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The Sheikh's Convenient Bride
Sandra Marton
Despite his attraction to her, Sheikh Qasim is trying not to take Megan O'Connell to his wealthy but tradition-bound kingdom; women have no status in his homeland. Yet, as no one else has Megan's financial expertise, he is given no choice.Once in Suliyam, Megan finds her life threatened by tribal leaders who think she's a woman of loose morals. The only way Qasim can save Megan–and her reputation–is to marry her…!



Praise for


by Sandra Marton
“This first book of the O’Connell series, Keir O’Connell’s Mistress, vibrates with charismatic characters and a tight, page-turning plot. No one delivers consistent must-reads like Sandra Marton!”
—Romantic Times
“Romance does not get better than a Sandra Marton story. The Sicilian Surrender has power and passion evident in the strength and compassion of an exquisite hero and the heroine’s courage to create a new life. Together they are a formidable couple.”
—Romantic Times
More praise for Sandra Marton
“When passion ignites in the tale it is really hot enough to burn!”
—A Romance Review on Marriage on the Edge
“Powerful characterizations, intense emotions, sizzling sensual chemistry and a flair for the unexpected…Ms. Marton has a unique way of pulling readers deep into the story right from the beginning.”
—The Best Reviews onCole Cameron’s Revenge
“The Pregnant Mistress…has sensational characters, a superb storyline, sensual scenes and an intense conflict.”
—Romantic Times
Dear Reader,
Some images and ideas are impossible to resist. A while back, I read an article about a woman who’d risen to the highest ranks in the corporate world and how difficult it had been for her to get there. She talked about the men who’d insisted on seeing her solely as an unqualified female, and about the one man who’d never viewed her that way…the man she fell in love with and eventually married.
And I thought, what if that man had not been so open-minded? What if he, too, had seen her as nothing but trouble—but trouble in the best possible way? What if he were a sheikh, sexy and gorgeous and arrogant as hell? And what if fate brought them together, despite their initial dislike of each other, and forced them into a marriage neither wants?
Welcome to The Sheikh’s Convenient Bride, and to a love affair hot enough to set the desert on fire.
With love,



The Sheikh’s Convenient Bride
Sandra Marton





CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER ONE
HE WAS a sheikh, the King of Suliyam, a small nation sitting on an incredible deposit of oil on the tip of the Bezerian Peninsula.
On top of that, he was tall, dark-haired, gray-eyed and gorgeous.
If you liked the type.
According to the tabloids and the TV celebrity-tell-all shows, most women did.
But Megan O’Connell wasn’t most women. Besides, tall, dark, handsome and disgustingly rich didn’t begin to make up for egotistical, self-centered, and arrogant.
Megan raised her coffee cup to her lips. Okay. Maybe that was superfluous. So what? Men like him were superfluous, too. What did the world need with penny-ante dictators who thought they were God’s gift to the female sex? To everybody on the planet, when you came down to it?
She’d never exchanged a word with the man but she didn’t have to, to know what he was like. Her boss—another egotistical jerk, though not a good-looking one—had transmitted the sheikh’s message to her this morning and it had been clear as glass.
She was a female. That made her a second-class citizen in his eyes. He, of course, was male. As if that weren’t enough, he was royalty.
Royalty. Megan’s lip curled with contempt. What he was, was a chauvinist pig. How come she was the only one who seemed to notice? She’d been watching him charm the little group at the other end of the boardroom for almost an hour, tilting his head when one of them spoke as if he really gave a damn what that person was saying.
If only they knew what an SOB like him could do to someone.
She had to admit, he seemed good at what he did. Holding the attention of a bunch of self-important partners and managers of a prestigious financial firm wasn’t easy but then, if you believed the Times, he was the leader of his nation’s cautious steps into modernity and development.
If you believed the Times. It seemed more logical to believe the tabloids. According to them, he was a playboy. A heartbreaker on three continents.
That, Megan thought, was undoubtedly closer to the truth.
The only thing she was sure of was that he was Qasim al Daud al Rashid, King of Suliyam since his father’s death and the Absolute Ruler of his People.
It was a title that would have gone over big a couple of generations ago. Too bad the sheikh didn’t seem to care that such nonsense was a joke now…though it didn’t seem a joke to what passed for the news media, or here in the Los Angeles offices of Tremont, Burnside and Macomb, Financial Advisors and Consultants.
