“Caftans, slit at the ankles,” Caz said, refusing to be drawn into a battle. “Sandals.”
“Shackles, too?”
“Did you never hear the saying, ‘When in Rome…’”
“Roman women had more status than they do here.”
“That’s changing.”
Megan folded her arms. “Not that I can see!”
A muscle knotted in Caz’s jaw. “Must you fight me over everything?” His voice hardened. “You insisted you were the right person for this job. Are you?”
She swung toward him, ready to take him on, but the look on his face stopped her. Besides, he was right. Why wave a red flag in front of a bull? It just made her uneasy to give up her western suit for a caftan, and wasn’t that silly? She’d still be the same woman…
She would, wouldn’t she?
“Megan?”
Reluctantly she nodded. “Yes. All right. If I have to—’’
“Good. I’ve told my driver to stop just before we reach the helipad. He’ll set up a small tent. You can use it as a dressing room.” Caz hesitated. “There’s one other thing.”
“Now what?”
“I’ve explained that you’re a clerk.”
Her eyes widened. She looked, he thought, as if he’d slapped her.
“Are you crazy? I am not going to let you pass me off as—”
She gasped as he reached out and caught her by the shoulders.
“What do you want them to think, damn it? In their world, there’s only one reason a man would take a woman with him on such a trip.”
“I have three degrees,” she said, knowing how foolish she sounded, knowing, too, that she could not, would not let him relegate her to the role he’d clearly intended for her all along. “I will not—”
“You will do as you’re told. Or—”
“Stop threatening me! You won’t send me back home. You can’t.” Her eyes were bright with challenge. “You need me, Qasim, and you know it.”
“You’re right,” he said through clenched teeth. “I need you here, but there’s another solution.” Heat slammed through his blood as he pulled her into his arms. “I’ll simply let them think you belong to me.”
His mouth claimed hers. She struggled, but only for the time it took him to nip her bottom lip and slide his tongue into her mouth. Then she made a little sound of surrender and arched against him, returning his kisses, crying out when he put his hand under her jacket, cupped her breast, felt the nipple rise and thrust against his palm.
He let her go so abruptly that she fell back in the seat. He had to; otherwise, he knew he’d have pushed up her skirt, freed himself, taken her, taken her, taken her…
She stared at him, her eyes bright with angry tears.
“I despise you,” she whispered, and Caz decided that made a lot of sense because right now, he despised himself, too.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE helicopter flew over a land that was as untamed as it was beautiful.
Undulating waves of golden sand. Vivid patches of dark green, guarding sapphire-blue pools of water. A vulture with black-tipped wings, soaring in lazy circles and once, most startling of all, a herd of horses galloped under the dark shadow of the ’copter as it passed over them.
Megan had questions about the land, the animals that lived on it, the village they were flying to, but there was no one to ask. Qasim sat across from her in icy removal, reading papers he’d taken from his briefcase as soon as they’d boarded.
She was on her own.
Well, that was fine with her. She had her own notes to read through, and any questions she had about where they were going would be answered soon enough. For a little while, she lost herself in facts and figures, but they began to blur and, finally, she closed her notebook and put it away.
She couldn’t concentrate. She was nervous, though she’d sooner have died than admit it.
What would it be like, this place where the customs of an earlier time prevailed? Where she’d have to pretend to be a docile creature with no opinions or thoughts of her own?
She’d been assigned a role. Like it or not she was already playing it. She looked down at the dress she now wore. Qasim hadn’t mentioned it would be spun of cotton so fine it felt like silk or that it would have tiny pale blue flowers embroidered along the cuffs and hem. The skirt was slit to the knee on each side; the neckline was a sort of modified cowl, so that it could be drawn up as a hood against the chill that settled in the mountains at night.
Megan wiggled her feet, bare in the soft-as-butter thong sandals. You couldn’t very well wear stockings with a strip of leather between your toes.
Standing in the little tent Qasim’s driver had erected, wearing these new things, she’d felt a funny hollowness in the pit of her stomach. She’d looked back at the little pile of clothing she’d discarded, her suit and blouse, her panty hose and shoes.
Was this how a wild creature felt when it left the safety of its old skin behind?
What would Qasim think, when he saw her?
That she looked like an obedient female, she’d thought, and that had been enough to make her stop thinking like a silly girl and think like the woman she was.
“Am I suitably dressed, oh Lord of the World?” she’d said coolly, stepping out of the tent.
Qasim’s gaze had darkened and moved slowly over her.
“You’ll do,” he’d finally replied, and there’d been a huskiness in his voice that had made her want to go to him, frame his face with her hands, bring his mouth to hers and ask him what he really thought, if he liked the way the thin cotton clung to her breasts, to her hips…
Megan picked up her notes and went back to work.
Ahmet’s mountain village wasn’t a village at all.
It was a medieval fortress.
Stepping out of the helicopter, staring at the horsemen who’d come racing out the gates brandishing steel-tipped lances, Megan shivered as the men let out a bloodcurdling roar.
Qasim caught hold of her hand. She didn’t even think of trying to pull away. Instead, she laced her fingers through his and moved closer, until she was almost leaning against him.
