by Leslie North
His face seemed so…so youthful. Smooth, tan skin left him looking more like his early twenties, not his early thirties. A closely cropped, black beard marked a very square jaw, and when he smiled, his teeth looked movie star white. He had a wide mouth with a lower lip she’d call sinful and it was only those chocolate-brown eyes that put her on her guard—the man knew he was charming and was being so right now.
“What? I’m a prisoner of love instead?” His mouth quirked. Casey’s face heated. She waved a hand at him. “Sorry to bust in on your wedding. I just wanted a quote.”
One of his dark eyebrow lifted. She noticed they were arched high in the middle and black as sin. “Your little outburst, Casey Connolly, left me in more than my usual amount of trouble.” He leaned against the wall in front of her cell, his casual posture at odds with a situation that was, Casey had to admit, headed to dire. Reporters had been known to disappear into Middle Eastern prisons for a very long time.
She tilted her head and studied his face, trying to figure out just what he wanted from her. Because he must want something—even if it was only to gloat that she was behind bars. However, he didn’t seem the gloating type.
He did look like trouble on two legs. Those dark eyes—bedroom eyes, she’d call them—raked a stare over her body, his gaze moving slowly as if he was enjoying the view.
She thought about stepping closer to let him enjoy the smell—eau de prison cell and two days of sweat, but she wanted out and this guy might be her key to that.
He swept a courtly bow that might have been ridiculous if anyone else had done that. “I’m Sheikh Khalid Al-Qasimi.” “As if I didn’t know. What, you think I’d crash just anyone’s wedding.” She crossed her arms. “Now can I call the American Embassy so we can clear up this misunderstanding?”
He shook his head and the ends of his headscarf swayed. “It is not a misunderstanding when you violate a private ceremony against the expressed wishes of the Sultan of Sharjah. And this is not America—our laws our quite different.”
Dropping her arms to her sides, she chewed on her lower lip. Was it better to go damsel in distress or stay a reporter who knew her stuff. Sharjah might not be the most forward-looking of countries, but it also wasn’t backwater—they had a lot of ties to American businesses, which was why she’d targeted them for a quote from one of the CEOs. She lifted her head and told him, “Do you really want to escalate this into an international incident? And that’s after the bad press you already earned? What did they call you? The sulky Sheikh? The sultan’s sorry son?”
He winced, but waved aside her remarks. “As you note, honor does matter in Sharjah. Your actions interrupted my wedding and humiliated the bride.”
Casey bit down on her lower lip again. She let out a breath. “About that…I am sorry if your bride’s angry. But, honestly, she seemed a nice girl, and too nice to be pushed into something without her express consent.”
“Oh, she won’t be. The wedding is, as you Americans might say, off.”
Casey blinked—and held still, cutting off the urge to pump a fist into the air and shout, “Yes!” That would be rude. Something, however, must have showed up in her eyes, for Khalid shook his head. “My father is undecided what to do about you. He may simply forget about you. If that happens, there’s no telling how long you’ll stay in here.” He waved a hand at the iron bars, the concrete walls and floor. Sharjah was certainly modern with its ideas of prisons being a lot of hard surfaces.
“You’re bluffing,” Casey said. “Your father has far too many connections to American businesses to risk sanctions or worse.”
Khalid shrugged. It seemed an elegant gesture, smooth and practiced, but Casey couldn’t help noticing his eyes had darkened. It was possible he was as upset with her as his father must be—from what she’d seen, the bride had been a lovely girl.
Staring at him, she lifted her chin and cut to the chase. “You’re not here to tell me all this, so just what do you want?” She could have sworn she saw a shift in his expression, a quirk of his lips and those arched eyebrows that betrayed what seemed irritation. Over what?
Before she could figure it out, he asked, “I wish to know why did you crash my wedding?”
Turning her head to one side, she chewed on her lower lip. Did she go for honesty? Or something that might get her out of here? Giving up—she was a damn poor liar—she waved a hand at him. “Look, yours wasn’t the first arranged wedding I’ve been to. I’ve seen girls shoved into matches with rich old men, and women obviously terrified to say no or so unhappy that you could feel it in the room. But yours is…was…high profile. A story about a dozen women sold by their family into virtual slavery gets a few lines of page five and people going tsk-tsk. But—”
“The Sultan’s Sulky Son—is that what you said I was named—I will get front page. Yes?”
Talking faster now, she spread her hands wide and said, “I’ve read about your…exploits. I figured if anyone could bring a spotlight onto this wrong, it would be you. Well, actually, it would be your notoriety.”
“I am so happy to see you are an honest woman. Did you even think of the shame you could bring down on Fadiyah and her family?” She stiffened. “Frankly, no. I figured I was saving her—”
“From a fate worse than death? Fadiyah would one day have been sultana.”
She propped a hand on her hip. “And maybe she didn’t want that? Anyone ever ask her what she wanted? Did you even meet her before the ceremony?”
A blush reddened his cheeks slightly, but again he brushed away her words with an impatient swipe of one long-fingered hand. No man should have hands that elegant, Casey decided. And then she tried to focus on his words. “…possible to arrange your release without having to involve your embassy or any official paperwork.”
