The Sheikh's Wayward Wife. Sandra Marton
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assault team carrying modern weapons.” The sultan smiled, obviously pleased with himself and his plan. “Not that you will need them. Butrus will be impressed. Your presence will make it clear that the match has the blessing of our house. No one will dare lift a hand against you and the throne you represent.”
“This is out of the question,” Khalil said sharply. “I have an important negotiation waiting for me in New York.”
“There is nothing more important than respect for your country.”
“Acting as an errand boy to deliver a woman who’s been sold to a renegade has nothing to do with respect for my country!”
“You are being given a great honor. And no one has been sold to anyone.”
Khalil snorted. “Tell that to yourself, Father, not to me.”
The sultan’s face darkened. “You forget yourself,” he said, his voice colder than Khalil had ever heard it.
A muscle in Khalil’s jaw flickered.
“Father,” he said in as reasonable a tone as he could manage, “I’m sure your ministers think this is a good plan but—”
“The plan is mine.”
“All right,” Khalil said, even though he didn’t believe it, “it’s yours. But—”
“But,” his father said brusquely, “it goes against all your Western sensibilities.”
“No. Yes. Damn it, there are other ways. Not just to get her there. To secure an alliance.”
The sultan folded his arms. “Name one.”
Name one. Name one. Khalil ran his hands through his hair, until it stood up in small, black-as-midnight tufts.
“Offer Butrus money. Omar, too. Pay them to declare peace.”
“Money is not the same as a blood tie.”
“Gold, then. Diamonds. Oil. We have incredible riches—”
“Are you paying any attention at all? Treasure is nothing when measured against the bonds formed by blood. This marriage will take place, and you will be the bride’s escort.”
Silence filled the space between the men. Khalil understood the importance of filial duty, of princely obligation, but he had left home at eighteen, spent four years taking his undergraduate degree at Harvard, another taking a graduate degree in business at Wharton.
There had been some discussion about all of that. Jal, one of his father’s senior ministers, had disapproved.
“There is always the danger, sir,” he had warned, “that the prince may begin to favor the ways of the West over the ways of Al Ankhara.”
The sultan had declared that nonsense. So had Khalil.
Now, and not for the first time, he could feel himself torn between the old ways and the new. More than that, he was to be an integral part of something he knew was wrong. To force a woman into a marriage she surely could not want…
“The woman knows what is expected of her.”
Khalil looked up. Had he spoken aloud or were his thoughts so clearly written on his face?
“She has agreed to it?”
“She has.” The sultan’s expression turned wry. “Do you think this is a hardship for her, Khalil? I assure you, it is not. She is pleased, though she is clever enough not to show it. Consider what awaits her. The status of being Butrus’s wife. His wealth. His power. Those things will become hers.”
Only if Butrus permitted it, Khalil thought. The woman, Layla, would really be little more than his slave.
“Talk to her yourself, if it will make you feel better.”
“No,” Khalil said sharply. “I have no wish to—”
“My lord.”
Khalil spun around. The two women he had seen on the beach and the thug who called himself a bodyguard had appeared on the crushed-marble path. They fell to the ground in respect—and revealed the woman who stood behind them.
Layla.
She had been beautiful in the moonlit night. Now, with the sun on her, Khalil could see that she wasn’t beautiful.
She was exquisite.
Her hair was the color of wild honey, streaked with what looked to be a dozen lighter tones of gold. Her eyes were enormous blue pools tipped with thick, dark lashes. Her nose was small, her mouth full, the features delicately set in a slightly triangular face. It gave her the look of an elegant feline. Her body, not hidden by a man’s djellebah but encased instead in a long gown of ivory silk, was lushly female.
Khalil’s response was as swift as it had been the prior night. He felt himself harden, felt the sudden thrum of the blood in his veins.
“Show respect to the prince and the sultan, girl!”
His glance flew past her. Omar al Assad, her father, stood behind her, his face drawn into a ferocious scowl. He slapped his hand on her shoulder; Khalil heard the hiss of her breath, saw her wince as she dropped to her knees.
A growl sounded in his throat. He started forward but the sultan put out a hand and stopped him.
“I have brought Omar to the palace so he may be informed of our new plan, Khalil. As for this—” the sultan shrugged “—a father disciplining his daughter,” he said mildly. “It is nothing.”
Omar nodded. “She is headstrong, but she will learn. Butrus will see to it. Isn’t that right, girl?”
Layla lifted her head. Her eyes glittered. With what? Defiance? Anger? Mockery?
“Are you deaf? Answer me when I speak to you!”
“She heard you,” Khalil said coldly. “We all heard you.”
“Your Highness.” Omar’s voice, directed at Khalil, was silky smooth. “We are honored to know that you will escort my daughter to her wedding.”
“I have not said that I would.”
“But your father assured me—”
Khalil walked slowly to Layla. “Look at me,” he said softly. He put his hand under her chin and gently raised her face until their eyes met. “Do you know what is about to happen to you?”
“Answer the prince,” Omar snarled.
Khalil silenced him with a look. Then he gazed into Layla’s eyes again.
“Do you know?”
She nodded.
“Have you agreed that it should happen?”
“She does not need to—”
“My father, the sultan, tells me that you have agreed. Is that so?”
Did her mouth tremble? Omar stepped forward. She flinched, and Khalil gave the man a look that made him turn pale.
“I am speaking to your daughter.”
“I only wish to remind her to show respect to you, my lord.”
“Move away, Omar al Assad. I do not want you standing next to me.” The man’s mouth thinned but he did as commanded. Khalil knelt before Layla. He heard the gasps of those around him but he ignored them. “Answer me,” he said quietly. “Have you agreed to this wedding?”
There was a long, long silence. He watched the tip of her tongue sweep across her lips. It was a very pink tongue, a delicate one, and he almost groaned at the unconscious sexuality of the simple gesture.
“Speak freely, Layla. You are safe here.”
Again, the tip of her tongue swept across her lips. “Na’am,”