The Sheikh's Reluctant Bride. Teresa Southwick
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in progress for Bha’Khar to join other nations in the Global Commerce Union, a scandal in the royal family would not be tolerated. As the public relations minister had pointed out—the only thing the media loved more than a salacious story was a salacious love story that included a wedding.
But that was not the real reason her presence in Bha’Khar had been expedited. The woman Kardahl had loved was dead, along with their unborn child and a part of him had died with them. Now one woman was the same as the next. It had ceased to matter to him that the king had chosen his bride when Kardahl was just a boy. His heart had turned to stone.
But his confusion was increasing. What was this about her going back to a job? It would explain her scarcity of luggage, but created more questions.
Kardahl frowned. “One who takes vows so cavalierly should not be so swift to point accusing fingers.”
“Vows?” Her smile disappeared. “What are you talking about? What vows?”
“The vows we took by proxy.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t understand.”
Neither did he. But this he knew for certain. “You are my bride.”
CHAPTER TWO
THREE hours ago Jessica had been afraid the family she’d only just found might reject her because she was the result of her mother’s out-of-wedlock pregnancy. Now she had bigger things to worry about, like marriage to a man who didn’t know the meaning of the words vow, dedication and loyalty.
In his palace suite, she paced back and forth in front of the French doors that opened to a balcony overlooking the Arabian Sea while she waited for him to return and tell her it was all a big mistake. They’d have a laugh, then she could get on with the reason she’d come here.
At least she had a great view for her pacing and his suite wasn’t bad, either. Not bad was a gross understatement. It was big. And while she was tempted to explore, she didn’t want to lose her way and get caught snooping. What she could see right here was pretty awesome. Celery-green sofas done in a suedelike fabric faced each other in front of a white brick fireplace. Pictures, each with their own lighting, hung on the walls throughout the spacious living and dining rooms. She didn’t know a darn thing about art but would bet each one cost more money than she made in a month because they were filled with difficult to identify body parts. And they were difficult to identify because they weren’t where they were supposed to be. Kind of like the mess she now found herself in.
How could she be married and not know it? What about the white dress, flowers, rings and vows—preferably of the verbal kind. Her low-heeled pumps clicked on the mosaic tiles in the suite’s foyer as she checked the door to make certain it wasn’t locked, then peeked outside to see if anyone was standing guard there. No and no, she thought, closing the door.
That didn’t mean she wasn’t a victim in some bizarre sex slave ring. She’d seen stories. Granted it was far-fetched. When the royal family had taken her under their wing, she’d never suspected another agenda, but what did she know? She thought proxy marriages had gone out with horse-drawn buggies and hoop skirts.
While she was trying to decide whether or not her luggage would slow her down too much when she made a run for it, the door opened and Kardahl joined her in the living room.
“I have news,” he said.
She tried to read his expression and when she couldn’t, made a hopeful guess. “We’re not married.”
“On the contrary.” He held out a piece of paper. “Is this your signature?”
She took it from him and stared at the familiar scrawl beneath the foreign words. “It looks like mine, but—”
“Were you coerced?” he interrupted.
“No. But I remember a stack of paperwork taller than me and—”
“Not such a very great stack of paperwork then,” he interrupted, looking her over from head to toe.
She was going to ignore that. “Not being fluent in the Bha’Kharian language, I couldn’t read this. The man who was supposed to be helping me said it was nothing important. That I was simply giving my permission to open records that would unite me with my family.”
Kardahl nodded as he took the paper she handed back and set it on the glass-topped coffee table. “In his overzealous desire to serve the king, he may have stretched the truth.”
“He lied?”
“Not exactly. Your signature gives your permission to access records, but it also bears witness to your agreement to the marriage by proxy.”
“That’s absurd. This is 2007. No one gets married by proxy.”
“I assure you it is quite real and legal.”
As yet, she wasn’t outraged to the point where she missed the irony of being this man’s bride. Nine out of ten women would be alternately doing the dance of joy and counting their lucky stars. But Kardahl got reluctant woman number ten. But irony worked both ways. She was apparently legally married to her worst nightmare. That kicked her outrage into overdrive.
She put her hands on her hips. “How do you know I’m not already married?”
“Do you not think someone would have checked that?”
“I never thought I’d be in a proxy-marriage situation. How did this happen?” she asked, pacing again. “Why did I draw the short straw?” At his blank look she translated, “Why me?”
“Your mother’s lineage can be traced back to royalty and there is a long friendship between our families. Many years ago it was decided that her offspring would become the bride of the king’s second son—”
“What if she’d had a boy?” Jess demanded.
“But she didn’t,” he pointed out, far too calmly as his gaze lingered on her breasts. “So when your attorney made inquiries and you were located, plans for the union proceeded.”
This was wrong in so many ways, she didn’t know where to start. Actually that wasn’t entirely accurate. “Did you sign one of those papers, too?”
“Yes.”
“Voluntarily?”
“Yes,” he answered far too patiently.
The playboy prince signed a marriage agreement without a gun to his head? “Why?”
“It is my destiny. The spare heir is required to marry and produce children.”
Since when was he the poster boy for following the rules? “What if I’d never been found?” When he opened his mouth, she held up a finger to stop him. “Don’t you dare say ‘but you were.’”
The corners of his mouth curved up. “It is not necessary since you have said it for me.”
“Then I’ll rephrase—What prevented you from getting married before this? If I’d never turned up, would you never have married?”
“A suitable bride would have been selected.” He shrugged. “When the time was right.”
“So the time was right now? Because I was located?”
“That—and other things.” He looked like a naughty little boy caught red-handed.
The expression was cute, she thought, before her outraged self scratched the observation and replaced it. He was no boy. The girly parts of her recognized and responded to his masculinity against her will and better judgment.
“What did you do?” she managed to ask.
“Why do you assume that I am at fault without really knowing me?”
She folded her arms over her chest and looked up. “How can you ask that with a straight face. This is you we’re talking about. The