The Sheikh's Convenient Bride

by Sandra Marton

  But she couldn’t. She couldn’t. She’d always believed in playing by the rules and Jerry Simpson was telling her the rules didn’t mean a thing. He was beaming at her now, certain he had her beat.

  He didn’t.

  “You’re wrong,” she said quietly. “Wrong about me, Jerry. I’m not going to let you and the Prince of Darkness shove me aside.”

  Simpson’s smile tilted. “Don’t be stupid, Megan. I just told you, you can’t win a suit against us.”

  “Maybe not, but think of the publicity! It’ll be bad for you—we both know what the senior partners think about negative publicity. And it’ll be worse for the sheikh. Suliyam’s floating on a sea of oil and minerals, but once investors hear his backward little country’s up to its neck in a human rights lawsuit, I’ll bet they’ll gallop in the other direction.”

  Simpson wasn’t smiling at all now. Good, Megan thought, and leaned in for the kill.

  “You yank this job away from me,” she said, “I’ll see to it that Suliyam’s dirty linen is hung out for the world to see.” She stepped past her boss, then turned and faced him one last time. “Be sure and tell the exalted Pooh-Bah that, Mr. Simpson.”

  It had seemed the perfect exit line and she’d stalked away, realizing too late that she’d abandoned her own office, not Simpson’s, but no way in hell would she have turned back.

  As for her threat—she wouldn’t take that back, either, even though it was meaningless. She knew it and she didn’t doubt that Simpson knew it, too. He was an oily little worm but he wasn’t stupid.

  Her career meant everything to her. She’d devoted herself to it. She wasn’t like her mother, who’d cheerfully handed her life over to a man so he could do with it as he chose. She wasn’t like her sister, Fallon, whose beauty had been her ticket to independence. She wasn’t like her sister, Bree, who seemed content to drift through life.

  No, Megan had thought as she yanked open the ladies’ room door, no, she’d taken a different path. Two degrees. Hard work. A steady climb to the top in a field as removed from the glittery world of chance in which she’d grown up as night was from day.

  Was she really going to toss it all aside to make a feminist point?

  She wasn’t.

  She wasn’t going to sue anyone, or complain to anyone, or do much of anything except, when she got past her fury, swallow her pride and tell Jerry she’d thought things over and—and—

  God, apologizing would hurt! But she’d do it. She’d do it. Nobody had ever said life was easy.

  So Megan had stayed in the ladies’ room until she figured the coast was clear. Then she’d started for her office, brewed a pot of coffee, dug out her secret stash of Godiva and spent the next hour mainlining caffeine while she thought up imaginative ways to rid the world of men.

  A little before ten, the PA she shared with three other analysts popped her head in.

  “He’s here,” she’d whispered.

  No need to ask who. Only one visitor was expected this morning. Plus, Sally had that look teenage girls got in the presence of rock stars.

  “I’m happy for you,” Megan replied.

  “Mr. Simpson says…he says he would like you to stay where you are.”

  “I would like Mr. Simpson in the path of a speeding train,” Megan said pleasantly, “but we do not always get what we want.”

  “Megan,” Sally said with urgency, “you’re wired. All that coffee…and, oh wow, you put away half that box of chocolate. You know what happens when you have too much caffeine!”

  She knew. She got edgy. She got irritable. She talked too much. A good thing she realized all that, or she’d show up in the boardroom despite what Simpson would like. Hell, she’d show up because of what he’d like.

  Yes, it was a good thing she knew Sally was right. Staying put was a good idea.

  “Tell Mr. Simpson I’ll stay right here.”

  Sally gave her a worried look. “You okay?”

  “Fine.”

  A lie. She hadn’t been fine. More coffee, more chocolate, and she’d tried not to think about the fact that as she sat obediently in her cubbyhole of an office, Jerry Simpson and His Highness, the Sheikh of Smugness, were probably enjoying a good laugh at her expense.

  And why, she’d thought, should she let that happen? She could show her face, just to prove she might be down but she wasn’t defeated.