She blinked. “Uh…how? Do you have a magic carpet?” He stared at her. She lifted one shoulder. “Sorry—bad joke.”
“Well, this is not. If you were my fiancée, I could have you immediately given into my custody.”.
She stared at him for a long moment. The urge to laugh welled in her chest, but he sounded serious about that. She shook her head. “I’ve heard of some lame pick-up lines, but that…you want me to step into that poor girl’s shoes? I’ve seen how little respect women get in Sharjah. Thanks, but no thanks.”
Khalid folded his arms over what was, she noticed, a very broad chest. “You think do you not—what is the phrase, owe me? I made a promise to my father—and in my world honor matters more than riche—to marry. You have ruined my chances for that, leaving me in what you might call a tight spot. If you pose as my fiancée, not only do you repair what you have done to insult me, it is possible my father will see an American bride—one outspoken as you—is not a daughter he wishes to add to the family. He will release me from my promise—I will be free, and so will you.”
It sounded too damn simple.
Casey didn’t think for one moment that she should trust him. He was smiling again—that charming, little-boy lost quirk of the mouth with eyes that were imploring her to see his side of things. Oh, yeah—this was his plan all right, and one that could end with her in even deeper trouble.
On the other hand, his dad really could keep her locked up and unable to reach out to anyone who could help her. That would prevent any American businesses from having to back away from Sharjah deals. But she wasn’t ready to jump into this farce. Not yet.
Shaking her head, she said, “And what do I get from this?.”
Pushing off the wall, he faced her. “Your freedom is not enough?”
“You are not exactly in a position to make demands.” “Oh, I think I am. Your dad runs this country. Meaning, you can get me in anywhere. I could get a story on the inside of an arranged marriage. An interview with Fadiyah even. I’ll pose as your fiancée and you help me get a story that’s Pulitzer worthy.”
“Very well. You have my word. Now is there anything else? Money perhaps?” He sounded so smug, her palm itche
d to slap the smile off his handsome face.
“Let’s get one thing clear—I’m not a bride you can buy or barter for, buster.”
He laughed—and Casey hated that she liked that low, rich sound. “It will not be that much of a hardship to pose as the fiancée of the son of a sultan.”
Casey shook her head. “Excuse me, but I’ve been through my sister getting married. I know just how much work those damn things are. Even a fake one’s going to take up more time than I want to give it. But if I get the story—”
“That is the spirit. Find the positive side of this situation. I’ve been searching for it myself.”
He lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. For a moment, Casey wondered what that was about, but of course there would be cameras. A guard showed up at once, keys jingling. He unlocked the cell and pulled open the door.
Gingerly, Casey stepped out, half expecting this to be a joke—Khalid would lift his hand again and she’d be tossed back into the cell and he’d laugh. Instead, he only looked her up and down and shook his head. “We can do something about your clothes when we get to the palace.”
A hot shower with lots of soap suddenly sounded like the best idea in the world. She glanced at Khalid. “I’m going to need my passport back and my cell phone, and my things from the hotel. And my computer.”
Khalid smiled at her, which left her uneasy. “Your things, as you call them, are here—in impound. Now, shall we go.” He put a hand on the small of her back, gestured for her to walk with him.
The small voice in her head that always told her she was about to do something dumb right before she did it was yelling just now. She silently admonished it.
Not like she had much choice here.
Besides, she had the inside track right now on a story that could push her from just another reporter to a byline that carried clout. For that, she could put up with being a pretend fiancée.
And it was going to be more than interesting to hear what the Sultan of Sharjah thought of all this.
3
She’d seen rich before, but not on the level of Sultan of Sharjah’s palace.
From just inside the gates that let into the palace grounds, she could see rows of tall palm trees, hedges that separated lush gardens from the driveway, and a white, sprawling structure, three stories of stairs, columns, windows, and balconies.
The architecture seemed very traditional to Casey, mirroring what she’d seen elsewhere in Sharjah, but this was on a far more lavish scale.
The chauffeur stopped the limo in front of the wide steps that looked to lead to the main entrance. Glancing over, she caught Khalid watching her. She was glad her mouth wasn’t hanging open like some country girl.
“So this is where you live.” She tried to make the words sound casual, as if marble steps, wrought iron and doors trimmed in gold didn’t impress her much.
“Where we live,” Khalid corrected. He smiled.
Oh, yeah, well, so not sharing a bedroom with you.
But the thought led to an image of Khalid naked, all that beautiful tan skin on display—and all those muscles. She hadn’t missed that under the robes, the man had strength in his arms and moved with athletic grace.
She turned and got out of the car without waiting for the chauffer to jump to it. The man gave Khalid an apologetic look, but Khalid only slipped from the limo and stood next to her.
Standing at the bottom of the steps and looking up at the palace, she was starting to think of Disney movies and every princess story she’d ever watched with her sister when they were little. Truth be told, she’d always thought of herself of more a Princess Tiana type—all that good Cajun food and N’awlins as a backdrop, but Khalid was definitely no frog.
Khalid put his hand on the small of her back again—seemed to be a habit with him—and said,“ Come, Casey Connolly, I will show you to your room. Then I will leave you to get ready for tonight when you will meet the sultan.”
