The Sheikh's Defiant Bride. Sandra Marton
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have a pleasant personality. She would be capable of carrying on appropriate dinner conversation in the circles in which he moved in a manner that would never be confrontational.
In other words, the perfect wife would understand her role as his consort but not as his equal.
A man who would one day ascend the throne needed such a woman. The truth was, any man would want such a woman. And the place to find her was here, among his own people.
The wind moaned and a tiny whirlwind of sand spun before him.
He had been educated in the States; he lived and worked there but from now on, his way of life would be grounded in the customs of Dubaac, where a man ruled his home and his wife.
A harsh cry rang out across the desert. Tariq shaded his eyes, looked up and saw Bashashar sailing high above him.
A sign, some would say. Not that he believed in signs. Still, the more he considered finding a bride, the more appeal he saw in confining his search to Dubaac and, if necessary, the other Nations.
The stallion nuzzled his shoulder. Tariq gathered the reins and mounted.
Problem solved. He would stay in Dubaac a week. Perhaps two, but no more than that.
After all, how difficult could finding a suitable wife possibly be?
CHAPTER ONE
New York City, two months later:
IT WAS not often that His Excellency Sheikh Tariq al Sayf, Crown Prince and Heir to the Throne of Dubaac, made an error in judgment.
Never in business. Even his enemies, who’d said he was too young for the task and had predicted failure when he’d taken over the New York offices of the Royal Bank of Dubaac four years ago, had to admit that the bank had flourished under his hand.
He rarely made mistakes in his personal life, either. Yes, an occasional former lover had wept and called him a cold-hearted bastard when he ended a relationship but it wasn’t his fault.
He was always truthful, if perhaps a bit too blunt.
Forever was of no interest to him. He went out of his way to make that clear to women. Forever meant a wife, marriage, children—things that he’d known he must have in the future…
But the future had turned out to be now.
And so he’d stood under the hot desert sun of his homeland and told himself he would find a wife in a week. Two, at the most. After all, how difficult could that be?
Standing at the wall of glass in his huge corner office, Tariq looked out over the Hudson River in lower Manhattan and scowled.
Not difficult at all, as it had turned out.
Impossible, was more like it.
“Idiot,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
Two weeks at home had stretched into three and then four. His father had hosted an elegant state dinner to which he’d invited every high-ranking family in the country that had an eligible daughter.
Tariq had found fault with all of them.
Next, his father had hosted a dinner and invited high-ranking families with eligible daughters from all the Nations of their world. Tariq still flinched at the memory. All those young women, lined up to be presented to him, every one of them fully aware of why she was there…
He’d said “hello, how are you?”; he’d kissed their hands, made inane conversation, watched them titter and blush and never look him in the eye because young women of good reputation would not do such an outlandish thing.
He’d bought horses this same way, he’d thought suddenly, and once that image had lodged itself in his head, that was how he’d viewed them all. As mares, docilely awaiting the stallion’s selection.
“Well?” his father had said impatiently, at the end of that second dinner. “Which one do you like?”
None.
They were too tall. Too short. Too thin. Too rounded. They talked too much. They didn’t talk enough. They were introverted, extroverted… Frustrated, angry at himself for failing to do what had to be done, Tariq had returned to New York a month ago.
Maybe he’d been wrong about American women. Maybe he’d find one here who would meet his requirements. When he thought it over, he’d realized he’d overlooked several things that might make them desirable choices.
On the whole, American women were attractive. All that sun, braces on their teeth in childhood, lots of vitamins and calcium…
Such things added up.
And they were socially adept, good at parties, conversant in the kinds of talk that kept people smiling but raised no hackles.
Perhaps best of all, they were in love with titles. The ones he’d met over the years had made it embarrassingly clear they’d do anything to snag a husband who had royal blood.
Of course, until now, the more obvious they’d made that, the quicker he’d fled…but that was before.
Now, an appropriate candidate’s eagerness to marry into royalty was an advantage.
At any rate, he’d decided, it would do no harm to extend his search. Look around New York and see what he could find.
The answer was, nothing.
Tariq had accepted endless invitations for sails on the Sound, summer parties in Connecticut and charity events in the Hamptons. He’d taken an endless list of women to dinner, to the theater, to the concerts in Central Park they all seemed to adore despite the bad acoustics and the sullen heat and humidity of Manhattan.
He’d dated so many women that after a while, he’d run the risk of calling them by the wrong names, and where had it gotten him?
“Nowhere,” he said aloud, his tone grim.
He wasn’t any closer to finding the proper candidate for marriage than he’d been two months ago.
As they’d been when he’d confined his search to his homeland, the women were too everything—including too eager to please. No downcast eyes here in the States but the intent was the same.
Yes, your highness. Of course, your highness. Oh, I agree completely, your highness.
Damn it, did he have a sign hanging around his neck declaring himself in the market for a wife?
Not that he didn’t want an obedient wife. He did. Certainly, he did. After all, he would someday be the leader of his people. It would not serve his purposes to marry a woman who was not respectful.
Tariq narrowed his eyes.
Then why, once a prospective candidate seemed attractive enough—though none, to his surprise, was quite the precise physical specimen a wife of his ought to be—still, once a candidate’s appearance was acceptable, why did he resort to what even he suspected were stupid tests?
He’d tell a joke that had no punch line. Make a foolish comment about world affairs. Then he’d wait, though not for long. Every time, the woman he was secretly vetting for matrimony would laugh merrily or nod her overcoiffed head like a bobble doll, and he’d look at his watch and say, “My, look at the time, I didn’t realize it was so late…”
On top of that—not that he was a prude—most of them were far too sexual. Well, not exactly sexual. Obvious. That was the word. A man wanted a wife who enjoyed sex but he also wanted her to have a certain amount of reserve.
And, yes, he knew that was sexist and chauvinistic but—
But, by Ishtar, he’d dug himself into one hell of a deep hole.
Maybe that was why, a couple of weeks ago, over drinks and dinner with his two oldest friends, he’d ended up telling them about his quest.
Khalil and Salim had listened, their faces expressionless.