry to trouble you, my lord, but you told me to remind you of your luncheon appointment.”

Caz nodded. He had not told Hakim any such thing, but his aide de camp had served first his father and now him. The man had a sixth sense about trouble, and the courage to act on his own initiative when he thought it necessary.

There were times it was an annoyance, but right now, Caz was glad he had.

“Yes. Thank you.” He shot a glance at Megan O’Connell. She had turned away from him and was standing by the window, back straight, hands in the pockets of her mannish skirt, looking out at the street as if nothing had happened, but then, nothing had.

This had been a momentary slip in the fabric of time. Nothing more. It surely would never be repeated. Not only didn’t she appeal to him; he would never see her again.

“A courier will deliver the item we discussed to your home this evening, Miss O’Connell.”

The sheikh’s voice was brisk and businesslike. Megan knotted her hands. Flying across the room and beating her fists against that arrogant face would serve no purpose. Besides, he’d never let it happen. He was too strong, far stronger than she. Hadn’t he just proved it by overpowering her? Because that was what he’d done. Overpowered her. He’d forced that kiss on her, forced her to kiss him back…

“Are you going to give me your address? Or shall my aide get it from Simpson?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Let him send a check to her apartment. Let him send a dozen checks. She’d make the courier wait while she tore them into thousands of pieces and tell him precisely what he was to tell the sheikh to do with all those bits of paper.

At least she’d have the satisfaction of knowing his Mightiness would spend sleepless nights worrying that she’d sue. With luck, he’d have an ulcer by the time he finally realized she wouldn’t.

“Miss O’Connell?”

Megan turned around. “Get out of my sight.”

Caz stiffened. He heard Hakim make a sound that might have been a growl as he took a step forward.

“No,” Caz said sharply, putting his hand on his aide’s shoulder.

“But my lord…”

“She’s American,” Caz said, because that explained everything.

“Damned right I am,” Megan said. “And you’re a pig.”

He forced a smile to his lips, as if she’d handed him a compliment.

“Goodbye, Miss O’Connell. You’ll see my courier this evening.” He moved toward her and was gratified to see the swift rush of panic in her eyes. “But for your sake,” he said softly, so softly that he knew Hakim couldn’t hear him, “you’d better pray that you never see me again.”

The sheikh turned on his heel and strode from the room. His aide gave Megan one last, menacing look, then fell in after him.

Megan drew a shuddering breath and sank into a chair. The Prince of the Desert was gone. He was out of her life, forever.