“They’re honoring me,” he whispered. “Don’t be afraid.”
The horsemen stopped a hundred yards away. Silver bells adorned their horses’ bridles and played softly as the animals tossed their heads. The riders gave an eerie, ululating cry and spurred their mounts into a gallop. Qasim gave her hand one last squeeze. Then he stepped away from her, laughing as the riders surrounded him in a river of horses and spears. A man rode forward, leading a stallion with a coat like black silk. Qasim grabbed the horse’s flowing mane and leaped into the saddle.
Another wild cry, and the horsemen galloped toward the gates of the city.
The wind tossed Megan’s hair over her eyes. Her hand shook as she brushed it back; she could feel her heart racing. She felt as if she’d been sucked up by a tornado and tossed back through time. She wanted to turn and run, but where would she go without Qasim?
She saw a small group of women coming toward her, materializing like ghosts from the blowing dust left by the horses. Their faces were stern and set in lines of distrust as they gathered around her. One, perhaps the eldest, reached out, fingered Megan’s auburn hair and said something that made the rest laugh.
It was the kind of laugh that sent a chill down Megan’s spine. She jerked her head away, took a deep breath and fixed the woman with a steady look.
“My name is Megan,” she said, “and I am with Sheikh Qasim.”
Those words, she sensed, would be her only protection.
Two days later, Megan felt as if she were going crazy.
She hated this place, hated everyone who lived in it, hated Qasim for bringing her to it…
Hated herself, for having let him lead her into a nightmare.
She spent her days at meetings, playing the part of an obedient slave, and spent her nights in this room, pacing like a caged animal. The ro
om was enormous, easily the size of her entire apartment back home. The walls were tiled, the floors carpeted. She supposed you could describe her surroundings as beautiful.
But it was still a cage.
Compared to this, the harem in Qasim’s palace had been heaven with its little garden, its reflecting pool, the soft breeze that blew in from the sea.
Here, she had only the four walls that enclosed her. At day’s end, Hakim walked her to the door and left her to the ministrations of a pair of sullen women who brought her evening meal—a glob of unidentifiable something on a chipped plate that looked as if it had never been washed, a pitcher of liquid that tasted like warm beer, and a hunk of flat, tasteless bread. The women never responded to Megan’s attempts at communication.
Hakim wasn’t much better. When she complained at her treatment, he assured her that his master understood her situation, but when she demanded to see Qasim, he looked horrified and told her such a thing was out of the question.
Was Hakim telling her the truth? Did Qasim know what was happening? She had no idea. He acted as if she were invisible.
When she entered the meeting room the first day, just seeing him lifted her spirits.
“Qasim,” she’d said softly, but he’d looked right through her. He’d warned her, told her what would be expected, but surely he could at least make eye contact? Didn’t he want to know how she was being treated?
Hakim had pointed to a low stool behind his master. Megan had bristled. Sitting behind Qasim was one thing; sitting four inches off the floor with her knees tucked under her chin was another.
But the room had begun filling with men; she’d felt all those dark eyes on her and suddenly the stool behind Qasim had seemed like an eminently fine idea. She’d settled on it, struggled to find a way to get her long legs under her and her briefcase in her lap while she told herself the meeting and their time in this horrible place would not last more than a day.
Wrong.
It was two days later and they were still here.
Some things, at least, had changed for the better.
Qasim still ignored her. But the women who waited on her had taken to offering occasional smiles. She’d demanded Hakim arrange for her to get some air and last night, the women had produced lanterns and taken her for an hour’s walk along cobblestone streets that twisted and turned and ended, abruptly, at the city wall.
Some of the changes were for the worse.
Ahmet had taken to looking at her. None of the other men did, not after that first time. They treated her as Qasim did, as if she were invisible.
Not Ahmet.
Qasim had said Ahmet was too ill to travel, but he didn’t appear ill to Megan. He looked—there was no other word for it—evil. Evil, and fat, and filthy. And yes, he was always sneaking glances at her. She caught him a couple of times but mostly, she sensed him watching her. His eyes were like tiny black beetles. She could almost feel them crawling over her skin.
Like right now.
Megan shuddered. Concentrate on what you’re doing, she told herself. Forget Ahmet, forget everything but the numbers and words on the papers in her lap, and Qasim’s questions.
What a ridiculous procedure this was.
Qasim would address his comments to Hakim in his own tongue and then in English, probably so she’d have more time to find the information. Then she had to look at Hakim, give her answer to him so he could repeat it to Qasim.
It was a waste of time, and all done for no purpose she could see. Qasim had been worried her presence would offend the super-macho males of his country but how could she offend them when they ignored her?
Ignored her, except for Ahmet.
He was watching her again. She could feel it. She looked up and stared straight at him, something she knew was forbidden, but enough was enough.
Megan narrowed her eyes and gave him her best Don’t-Mess-With-Me glare. It always worked with idiots who thought a woman alone in a restaurant was just aching to be hit on…but it didn’t work now. Ahmet’s beady little eyes assessed her with even greater interest. His tongue came out and licked slowly over his fleshy lips.
Her heart did a terrified two-step. She dragged her gaze from his and looked down, blindly, at the papers in her lap.
