The Sheikh's Wayward Wife

Two women. One guard. The details didn’t add up. A wedding between people of wealth and power was an important event and surely this was such a wedding. Every possible honor would be given the bride. She’d be accompanied by at least a dozen horsemen. Easily that many female attendants. Members of her family, of her village.

And what of his father’s role? Why hadn’t he invited the wedding party to attend the elaborate dinner still going on in the ballroom?

Khalil rose from the bed, walked to the window and looked out.

The beach was deserted. There was nothing to show a woman had walked into the sea, that he had gone after her, that he had held her in his arms, felt the warmth of her body, smelled the freshness of her skin.

He might have imagined it all—but he hadn’t.

Something strange had happened tonight. He knew that. He also knew it had nothing to do with him. This was Al Ankhara, an ancient place that held mysteries even he could not always understand.

Khalil went back to the bed.

One thing was certain. The incident had revealed a basic need. A need for a woman.

He’d ended an affair almost two months ago. He had a new mistress but he’d only been with her once before he’d flown here. Surely, that was the reason, the only reason, he’d been stirred by the woman on the beach.

He was hungry, and his hunger would be assuaged as soon as he was back in New York. The woman he’d left there had beauty and sophistication. She would greet him eagerly, wearing something sexy she’d picked up at Saks or Bendel’s.

What man in his right mind would choose a fire-breathing female in a djellebah over that?

Still, when he closed his eyes, the face he saw was not that of his mistress but of the woman on the beach.

All the more reason, he thought as he drifted off to sleep, to find out what his father wanted of him, do it and return to New York as quickly as possible.

His father sent word they would breakfast together in a small courtyard centered on a fountain.

He was already there when Khalil arrived, seated at a marble-topped table set for two that was laden with platters of fruit, cheese, yogurt and freshly baked bread.

The sultan half rose; the men exchanged a quick embrace.

“Sabah ala-kheir, my son.”

“Good morning, Father.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Please, sit down. Fill your plate. You must be hungry. You didn’t eat very much last night.”

Khalil looked up. The sultan’s expression was innocent. The comment was not. What his father meant was that he’d noticed Khalil had not stayed for the entire meal.

“Was the food not to your liking?”

Two could play at this game. “It was excellent, Father, but I was weary from my journey.”

Meaning, he had come a long distance on short notice and still had no idea why.

Father and son smiled at each other. They had not spent a lot of time together when Khalil was small—it was not the custom—but they had grown closer when Khalil reached adulthood.

“And how was that journey, my son?”

“It was fine. The skies were clear all the way.”

“And your new plane?”

“It is fine, too, Father,” Khalil said, trying to keep the edge from his voice.

“But what would truly be fine,” the sultan said, raising his bushy white eyebrows, “is discovering why I called you home.”

So much for word games. “Yes,” Khalil said bluntly, “that would be a good thing.”

Two servants hovered near a rolling cart covered with silver chafing dishes; another stood ready to pour coffee and tea. The sultan blotted his mouth with his napkin, tossed it on the table and rose to his feet.

“Walk with me, Khalil. Let me show you how beautiful my roses are this year.”

What was this? Was his father concerned about being overheard? Khalil pushed back his chair and fell in beside the older man. They set off on a path of crushed white and pink marble that wound through the palace’s fabled gardens.

When they were deep within its confines, surrounded by flowers and shrubs and far from anyone who might hear them, the sultan sat down on a wrought-iron bench. Khalil took the bench opposite his and waited.

“You were not happy that I requested your return,” the sultan said.

“I was in the midst of an important negotiation.”

His father nodded. “Still you came.”

“You are my father, and you are the leader of our people.”

The older man nodded again. “And you are my heir, Khalil. Since birth, you have known it is your duty to do what is best for your country.”

What was happening here? Khalil folded his arms. “That is a given, Father.”

There were a few seconds of silence. Then the sultan put his hands on his thighs and leaned forward.

“Last night, on the beach, you met a woman.”

Was nothing about his life here private? It was one of the things Khalil had always disliked. Everything he did was subject to scrutiny.

