The Sheikh's Wayward Wife

“No, certainly not. It is one of the reasons Omar is so pleased. He secures an ally, does a service for the throne and finds a husband for a daughter who is a problem.”

“By burdening his old enemy with a woman no one else would want,” Khalil said coldly.

“Butrus wanted a woman who is beautiful. He is getting one.”

“And what of the woman? What happens to her when Butrus realizes he’s been duped?”

“Jal and I discussed it.”

“Jal,” Khalil said, even more coldly.

His father leaned close. “Omar says her mother was a sorceress. Perhaps she is, too.”

A sorceress, Khalil thought with contempt. Among some of his people, that was an ancient and easy way to label a woman as evil.

“That’s nonsense,” he said brusquely.

His father shrugged. “Either way, Omar and Jal agree that she can take care of herself.”

“No matter what Jal claims,” Khalil said, “he is not the sultan.”

His father’s face darkened. “Nor are you. Not yet. And I do not have to explain my actions.”

It was true. Besides, what good could come of this discussion? Plans and promises had already been made.

“My apologies,” Khalil said smoothly. “I only meant that you are Al Ankhara’s ruler, not the council.”

“A wise thing to keep in mind.” The older man’s expression softened. He chuckled and dug an elbow lightly into Khalil’s side. “Imagine that sly fox, Omar, with such an attractive daughter! Who would have thought it? I asked him where he’d been hiding her and he said he had done precisely that. Hidden her to keep her from her willful ways, until the time came when he could give her to the right man as a wife.” The sultan clapped Khalil on the back. “Thank you for agreeing to help us. Some of my ministers feared you’d become too Westernized to undertake this mission.”

“Jal, you mean.”

“I know you don’t like him, but Jal wants to do only what is best for our people.”

“As do I,” Khalil said quietly, “whatever it may be—and however unpopular it might make me.”

His father nodded. “Good. I will send our plan to you. Read it, then meet with us in the council chamber in an hour.

Khalil returned to his rooms. A servant brought him a leather portfolio.

It contained the council’s plan for Layla’s delivery to Butrus in Kasmir. Khalil leafed through it and almost laughed. The plan was twenty pages long, each page stamped with the embossed seal of the sultan, but it could have been condensed to one cogent paragraph.

Khalil’s plane would make the trip carrying him, Layla and the original wedding party, augmented by three dozen of the sultan’s personal guard. The plane would land at Kasmir where it would be met by Butrus and his men.

A couple of hours ago, he’d have simply refused to take part. But things had changed.

Last night Layla had walked into the sea in a desperate attempt to get away. He was convinced of it. Today, she’d said he was being fed lies, and she’d said it in English.

Now he had learned she was not truly a desirable bride.

The bottom line was that Omar saw her as a throwaway gift. If Butrus felt the same way, the so-called peace arrangement would lie in ruins. The sultan would lose face. And Layla would die. Butrus would kill her and no one would raise a hand to stop him. Such things still took place in some parts of Al Ankhara.

Was his father blind to all those possibilities, or didn’t he care?

Khalil tossed aside the council’s plan, shot to his feet and paced his sitting room. He could not let any of it happen. Damn it, he would not let it happen!

Twenty minutes and a few cell phone calls later, he had his own plan ready—but he would only implement it after assuring himself that Layla wasn’t trying to play him for a fool.

And there was only one way to make that determination.

Layla was being kept in the harem.

That was a surprise. The harem had not been used in decades. His father had not changed many things after coming to power but he had changed the practice of taking concubines. One woman, he had said, was headache enough for any man.

Khalil had often wondered if that was because his father had loved his mother or because he hadn’t. He supposed he would never know the answer; his mother had died when he was an infant.

The harem was connected to the main portion of the palace through a heavy wooden door. He couldn’t recall it ever being locked, but today it was. He had to pound on it several times until someone—the thug—opened it.

The man was obviously not happy to see him.

“No one is permitted here.”

Khalil eyed him coldly. If ever there had been a time for the nonsense of antiquated titles, this was it.

