Читать книгу Chosen As The Sheikh's Royal Bride - Дженни Лукас, Jennie Lucas - Страница 10

SO THAT WAS THAT.

The next morning, when Beth heard the hard knock at the door, she lifted her backpack to her shoulder and looked at her luxurious hotel suite one last time.

In the soft morning light, the suite looked magical, like a princess’s bedchamber, with a fireplace and four-poster bed, a wrought-iron balcony edged with pink flowers, and a white marble bathroom bigger than her whole studio apartment back home. She’d taken pictures to show her friends back at the thrift shop.

Outside, the morning sun was soft over Paris. Beneath the Eiffel Tower, white neoclassical buildings glowed as pink as frosted cupcakes. She saw birds flying over the avenue Montaigne, soaring over the fresh blue sky.

Beth looked at her hoodie and jeans, which had been freshly cleaned and pressed by the hotel staff overnight. Unlike the other brides, she’d traveled light, with only a backpack, which was now stuffed with her neatly folded silk cocktail dress from last night. The king’s staff had made it clear they didn’t want it, and she knew someone at the thrift shop certainly would.

She took a deep breath. She was glad to be returning home. She didn’t belong here, in this glamorous world.

Her place was in her Houston neighborhood, in her studio walk-up apartment near the community college, where she’d been taking part-time classes until her heartbreak over Wyatt made her drop out. Since then, her part-time job at the thrift shop had become full-time, and she biked to work each morning, rain or shine, because she couldn’t afford car insurance, much less a car. She sometimes worked extra jobs to make ends meet, and in her spare time, she volunteered at the local soup kitchen, the food pantry and the senior center. That was the life she knew.

But Beth wanted to remember this Paris adventure, down to the last moment. Because she knew it would never happen again.

After her shock last night, realizing she’d been talking to the actual king the whole time in the garden, she’d expected to be awake all night, agonizing about what an idiot she’d been. Instead, she’d slept like a log, wrapped in soft cotton sheets that had a thread count higher than her paycheck. After a long, hot shower that morning in the palatial bathroom, she’d eaten breakfast in bed, brought by room service, with toasted baguettes called tartines slathered with butter and marmalade, and fresh, flaky chocolate croissants that melted literally like butter in her mouth, and drunk fresh-squeezed orange juice and strong coffee with fresh cream.

But her time as a princess was over. When her phone buzzed an hour before, she hadn’t even bothered to check the message. She already knew what it would say: she was being sent home.

Now, the knock. She hesitated, staring at the door. Once she answered it, she knew she’d find a servant waiting to escort her to the minibus that would take her back to the airport, along with the rest of the rejected ten. How could it be otherwise, when after criticizing a famous movie star, Beth had actually insulted the king as well—right to his handsome, sensual face?

Beth flinched, remembering how stupid she’d felt when she’d finally spoken to the man on the throne, only to discover it was just a regular chair, and the man was just a vizier and that only the ten women to make the next cut would have the honor of actually meeting the king in person.

“But where is he now?” she’d asked as a creeping suspicion built inside her.

The vizier replied with a disapproving stare, “His Highness is busy with affairs of state.”

And then, like a flash, Beth had known.

Why aren’t you in the ballroom?

Because I don’t want to be.

Who else but the king could choose whether he wished to attend such a gala in his own residence? Who else could be so arrogant, wear such a well-cut suit and be able to lounge in the residence’s garden at his leisure? She remembered the handler’s shocked look, and the handsome stranger’s small shake of the head.

You must work for the sheikh? she’d asked. Amused, he’d replied, Every day.

As she stood beside the vizier in the ballroom, her horrible suspicion built to certainty. Then she’d felt someone’s gaze behind her. Turning, she’d seen the handsome stranger himself now beside the door, watching her across the ballroom with cool, inscrutable eyes. And she’d remembered her own embarrassing words. I don’t know why any of these women would want to marry the king... This whole thing is just one camera short of a reality show.