Too bad she’d accepted the transfer from Boston, where nobody would have made this kind of fuss over a walking, talking anachronism.
“Oh, your highness,” a woman said, the words accompanied by a sigh that carried the length of the room.
His Highness, indeed. That was the proper way to address the king, according to the belly-crawling sycophants in his entourage. Megan drank the last of her coffee. No way would she ever call him that. If she had the misfortune to speak with the man—which she surely wouldn’t, after what had happened this morning—she’d sooner choke. His High and Mightiness was more like it. What else would you call a twenty-first century dictator leading a 16th century life? Someone who’d single-handedly set her career back five years?
The bastard.
To think she’d worked her tail off, researching and writing the proposal that had won him as a client. To think she’d spent days and evenings and weekends on the thing. To think she’d dreamed about what handling such a prestigious account would mean to her career, swallowed all those little hints that she’d be named a partner, believed they were soon to become reality.
Every bit of it had gone up in a puff of smoke this morning, when Simpson told her he was giving the Suliyam assignment to Frank Fisher instead of her.
Megan started to refill her cup, thought better of it—she was already flying on caffeine—and poured herself a Mimosa instead. The vintage Krug and fresh OJ were there because the sheikh supposedly liked an occasional Mimosa at brunch, thanks to the influence, some said, of the genes of his California-born mother.
He’d never know it but he was drinking them today, assuming he was drinking them, thanks to Megan’s research. She’d learned about the Mimosas and ordered the champagne and the orange juice.
If only she’d ordered strychnine instead.
Damn, she had to stop thinking this way. She had to stop thinking, period, or she’d say something, do something that would cost her her job.
As if she already hadn’t.
No. Why think like a defeatist? She wouldn’t lose her job. She’d put in too much time and effort at Tremont, Burnside and Macomb to let that happen. She would not let the decision made by The King of All He Surveyed ruin her career. There’d be other big accounts, other career-changing clients.
Of course there would.
If only her worm of a boss hadn’t waited until today to break the news.
She’d come in early, eight o’clock, to make sure she was ready for the meeting with the sheikh. She’d even checked with the caterer to make sure he’d be coming on time, bringing little sandwiches and pastries, the brand of coffee the sheikh was known to favor, the champagne and the juice. Fresh juice, she’d reminded the caterer, and vintage champagne.
By 8:10, she knew everything was ready. The caterer. The boardroom. The manager of this Los Angeles branch of Tremont, Burnside and Macomb, Jerry Simpson.
Quarter past eight, Jerry had stepped into her office, a smile on his pudgy face and a Starbucks’ container in his outstretched hand.
“For you,” he’d said.
She almost said Thanks, but I’ve been drinking coffee for two hours straight…But why turn down the friendly gesture? Jerry never came in early. He never brought her coffee. Mostly he never smiled. He never sat down beside her desk, either, the way he did as she took the container from him.
With the benefit of hindsight, Megan realized that warning bells should have gone off right there and then. Fool that she was, she’d simply figured Jerry was there early so they could get ready for the important meeting together.
“How was your weekend?” Jerry said.
She’d spent it on Nantucket Island at her brother’s wedding, so it was easy to smile and say “Great,” because it had been. He smiled back, said that was good to hear and didn’t she look wonderful and oh, by the way, he was giving the Suliyam account to Frank Fisher.
Megan blinked. She told herself she’d misunderstood. How could he give her client to somebody else? Maybe she’d had too much champagne at Cullen’s wedding, too little sleep, too many cups of coffee to try to get her brain in gear after the alarm went off this morning.
Simpson couldn’t have said what she’d thought he’d said, so she gave a little laugh.
“For a minute there, Jerry, I thought you said—”
“I did,” Simpson replied, and she looked beyond his smarmy smile and saw that he was telling the truth.
“But that’s impossible,” she said slowly, while she tried to make sense of what was happening. “Suliyam commissioned a study—’’
“The sheikh commissioned it.”
“Whatever. The point is—’’
“It’s an important detail, Megan.” Simpson smoothed his hand over the pinstripes straining across his tiny potbelly. “His Highness speaks for his country.”
“I don’t see what that—’’
“To all intents and purposes, he is Suliyam.”