“And?”

“She is called Layla.”

Layla. A soft, feminine name. It suited her. The lushness of her body, the beauty of her face…but it was a direct contradiction to the fire of her temperament.

“Khalil?”

Khalil cleared his throat. “Sorry. I was… What about her?”

“She is to be married.”

“So her people told me.”

“It is an important union. Her father is Sheikh Omar al Assad.”

“Are you certain? Her people said—”

“I am quite certain, Khalil. And her betrothed is Butrus al Ali.”

Khalil blinked in surprise. “The renegade?”

“Not after this marriage takes place. Butrus will swear his allegiance to me, as will Omar, for brokering the union. An old and dangerous rift will be healed and our people in the north will finally have peace.”

Khalil nodded. A marriage would take place for reasons of state. It was an old custom, not just here but in many parts of the world, and though he knew Westerners would scoff if he said such arrangements still took place among them, too, it was true; the sons and daughters of wealthy, powerful families often married to secure alliances and create dynasties.

But the woman on the beach, the bride of Butrus? He had met the man years ago. Could he recall what he looked like?

His jaw tightened. Yes, he damned well could.

Overweight. Hell, that was too polite a term. Butrus al Ali was grossly obese. He had long, greasy hair; there’d been caked black dirt under his fingernails and a stench to his breath that made it impossible to stand close.

The woman on the beach—Layla—was to take such a pig as her bridegroom?

“Khalil?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Have you been listening to me?”

“I’ve been trying to remember the renegade. What I’ve come up with is not pleasant. The woman. Layla. Is she aware of his, ah, his shortcomings?”

The sultan cocked his head. “Should she be?” he said, with genuine surprise.

The obvious answer was no. This was Al Ankhara, not the United States. It was part of an alliance known as The Nations. All countries in The Nations were rich beyond measure; each sported skyscrapers in their cities, but also in each a traditional way of life existed side by side with the new.

“As you said, I met her last night. She is young and attractive.”

“I would say she is beautiful, Khalil, not simply attractive.”

“You’ve seen her, then?”

“Of course. I met with her and her party yesterday. Briefly, just long enough to be sure her father had not lied. There will be an exchange of money in this marriage but Butrus made it clear he would only accept a bride who met a standard of beauty. Fortunately, the woman does.”

“Why is she traveling with such a small party? And why haven’t you granted her the palace’s full hospitality?”

“I deemed it safer that no one know of the marriage plans for as long as possible. You surely are aware there are those who would wish to prevent it from taking place.”

He did, of course. Butrus’s enemies. Omar’s enemies. Even his father’s enemies.

What of Layla? Would she wish to prevent it? Was that the reason she’d walked into the sea last night? Had she been trying to kill herself or, impossible as it seemed, swim to freedom?

“And the woman?” he said carefully. “You didn’t answer my question. Does she know anything about her bridegroom?”

The sultan shrugged. “She knows he is rich. Beyond that, I have no idea. As we both know, it doesn’t matter. Whom she marries is Omar’s decision.”

“Yes, but—”

“There is no ‘but’,” the sultan said sharply. “This is not the West, my son, it is Al Ankhara and she is of our people. She has been raised to respect her father’s wishes.” He paused. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a thread of warning. “As have you.”

“Why don’t you tell me why you called me home, Father?”

“I have a task for you. A vital one.”

Icy fingers seemed to brush down Khalil’s spine. “And that task is?”

“You asked why the woman, Layla, travels with such a small party. I told you it was for her safety.”

“You mean,” Khalil said carefully, “it was for the safety of the planned alliance.”

The sultan shrugged. “It is the same thing.”

It was, by the standards of an earlier century but not, perhaps, by the standards of this one—or by the standards of a beautiful woman who was about to be given in marriage to a man who would surely make her skin crawl.

A man who would put his filthy hands on her soft breasts, whose diseased mouth would cover hers, whose grotesque body would possess hers night after night.