At any time, the king could have revealed himself and stopped her. Instead, he’d just let her carry on making a fool of herself. Angry and humiliated, Beth had glared at him for a moment in the ballroom. Then she’d turned away, cheeks burning. When her interview with the vizier was finally over, the king was nowhere in sight.

She told herself she was relieved she’d never see him again. Just being near him had done crazy things to her. She shivered, her cheeks even now flooding with color at the memory.

He should have had the common decency to tell her who he was, straightaway. The man had no manners whatsoever. And if she ever saw him again—

The knock pounded again on her door, even harder and louder. Gripping the straps of her backpack, Beth answered the door with a sigh. “All right, I’m coming—”

Standing in the doorway, she saw King Omar himself, dressed from head to toe in regal sheikh’s robes.

Her jaw dropped as she took an involuntary step back. His black eyes pierced her. His powerful body seemed to fill every inch of the doorway as he looked down at her grimly.

“So. You know who I am.”

It was a statement, not a question. Trembling, she nodded. All her earlier ideas of pointing out his bad manners flew straight out the window. Her knees were trembling, and all she could think was that he’d discovered she wasn’t Edith. Why else would the king himself come to see her, rather than just having his servants escort her onto the Minibus of Shame?

“Why are you here?” she whispered through dry lips.

“I have good news and bad news, Dr. Farraday.” His husky voice was faintly mocking. “The good news is—you’re coming with me.”

Where? To jail? “Then what’s the bad news?” she blurted out.

“I’m afraid word has gotten out.” He paused, and fear rushed through her body, until he continued smoothly, “Paparazzi have surrounded this hotel. I’m here to escort you and the others out the back.” He motioned to a servant hovering behind him in the hotel hallway. “Saad will get your luggage.”

She indicated the backpack on her shoulder. “This is all I have. This, and the clothes on my back.”

The king’s dark eyes flickered over her. “I will send for more clothes for you.”

Beth shook her head in confusion. “It’s not necessary—”

“Isn’t it?” His gaze lingered over her oversize gray hoodie and baggy jeans as she stood in the hotel suite. She suddenly wished she had something nicer to wear. But that didn’t make sense. If he hadn’t learned her real identity, which it seemed he hadn’t, what did she care what the king thought of her as he took her to the airport?

And yet, somehow, she did care. Remembering how his darkly intense eyes had traced down her bare throat last night to her overflowing breasts, she blushed. Last night, it had felt like she’d wandered into a romantic dream, with the two of them alone in a moonlit Parisian garden.

Dream? No. He’d made a fool of her.

The third man to do that, she thought, and her heart lifted to her throat. “I don’t understand,” she said stiltedly. “The good news is that you’re taking me to the airport personally?”

“No.” His dark eyebrows lowered. “Back to the mansion.”

Beth frowned, bewildered. “All twenty of us are going back?”

“Only the ten who are staying another night.”

Beth stared at him.

“I made it to the top ten?” she whispered. It was so unexpected she hugged the thought close to her chest.

The sheikh frowned at her. “You are not pleased?”

Beth’s feelings were so mixed up she hardly knew how she felt. “Um...are you sure it’s not a mistake?”

He snorted, then tilted his head, considering her. “You are different.”

A flutter went through her heart. “I am?”

“Yes.” Their eyes locked, and his gaze electrified her body, from her fingertips to her toes and everywhere between. “So will you come?”

No. She had to say no. She’d gotten the million dollars for Edith. Only a fool would press her luck—

“Of course,” she blurted out.

A slow-rising smile lifted his sensual lips. “This way, if you please, Dr. Farraday.”

Dr. Farraday. As Beth walked with him down the hotel hallway, his servant following behind, her heart fell back to her canvas sneakers.

Remembering how angry she’d been at him for not disclosing his identity in the garden, she felt ashamed. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

And if he found out—when he found out—

Oh, this was getting dangerously complicated. She’d never imagined he’d choose her to stay another night, not in a million years!

