The Sheikh's Proposal

by Barbara McMahon

  “Have you had much experience at being a fiancée?” Kahrun’s lips twitched in amusement.

  Sara shook her head. “No, neither pretend or real. It wouldn’t work, you know, but thanks for the thought.”

  “It’ll have to work. I see no other way out of this without complications on either side.”

  “Just a fiancée, right? Indefinite marriage date. Still in the getting-to-know-each-other stage?” she clarified.

  “Show only,” Kahrun confirmed. Any elation he felt he kept hidden. Maybe they could brush through after all. They’d have to pretend only until the deal was finalized in a few weeks, a month at the most….

  Barbara McMahon’s latest novel begins a brand-new

  miniseries from Harlequin Romance®

  Welcome to

  Rich or royal…it’s the wedding of the year!

  We’re inviting you to the most thrilling and exclusive weddings

  Meet women who have always wanted the perfect wedding…but never dreamed that they might be walking up the aisle with a millionaire, an aristocrat, or even a prince!

  But whether they were born into it, are faking it, or are just plain lucky—these women are about to be whisked off around the world to the playground of princes and playboys!

  Are their dreams about to come true? If so, they might just find that they are truly fit for a prince….

  Look out for more HIGH SOCIETY BRIDES, Harlequin Romance®.

  In March, bestselling author Rebecca Winters brings you

  Bride Fit for a Prince (#3739)

  THE SHEIKH’S PROPOSAL

  Barbara McMahon

  To my dear friend Tanaz Doroudchi. Knowing you enriches my life!

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  HER father was going to kill her, she thought, barely suppressing a groan. Sara Kinsale looked around the dusty cell and grimaced. She’d been here two days. Two days when she should have been at the hotel in Staboul. Two days stuck in some backwater jail in the very country in which her father was trying to nail the biggest deal of all time. When he needed everything perfect to convince the powers that be that his company could broker the most favorable deal for the newly-up-for-grabs oil leases.

  She jumped up from the narrow cot and began to pace the tiny cell. She’d alternated between contemplating her parents’ reaction with impatient pacing all the while trying to come up with a solution to her dilemma that might allow her to keep this from them and the world press.

  If her father didn’t kill her, her mother would guilt her to death with her soft sighs and her telling looks. She’d ask her father a million times, “Where did we go wrong?”

  Sara blew her bangs off her forehead and leaned against the hard cinder block wall. She knew the drill. Her parents hadn’t gone wrong, she had. But not intentionally. Things just seemed to go awry when she was involved.

  First, she hadn’t settled on any one career. Not like her sister the attorney. Or her brother the nuclear physicist. Or even her mother, the perfect hostess, charity coordinator and helpmate to an international businessman.

  She’d tried to find a niche that she could call her own. Acting hadn’t worked out, to the great relief of her parents. Nor had nursing. She got queasy at the sight of blood. Being a child-care worker had been lots of fun, she loved playing with the kids. But her lack of discipline with the children had gotten her fired from both jobs she’d found.

  The latest job might have bordered on acceptable—photojournalism was a respected profession. If she proved herself, maybe her family would begin to see her as a contributing member of society and not a flake who couldn’t settle on anything.

  Only now she’d blown that, as well. The editor of the U.S. tabloid newspaper that had hired her had been thrilled when she had told him about her upcoming visit to Kamtansin, one of the newly emerging Arabian countries on the Mediterranean Sea. The plum assignment of filming the royal enclave and getting photos of some of the royal family of the small Arabian country had been hers for the asking.

  Interviewing some of the leading members of Kamtansin society had seemed a piece of cake in Los Angeles. Especially since several were in deep negotiations with her father over the oil leases. She’d meet them, bowl them over with her charm and get those photographs.

  The reality proved one hundred percent opposite. She’d been refused the interviews and refused photo opportunities.

  The worst, however, was being apprehended trying to film the summer retreat of one of the leading families, despite being warned not to approach them. Now she languished in some horrible jail that didn’t even have basic facilities.

  Worse, she’d been accused of being a spy!

  She’d not been allowed to contact the U.S. embassy. Nor call her father. She had not been permitted to seek an attorney. She had not been able to do anything but fret about the predicament she was in!

  Her parents would be frantic. She’d stayed one night in the hotel with them when she first arrived. Then boldly plunged into her trip to get something on film after the string of refusals through normal channels. Even though she couldn’t get close to the summer enclave she’d targeted, the telephoto lens would allow her to capture the finest details.

  But she’d scarcely shot two views before being captured.

  Her parents’ worry couldn’t compare with her own. The laws of this country were completely unknown to her. Would she be granted a trial, or end up remaining in this hot, dusty cell forever—with no one in her family ever knowing what happened to her?

  The door opened. At least she had more privacy than she might have expected. The door to the small cinder block cell was solid wood, with only a small square about midway that permitted food to pass through twice a day, and allowed the jailors to check on her from time to time. Like she was going to escape? The only window in the room was equally small, and set too high in the wall for her to even reach.