“I am not ‘no one,’ I am Sheikh Khalil, Crown Prince of Al Ankhara. Stand aside.”

He brushed past the man without waiting for an answer and headed briskly down the corridor. The thug fell in behind him.

A second surprise.

He’d often played here on rainy days when he was growing up. He remembered rich tapestries, polished marble floors, gilded furnishings and frescoed walls. All those things were still in place but they had not stood up well to the ravages of time. The harem was dark and dreary; it smelled of mildew and age.

He thought of Layla, spending her days and nights here, and felt his jaw tighten as he swung toward her guard.

“Where is your mistress?”

“She is safe.”

“I didn’t ask you that. Where is she? I wish to see her.”

“You cannot see her. It is forbidden. She is betrothed. She belongs to—”

“Do you want to die the death of a thousand cuts? Where is she?”

Hate burned in the man’s tiny eyes but he jerked his head toward a closed door.

Kahlil strode toward it. Part of him was on the alert; part wanted to burst out laughing. The death of a thousand cuts? What bad movie had that come from?

Any desire to laugh vanished the moment he opened the door and saw Layla.

She stood within the confines of a room that had once surely been elegant. Now the couch behind her was covered with a grimy blanket; the walls were gray with age.

And yet Layla, standing straight and tall, hands fisted at her sides as if she were ready to take on the world, was magnificent.

She made his breath catch.

Her hair spilled like liquid sunshine over her shoulders. The day, and the room, were warm; her skin held a glint of moisture and the ivory silk gown clung to her body like a lover’s gentle kiss.

“What do you want?”

She said it in Arabic. Now, though, he could definitely tell that it wasn’t her native tongue. And though her voice trembled, she delivered the question with a rebellious lift of her chin.

“The council sent me to tell you its plan.”

“Do I look like I give a damn about its plan?”

“Nevertheless, you will listen.”

“To hell with you and the council! I will not—”

“You will do as you’re told,” Khalil roared.

“My lord,” Ahmet said, “I’ll deal with this.”

“I will deal with it,” Khalil snarled. “Alone.”

He slammed the door in the thug’s face. Then he moved quickly toward Layla, shook his head and put a finger to his lips.

“Now,” he growled, raising his voice enough so the man outside the door would hear him, “you will behave yourself, woman.”

Deliberately, she turned her back to him. Khalil clasped her shoulders and spun her around.

“Did you hear what I said? Behave yourself, or—”

She flew at him, all fists and nails. He grabbed her hands, folded them against his chest.

“Stop it!”

“Bastard,” she hissed, “mad al haram! You no-good, despicable—”

Her words were all-American, and his reaction was all male. There was only one way to silence her and he took it, lifting her to him and capturing her lips with his.

She struggled. She fought. He kept kissing her, told himself it was the best way to keep her quiet.

Told himself that, even as he felt himself drowning in her taste, her scent, her heat.

“Don’t fight me,” he whispered, against her lips.

And, for one amazing moment, she obeyed. Her body softened. He let go of her fists and gathered her in his arms, bringing her tightly against him. Her lips softened, too, and parted just enough so he could slip the tip of his tongue into her mouth and savor its sweetness.

Savor it, until he felt the sharp bite of her teeth.

Khalil cursed, jerked back and dragged his handkerchief from his pocket. He put it against his lip, looked at the tiny crimson smear on the creamy white linen—and laughed.

Layla stared at her attacker in disbelief. She’d bitten him and he’d laughed? Maybe she was losing her mind. It was the only thing that made sense.

What had happened during the past week must have done it.

She had been lured to Al Ankhara. Taken prisoner. Threatened. Tormented. Told, explicitly, what awaited her and told, too, that she would accept it or pay the price for disobedience.

Now a stranger who thought he owned the universe had kissed her and she…and she had—

Her breath caught.

She had let him kiss her. Let herself lean into his strength, let herself feel the power of his embrace, the thrust of his erection against her belly…

The doorknob rattled.

“Lord Khalil?”