Khalil got to his feet. None of that mattered. The marriage, the marriage bed, had nothing to do with him. All the points his father had made were valid.

“And?” he prompted.

The sultan sighed and rose, too.

“And, I’m afraid the wedding is no longer a secret. Rumors of it are everywhere. Anything could happen, but nothing must. The woman must be delivered to Butrus as planned.”

“You fear a raiding party. An abduction.”

“Or worse.”

More images raced through Khalil’s head, scenes of brutality and carnage. Of Layla, pleading for her honor and for her life.

But she would not beg.

She would fight to her last breath, as she had fought him last night. Last night when she had twisted in his arms, when he had felt her body hot against his….

“These things must not happen. Surely, you see that, Khalil.”

Khalil took a steadying breath. “Did you call me home to advise you? I’m sure your ministers have already done that.”

“Have they?”

“Certainly. An alternate plan is simple to devise. All you need do is increase the size of the traveling party. Fifty men. One hundred. In dress uniform, of course, with lances, and riding the finest horses to honor tradition, but all of them armed with modern weapons to make it clear that they are unstoppable. What? Why are you shaking your head?”

“No horses,” the sultan said impatiently. “No medieval nonsense. Why would we do that?”

Khalil barked a derisive laugh. “Because this is medieval nonsense,” he said harshly. “We both know that.”

“There is a much simpler and more effective way of guaranteeing royal protection to the woman, Khalil, one that no man will dare ignore.”

“And that is?”

The sultan put his hand on Khalil’s shoulder. “You are my son, heir to the Throne of the Lion and the Sword. You are the crown prince, the sheikh of Al Ankhara, protector of all its people.”

The icy fingers swept over Khalil’s spine again.

“Father—”

“You shall escort the woman to meet her groom.”

Khalil jerked back. “No.”

“Your plane will fly you and her to the city of Kasmir. As is traditional, Butrus will meet you there.”

“Did you hear what I said? I will not—”

“You will have men with you, of course, just as you described them, in dress uniform but actually an assault team carrying modern weapons.” The sultan smiled, obviously pleased with himself and his plan. “Not that you will need them. Butrus will be impressed. Your presence will make it clear that the match has the blessing of our house. No one will dare lift a hand against you and the throne you represent.”

“This is out of the question,” Khalil said sharply. “I have an important negotiation waiting for me in New York.”

“There is nothing more important than respect for your country.”

“Acting as an errand boy to deliver a woman who’s been sold to a renegade has nothing to do with respect for my country!”

“You are being given a great honor. And no one has been sold to anyone.”

Khalil snorted. “Tell that to yourself, Father, not to me.”

The sultan’s face darkened. “You forget yourself,” he said, his voice colder than Khalil had ever heard it.

A muscle in Khalil’s jaw flickered.

“Father,” he said in as reasonable a tone as he could manage, “I’m sure your ministers think this is a good plan but—”

“The plan is mine.”

“All right,” Khalil said, even though he didn’t believe it, “it’s yours. But—”

“But,” his father said brusquely, “it goes against all your Western sensibilities.”

“No. Yes. Damn it, there are other ways. Not just to get her there. To secure an alliance.”

The sultan folded his arms. “Name one.”

Name one. Name one. Khalil ran his hands through his hair, until it stood up in small, black-as-midnight tufts.

“Offer Butrus money. Omar, too. Pay them to declare peace.”

“Money is not the same as a blood tie.”

“Gold, then. Diamonds. Oil. We have incredible riches—”

“Are you paying any attention at all? Treasure is nothing when measured against the bonds formed by blood. This marriage will take place, and you will be the bride’s escort.”

Silence filled the space between the men. Khalil understood the importance of filial duty, of princely obligation, but he had left home at eighteen, spent four years taking his undergraduate degree at Harvard, another taking a graduate degree in business at Wharton.

There had been some discussion about all of that. Jal, one of his father’s senior ministers, had disapproved.

“There is always the danger, sir,” he had warned, “that the prince may begin to favor the ways of the West over the ways of Al Ankhara.”

The sultan had declared that nonsense. So had Khalil.