  The tall man dressed in the traditional Arab robes motioned with his head. He didn’t speak English and she didn’t understand a word of Arabic.

  Sara brushed down her khaki trousers and shook her shirt a little. After two days and two nights with no washing, the sharp creases and crisp look had long since faded. She felt rumpled, dirty and tired. And more than a bit scared.

  “I want to call the U.S. embassy,” she said. She wasn’t sure the man understood English, but she’d go down trying!

  He remained silent, pointing down the hall.

  She walked toward the door. Once within reach, he clasped her arm in a firm grip then marched her down the long corridor to the wide stairs at the end. Again she wondered what they thought she was going to do—flee from the building and face endless miles of burning desert sand and scorching heat with no vehicle to carry her back to safety? Her hired car was probably still hidden in the hill behind the summer villa. And she had no idea where that was in relation to where she was now.

  They climbed two flights. He knocked on a door and upon hearing the reply from within, opened it, pushing Sara in before releasing her.

  Sara quickly glanced around. It was an austere office with minimal furniture, no coverings on the windows. A man stood by one of the tall windows, gazing out over the desert landscape. She wasn’t sure exactly where this jail was in relation to the capital city, but it wasn’t far from the ruling family’s retreat—the summer home she had tried to capture on film in order to have something for her newspaper’s reader
s. Something to prove to her boss she was capable of the assignment.

  Slowly he turned and looked at her.

  Sara felt a warm tendril of awareness curl within when his eyes met hers. He easily stood taller than six feet. His hair was black, gleaming in the sunshine beaming in through the tall window. His eyes were dark, fathomless, with an uncompromising glint in them as he studied her. His cheekbones were high with taut tanned skin covering them. Power seemed to radiate from him, enhanced by the exquisitely tailored suit, the wide shoulders, the decidedly masculine stance. She felt the power through his study of her.

  Suddenly aware of her own bedraggled appearance, she wished she could have brushed her hair or washed her face. Done something!

  Then the absurdity of the situation hit her. She wanted to get out of this jail, not make some kind of good impression on a stranger. One, moreover, who apparently had some control over her incarceration, else why was she here?

  “I wish to call the U.S. embassy,” she repeated for at least the hundredth time.

  He said something in Arabic and the man behind Sara bowed and left, closing the door.

  “Sit,” he said in English.

  She blinked and looked around, spotting a chair against the wall beside the door. She’d have to pass by the desk to reach it. There was a phone on the desk, a few folders—one opened. Was that on her?

  “I’m an American citizen. I wish to call the U.S. embassy. This has been a mistake that can be easily cleared up.”

  “Sit.” It was clearly an order.

  Moving quickly, Sara sat gingerly on the edge of the chair. Gorgeous or not, his manners needed work.

  He stepped behind the desk and fingered a sheet of paper in the opened file. “You were arrested attempting to photograph a private dwelling—one which had posted signs warning trespassers away. You were trying to photograph members of the ruling family without permission. You carried no passport or other identification.” He looked at her. “How did you get into this country and for what purpose?”

  Sara swallowed. She needed to keep her father out of this imbroglio if possible. She could just imagine the result of his business negotiations if the world’s press caught wind of the situation. Yet she couldn’t stay here forever. She couldn’t!

  “My passport and other identification are in my room.” She’d traveled light when heading out on assignment. A blessing, or a curse this time?

  “And that would be where?”

  Dare she tell him? Would he be discreet, believing she meant no harm? Releasing her to return to the capital city? His dark eyes held her gaze as if by merely looking at her he could determine if she spoke the truth or not.

  “At the Presentation Hotel in Staboul.”

  He tilted his head slightly. “First-class accommodations,” he said, flicking a glance over her disheveled clothing.

  She cleared her throat and tried to smile brightly. “I have a room there, with my family.”

  “And that family would be?”

  Who was this man? His suit was the finest Italian cut. His shirt a pristine white contrasting dramatically with his dark maroon tie. His hair was cut short, and he carried himself with an arrogant air. He looked sophisticated and urbane. And from the way the other man had bowed out of the room, the stranger was apparently someone of rank in this country. How susceptible would he be to keeping quiet about her identity?

  “If you’d just let me make a call—”

  He shook his head. “First, tell me who you are and why you were photographing the summer residence?”

  “I’m Sara K—Sara Kay. I’m a newspaper photographer on assignment. I was just trying to get some photos to show Americans what the sheikh’s home looked like. Your ruling family is very secretive—especially since the death of one of the sheikhs six months ago. We’re curious, that’s all. There’s nothing sinister about it.”

  “Then why not request permission to make the photographs through normal channels?”

  “I tried, no go.”

  “And did you not think there might be a reason for that?” His voice was hard, with an edge that set Sara’s back up.

