The Return of the Sheikh

“That will be my second royal edict.”

She looked sincerely confused. “Are you serious?”

He smiled. “Not entirely, but I do plan to implement some much-needed change.”

“Change cannot occur until you are officially crowned, brother.”

Zain pulled his gaze from Madison to see Rafiq claiming his place at the opposite end of the table. “As disappointing as it might be to you, brother, that will happen in a matter of weeks. In the meantime, I plan to outline those changes to the council later this week.”

Rafiq lifted his napkin and placed it in his lap. “I have no designs on your position, Zain. But I do have a vested interest in the direction in which you plan to take my country.”

He fisted his hands on the heels of his anger. “Our country, Rafiq. A country that I plan to lead into the twenty-first century.”

Madison cleared her throat, garnering their attention. “What’s for dinner?”

“Cheeseburgers in your honor.”

When he winked, she surprisingly smiled. “I was truly looking forward to sampling some Middle Eastern fare,” she said.

“We’re having the chef’s special kebabs,” Rafiq said. “You will have to excuse my brother’s somewhat questionable sense of humor, Ms. Foster.”

After shooting Rafiq an acid look, Zain regarded Madison again. “I believe you’ll agree that a questionable sense of humor is better than no sense of humor at all.”

She shifted slightly in her seat. “I enjoyed meeting Elena. Will she be joining us?”

“Not tonight,” Rafiq said as one of the staff circled the table and poured water. “She has some work to attend to, but she sends her apologies.”

“She works much too hard,” Zain added. “I plan to put an end to that and soon.”

Rafiq leaned back in his chair. “I am afraid her work will not let up until after the coronation and the wedding.”

“Wedding?” Madison asked, the shock in her tone matching Zain’s.

“And who is the lucky bride?” Zain asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.

“Rima Acar, of course,” Rafiq said. “We will be married the week before the coronation.”

Zain wasn’t at all surprised by the news his brother was going through with the long-standing marriage contract. He was surprised—and angry—over the timing. “Is this wedding a means to detract from my assuming my rightful place as king?”

“Of course not,” Rafiq said. “This wedding has been in the planning stages for years. Almost twelve if you consider when Father and the sultan came to an agreement.”

“Ah, yes, the age-old tradition of bride bartering.” Zain turned his attention back to Madison, who seemed intent on pushing fruit around on her plate. “We are destined to choose a wife from the highest bidder. Someone who will give us many heirs, if not passion.”

“As you, too, had your bride chosen for you,” Rafiq added.

Madison’s blue eyes went wide. “You’re engaged?”

“Not any longer,” Rafiq said. “Zain’s intended grew tired of waiting for his return and married another.”

He had thanked his good fortune for that many times over. “Her decision was for the best. I refuse to wed a woman whom I’ve never met, let alone kissed.” He leaned forward and leveled his gaze on his brother. “Have you kissed Rima? Have you determined there will be enough passion to sustain your marriage? Or do you even care?”

He could see the fury brewing in Rafiq’s eyes. “That is none of your concern. Passion is not important. Continuing the royal lineage is.”

“Procreating would be rather difficult if you cannot bear to touch your wife, brother. Or perhaps you will be satisfied with bedding her only enough times to make a child, as it was with our own parents.”

“Do not believe everything you hear, Zain. Our parents had a satisfactory marriage.”

Rafiq—always their father’s defender. “Satisfactory? Are you also going to dispute that the king played a part in our mother’s—”

Rafiq slammed his palm on the table, rattling the dinnerware. “That is enough.”

Zain tossed his napkin aside and ignored the woman setting the entrée before him. “I agree. I have had enough of this conversation.” He came to his feet and regarded Madison. “Ms. Foster, my apologies for disrupting your meal.”

Without even a passing glance at his brother, Zain left the room and took the stairs two at a time. He had no doubt that after the display of distasteful family dynamics, he would have no need to seduce Madison Foster. She would most likely be taking the first plane back to America.

With a plate balanced in her left hand, Madison knocked with her right and waited to gain entry, affording the king the courtesy he hadn’t shown her earlier that afternoon.

“Enter” sounded from behind the heavy wooden door, the gruff, masculine voice full of obvious frustration.

Madison strode into the room, head held high, determined not to show even a speck of nervousness, though admittedly she was a little shaky. More than a little shaky when she met his stern gaze and realized he didn’t look at all thrilled to see her.

She set the plate on the desk and sat across from him without waiting for an invitation. “Elena sent you some pasta and the message that if you don’t eat, you’ll be too weak to rule.”

He didn’t bother to stand. Instead, he stared at her for a few moments before he pushed the offering away. “You may tell Elena I will eat when I’m hungry.”

She’d been stuck in the middle of one argument too many today. “You can tell her. Right now, we need to discuss your upcoming plans.”

He leaned back in the brown leather chair and tented his hands together. “I assumed you would be well on your way home by now.”

“You assumed wrong. I’m determined to see this through.”

“Even after we aired our family grievances at dinner?”

He had a lot to learn about her tenacity. “I’ve heard worse, and now I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Proceed.”

She would, with caution. “Do you have a strategy for overcoming your playboy reputation?”

“My reputation has been overblown, Ms. Foster.”

“Perception is everything when it comes to politics, Your Highness. And believe what you will, you’re in a political battle to restore your people’s faith in you. You’ve been gone almost ten years—”

“Seven years.”

“If you were a dog, that’s equivalent to almost fifty years.” And that had to be the most inane thing she’d said in ages, if ever. “Not that you’re a dog. I’m only saying that seven years is a long time in your situation.”

He hinted at a smile. “Do you own a dog?”