“Do we really have to do that tonight?” She’d been hoping for shower and bed and a few hours starting to shape up her story. She also had to call Luke and fill him in on what had happened..
He stared at her as if expecting her to take this—and everything else—in stride. And, okay, maybe that was a compliment.
“You should be excited,” he insisted. “There has not been a reporter within our house—not ever.”
“Right. Excited. Happy to be engaged. Are we really going to pull this off?”
He smiled at her and let the way up the steps, taking hold of her hand now.
The front door towered like something out of a castle, arch included. Khalid let go of her hand to open the door for her and she was a little surprised to see a blend of lavish and modern.
Marble floors, towering ceilings, columns—but also comfortable furniture, clean lines and carpets that had to be worth a fortune. Khalid led the way up a set of stairs to the right to the second floor, down another hall, and she noticed the entire place seemed scented, as if incense or the flowers from the garden spilled inside. It was cooler inside—either great and quiet air conditioning or really thick walls.
Halfway down the hallway, Khalid stopped and opened another door, She peaked in and saw it looked like any New York upscale apartment—emphasis on upscale. You didn’t get garden views like this in New York.
She stepped in, taking in what seemed to be a sitting room. She’d never seen so much white—couch, pillows, tables, doors. The door on the left stood ajar, showing a bedroom also done up with a lot of white, but right now she was just hoping now for a bathroom that matched the rest of the luxury. Thick carpets with intricate designs covered marble floors and French doors opened onto a balcony that overlooked the gardens. In the distance, she could see more of the palace and then the skyline of Sharjah’s capital.
Khalid waved to the phone by the couch and said, “If you need anything, call the staff. Everyone speaks excellent English.”
She shot him a sideways glance. “You have room service?”
Khalid shrugged. “You cannot yell loud enough for anyone to hear you in another part of the palace, so we have phones. I will be back in an hour. There are a choice of dresses for you in the closet. I picked out what would be suitable for you to wear when you meet my father.”
She frowned. “What’s wrong with my clothes?” His stare traveled over her, and her cheeks heated. “Okay, so I didn’t bring anything formal. Or even half formal. What about my luggage?”
“Already awaits you. Now I see you in an hour, Casey.”
Somehow he made her name into almost an endearment, seeming to caress the vowels, making them longer. Her face heated even more. With one of his slight bows, he closed the door, leaving her alone in what was essentially a private apartment.
“If only Ma could see me now,” Casey muttered, and started poking around.
She had an hour. So twenty minutes for a shower, ten to dress and do makeup—she never put on much. She found a small kitchen, a fridge stocked with coconut water, yogurt and fresh fruit.
Wandering into the bedroom, she glanced around, found the closet and opened it. She had three choices, none of which she’d ever buy for herself. They all looked expensive and she was betting on designer labels. She plucked out a blue gown, long sleeved and almost floor length. Gold embroidery decorated the hem, sleeves and neckline.
“How did I end up in this fantasy world?” she muttered and ran her hand over the silk.
Laying the dress out on the bed, she noticed her lumpy, canvas backpack sitting on the dresser. Her life was inside that bag. Heading over to it, she zipped it open and checked for her passport—missing, meaning Khalid was making sure she couldn’t run out on him, not that she would—and looked for her phone.
It showed missed calls from Luke, but she didn’t bother listening to them. It’d be faster to talk to him.
He answered on the second ring. “Casey?” He sounded like always—out of breath, harried, and impatient. She’d always told him
he was going to have a heart attack one of these days, but Luke would probably be around another sixty years, running his magazine—Real News—just as he did now. He was one of the rare publisher/editors around. He could also be a pain in the ass and demanding as hell, but she knew how to deal with him.
“Luke, I only have a few minutes.”
“Where have you been? Don’t tell me jail. Are you in trouble again?”
“It’s a story—not that long, but definitely great.”
“Define great. And what did you do this time?”
“Let’s just say it’s gotten me into the sultan’s palace—and I’m looking at getting an exclusive insider interview.”
“What? With Mohammed Al-Qasimi?”
“The one and only—and with his son, Sheikh Khalid. I’m going to blow open Sharjah’s tradition of arranged marriages, and I’m going to nab an interview with Khalid’s former fiancée.”
Luke laughed. “Former? That’s news right there. Only you, Casey. When you get in, you get in.”
“Go big or go home, right?”
“Well, big has a deadline. Are you going to get me my story in time for the next edition?” Luke asked.
“That’s—” Her phone beeped a warning. “Hey, my phone is about to die and I don’t want to use the palace phones—no telling who’s listening. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can with deadlines.”
“Case, you—”
The phone cut out, which was just as well. Luke was probably going to warn her to be careful, or tell her he wouldn’t bail her out if she ended back in jail, or give her some other sage advice she wouldn’t want to hear and wouldn’t remember to follow.
Pulling out her charger out, she got her phone plugged in.
She was short on time now. Grabbing her toiletry bag, she hurried into the bathroom. She shouldn’t be surprised by more opulence, but really—a standing shower, gold fixtures and the most amazing bathtub that looked large enough for two.