  “Like what?”

  “Privacy, perhaps?” he said softly.

  “In America, once a family is in the public eye, their privacy is gone. The general public wants to know all about them.”

  “You are not in America.”

  Sara nodded, eyeing the phone. She couldn’t snatch it up and dial her parents. She hadn’t a clue how to reach the hotel. And she had a feeling this man would easily stop her if she made any attempt.

  “Look, if you just let me make one call, I can get this all cleared up. Or you could let me go. The other guys took my camera. I don’t have the film, so no harm done. I promise not to photograph anything ever again if you want. Can I just go?” Preferably with her expensive camera, but at this point, Sara would be grateful just to be allowed to leave.

  He closed the folder with finality. Her heart sank. He wasn’t going to let her waltz out of here. She’d have to use her family’s name, call on the influence of her father. She bit her lip. There had to be another way. Her father would kill her!

  “Your actions have put into motion a chain of events that could have serious repercussions,” he said slowly.

  “From trying to take a few pictures?”

  “You are an American. My country is in the midst of delicate negotiations with American business entities over oil reserves recently discovered here in Kamtansin. There are factions in the country who do not wish to work closely with the Americans. The ministers are watching to make sure our country has the best representation. There are those factions who want the country to move into a new direction. The money the leases would bring in would go a long way to improving the standard of living for all our citizens. Your actions could jeopardize the entire negotiations.”

  Sara swallowed. “You could just let me go,” she almost whispered. “I wouldn’t tell a soul.”

  “Too many people already know you are here and what you did. The charge is espionage. We do not take kindly to people flaunting our laws. You requested permission to film and were denied. How would you describe your actions?”

  “I wasn’t spying!”

  He continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “The old guard would love nothing more than to prove to the world that we will not tolerate a flaunting of our laws and customs. They wish to make an example of you. It would add weight to our side of the negotiations, as well.”

  Oh, great. This was the single biggest screwup she’d ever committed—and could ruin her father’s business deal! She could just hear her mother!

  “On the other hand, if negotiations are to continue for the oil leases, we dare not risk alienating the Americans by holding one of their citizens to make an example of her. If you truly work for a newspaper, I imagine the press coverage would be rampant.”

  She watched him closely. Please decide on the don’t-alienate-the-American side, she prayed, realizing the full impact of the situation. She felt a little sick with that realization. She’d only been trying to get pictures for the paper—nothing sinister. She had never envisioned causing an international incident. And she certainly didn’t want to jeopardize her father’s negotiations.

  The door opened behind her. She turned to see the man who had brought her to the room. He spoke rapidly in Arabic. The man behind the desk nodded.

  “Go, now,” he said in English, turning back to the window deep in thought.

  “Wait,” Sara said, pulling against the grasp the other man took on her arm. “Please, let me call the hotel, my father can vouch for me. He’s Samuel Kinsale. He knows the sheikh!”

  Kharun froze at the words. The woman’s father was Samuel Kinsale? The man with whom he had been working with for weeks in negotiating oil leases? He spun around and looked at her again.

  Her bedraggled appearance didn’t suggest the daughter of one of the world’s most powerful men, but two days in a local jai
l could explain that. The prison facilities in his country were not known for their lavish appointments.

  Her honey-blond hair needed brushing, but it still looked soft as a woman’s hair should. Her expressive gray eyes flashed and sparkled as every emotion showed in her face. Her clothes, if clean and pressed, would have been easily recognized as top quality. He should have noticed that first thing.

  But what was that story she gave about being a photographer? Was that a cover? Was she in truth acting as a spy, just like Hamin, Garh and their cohorts claimed? Trying to find a weakness in their side her father could use to hammer out a better deal?

  Or was she just foolishly blundering in where she had no business being?

  “And what is the daughter of an American oil magnate doing spying on my family?”

  “Your family?”

  “I’m Kharun bak Samin. That home you were trying to photograph belongs to my family.”

  “Oh, sheesh, I’m in deep trouble now!” she said with a groan. At least she was consistent, the older she got, the bigger the mistakes she made.

  “You have just made the situation a hundred times worse.” He switched to his native tongue and told Jabil to return the woman to her cell. Watching as she protested, he let no expression show on his face. He’d become good at hiding his thoughts during negotiations. Never let the other person know his feelings, had been his motto. It stood him in good stead now.

  As soon as they’d left, he turned back to the window. But he didn’t see the oasis to the left with the soaring date palms, the green grass that flourished in the midst of the sandy desert, or the drab houses of those who eked out an existence on the edge of the dunes. Nor did he see the endless desert beyond that stretched out to Morocco, wild and free and beckoning.

  He saw instead the council chamber he’d left that morning. His uncle’s handpicked ministers fighting against the men his father had recommended for the council. New regime against the old. Antiquated ways clashing against the hope of moving his country firmly into the twenty-first century.