Chosen As The Sheikh's Royal Bride

Beth paused.

“Yes,” she’d sighed.

Which was why Beth was in Paris now. Wearing a red dress that was far too tight, because she was the only potential bride who didn’t fit sample size. She didn’t fit in, full stop. After being driven in a limo, like all the other women, from their luxury hotel on the avenue Montaigne to this over-the-top mansion, she’d spent the last few hours in this airless, hot ballroom, watching beautiful, accomplished women go up one by one to speak to a dark-eyed man in sheikh’s robes, sitting in tyrannical splendor on the dais.

Except Beth. The sheikh’s handlers seemed bewildered by what to do with her. They’d apparently already decided that she wasn’t remotely their boss’s type. With that, she fervently agreed.

She looked up at the scowling man sitting in his throne on the dais. She watched as he imperiously motioned these amazing women forward, one by one, with an arrogant movement of his finger. And to Beth’s shock, the women obeyed, not with glares but with blushing smiles!

Why would they put up with that? Bewildered, Beth finished off her champagne. These other women were huge successes! Geniuses! She’d even recognized Sia Lane—the most famous movie star in the world!

Beth knew why she herself was here. To help her sister help those kids, and perhaps selfishly see a bit of Paris in the process. But the other women’s reasons mystified her. They were all so accomplished, beautiful and well known—they couldn’t need the money, could they?

And the king himself was no great shakes. Beth tilted her head, considering him from a distance. He was too skinny to be handsome. And he was rude. In West Texas, where she was from, any host worth his salt would have welcomed every guest from the moment they’d walked through his door. King or not, the man should at least have common manners.

Putting her empty flute on a passing silver tray, Beth shook her head. And what kind of man would send out for twenty women like pizza, to be delivered to him in Paris so he could choose his bride?

Even if Omar al-Maktoun was some super rich, super important ruler of a tiny Middle Eastern country she’d never heard of, he must be a serious jerk. Lucky for her, she wasn’t his type. A lump lifted to her throat.

Lucky for her, she was apparently no one’s type.

There was a reason why, at twenty-six, Beth was still a virgin.

Memories ambushed her without warning, punching through her with all the pain still lingering in her body, waiting to pounce at any moment of weakness. I’m sorry, Beth. You’re just too...ordinary.

Remembering Wyatt’s words, she suddenly felt like she was suffocating, gasping for breath in the too-tight cocktail dress. Blindly turning from the stuffy ballroom, she fled out the side door, where, like a miracle, she found a dark, moonlit garden in the courtyard.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath of the cool air, pushing away the memory of the man who’d broken her heart. She didn’t need to be loved, she told herself desperately. She was helping her sister, earning money for important research. She was lucky. She’d gotten to see a bit of Paris this afternoon. The Eiffel Tower. The Arc de Triomphe. She’d sat for an hour at a sidewalk café and had a croissant and a tiny overpriced coffee, and watched the world pass by.

That was the problem. Beth wiped her eyes hard in the dark courtyard garden. Sometimes she felt, unlike her super busy sister, that all she did was watch the world pass by. Even here, in this fairy-tale Parisian mansion, surrounded by famous, glamorous people, that was all she was doing. She wasn’t part of their world. Instead, she was hiding alone in the private garden.

Not entirely alone. She saw a dark shadow move amid the bare, early spring trees. A man. What was he doing out here?

She couldn’t see his face, but she saw the hard, powerful grace of his stride and the tightness of his shoulders in his well-cut suit. By the hard edge of his jaw, Beth presumed he was angry. Or possibly miserable. It was hard to tell.

She wouldn’t have to think about her own problems if she could help someone else with theirs. Going toward him, she said in halting, jumbled high school French, “Excusez-moi, monsieur, est-ce que je peux vous aider—?”

The man turned, and she gasped.

No wonder she hadn’t seen him at first amid the shadows. He was black-haired, black-eyed, in a black suit. And his eyes were the blackest of all.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was a low growl, in an accent she couldn’t quite place, slightly American, slightly something else.

The stranger was so handsome she lost her voice. She wished she hadn’t come over. She didn’t know how to talk to a man like this.

It’s not his fault he’s handsome, she told herself. She took a deep breath, and tried to smile. “I’m sorry. You just looked sad. I wondered if I could help at all.”

His expression became so cold, it was like ice. “Who are you?”

Beth wondered if she’d offended him. Men could be so touchy, as prickly as a cactus on the outside, even when they were all sweet beneath. At least that was her experience with her male friends, all of whom called Beth a “pal.”

“My name is—” She caught herself just in time. She coughed. “Edith Farraday. Doctor Edith Farraday,” she emphasized, trying to give him a superior, Edith-like look.

His sensual lips curved. “Ah. The child prodigy, the cancer researcher from Houston.”

“Yes,” she said, surprised. “You must work for the sheikh?”

That seemed to amuse him.

“Every day,” he said grimly. “Why aren’t you in the ballroom?”

“I got bored. And it was hot.”

His gaze lowered to her red gown, which was far too small for her. Involuntarily, she blushed. She yanked up the neckline, which barely covered her generous breasts. “Yes, I know the dress doesn’t fit. They didn’t have anything in my size.”

He frowned. “They were supposed to have every size.”

Beth rolled her eyes. “Every size from zero to four. It was either this or my hoodie and jeans, and those were wet. It rained this afternoon when I was walking around the city.”

He looked surprised. “You didn’t rest in the hotel today like the others?”

“What, beauty sleep, so I’d look extra pretty when meeting the sheikh tonight?” She snorted. “I already know I’m not his type. And this was my only chance to see Paris. I’ll be sent home tomorrow.”

“How do you know?”

“Because his handlers don’t know what to do with me. Plus, I’ve waited in that ballroom for hours, and the man still hasn’t done me the great honor of crooking his mighty finger in my direction.”

The man frowned. “He was rude?”

“It’s fine, really,” Beth said brightly. “The king’s not my type, either.”

The handsome stranger looked nonplussed. “How do you know? You obviously haven’t done any research on him.”

Beth frowned. How did the man know that? Did it show? “You got me,” she admitted. “I know I should have looked him up on the internet, read up on his likes and dislikes and whatnot, but I only found out about this two days ago, and I was just too busy working before the plane left yesterday...”

He seemed shocked. “Too busy?”

“Frantic.” She’d had to rush to set up the thrift shop’s spring sale before her boss had grudgingly agreed to let her take her first vacation days in a year. Beth coughed. “At the lab, I mean. Super busy at the lab.”

“I imagine. It’s important work you’re doing.” The man waited, obviously expecting her to continue. But beneath the intensity of his gaze, all her carefully memorized explanations of Edith’s highly technical research fled from her mind.

“Yeah. Uh. Cancer is bad.”

He stared at her like she was an idiot. “Yes. I know.”

“Right,” she said, feeling incredibly stupid but relieved he hadn’t pushed her further. She changed the subject. “So you work for the king? What are you doing out here? Why aren’t you in the ballroom?”

His dark eyes glinted.