“The point is,” Megan said impatiently, “I did all the work on this report. I did it because you said the king would be my client, if he signed on—”
“I never told you that. I simply asked you to prepare the proposal.”
Megan narrowed her eyes. “It’s standard practice in this firm that the person who works up the data for a client gets that client.”
“You are not a partner, Megan.”
“A formality, Jerry. You know that.”
“His Highness wants someone with authority.”
“Well, that’s easily resolved. Make me a partner now instead of waiting until July.”
“Megan.” Simpson got to his feet, an unconvincing smile of sympathy curving his thin lips. “I’m truly sorry this has happened, but—”
“It hasn’t happened. Not yet. All the partners have to do is vote me in and tell the sheikh I’m more than capable of—”
“You’re a woman.”
That had stopped her. “Excuse me?”
Simpson gave a deep sigh. “It’s nothing personal. It’s not you per se. It’s only that—”
“That what?” She was still trying to sound civil. Not an easy thing when your wimp of a boss told you the job you’d been counting on, an assignment so sweet it had every other accountant in the office panting for it, wasn’t going to be yours after all. “Come on, Jerry. What has my being a woman to do with anything?”
“Actually,” her boss said, smoothly avoiding the question, “it’s for the best. I need you to handle a new client. Rod Barry, the big Hollywood director.”
“The Sheikh of Suliyam is the client I want.” Megan rose from her chair and put her hands on her hips. “He’s the client you promised me.”
“Barry’s a tough cookie. It’ll take special skills to work with him. You’re the only one I can count on to do the job. Do the great work I know you’ll do and you’re up for a partnership next year.” Simpson stuck out his hand. “Congratulations.”
If Megan had been born yesterday, maybe she’d have fallen for the whole routine, but twenty-eight years of living, a dual degree in economics and accounting, a master’s degree in finance and a hard-won slip of paper that said she was a Certified Public Accountant meant she was neither innocent, stupid, nor easily bought off.
And then there was that little remark about her being female.
Her boss was trying to bribe her into accepting her fate. Why? The truth was, he had the authority to take this job away from her. Why would he be trying to buy her off? There had to be a reason.
“Back up a little,” Megan said slowly. “You said I was a woman and that was a problem.”
“I didn’t say that. Not exactly. All I meant was—”
“Why is it a problem?”
Simpson folded his lips in so they all but disappeared. “Suliyam is a kingdom.”
“I’m fully aware of that. There’s a description of Suliyam’s structure in my proposal.”
“It has no constitution, no elected representatives—”
“Damn it, Jerry, that’s what a kingdom is! I spent three months doing the research.”
“Then you also know that its people live by traditions that might seem a bit, ah, old-fashioned to us.”
“Would you please get to the point?”
Simpson’s attempts to avoid the issue vanished. ‘‘You don’t want to handle the new account, then the best I can do is assign you to Frank Fisher as his assistant. He’ll go to Suliyam, you’ll stay here and execute the orders he sends.’’
‘‘No way am I going to play second fiddle to Fisher!’’
‘‘This discussion is over, Megan. You’re off the account. The sheikh wants it that way, and that’s the way it will be.’’
“The sheikh,” Megan said coldly, “is an idiot.”
Simpson had turned a deathly shade of white. He shot a look at her office door as if he expected to see the sheikh standing there with a sword in his hand.
“You see?” he hissed. “Aside from anything else, there’s one reason you’re not suitable for this assignment.”
Dumb, Megan told herself, dumb, dumb, dumb!
“You know I’d never say such a thing to him.”
“You’d never get the chance.” Simpson stuck out his jaw. “Or didn’t you notice, when you did your research, that women don’t have the same privileges there as they do here? They have no status in the sheikh’s world. Not as we understand it, anyway.”
“What women have here,” Megan said coldly, “aren’t privileges, they’re rights. As for the sheikh…he spends as much time in the west as he does in his own country. He deals with women ambassadors at the United Nation. You can’t actually mean—”
“Our representative will have to work at his side. Deal with his people. Do you think, for one minute, those men agree to sit down with a woman, much less take criticism and suggestions from her?”
“What I think is that it’s time they joined the twenty-first century.”
“Getting them to do that isn’t the function of Tremont, Burnside and Macomb.”
“I also think,” Megan said in a dangerously soft voice, “that you’d better join this century, too. I’m sure you’ve heard of anti-discrimination laws.”