  So she’d combed her hair, straightened her panty hose, smoothed down the skirt of her navy suit and headed for the boardroom.

  By the time she’d finally strolled in, the formal handshakes and greetings were over. Jerry Simpson saw her and glowered but what could he do about it without making a scene? The sheikh hadn’t even noticed, surrounded as he was by his adoring fans and his pathetic minions.

  Megan had tossed Jerry a thousand-watt smile meant to let him suffer as he tried to figure out why she’d showed up. Then she’d headed for the buffet table, where she’d sipped more coffee before switching to Mimosas.

  No caffeine there. Only little bubbles.

  All she had to do was hang in long enough to make Simpson squirm. Once the sheikh and his henchmen departed, she could start the ugly business of crawling back into her boss’s good graces, though she doubted he’d let her get that far anytime this decade.

  Well, no rush. The sheikh wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet. Everyone was having too much fun. She could hear Jerry’s voice, and a deeper, huskier one she assumed was the sheikh’s. She could hear occasional trills of girlish laughter, too, punctuated by loud male ha-ha-ha’s.

  Like, for instance, right now. A giggle, a ha-ha, a simpering, “That’s so clever, Your Highness!”

  Megan swung around and stared at Geraldine McBride. Geraldine, simpering? All two hundred tweedy pounds of her?

  Megan snorted.

  She didn’t mean to. She just couldn’t help it, not while she was envisioning the Pooh-Bah riding an Arabian stallion with Geraldine flung across the saddle in front of him.

  She snorted again. Unfortunately the second snort erupted during a second’s pause in the babble of voices. Heads turned in her direction. Jerry looked as if he wanted to kill her. The sheikh looked—

  Mmm-mmm-mmm. He looked spectacular. You had to give him that. The tabloids were right. The man was gorgeous. They had his eye-color wrong, though. It wasn’t gray. The color reminded her of charcoal. Or slate.

  Or storm clouds. That’s how cold those eyes were as they fixed on her.

  There was no mistaking that expression. He didn’t like her. Not in the slightest. Jerry must have told him she’d been a problem.

  So be it.

  I don’t like you, either, she thought coolly, and couldn’t resist raising her glass in mocking salute before she turned away.

  Why care what the sheikh thought? Why care what Jerry thought? Why care what anybody thought? She had her own life to live, her own independence to enjoy—

  “Miss O’Connell,” a deep voice said.

  Megan swung around. The sheikh was coming toward her, his walk slow, deliberate and masculine enough to make her heart bump up into her throat, which was silly. There was nothing to be afraid of, except losing her job, and that wouldn’t happen if she used her head.

  He reached her side. Oh, yes. He was definitely easy on the eyes. Tall, lean, the hint of a well-muscled body under that expensive suit.

  D and D, she thought, and her heart gave another little bump. What she and Bree always joked about.

  Dark and Dangerous.

  He gave her what the people at the other end of the room would surely think was a smile. It wasn’t. That look in his eyes was colder than ever, cold enough to make the hair rise on the nape of her neck. How could such a gorgeous man be such a mean son of a bitch?

  Megan drew herself up. “Your Mightiness.”

  His eyes bored into hers again. Then he lifted his hand. That was all. No wave, no turning around, nothing but that upraised hand. It was enough. Someone said something—her boss, maybe
, or one of the sheikh’s henchmen—and people headed for the door.

  Scant seconds later, the room was empty.

  Megan smiled sweetly. “Must be nice, being emperor of the universe.”

  “It must be equally nice, not caring what people think of you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  His gaze moved over her, from her hair to her toes and then back up again. “You’re drunk.”

  “I am not.”

  “Put down that glass.”

  Megan’s eyebrows. “What?”

  “I said, put the glass down.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “Someone should have told you what to do a long time ago,” he said grimly. “Then you’d know better than to try to threaten me.”

  “Threaten you? Are you insane? I most assuredly did not—”

  “For the last time, Miss O’Connell, put the glass down.”

