The Sheikh's Convenient Bride

The only thing she was sure of was that he was Qasim al Daud al Rashid, King of Suliyam since his father’s death and the Absolute Ruler of his People.

It was a title that would have gone over big a couple of generations ago. Too bad the sheikh didn’t seem to care that such nonsense was a joke now…though it didn’t seem a joke to what passed for the news media, or here in the Los Angeles offices of Tremont, Burnside and Macomb, Financial Advisors and Consultants.

Too bad she’d accepted the transfer from Boston, where nobody would have made this kind of fuss over a walking, talking anachronism.

“Oh, your highness,” a woman said, the words accompanied by a sigh that carried the length of the room.

His Highness, indeed. That was the proper way to address the king, according to the belly-crawling sycophants in his entourage. Megan drank the last of her coffee. No way would she ever call him that. If she had the misfortune to speak with the man—which she surely wouldn’t, after what had happened this morning—she’d sooner choke. His High and Mightiness was more like it. What else would you call a twenty-first century dictator leading a 16th century life? Someone who’d single-handedly set her career back five years?

The bastard.

To think she’d worked her tail off, researching and writing the proposal that had won him as a client. To think she’d spent days and evenings and weekends on the thing. To think she’d dreamed about what handling such a prestigious account would mean to her career, swallowed all those little hints that she’d be named a partner, believed they were soon to become reality.

Every bit of it had gone up in a puff of smoke this morning, when Simpson told her he was giving the Suliyam assignment to Frank Fisher instead of her.

Megan started to refill her cup, thought better of it—she was already flying on caffeine—and poured herself a Mimosa instead. The vintage Krug and fresh OJ were there because the sheikh supposedly liked an occasional Mimosa at brunch, thanks to the influence, some said, of the genes of his California-born mother.

He’d never know it but he was drinking them today, assuming he was drinking them, thanks to Megan’s research. She’d learned about the Mimosas and ordered the champagne and the orange juice.

If only she’d ordered strychnine instead.

Damn, she had to stop thinking this way. She had to stop thinking, period, or she’d say something, do something that would cost her her job.

As if she already hadn’t.

No. Why think like a defeatist? She wouldn’t lose her job. She’d put in too much time and effort at Tremont, Burnside and Macomb to let that happen. She would not let the decision made by The King of All He Surveyed ruin her career. There’d be other big accounts, other career-changing clients.

Of course there would.

If only her worm of a boss hadn’t waited until today to break the news.

She’d come in early, eight o’clock, to make sure she was ready for the meeting with the sheikh. She’d even checked with the caterer to make sure he’d be coming on time, bringing little sandwiches and pastries, the brand of coffee the sheikh was known to favor, the champagne and the juice. Fresh juice, she’d reminded the caterer, and vintage champagne.

By 8:10, she knew everything was ready. The caterer. The boardroom. The manager of this Los Angeles branch of Tremont, Burnside and Macomb, Jerry Simpson.

Quarter past eight, Jerry had stepped into her office, a smile on his pudgy face and a Starbucks’ container in his outstretched hand.

“For you,” he’d said.

She almost said Thanks, but I’ve been drinking coffee for two hours straight…But why turn down the friendly gesture? Jerry never came in early. He never brought her coffee. Mostly he never smiled. He never sat down beside her desk, either, the way he did as she took the container from him.

With the benefit of hindsight, Megan realized that warning bells should have gone off right there and then. Fool that she was, she’d simply figured Jerry was there early so they could get ready for the important meeting together.

“How was your weekend?” Jerry said.

She’d spent it on Nantucket Island at her brother’s wedding, so it was easy to smile and say “Great,” because it had been. He smiled back, said that was good to hear and didn’t she look wonderful and oh, by the way, he was giving the Suliyam account to Frank Fisher.

Megan blinked. She told herself she’d misunderstood. How could he give her client to somebody else? Maybe she’d had too much champagne at Cullen’s wedding, too little sleep, too many cups of coffee to try to get her brain in gear after the alarm went off this morning.

Simpson couldn’t have said what she’d thought he’d said, so she gave a little laugh.

“For a minute there, Jerry, I thought you said—”

“I did,” Simpson replied, and she looked beyond his smarmy smile and saw that he was telling the truth.

“But that’s impossible,” she said slowly, while she tried to make sense of what was happening. “Suliyam commissioned a study—’’

“The sheikh commissioned it.”

“Whatever. The point is—’’

“It’s an important detail, Megan.” Simpson smoothed his hand over the pinstripes straining across his tiny potbelly. “His Highness speaks for his country.”

“I don’t see what that—’’

“To all intents and purposes, he is Suliyam.”

“The point is,” Megan said impatiently, “I did all the work on this report. I did it because you said the king would be my client, if he signed on—”

“I never told you that. I simply asked you to prepare the proposal.”

Megan narrowed her eyes. “It’s standard practice in this firm that the person who works up the data for a client gets that client.”

“You are not a partner, Megan.”

“A formality, Jerry. You know that.”

“His Highness wants someone with authority.”

“Well, that’s easily resolved. Make me a partner now instead of waiting until July.”

“Megan.” Simpson got to his feet, an unconvincing smile of sympathy curving his thin lips. “I’m truly sorry this has happened, but—”

“It hasn’t happened. Not yet. All the partners have to do is vote me in and tell the sheikh I’m more than capable of—”

“You’re a woman.”

That had stopped her. “Excuse me?”

Simpson gave a deep sigh. “It’s nothing personal. It’s not you per se. It’s only that—”

“That what?” She was still trying to sound civil. Not an easy thing when your wimp of a boss told you the job you’d been counting on, an assignment so sweet it had every other accountant in the office panting for it, wasn’t going to be yours after all. “Come on, Jerry. What has my being a woman to do with anything?”

“Actually,” her boss said, smoothly avoiding the question, “it’s for the best. I need you to handle a new client. Rod Barry, the big Hollywood director.”

“The Sheikh of Suliyam is the client I want.” Megan rose from her chair and put her hands on her hips. “He’s the client you promised me.”

“Barry’s a tough cookie. It’ll take special skills to work with him. You’re the only one I can count on to do the job. Do the great work I know you’ll do and you’re up for a partnership next year.” Simpson stuck out his hand. “Congratulations.”