Simpson proved ready for that threat. “Anti-discrimination laws are valid only within the United States. There are place where even our female soldiers conform to local customs.”
“What the military does has nothing to do with the sheikh’s plan to raise capital to further develop Suliyam’s resources,” Megan snapped, though a lurch in her belly told her she’d just lost ground.
“It has everything to do with it.”
“I doubt if a judge would agree.”
Simpson slapped his hands on her desk and leaned toward her. “If you’re threatening to sue us, Miss O’Connell, go right ahead. Our attorneys will make mincemeat out of your case. The laws of Suliyam take precedence over American law when our employees live and work there.”
Was he right? Megan wasn’t sure. For all she knew, Simpson might have already trotted the issue past the company’s legal counsel.
“And, knowing the outcome, if you were still foolish enough to go ahead with a lawsuit,” Simpson added with smug self-assurance, ‘what would you put on your résumé? That you sued your employers rather than follow their wishes? How many jobs do you think that would get you?”
Zero, but Megan wasn’t going to admit that. “That’s blackmail!”
“It’s the truth. You’d be poison to any firm of financial advisors.”
Her stomach took another dip. He was right. Legally, you couldn’t pay a penalty for bringing an anti-discrimination lawsuit. Practically, things weren’t quite that simple.
Simpson smiled slyly. ‘‘Besides, we never really had this conversation. I only stopped by to thank you for the fine work you did on that proposal and to tell you, sadly enough, that you don’t have quite the experience you’d need to take on the job yourself. I’m sure you’ll gain a world of experience staying here in the States and being Fisher’s diligent assistant.” Her boss rocked up on his toes, which elevated him to at least five foot five. “Nothing wrong with any of that, Miss O’Connell. Nothing at all.”
Megan stared at him. He was a worm, but he was right. She probably didn’t have grounds for suing the company. Even if she did, doing so would end her career.
She was stuck. Cornered, with no valid options.
The logical thing was to choke back her rage, pin a smile to her lips and thank Simpson for telling her she was going to become a partner and that she’d be thrilled to take on an important new client in the film business.
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 beautiful, 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.
That got a response! Red patches bloomed on his cheeks. The man didn’t like hearing the truth. Good. She could use that to her advantage.
“Or maybe it’s the only way you can get women to pay attention to you. You know, snatch them up, carry them off, lock them up—”
“You’re trying my patience, Miss O’Connell.”
“And you’re trying mine.”
“I promise you, I won’t take much more.”
‘‘And I promise you—’’
That was as far as she got. He reached for her, wrapped his hands around her arms and lifted her to her toes. His fingers pressed into her flesh and his eyes…Whoa, his eyes! Cold as that sea-ice again. He was angry. Enraged. Megan could see it, feel it, even smell his fury in the male musk coming off him.
She’d never seen or sensed such passion in a man before.
What would he be like in bed?
The thought shocked her. She didn’t think about men that way. Oh, she could joke with her sisters, sit in a bar sipping a glass of white wine and giggle with them over the buns on one guy, the biceps on the next, but she’d never looked at a man and actually wondered what it would be like to sleep with him.
That was exactly what she was doing now.
What if the sheikh turned all that rage into desire? If he were lying above her, holding her this same way, holding her so she couldn’t turn away from him, so she didn’t want to turn away from him, so she could feel the heat of his body against hers?
She felt her heart do a slow, unsteady roll.
‘‘Let go,’’ she said, and thanked whatever gods were watching that her voice didn’t tremble.
He didn’t. Not right away. He went on looking at her and her heart did that same little turn again because something changed in his eyes and she knew he was thinking the same thing, seeing her as she saw him, not here in this office but in a wide, soft bed, their bodies slick with sweat, their mouths fused.
Her pulse went crazy—but not as crazy as that thought.
“I said, let go!” she repeated, and twisted free of his hands.
A moment passed. She could hear the rasp of his breath. Then his expression changed and it was as if nothing had happened.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” he said.
Megan nodded. “I agree.”
“Fifty thousand dollars.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Fifty thousand, Miss O’Connell. Surely that’s ample payment for the time you’d like me to think you put in on this project.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “Are you offering me a bribe?”
“I’m offering you payment for the job you claim to have done.”
“My God, you are! You think you can buy my silence!”