  Megan’s jaw shot forward. “For the last time, oh mighty king, stop trying to order me ar—”

  Her words ended in a startled yelp as Sheikh Qasim al Daud al Rashid, King of Suliyam and Absolute Ruler of his People, picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder and marched from the room.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CAZ hadn’t intended to sling the O’Connell woman over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

  He hadn’t intended to deal with her at all. Oh, he wanted to, all right. Hell, yes, he wanted to. Simpson had told him how he’d given the woman a simple assignment, how she’d tried to make it seem as if he’d promised her something he hadn’t…

  And how she’d threatened to discredit him and Suliyam if she didn’t get a job she wanted.

  How dare she attempt to blackmail him?

  He’d felt the rage churning inside him. His ancestors would have known how to deal with the woman.

  Damn it, so did he.

  Caz was the one who snorted now as he strode down the hall, past startled faces, the O’Connell woman beating her fists against his shoulders and yelling words a decent woman should not even think.

  There was no need to go back to an earlier generation. Ninety percent of the men in Suliyam would know how to deal with her, and that was just the problem. After his hurried conversation with her boss, he’d known that if he let himself show his anger, he might as well put up a sign in Times Square that told the world he and his nation were still living in the dark ages.

  So he’d decided to ignore her. There was no reason for him to get involved. After all, Simpson said he’d made it clear to her that he was not going to give her the job.

  “I took care of things, your highness,” he’d said. “She’s just one of those prickly feminists. You know the type.”

  Caz did, indeed. The western world was filled with them. They weren’t soft-spoken or soft and welcoming, a safe harbor for a man who spent his days on the financial and political battlefields where empires were won and lost.

  They were hard-edged and aggressive, unattractive and unfeminine.

  He didn’t enjoy their company. He certainly didn’t understand them. Why would a woman want to behave like a man? But he’d learned not to underestimate their business skills, as long as they followed the rules.

  If a woman wanted to play in a man’s world, Caz expected her to play a man’s game.

  Threatening a lawsuit when none was warranted, pretending that things had been promised you when they hadn’t, were things a woman would do.

  Not a man.

  Megan O’Connell slammed a fist between his shoulder blades. Caz grunted, stalked into Simpson’s office and dumped her on a tweed-covered sofa. Then he stood back, folded his arms and glared at her.

  She glared straight back. Didn’t she have any sense of shame? Of guilt? Nobody glowered at him. Nobody! Didn’t she realize who he was?

  Of course she did. She just didn’t care. He had to admire her courage.

  He had to admire her looks, too. She didn’t appear unfeminine, even in that shapeless blue suit. And she certainly wasn’t unattractive, despite the blouse buttoned to the neck and the auburn hair tied back so tightly from her face that it made her sculpted cheekbones stand out like elegant arches. Her shoes were better suited to the legs of a soccer player than to ones that were so long, so artfully curved, so…

  The woman sprang to her feet. ‘‘Who in hell do you think you are!”

  “Sit down, Miss O’Connell.”

  “I will not sit down. I will not tolerate this kind of treatment.” Eyes bright with anger, she started toward the door. “And I will not stay in this room with you for another—”

  Caz kept his eyes on her as he reached back and slammed the door.

  “I said, sit down.”

  “You have no authority here, mister! All I have to do is yell for help and—”

  “And?” He smiled unpleasantly. “What will happen, Miss O’Connell? Do you really expect your boss to come running to your assistance after the threats you made?”

  “What threats?” She folded her arms, lifted her chin and set one of those ugly shoes tapping with impatience. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  Caz narrowed his eyes. Oh, yes. She was tough. She was also beautiful, but that didn’t change a thing. She was prepared to ruin his plans for his country and his people for her own selfish purposes, and he would not tolerate it.

  “Perhaps you’d like to tell me what threats I made.”

  “Don’t waste my time, Miss O’Connell. The head of your office told me everything.”

  “Really.” The foot-tapping increased in tempo. “And just what did he tell you?”