But one more day would mean another million for Edith’s research. Then tomorrow, she’d go home for sure. Surely she could fake it for another twenty-four hours. No one the wiser, and no one hurt.

But as she left the Paris hotel, going out into the bright sunlight where the limos waited, Beth barely noticed the paparazzi with their lifted cameras and shouted questions, and the bodyguards holding them back. Looking up at the handsome, powerful billionaire king beside her, she felt equal parts intoxicated—and afraid.

For the first time since she could remember, she’d been chosen for something. The king didn’t think Beth was ordinary. He thought she was different. That she was special.

The thought warmed her all over. Until she remembered he hadn’t chosen Beth.

He’d chosen Edith.

* * *

“You collected the Farraday woman from her hotel suite? Yourself?”

Khalid’s voice was shocked.

“I had no choice. She wouldn’t answer the phone.” Standing in the grand salon back at his Paris residence, Omar looked out irritably at the hordes of paparazzi now clustered outside the tall wrought-iron gates. Someone had tipped off the press about the bride market. Who? He wondered grimly. One of his scorned would-be brides? Or perhaps one of the ten he’d kept?

Perhaps Sia Lane, the movie star Dr. Farraday had called “downright mean,” had decided to hedge her bets with a little more publicity?

Whoever’d done it, the story had exploded instantly. It was too juicy for the media to treat it otherwise, with the famous playboy king of a small Middle Eastern kingdom bringing women from around the globe to choose a queen. The story was making news everywhere.

It’s one camera short of a reality show, Dr. Farraday had said. She was right.

Dr. Edith Farraday. Just thinking of her warmed Omar. She’d looked shocked in the hotel suite two hours before, as if she’d never expected to be chosen.

Perhaps he’d been wrong to choose her. But how could he send away the one woman who was different—the one who made his body come alive? He’d told himself that all his initial concern was overcautious. So he was attracted to her. What of it?

Attraction wasn’t love, or the kind of mind-blowing lust that caused civilizations to crumble.

He just wanted her. And there was some mystery in her that he couldn’t quite understand. Her lovely expression, frank and honest, had a way of changing, becoming guarded. As if she were hiding something from him. But what?

Today, he’d find out.

Then he’d send her home tomorrow.

“You shouldn’t have escorted her yourself. It’s not how it’s supposed to be done,” Khalid continued, obviously disgruntled. “If you escort one lady from her hotel suite, you must do the same for the rest. Otherwise it gives the appearance of favoritism.”

Omar dropped the curtain abruptly and turned to face the other man. “Dr. Farraday is my favorite,” he said bluntly.

His vizier’s expression soured. “But surely, she isn’t as beautiful or elegant as—”

“Say Laila al-Abayyi’s name, and I’m sending you straight back to Samarqara.”

The other man paused, and his mouth snapped shut. Then he ventured, “Dr. Farraday does not seem to have the same polish as the others. Perhaps she has spent too much time in her lab. The brief time I interviewed her, she was far too artless and frank in her speech. The council would not approve of her obvious lack of diplomacy.”

Thinking of Dr. Farraday’s casual, accidental insults to him in the garden, Omar was forced to agree. He said shortly, “She amuses me. Nothing more.”

“Ah.” His vizier’s face looked relieved.

“I collected Dr. Farraday from her suite because it was expedient. And I did not escort her to her room here.”

Although heaven knew he’d wanted to.

That morning, the other nine women had all rushed from their hotel rooms immediately after the phone call informing them they’d made the top ten. They’d clustered together, filling up the first limousine. Leaving Omar alone with the luscious Dr. Farraday in the second limo.

Sitting beside her on the drive from the hotel back to his Paris mansion, he’d been aware of her, so aware. It had taken all his willpower to make polite conversation with her, when his mind had been on something else altogether. He’d wanted to pull up the privacy screen to block out the view of the driver and bodyguard in front, so he could push her against the soft calfskin leather of the wide back seat, pull off that ridiculously baggy sweatshirt and discover the delights of the amazing curves she’d flaunted last night.