So much for staring him down. And so much for handling this on her own. Qasim might not want to talk to her, but she sure as hell wanted to talk to—
“Ouch!”
Megan swung around. Had someone kicked her? She rubbed her hip and glared at the man nearest to her. He glared back, spat a couple of guttural words and answered the question by kicking her again. It wasn’t much of a kick, it was more a prod with the tip of his booted foot, but it was the final straw.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she said as she shot to her feet.
The room, normally humming with conversation, became completely silent. All eyes were on her now, even Qasim’s.
“Sit down,” he said quietly.
“I will not sit down! This—this pig just kicked me.”
Qasim’s eyes darkened. “I will deal with him later. For now, you must sit down.”
“This is a horrible place.” Megan’s voice trembled as her anger gave way to the fear it disguised. “I want to leave. I want—”
“Sit!” Qasim roared.
She sank down on the stool, shaken and shaking. She sensed him glaring at her. Then he said something and everyone laughed.
She’d had never felt so alone in her life.
After a moment, Qasim cleared his throat. She heard the rustle of papers, the drone of his voice as the meeting continued, but she wasn’t listening. Why had she ever agreed to his demands? He’d turned her into a woman she didn’t know, brought her to a place where civilization didn’t exist, abandoned her to the less-than-tender mercies of a gang of cutthroats…
“Miss O’Connell!”
She looked up. Hakim’s face was like stone.
“My lord the Sheikh asked a question.”
“I didn’t…What question?”
“I will ask him to repeat it.”
“Just tell me what it was.”
“There is a procedure to follow,” Hakim said coldly. “You will follow it.”
He turned away from her to start the entire roundabout process again. Now she was supposed to sit patiently while Hakim posed a question to Qasim, wait again while Qasim replied in English, then in his own tongue. After that, she’d sit here docilely while Hakim repeated words she already understood. Then, only then, would she be permitted to speak.
To hell with that.
The English words were hardly out of Qasim’s mouth when she replied to them.
For a second time, an awful silence filled the room. The men gave her startled, condemning glances.
Ahmet looked straight at her.
Megan had never had a man look at her that way, but the meaning was clear as glass. It sent a chill straight to the marrow of her bones.
She dragged her eyes from his and struggled to stay calm. All right. She’d made a mistake. Two of them, in one morning. She’d be more cautious from now on. When in Rome, Qasim had said, and he was right. Surely she could manage that for another couple of—
A hand closed on her wrist. She looked up, straight into Ahmet’s ugly face. He grinned, revealing rotting teeth and revolting breath.
‘‘May-gahn.’’
“Yes?” she said politely, and tried not to inhale.
Ahmet jerked her to her feet. “You come.”
“No. No, thank you, Mr. Ahmet, but—’’
“You come now.”
“Really, I don’t think—”
Qasim stood up. His lips drew back from his teeth in the semblance of a smile and he said something to Ahmet. Ahmet smiled, too, even more coldly. His hand tightened around her wrist.
“Megan,” Qasim said softly, his eyes locked to the other man’s face, “don’t do or say anything.”
“But—”
&nbs
p; “Damn it, woman, listen to me! Say nothing. Do nothing. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but—”
Ahmet curved his arm around her. His hand lay at her waist. He chuckled, his stinking breath hot against her face, his fingers kneading her flesh. Qasim said something, his tone harsh and commanding. Ahmet replied to it, and Qasim spoke again. Ahmet laughed. His fingers were still moving. Up. Up. Up…
Megan growled, spun toward him and plowed her fist into his gut.
The room exploded with action.
Wild cries. The clatter of overturned chairs. Shouts and yells, and hands clawing for her dress, her hair…
Qasim swept her into his arms.
“Qasim,” Megan sobbed, “oh, Qasim…”
“Be quiet,” he snarled, “or I’ll have what’s left of your body fed to the jackals!”
Then he tossed her over his shoulder, shouldered his way through the mob and strode out the door.
Hours went by.
Perhaps only minutes.
Megan only knew she was hoarse from saying she was sorry. Still, as Qasim paced by her again, she said it once more.
“I’m sorry, Qasim. I didn’t mean—”
“Be quiet!”
She nodded and sank down on the edge of a chair. Whatever she’d started in the meeting room wasn’t good. She could hear voices raised in anger outside the door to her room—a door Qasim had bolted. The women who served her sat huddled in a corner, their faces white. Hakim had scratched at the window a little while ago and Qasim had opened the shutters and let him in along with the helicopter pilot and the two guards who’d flown here with them.
Nobody said anything, but she could read rage in their eyes. She’d behaved stupidly and now they were all in danger.
“Qasim.” She swallowed with difficulty. Her throat was so dry it felt parched. “He was going to—to touch my breast. I knew he was. And—
“He was not going to touch your breast,” Qasim snarled, swinging toward her. ‘‘It was an amusement for him. A test of wills between him and me. If you’d obeyed my orders—”
“That’s easy for you to say. His slimy hands weren’t on you!”
“If you’d obeyed my orders and hadn’t drawn attention to yourself—’’
The Sheikh's Convenient Bride Page 8