  Caz’s glower deepened. Simpson had told him more than enough to brand this woman as a schemer ready to lie and cheat and do whatever it took to get what she wanted, and what she wanted was the Suliyam account. She’d stop at nothing to get it, including threatening to file a lawsuit on the grounds that she was being discriminated against because of her sex.

  “He explained what you said, your highness, that you cannot permit a woman to work alongside you.”

  Caz had never said any such thing. Not exactly. He’d simply explained that the status of women was an evolving issue in his country.

  Simpson had assured him he understood. Obviously he hadn’t. And now, Megan O’Connell was talking about hiring a lawyer.

  Caz didn’t give a damn about that. His attorneys would have the complaint dismissed without trouble. Suliyam’s traditions were its own. No one could tell him or his people what to do or how to do it, not Megan O’Connell or all the lawyers and judges in the world.

  Besides, the issue of her sex was secondary.

  The woman was demanding a position for which she wasn’t qualified. The man who’d actually created the proposal—someone named Fisher—was right for the job. His work had been excellent. It was the reason Caz had signed a contract with Tremont, Burnside and Macomb.

  Megan O’Connell didn’t have a legal leg to stand on. She knew it, too. Hadn’t she admitted it to Simpson? You’d never win a lawsuit, Simpson said he’d told her, and she’d countered by saying she didn’t care about winning.

  Impugning Suliyam’s name in the press and, worse still, in business and financial circles, would be enough for her.

  Caz couldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t let it happen. He’d spent the last five years readying his people for emergence from the past, but some among them would grasp any opportunity to end the progress he’d made. There were too many factions aligned against him. One whiff of scandal, one headline…

  “Are you deaf, Sheikh Qasim? Or have you decided you made a mistake, conversing with a mere female?”

  She was all but breathing fire now. Her face was flushed, her eyes were wide and dark; her hair was coming undone and tumbling around her face in wild curls. The suit and shoes were still ugly as sin but from the neck up, she looked like a woman who’d just risen from bed.

  His bed.

  The thought was unsettling. She was beautifu
l, yes, but her heart wasn’t a woman’s heart. She was intent on blackmail, and he was the target.

  “It was your Mr. Simpson who made the mistake, Miss O’Connell, by letting things go too far.”

  Megan blinked. “What things?”

  “It serves no purpose to pretend innocence.” Caz folded his arms. “I told you, I know about your threats. Your Mr. Simpson—”

  “He is not my anything!”

  “He is your boss.”

  “He’s a fool. So what?”

  “He did what he could to keep the peace.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He was foolish to try. As soon as you began demanding undue credit for the little work you did, helping to draft that proposal—”

  “Helping?” Megan gave a brittle laugh. “I wrote that proposal.”

  “No, you did not.”

  “Damn it!” Megan could almost feel the adrenaline racing through her veins. A couple of hours ago, she’d have voted Jerry Simpson Idiot of the Year. What a mistake that would have been. The barbarian barring the door was winner of the title, hands down. “You know what? I’ve had it.” Resolutely she started toward the door again. “You get out of my way.”

  He bared his teeth in a smile. “Or?” he said pleasantly.

  “Or I’ll go right through you.”

  He laughed. The son of a bitch laughed! Oh, how she wanted to slap that arrogant smirk from his all-too-perfect face.

  Unfortunately, she could hardly blame him. Talk about empty threats! She could no more go through him than through a brick wall.

  The Sheikh of the Endless Names was big. Six foot two, six foot three. He was as tall as any of her brothers and she’d never been able to go through them in a zillion touch football games. She’d hardly ever managed to go around them, except with a bit of subterfuge.

  And then there were those shoulders wide enough to fill the doorway. The muscles that bulged even under his expensive suit. Except, they didn’t bulge. They rippled.

  Rippled? Megan did a mental blink. Who cared if his muscles undulated? The Prince of All He Surveyed was a male chauvinist jerk, and she’d be damned if she’d stand here and take his verbal abuse one more second.

  “Perhaps it’s the custom to detain women by force in your country,” she said coldly.