“Very well, sire...” his vizier said haltingly. “Of course you must enjoy your amusements in the midst of a serious business. So long as you consider your actual choice wisely. It took some trouble to bring these women to Paris.”

“Some money, you mean,” Omar said coldly. “I heard about the payments.”

“You are displeased with my method?” Khalid shook his head. “It’s nothing to your fortune. A mere rounding error.”

He glowered. “That isn’t the point.”

“Then what is?” His friend looked stubborn. “A bride price is part of the tradition, you know that. Isn’t it better for the payment to go to the brides themselves, rather than the antiquated custom of paying their fathers?”

Omar could hardly argue with that. “Of course,” he bit out. “But still...”

“Still?”

He could hardly explain that it had hurt his pride. His friend would say, with some cause, that it was well deserved. He growled, “I never gave you authorization.”

“You just told me to arrange it. And made it quite clear you didn’t wish to be bothered with the details.”

Another thing Omar could not argue with. He scowled.

Khalid’s eyebrows rose. “And surely you approve of the results. All these women are beautiful and brilliant. Just as you commanded.”

“Yes,” he was forced to concede. Based on their pictures and resumes alone, they were more accomplished than he’d ever imagined. “Assuming they are willing to give up those brilliant careers to be Queen of Samarqara.”

“And why would they not?” Khalid replied indignantly. “Being Samarqara’s Queen is surely the greatest honor any woman could imagine.”

Omar hesitated. He’d assumed the same thing himself, and yet suddenly he was not so sure.

He himself had been forced to leave college at twenty-one and ascend the throne, casting all personal ambitions aside after his father had died. But he’d known that would be his fate from the day his older brother had died. As the only heir of a country that could still remember the horrors of civil war, Omar had always known he must put his country’s needs above his own. Any man of honor would have done the same.

And so it was with this marriage. After the awful tragedy with Ferida, he’d put marriage off indefinitely. Until, in New York on a recent diplomatic visit, he’d seen an elderly couple walking down Fifth Avenue. They hadn’t been special, or rich, or beautiful. But they’d held hands tenderly as they walked together. The man had gazed down lovingly at his wife, and she at him. And Omar had felt a sharp pain in his throat.

He did not expect that kind of devotion. Why would he? His own parents’ marriage had been a disaster. Selfishly trying to find love only brought pain, or worse—death.

Coming home, Omar had ordered his vizier to begin the preparations for the bride market. He wanted this marriage finished. Done. Before he ever let himself again be tempted by something so destructive as a foolish dream.

He would take a bride who felt the same. A woman who’d put others first, as Omar did. Who would see the sacrifice not just as a burden, but an honor.

At least most of the time.

“One of the ten women would see it as a greater honor than the rest,” his vizier said slowly. “She has no other career than to be a dutiful daughter and the pride of her people. She already speaks our language, knows our customs—”

Omar cut him off with a glare. Setting his jaw, he said with some restraint, “Bring the ten in now.”

His vizier’s jaw tightened, and he looked as if he were biting back words. Then he bowed and went to open the door to the grand salon. Outside, in the elegant hallway, ten women were waiting.

Eight of them, he’d meet for the first time. The ninth, he was trying to avoid. The tenth, he could hardly stop thinking about. He’d speak with Dr. Farraday last. She would be his dessert. His whipped cream. His cherry on—

Realizing he was starting to get aroused, he stopped the thought cold.

Because his vizier was right. As much as he desired Edith Farraday, she seemed an unlikely queen. Aside from her lack of tact, it was almost impossible that she’d be willing to give up her life as a research scientist. It was obviously her obsession, in spite of her strange reluctance to talk about it. And Laila was a nonstarter.

So he needed to seriously consider the other eight. Any one of them could be an appropriate queen, one the council would approve of, and if he were lucky, one he could admire and respect. So, for the rest of the afternoon and evening, he’d meet with each woman privately, for as long or short a time as he deemed appropriate.