The man—the prince, Lord Khalil—slapped one hand against the door and pulled her to him with the other.

“Who are you?” he said in a low voice.

Layla gasped with surprise. He was speaking English. He’d understood her, then. When she’d spoken to him in the garden this morning, the desperate words had tumbled from her lips in English. She hadn’t realized it until a long time after, and then her heart had shriveled at the realization that she’d wasted her one possible chance to get help, even worse, that she’d broken the vow she’d been forced to make not to reveal the truth about herself.

“I asked you a question. Who are you?”

What to tell him? What to say? What risks were worth taking? The door shuddered again; her eyes went from it to his face. He looked cold and dangerous. And he’d kissed her as if he owned her.

But Butrus would own her, unless a miracle happened.

“Answer,” he growled, “or I’ll step away from the door and let the pig outside handle things.”

She licked her lips. Khalil felt his gut tighten. Even now—furious at himself for the moment of weakness when he’d kissed her, the door shuddering under the strength of a knife-wielding brute—even now, damn it, he couldn’t keep from watching that simple motion as if his life depended on it.

“Last chance, sweetheart,” he said, and that easy use of the American word did it. After all, Layla thought, what more did she have to lose?

“My name is Layla Addison. Omar was my father.”

“Lord Khalil!” The door shuddered again. “Open this door or I will call for the guard!”

“Was your father?”

“Is my father, but he didn’t raise me. My mother is American. Twenty-three years ago she was here, in Al Ankhara, and he…he stole her. She escaped. I was born in the States, raised there…please, please, I beg you, get me out of this terrible place!”

It was an unbelievable story, but then, everything that was happening was unbelievable. Back in New York, Khalil could have verified it within a day. He’d have contacted his attorney, hired a private investigator, gone to see Layla’s supposed American mother.

Here all he could do was believe her, or see her as a liar.

Another bang against the door. Another shouted warning from the man on the other side of it.

“If this is true,” Khalil hissed, “what are you doing in Al Ankhara?”

“It’s a long story,” she said, with a wild-eyed glance at the door.

And no time to tell it, Khalil thought grimly.

“Lord Khalil! If you do not open this door…”

Khalil stepped back. The door swung open; the thug all but fell into the room. His beady eyes went from Khalil to Layla, then back again to Khalil.

“What is happening here?

“Do you dare question me?” Khalil said coldly.

The man hesitated. “I only meant—

“I am taking the woman to the council. You will remain here.”

Khalil grasped Layla’s arm and hurried her away. She stumbled as she tried to keep pace.

“Where are we going?”

“To meet with my father’s ministers.”

“What for?”

“To save my father from making a terrible mistake.”

“I don’t give a damn about your father! What about me?”

“You are the mistake. Can’t you move any faster?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to get you your freedom.”

“How?”

“Just do as you’re told.”

“But—”

“Is it beyond you to obey a simple command? Be quiet. Say nothing. Do nothing. I have a plan.”

Well, he did—except, it hadn’t involved kissing the woman. No matter. The incident changed nothing. The kiss had been a matter of expediency, that was all. And yes, perhaps she had responded. So what?

She was beautiful. He didn’t believe in sorcery but he did believe in a woman’s ability to use her feminine wiles. And he was a man, with a man’s hunger. Add a touch of mystery, of danger, and it took little to start a fire.

But the conflagration had been momentary.

Sex was exciting, a function of the body and the senses, but the emotions sex roused were controllable. A man was a man. A woman was a woman. Biology, even passion… but not uncontrollable emotion.

He had kissed the woman, but it wouldn’t happen again. That wasn’t the problem. Getting her out of here was the problem.

But he had a plan for that, and it was a plan that would work.

At least, he hoped it would.

He paused in the great entry hall of the palace only long enough to place one final, confirming cell phone call.

Then he hurried Layla to the council chamber. The ministers and his father were waiting for him. They rose when he entered, looking as shocked to see Layla walking demurely behind him as if he’d entered the room accompanied by a lioness.

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