The Sheikh and the Pregnant Bride

Qadir nodded slowly. “Perhaps not today,” he said slowly. “But I see possibilities.”

“That’s what I was saying,” Victoria told him.

Possibilities? What did that mean?

Maggie told herself not to read too much into the word. Besides, what did she care about Qadir’s opinion on anything but the car? He was just some guy. Royal, but still.

“I already have some dresses ordered,” Victoria continued. “I could have them send a few more in Maggie’s impossibly skinny size. With her hair up and in high heels, she could be a princess.”

Maggie glared at her friend. What was Victoria up to?

“I agree.” Qadir nodded. “Maggie, you will attend the ball.”

With that, he turned and left.

Maggie waited until she was sure they were alone, then glared at Victoria. “What were you doing?”

“Throwing you in the path of a handsome prince. My quest for a royal connection has failed miserably, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be successful.”

“But I’m not interested in him that way.” She didn’t think she would ever be interested in another man. Loving and losing Jon had been too painful.

“Can you honestly look at me and tell me you aren’t the tiniest bit excited by the thought of dressing up in fancy clothes and dancing with Qadir?”

“We’ll dance?”

“See! You’re interested.”

“No. It’s just I’ve never done anything like that.”

“All the more reason to do it,” Victoria told her. “Come on—it will be fun. We’ll both be fabulous and the princes won’t be able to resist us.”

Maggie had a feeling she would always be resistible, but allowed herself to momentarily wonder what it would be like to dance with a prince.

Chapter Three

“What is the longest river in America?” the guy on the radio asked.

“The Missouri,” Maggie said as she undid the first screw in the window cranks from the door. “The Mississippi is the biggest, but the Missouri is the longest.”

“Ah, the Mississippi,” the contestant said.

“No, that’s not it.”

“Ha!” Maggie crowed as she set the screw into the small labeled plastic container next to her. “You have to pay attention in school.”

“Or have a mind for trivia,” Qadir said from his place at her desk.

She looked at the open office door and sighed. “You can hear me?”

“Obviously.”

The American radio station in El Deharia ran a quiz every afternoon at two. She’d gotten in the habit of listening. Usually she was alone.

But today Qadir had stopped by to check out the parts list she’d put together. She’d sort of forgotten he was still in her office.

At least she’d gotten the answer right, she told herself. It beat getting it wrong.

Qadir stepped out into the garage. “You’ll need access to a machine shop,” he said.

“Along with a good machinist. I can explain what I want, but I can’t make it myself.”

She was rebuilding the engine rather than buying a new one. Unfortunately time had not been kind to many of the original parts and replacements were difficult, sometimes impossible, to find. She would buy what she could and have the others custom-made.

She smiled. “I’m sure you have contacts for me.”

“I do.”

“I figured. The thrill of being royal.”

“There are many.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“It is all I know. But there are disadvantages. My brothers and I were sent away to English boarding school when we were eight or nine. The headmaster was determined to treat us as if we were regular students. It was an adjustment, to say the least.”

“Doesn’t sound like fun,” she admitted, grateful for her normal life. “Were the other boys friendly?”

“Some of them. Some were resentful, and eager to show us they were stronger.”

“Bullies.” She went to work on the second screw.

“Sometimes. My brothers and I learned how to fit in very quickly.”

“At least you had a palace to come home to.”

“And a pony.”

She laughed. “Of course. Every royal child deserves a pony. I had to make do with a stuffed one. It was one of the few girly toys I liked. I was more into doing things with my dad than hanging out with the other little girls in the neighborhood. I hated playing dolls. I wasn’t very popular.”

“Until the boys got old enough to appreciate you.”

He was being kind, or assuming something that wasn’t true. Either way, she didn’t know how to respond. That combined with a particularly stubborn screw caused her to slip and jam the screwdriver into the side of her hand.

“Ouch,” she yelped and set down the screwdriver. Blood welled up.

Qadir was at her side in an instant, taking her hand in his. “What have you done?”

His touch was warm and sure. “Ah, nothing. I’m fine.”