But the plans for today had been that he’d get to know his ten potential brides by touring the sights of Paris with each of them separately. That would be more difficult with paparazzi outside the gate, holding up their cameras as reporters yelled obnoxious questions. Anywhere they tried to go, the paparazzi would follow.

But at least it would not last long. Tomorrow morning, he’d send five more women home. The remaining five, the true contenders, would return with him to Samarqara to meet the council in preparation for the main event: the bride market itself.

Now, standing beside the banquet table, Omar watched as the ten women entered the grand salon of his Paris mansion.

Nine women looked like carbon copies, though all in different shades and colors—classically beautiful, slender, elegant, tall and perfectly dressed in sleek designer outfits.

Then there was the last one, shorter than the rest, and rounder. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright, her light brown hair wavy and wild. Against his will, his eyes traced over her. Her curves were invisible beneath the baggy hoodie and jeans. But his body stirred, becoming instantly hard.

Why her?

Omar couldn’t answer the question, even to himself.

As the women entered the grand salon one by one, he stood near the end of the banquet table in his full sheikh’s robes, making eye contact with each one, giving each a welcoming nod, as he did during any other diplomatic endeavor. The women each smiled, or preened, or nodded back coolly, in their turn.

And in spite of his best efforts to be open-minded, he found himself unimpressed, in spite of all their obvious charms. He was bored by them, beauty, success and all.

Except for the woman who came in last, looking pink-cheeked and miserable, hanging in the back of the salon. The one who wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Dr. Edith Farraday. And again he felt it, along with his powerful attraction—that mystery he couldn’t solve. As Khalid had pointed out, Omar had already made it clear by his attentions that she was his favorite. So why did she hang back, behind the rest? Why did her hazel eyes look haunted and guilty, as if she’d committed some crime?

He didn’t like ambiguity. He wanted her mystery solved. Now. Tonight.

And in a perfect world, he would have solved the mystery with them both naked in bed.

“Welcome,” his vizier said formally, spreading his arms wide in his robes. “I will be presenting each of you in turn to His Highness, the King of Samarqara. Please—” he indicated the tables full of drinks and lavish food “—until your name is called, please feel free to mingle and relax.”

Omar sat down at the chair at the end of the table. Standing beside him, Khalid motioned to the first woman.

“Miss Sia Lane.”

The beautiful blonde came forward and gave a slightly ironic nod, then at his motioned invitation, sat down in the chair beside him. His vizier said gravely, “Sire, Miss Lane is a very well-known actress from Los Angeles, California.”

“Pleased to meet you, Your Highness,” she said.

“And you, Miss Lane.” It wasn’t surprising that his vizier had chosen her to make the cut. She was the world’s most famous beauty, and her chilly glamour reminded him of many of his past mistresses. On paper, Sia Lane would make an excellent bride, a prestigious new member to join any royal family, as when Grace Kelly had become Princess of Monaco or Meghan Markle became Duchess of Sussex.

But when Omar reached out to shake Sia Lane’s hand, her skin felt cold and dry. He felt nothing, in spite of her beauty. He dropped her hand.

“Welcome,” he said gravely. “Thank you for coming to meet me.”

“My pleasure,” the blonde murmured, fluttering her eyelashes at him, arrogantly sure of her own appeal. He recalled Dr. Farraday’s tart assessment: She’s the kind of person who would kick a dog, unless, of course, she believed the dog might be helpful to her career.

Taking his wry smile for praise, the movie star tilted her chin in a practiced move he’d seen in her films. They spoke briefly, then he dismissed her with a polite nod. She seemed almost surprised, as if she’d expected to be proclaimed his queen, here and now.

Khalid called the next woman forward. “Dr. Bere Akinwande.”

