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