His eyes darkened. “Let’s not make a melodrama out of this. You’ve threatened to derail a project that’s of great importance to me. I’m simply suggesting there’s no need for you to do that.” He smiled, and she wanted to wipe the smile off his face. “I don’t carry a checkbook with me, of course—”
“Of course.”
“But I will have a courier deliver a check to you here within—”
“No!”
“Ah. You’d rather we kept the transaction private.” He reached in his breast pocket, took out a small leather notebook and a pen. “If you’ll give me your home address—”
“I am not for sale, Sheikh Qasim!”
Caz looked up. The woman’s face was white, except for two slashes of crimson across those elegant cheekbones. She was going to be more difficult to deal with than he’d anticipated.
“How much?” he said coldly.
“I just told you, I am not—”
“One hundred thousand.”
“Are you deaf? I said—”
“I’m weary of this game, Miss O’Connell, and of your act. Name your price.”
She laughed. Laughed! At him! And edged toward the door, still laughing, as if he were a lunatic howling at the moon.
“Goodbye, your Mightiness. It’s been interest—”
She gasped as he grabbed her shoulders and swung her toward him.
“How dare you laugh at me?” he growled.
“Take your hands off me.”
“You’re a fool, Miss O’Connell. Did you really think you could threaten me and get away with it?”
Megan looked up into eyes filled with hostility. She knew that this was the moment to tell the sheikh that her threat, as he called it, had been made in the heat of the moment, that there’d be no lawsuit because Simpson, damn his soul, was right. The only thing she’d win, if she sued, was a reputation as a troublemaker, and that would mark the end of her corporate career.
That was the logical thing to do.
Logic, however, had nothing to do with what she felt at that moment.
The sheikh obviously thought he ruled the universe. Well, why wouldn’t he? During her research, she’d learned that women were treated like dirt in his country. Well, she was a woman, but she didn’t have to bow to this man. She was an American citizen, and she didn’t have to take this nonsense.
“I asked you a question,” he said. “Did you think—’’
“What I think,” Megan said, enunciating each word with precision, “is that you’re a tyrant. You’re so used to people treating you like a god, to you treating them as if they were your property—’’
“Stop it! How dare you?”
“What you mean,” she said, her voice trembling, “is how dare a woman speak to you this way? Isn’t that right, Sheikh Qasim? I’m a female. A worthless creature. And you are absolutely certain that women are only good for one thing.”
Caz could feel the anger rushing through him. Control, he told himself, control…but this woman needed a lesson.
“It’s time somebody showed you what women really are,” she said, and those few words pushed him over the edge.
“At least we agree on something,” he answered, and before she could twist her head away, his mouth came down over hers.
His kiss was harsh. Dominating. He was a man intent on proving his strength and her weakness, his power to subdue her.
Megan fought back. Hard. When he tried to open her mouth with his, she sank her teeth into his bottom lip. He grunted, turned, pushed her back against the wall; she shoved against his chest, freed her hands, beat them against his shoulders…
And then, in a heartbeat, it all changed.
Later, she’d think back and remember the sudden stillness in the room, as if the universe was holding its breath. Now all she knew was the feel of his mouth as it softened on hers, the gentling of his hands as they slid up her shoulders, her throat, into her hair.
It was happening again. What she’d felt minutes ago, except now it was real. She was in his arms, her body pressed to his, and what was happening had everything to do with desire instead of anger, with wanting instead of hating.
She moaned, parted her lips to the feathery brush of his tongue, let him take possession of her mouth. Of her senses.
He said something in a language she didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. She understood all the rest. What he wanted. What she wanted, and when he angled his mouth over hers, took the kiss deeper and deeper until she felt the earth spinning away, Megan raised her arms, wound them around his neck. He ran a hand down her spine, cupped her bottom, lifted her into him, into his heat, his hardness…
Someone knocked at the door. The sound was like a clap of thunder exploding within the confines of the quiet room.
Caz’s hands fell away from her. He stepped back; her eyes flew open. Breathing hard, they stared at each other like partners who’d lost their footing in some intricate dance.
The knock at the door sounded again. A voice called out. It took Caz seemingly endless seconds to realize it was Hakim, calling his name.
“Sire? Sire, forgive me for disturbing you…”
Caz stared at the O’Connell woman. What in hell had just happened? A shared hallucination? An aberration? His gaze hardened. There were those among his people who would say she was not just a liar and a cheat but a sorceress. He knew better. She was only a woman. A seductive woman, and he’d played right into her hands.