“Your Highness,” she said politely, with a short bow. Speaking with her as she sat beside him, he thought Dr. Edith Farraday’s character assessment was correct once again. She seemed an excellent choice to be his queen—a doctor, she spoke six languages, and had been nominated for a Nobel prize. She spoke earnestly of the work she was doing, the difference it could make in the world, and thanked him twice for the “donation” he’d given her. She did not try to flirt. She’d clearly come for the money, but then—he thought again of Dr. Farraday’s important research—could he blame her for that?

Dr. Bere Akinwande was accomplished, intelligent and pretty, but when he shook her hand, again, he felt nothing.

“Laila al-Abayyi,” his vizier intoned, his voice solemn.

Omar repressed his feelings as he was formally introduced to the young Samarqari heiress. Looking in her lovely face, he saw the same black eyes, the same dark beauty, the same masses of long, shiny dark hair that he remembered seeing in her half sister Ferida, fifteen years ago. Ferida, whom he’d arrogantly demanded as his bride, before it had all ended in death and sand—

Dropping her hand, he said shortly, “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye?” Laila said, looking bewildered at being cut off when she’d been in the middle of shyly praising the improvements of his rule.

“You may return to your room. I will not meet with you later.”

“You—you won’t?”

“I thank you for your intercessions with your father. But any further contact between us would be unwelcome.”

Laila turned pale. “Oh. I—I see...” With a hurt glance toward the vizier, the brunette fled the salon.

“Sire,” his vizier said in a low voice for his ears alone, “that was unconscionable—”

“She should not be here.” Omar’s jaw was hard as stone as he turned on him. “Do you understand? I will not marry her. Ever.”

His vizier’s eyes narrowed, then he gave an unsteady nod. Turning, he called the next potential bride’s name.

Omar was glad of the chance to calm the rapid, sickening beat of his heart, as he offered the same polite courtesy to the next woman, then the next, expressing gratitude for their visit to Paris. They always thanked him in return, smiling, their eyes lingering appreciatively over his face and body. So far, so good.

But after that, he started to feel like a bank manager, not a king. The entrepreneur from Germany, tossing her hair, explained in detail that she was seeking investors for her tech start-up. The gymnast from Brazil, smiling flirtatiously, told him of her desire to build an expensive new training facility in São Paulo. The senator from California, her gaze falling to his mouth, wished to discuss favorable trade negotiations for her state’s dairy farmers. And so on.

Many of the women had clearly come to Paris to pursue their career goals, as Dr. Farraday had. Only a few of them seemed blindly ready to toss their important careers away for a Cinderella fantasy that had little to do with the rigors of actual leadership.

He wasn’t sure which was worse.

But he was always aware of the one woman in the background, standing by the wall, hovering in the corners, moving in the shadows. One woman who, in spite of her obvious determination to be invisible, shone out for him like no other.

Finally, his vizier’s voice said grudgingly, “And finally, sire, Dr. Edith Farraday. A well-known cancer researcher from Houston, Texas.”

Watching her as she came forward, Omar could have sworn that she flinched at the sound of her own name. Why? Was she so unwilling to meet with him?

Her earlier words came floating back: I don’t know why any of these women would want to marry the sheikh.

Was it possible that, even though he was so attracted to her, she wasn’t attracted to him at all?

No, surely not. Women always fell at his feet. He was the King of Samarqara, billionaire, absolute ruler of a wealthy kingdom.

But then, was Dr. Edith Farraday, child prodigy, high-minded scientist, the sort of person to be impressed by money and power? For all he knew, she had a boyfriend back home. An ordinary but perfectly satisfying man who was content to let her be the superstar, while he cooked her dinners and rubbed her feet. She might find that sort of man much more appealing to her lifestyle than some playboy king who, until this very moment, had been unable and unwilling to commit to anything beyond his own rule.

It was a discomfiting thought.

“Oh. Hello again,” Edith said uneasily, her eyes darting to the right and left, as if she felt guilty. Guilty?

Was there a boyfriend?

The question set him on edge.