Now, and not for the first time, he could feel himself torn between the old ways and the new. More than that, he was to be an integral part of something he knew was wrong. To force a woman into a marriage she surely could not want…

“The woman knows what is expected of her.”

Khalil looked up. Had he spoken aloud or were his thoughts so clearly written on his face?

“She has agreed to it?”

“She has.” The sultan’s expression turned wry. “Do you think this is a hardship for her, Khalil? I assure you, it is not. She is pleased, though she is clever enough not to show it. Consider what awaits her. The status of being Butrus’s wife. His wealth. His power. Those things will become hers.”

Only if Butrus permitted it, Khalil thought. The woman, Layla, would really be little more than his slave.

“Talk to her yourself, if it will make you feel better.”

“No,” Khalil said sharply. “I have no wish to—”

“My lord.”

Khalil spun around. The two women he had seen on the beach and the thug who called himself a bodyguard had appeared on the crushed-marble path. They fell to the ground in respect—and revealed the woman who stood behind them.

Layla.

She had been beautiful in the moonlit night. Now, with the sun on her, Khalil could see that she wasn’t beautiful.

She was exquisite.

Her hair was the color of wild honey, streaked with what looked to be a dozen lighter tones of gold. Her eyes were enormous blue pools tipped with thick, dark lashes. Her nose was small, her mouth full, the features delicately set in a slightly triangular face. It gave her the look of an elegant feline. Her body, not hidden by a man’s djellebah but encased instead in a long gown of ivory silk, was lushly female.

Khalil’s response was as swift as it had been the prior night. He felt himself harden, felt the sudden thrum of the blood in his veins.

“Show respect to the prince and the sultan, girl!”

His glance flew past her. Omar al Assad, her father, stood behind her, his face drawn into a ferocious scowl. He slapped his hand on her shoulder; Khalil heard the hiss of her breath, saw her wince as she dropped to her knees.

A growl sounded in his throat. He started forward but the sultan put out a hand and stopped him.

“I have brought Omar to the palace so he may be informed of our new plan, Khalil. As for this—” the sultan shrugged “—a father disciplining his daughter,” he said mildly. “It is nothing.”

Omar nodded. “She is headstrong, but she will learn. Butrus will see to it. Isn’t that right, girl?”

Layla lifted her head. Her eyes glittered. With what? Defiance? Anger? Mockery?

“Are you deaf? Answer me when I speak to you!”

“She heard you,” Khalil said coldly. “We all heard you.”

“Your Highness.” Omar’s voice, directed at Khalil, was silky smooth. “We are honored to know that you will escort my daughter to her wedding.”

“I have not said that I would.”

“But your father assured me—”

Khalil walked slowly to Layla. “Look at me,” he said softly. He put his hand under her chin and gently raised her face until their eyes met. “Do you know what is about to happen to you?”

“Answer the prince,” Omar snarled.

Khalil silenced him with a look. Then he gazed into Layla’s eyes again.

“Do you know?”

She nodded.

“Have you agreed that it should happen?”

“She does not need to—”

“My father, the sultan, tells me that you have agreed. Is that so?”

Did her mouth tremble? Omar stepped forward. She flinched, and Khalil gave the man a look that made him turn pale.

“I am speaking to your daughter.”

“I only wish to remind her to show respect to you, my lord.”

“Move away, Omar al Assad. I do not want you standing next to me.” The man’s mouth thinned but he did as commanded. Khalil knelt before Layla. He heard the gasps of those around him but he ignored them. “Answer me,” he said quietly. “Have you agreed to this wedding?”

There was a long, long silence. He watched the tip of her tongue sweep across her lips. It was a very pink tongue, a delicate one, and he almost groaned at the unconscious sexuality of the simple gesture.

“Speak freely, Layla. You are safe here.”

Again, the tip of her tongue swept across her lips. “Na’am,” she said quietly.

Yes, she’d said…and there it was again, the accent he’d noticed last night. For some reason it troubled him. So did her answer. It more than troubled him. It disappointed him, but why?