Perhaps she thought she could sleep her way into the job she wanted, rather than blackmail her way into it. Or that she could use the last few minutes against him, either in a court of law or in ways that had the potential to be even more damaging.
He could almost see the headlines in the Wall Street Journal. Wouldn’t his enemies love it if she denounced him to the press?
“Sire?”
She was still staring at him, her green eyes huge and seemingly clouded with confusion. If nothing else, she was an excellent actress.
Caz forced a smile to his lips. “Thank you for the taste of your wares, but you’re wasting your time. I’m not interested.”
“You arrogant son of a bitch!” Her face went white and she raised her hand, swung her fist at his jaw, but he slipped the punch with ease, caught her wrist and dragged her hard against him.
“Be careful,” he said softly, “or before you know it, you’ll be in water so deep it will be over your head.”
“Don’t you ever, ever, touch me again!”
A chilling smile angled across his mouth. “That’s the first thing you’ve said that pleases me.” He let go of her, took a breath to compose himself and opened the door. Hakim stood just outside, his expression as inscrutable as always.
“What is it, Hakim?”
“I am sorry to trouble you, my lord, but you told me to remind you of your luncheon appointment.”
Caz nodded. He had not told Hakim any such thing, but his aide de camp had served first his father and now him. The man had a sixth sense about trouble, and the courage to act on his own initiative when he thought it necessary.
There were times it was an annoyance, but right now, Caz was glad he had.
“Yes. Thank you.” He shot a glance at Megan O’Connell. She had turned away from him and was standing by the window, back straight, hands in the pockets of her mannish skirt, looking out at the street as if nothing had happened, but then, nothing had.
This had been a momentary slip in the fabric of time. Nothing more. It surely would never be repeated. Not only didn’t she appeal to him; he would never see her again.
“A courier will deliver the item we discussed to your home this evening, Miss O’Connell.”
The sheikh’s voice was brisk and businesslike. Megan knotted her hands. Flying across the room and beating her fists against that arrogant face would serve no purpose. Besides, he’d never let it happen. He was too strong, far stronger than she. Hadn’t he just proved it by overpowering her? Because that was what he’d done. Overpowered her. He’d forced that kiss on her, forced her to kiss him back…
“Are you going to give me your address? Or shall my aide get it from Simpson?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Let him send a check to her apartment. Let him send a dozen checks. She’d make the courier wait while she tore them into thousands of pieces and tell him precisely what he was to tell the sheikh to do with all those bits of paper.
At least she’d have the satisfaction of knowing his Mightiness would spend sleepless nights worrying that she’d sue. With luck, he’d have an ulcer by the time he finally realized she wouldn’t.
“Miss O’Connell?”
Megan turned around. “Get out of my sight.”
Caz stiffened. He heard Hakim make a sound that might have been a growl as he took a step forward.
“No,” Caz said sharply, putting his hand on his aide’s shoulder.
“But my lord…”
“She’s American,” Caz said, because that explained everything.
“Damned right I am,” Megan said. “And you’re a pig.”
He forced a smile to his lips, as if she’d handed him a compliment.
“Goodbye, Miss O’Connell. You’ll see my courier this evening.” He moved toward her and was gratified to see the swift rush of panic in her eyes. “But for your sake,” he said softly, so softly that he knew Hakim couldn’t hear him, “you’d better pray that you never see me again.”
The sheikh turned on his heel and strode from the room. His aide gave Megan one last, menacing look, then fell in after him.
Megan drew a shuddering breath and sank into a chair. The Prince of the Desert was gone. He was out of her life, forever.
And not a moment too soon.

CHAPTER THREE
MEGAN left work at six-thirty, almost an hour later than usual.
Since she’d expected to be quick-marched out of the building after her confrontation with the sheikh, leaving late wasn’t too bad.
To her surprise, Simpson hadn’t fired her. Either he’d believed her lawsuit threat or…
Or what?
She was glad she still had her job, but she couldn’t figure out the reason.
Megan sighed as she stepped from the elevator.
Actually she couldn’t figure out much of anything anymore, including why she’d never even imagined she could win a legal battle. Not that she regretted anything she’d said to either Simpson or Sheikh Qasim. It was just that nothing seemed quite as black and white as it had hours before.