“It’s a pleasure to finally be properly introduced,” Omar said gravely. He looked over her outfit, the exact same hoodie and jeans that she’d worn when he’d knocked on her hotel room door that morning, and tilted his head curiously. “Did the new wardrobe I had sent to your room not meet with your approval?”

“The clothes are beautiful, thank you,” she said, her eyes guarded.

“And yet you are not wearing them.”

“They really weren’t necessary. I’m only going to be here one more day.”

“And a night,” he pointed out.

She looked away evasively. “I suppose. But I knew if I wore them, your people couldn’t return them to the store. So I didn’t touch them.”

Omar stared at her incredulously. “You’re worried about the cost?”

She actually blushed. “I suppose it’s silly but... I don’t like taking advantage of people...”

Then her voice abruptly cut off. Her cheeks turned from pink to bright red.

He frowned, puzzled by her reaction. “You’re not taking advantage. You’re my guest. I want you to be comfortable.”

“Oh, I am,” she said in a strangled voice. She tried to smile, but her face was stiff and awkward.

“Is there some reason you wish to rush back to Houston?” He watched her. “A boyfriend back home?”

Her eyes flashed wide. “What?” she said quickly. “No!”

Omar relaxed. “So you miss your work at the lab, then.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course I do.” She paused, then blurted, “I’d hoped to see more of Paris today. But I was just told that we won’t be allowed to leave the mansion this afternoon?”

“An unfortunate circumstance, with all the paparazzi outside the gate.”

She bit her lip. “I know I’m being silly, it’s just... I didn’t get a chance to see the Louvre yet, or climb the Eiffel Tower. The line for tickets was too long. I was hoping...” Squaring her shoulders, she shook her head. “Ah, well, it doesn’t matter.”

“The Louvre? You like art?”

“I wanted to see the Mona Lisa. Who doesn’t?”

“You’ve never seen it?” It seemed strange she’d never been to Paris before. He was sure the other women had visited many times, for school trips or family vacations, or, as in the case of Laila al-Abayyi, because their families owned lavish penthouses with a view of the Seine.

Dr. Farraday was indeed very busy in the lab, it seemed. Totally and utterly dedicated to her cause since she was a teenager.

Not a bad quality for a queen, an important part of him argued. Sadly it was the part of him that wanted her in his bed.

But Dr. Farraday had a quiet beauty, in a way that perhaps a man wouldn’t notice right away, especially in those baggy jeans and hoodie, with her hair pulled up in a ponytail. She wasn’t even wearing makeup.

As accustomed as Omar was to women constantly trying to get his attention, it was strange indeed to meet a woman who seemed determined to evade it. In fact, if he hadn’t seen her in that tight red dress yesterday, he might have easily overlooked her even now.

Surely not. Was he so shallow as that?

When she didn’t sit down beside him, Omar rose abruptly to his feet. “Thank you for coming to Paris to meet me, Dr. Farraday.”

“No problem.” She gave him a crooked smile. “Thanks for the two million for cancer research.”

He couldn’t look away from her smile, or the way her eyes suddenly sparkled beneath the chandeliers. “You must tell me about your latest scientific breakthroughs.”

The smile on her face dropped away. Why? Because he’d reminded her of the important cancer research she was neglecting to be here? She gave an awkward laugh. “I, uh, don’t like to talk about it. Most people find the details very dull.”

“Try me. I’m not a scientist, but I do keep up on developments in the search for the cure for biphenotypic acute leukemia.”

Her voice was a croak. “You do?”

Omar gave a short nod. “Perhaps later, while discussing your research, we could also discuss an additional donation from my country’s charitable fund.”

There. The perfect bait to make any scientist talk.

And yet she still didn’t.

“Uh—maybe later,” she managed. She glanced around the salon, then leaned forward to whisper, “Why did you really want me to stay in Paris? For an insider’s opinion on your potential brides? Or just for comic relief?”

“Maybe I like your company,” he said. “I enjoyed talking to you in the garden.”

“You should have told me who you were...” Then she shook her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”