The Sheikh's Bought Wife

‘But you would like to?’

She looked at him with the expression of a child on a boiling hot day who had just been asked whether they would like an ice cream. ‘Of course I would. But I can’t just go. I would need to be invited. I’d need to have somewhere to stay. And anyway,’ she added, her face crumpling as if she’d just remembered something, ‘I can’t afford it.’

‘But if you were invited,’ he said slowly, ‘and if money were no object, you would go.’

A trace of impatience entered her intelligent eyes. ‘Obviously.’

‘Than I think we can be of service to one another.’

She frowned. ‘I’m getting increasingly confused, Your Royal Highness. You invited me out for dinner and I’m still not sure why. Won’t you tell me what your purpose was for asking me here tonight?’

He nodded, reminding himself that he needed to be stern and to lay down all the guidelines right from the beginning. She needed to be made aware of the honour he was about to bestow on her. ‘I need a wife,’ he said simply. ‘And you are the perfect candidate.’

CHAPTER THREE (#ub7f1d007-cce9-5ee7-ba56-04970b5f13e9)

JANE STARED ACROSS the candlelit table in astonishment, for a moment thinking she might have misheard him, but the expression on the Sheikh’s face told her it was no mistake. Through the flicker of the candle’s flames his mouth was unsmiling and his black eyes were flat and unwavering as they fixed her in their gaze. She found herself thinking that if it wasn’t a mistake then maybe it was some elaborate kind of joke which nobody had bothered to tell her about. A man like Zayed proposing marriage? To her?

‘How can I possibly be the perfect candidate to be your wife?’ she questioned defensively, as it occurred to her that he might be making fun of her. ‘When everyone knows you’ve dated some of the most beautiful women in the world and I am nothing but one of your lowly outreach employees!’

‘You are a most valued employee,’ he said carefully.

‘But an employee all the same—not one of your many girlfriends!’ She glared at him. ‘What kind of mischief is this you make with your words, Your Royal Highness?’

He looked taken aback by her accusation and that pleased her—it made her feel as if she was in possession of at least some control in a life which was currently very short of it. Her nerves were already shot with worry about Cleo, without the added headache of having to work out what sort of game the arrogant Sheikh was playing with his verbal riddles.

‘It is not mischief,’ he said slowly, ‘but a genuine need to find myself a wife as quickly as possible.’

‘But I’m not—’

‘Yes, I know,’ he put in impatiently. ‘You fulfil none of the criteria which would naturally be expected of my bride. You are not royal, nor rich, nor beautiful—’

Her heart contracted. ‘Is this some sort of character assassination?’

‘No,’ he said simply. ‘It is the truth. And the very qualities which make you unsuitable—also make you the perfect candidate to be my bride.’

‘You’re still not making any sense,’ she said.

‘Then let me spell it out for you as simply as I can.’ He leaned back, thoroughly at home in the sumptuous private room of his members’ club. ‘You are aware of the recent death of my maternal grandfather?’

‘Yes. My condolences to Your Royal Highness for his loss.’

He inclined his head. ‘In his will, he bequeathed me a piece of land—’

‘Which piece of land?’ she interrupted curiously.

‘Dahabi Makaan.’

She nodded, pursing her lips together to make a silent whistle. ‘Wow,’ she said softly. ‘That is a significant bequest. Not only oil rich, but of considerable strategic importance in the desert region.’

His eyes narrowed with something like admiration. ‘Forgive me for overlooking your comprehensive knowledge of the area.’

‘Please carry on,’ she said coolly, forcing herself not to react to the compliment.

He looked into her eyes. ‘It is, as you say, of considerable strategic importance. A surprising gift from a man from whom I had been estranged for many years.’

‘I knew there was some sort of rift,’ she said cautiously, ‘which was never really documented, although many historians note that the two families were ruptured when your mother married your father.’

‘The reasons are irrelevant,’ he clipped out. ‘All you need to know is that the rift was healed when I visited him on his deathbed. When all the angers and divisions which life can create count for nothing. He reached out and held my hand and it was strange to see how age had diminished him. I could see regret on his features—more regret, perhaps, than is usual just before the moment of death.’

His throat constricted and for the first time Jane thought she saw emotion on his face—a dark and bitter look which made his features appear almost savage, until he appeared to recover himself and the arrogant mask slipped back into place.

‘As he gripped my fingers,’ he continued, ‘he looked into my eyes and told me he had been watching my sheikhdom from a distance and that he approved of the way I ruled my people. I told him that I was not seeking his approval, that he was not in a position to offer it, since he had rejected his only daughter when she chose to marry my father—and that had broken her heart.’

‘What did he say?’ questioned Jane breathlessly, for the dying king had been a formidable presence in the desert world.

‘He laughed,’ said Zayed. ‘And told me I was strong but reckless.’

‘And was he right?’

‘Of course he was. My strength is legendary.’ His ebony gaze mocked her. ‘And I like being reckless.’

And something whispered down Jane’s spine when he said that. Something she’d never actually experienced before but which was instantly recognisable, because she’d studied enough of the erotic and very explicit literature of his country to recognise desire when she felt it. Inappropriate desire which would never be reciprocated. Desire for the desert king. It whispered over her skin with silken fingers. It spread through her veins like warm honey. Beneath the thickness of her sweater, she could feel her breasts begin to prickle.

Her lips suddenly felt dry and hot and she licked them. ‘I still don’t see where any of this is going. You healed your rift with the King and he bequeathed you a valuable piece of land. I should imagine that must give you cause for much rejoicing, instead of being here when you’d clearly much rather be somewhere else.’

He nodded as if to acknowledge the accuracy of her words before his expression suddenly grew serious.

‘It’s not that simple,’ he said softly. ‘Because, unfortunately, the bequest comes with a condition—which is that I must be married in order to inherit. And although the very idea is abhorrent to me, I want that piece of land for my people,’ he said, his voice growing deep with fervour. ‘So much so, that I’m prepared to marry in order to get it.’

‘Then why not ask one of your many girlfriends?’ she questioned archly. ‘Why not ask the mistress it is rumoured you keep in a luxury apartment in Manhattan?’

‘Because she is in love with me,’ he said simply. ‘As most women I date inevitably are. And I cannot marry a woman who is in love with me because love makes women unreasonable. It makes them start longing for things they can never have.’

She frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Because I don’t want love and I don’t wish to be tied to one woman—at least not until I have reached the age when my hair has grown silver and it is time for me to produce an heir. The union I propose with you will be nothing other than a means to an end. A brief union which I intend to be dissolved after six months.’

She looked at him curiously. ‘On what grounds?’

‘Non-consummation, of course.’ He shrugged his powerful shoulders. ‘I will not be having sex with my new bride.’

Jane nodded, her heart pounding painfully against her ribcage, her mind working over the facts as she pieced together the intention behind his bizarre request. ‘So you decided to pick a woman to whom you were not in the least bit attracted?’

‘Exactly.’ He leaned back in his chair, his black eyes lasering into her.

‘And I am that woman.’

‘You most certainly are. I cannot think of a more ideal candidate.’