She had been raised in the old ways. She believed in them. And, as his father had pointed out, there was the promise of riches, of status.

Khalil rose to his feet.

The sultan was right. He had no role in any of this except as crown prince. He had obligations to meet and, in meeting them, he could at least ensure that this woman reached Kasmir safely. His father wished it. The council wished it. Omar wished it.

And so did she.

He turned his back on her, spoke directly to the little group gathered around them.

“I will escort her to Kasmir.”

His father beamed his approval. So did her father. The two men began talking, but Khalil couldn’t take his eyes from Layla.

Her posture was one of supplication but when she looked up, her eyes told a different story. As before, they glittered. With defiance, with anger…

With an unspoken plea?

He hesitated. Then he held out his hand. She took it, started to her feet—and stumbled. He caught her by the shoulders to steady her but she fell against him anyway. He felt the quick brush of her body and then she was on her toes and her lips were at his ear.

“For God’s sake,” she hissed, “are you blind? They’re lying. Your father. My father. Damn it, can’t you tell that I’ve been forced into this?”

Khalil blinked. She was steady on her feet now, standing with her head bowed, making no protest as Omar stepped forward, cupped her elbow and marched her away. It was almost as if nothing had happened.

But something definitely had.

Her whispered words had not been spoken in Arabic.

They had been spoken in flawless American English.

CHAPTER THREE

LAYLA’S keepers—it was the only way to describe them—led her away. The thug first, then Layla with one woman on either side, then Omar, bringing up the rear.

Khalil stood staring after the little procession.

Had he really heard what he thought he’d heard?

No. It was impossible. The woman could not have spoken in English. Perfect American English. No accent, no stress on any but the correct syllables. And what she’d said, what he thought she’d said, was even more impossible.

“Khalil?”

Lies? Lies, told him by his father? That Omar would lie was no surprise. The man had a reputation for craftiness and there were times the word was nothing but a synonym for dishonesty.

But his own father… Would he lie?

“Khalil? I’m talking to you!”

The bitter possibility of duplicity crept into his bones.

His father might lie. He might do whatever he thought necessary for the good of Al Ankhara. Or the lies—if they were lies—might have begun with his ministers. Khalil suspected that Jal and his allies would not be above twisting facts when it served their purpose.

He’d tried telling that to his father more than a year ago but the sultan had refused to hear it.

His ministers’ sole concern was protection of the throne, he always said. Khalil saw their actions as an attempt to maintain the status quo. It was why he had rejected much of the so-called advice they’d given him over the years.

He’d chosen Harvard over the smaller universities they had recommended, studied finance rather than foreign affairs, opted to remain in the States to run his family’s investment conglomerate instead of returning home and taking the position of liaison the ministers had wanted to create for him.

“Liaison,” he was certain, would have meant becoming their puppet. He’d long ago made up his mind not to be used by them.

Was he being used now?

“Khalil!” His father clasped his shoulder. “Pay attention when I speak to you.”

Khalil took a breath and did his best to put a noncommittal look on his face.

“Sorry, Father. I was, ah, I was—”

“You were thinking about the woman.” His father smiled. “I understand. She is beautiful. You would not be a man if you did not notice.”

“She is beautiful, yes, but—” But why does she speak like an American? Why does she say you lied to me?

The words were on the tip of his tongue. Somehow he managed to keep them there and to match the sultan’s knowing smile with one of his own.

“But she is not quite what she seems, Khalil. Perhaps you should be aware of that.”

Khalil’s pulse quickened. Here it was. The explanation he needed.

“Isn’t she?” he said, as casually as he could.

His father shook his head. “She is woman with, ah, with wayward tendencies.”

What did that mean? Was she not a virgin? That was important here.

“Wayward?”

His father nodded. “She has been a problem for Omar. She flaunts rules. She speaks of independence.”

“And yet, she has agreed to marry Butrus.”

Just for a second the sultan looked uncertain.

“Well, yes. Omar says she has repented.”

“And Butrus knows she has been difficult in the past?”