Rain was beating against the glass lobby doors. Great. The weatherman had predicted overcast skies. How come those guys never got it right?
How come she hadn’t? Megan asked herself as she turned up her collar and stepped into the street.
Threatening to sue had sounded good. Telling the sheikh what she thought of him had felt good. Great…except, all she’d really done was commit professional suicide. Odds were she’d be digging through the employment ads by next week.
A gust of wind blew the chill rain into her face. Too bad something like that hadn’t happened hours earlier. She could have used an icy dousing around then.
Tremont, Burnside and Macomb was a prestigious firm. So what if her boss was an ass? That didn’t change the facts. She’d behaved stupidly, first with her boss, then with her client…
Except, the sheikh wasn’t her client, and that was probably a good thing because she never could have worked with him. How could you work with a man who was so obnoxious? So rude? So over-bearing and demanding and arrogant?
How could you work with a man who kissed you and turned your bones to jelly?
Megan reached the parking lot, unlocked her car and tossed her briefcase and purse on the passenger seat. She slid behind the wheel, started the engine and turned up the heat. She was drenched and her teeth were chattering.
There was no sense in lying to herself. Qasim had kissed her and she’d kissed him back. It had only been a kiss, but it had left her breathless. Who knew what might have happened if his aide hadn’t interrupted them?
She swallowed hard and stared through the rain-streaked windshield. The other cars were blurs of color.
That was how she’d felt when they’d kissed. As if the world had disappeared and only the colors of it remained.
Damn it.
She gave herself a little shake, turned on the windshield wipers and headed into the street.
She’d absolutely made a mess of things, from start to finish. Too much caffeine. Okay, too much caffeine and too little common sense. She shouldn’t have lost her temper and backed herself into a figurative corner.
And she shouldn’t have been such an easy target for a man who undoubtedly thought women were for only one thing.
The truth was that nothing would have happened if Hakim or Akim, whatever the Head Flunky’s name was, hadn’t shown up.
“Nothing at all,” she muttered, and pulled out into traffic, which was even more horrible than usual. Well, why not? An extra hour spent creeping home on slick roads would be the perfect ending to a perfect day.
Her life was starting to feel like a soap opera.
She hit every red light between the parking lot and the freeway entrance ramp. Okay, she thought, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. That gave her plenty of time to try and figure out why Simpson hadn’t dumped her.
Could he really have fallen for the lawsuit thing?
No. The Worm was a rat and if that was a mixed metaphor, so be it. The point was, rats were miserable creatures but they weren’t stupid. Her boss had seen through her threat.
He had to know that she wouldn’t go to the media, either. Any action she took that would tarnish the company and the sheikh would tarnish her.
Goodbye, career. Goodbye, all these years spent climbing the corporate ladder.
Simpson had to know she’d calm down and come to her senses.
But the sheikh had no way of knowing it. He’d fall for anything she said. Obviously he had. That was the reason he’d made that loathsome offer to buy her off.
Had he gone to Simpson? Told her boss not to worry, that he had things under control? Was that why Simpson hadn’t fired her, or even come near her for the balance of the day?
Maybe so.
Well, they were both in for a big surprise. Just let His Almightiness try and send her a check. Just let the Worm try to think she could be bought off. Just let…
“Stop,” Megan said firmly. “Just stop.” She was working herself up all over again, and for what? She’d already decided what to do with a check, if the sheikh sent one. As for Simpson…She wouldn’t let him buy her off, either. To hell with the big Hollywood client. To hell with the partnership. She’d polish up her résumé, call up a headhunter, find herself a new job…
And lose the chance to make partner. Simpson saw it as a bribe but she deserved it. She was a hard worker. An excellent financial analyst. Was she really going to let Simpson and the insufferable Qasim of Suliyam make her lose everything she’d striven for?
She was not.
If she could just come up with the reason for Simpson’s silence…
Her cell phone rang. Megan ignored it. She hated taking calls when she was driving, especially in heavy traffic made even worse by a steady rain. Whoever it was would call back. Or leave a message. Or—
Or be as persistent as an ant at a picnic. The phone rang again. And again. The fourth time, she kept her eyes on the wet road and dug the phone from her purse.
“This better be important,” she said, “because I am knee-deep in rain and traffic and—”
“Megan?”
“Yes?” she said cautiously. It was a male voice, familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.
‘‘Thank God,’’ the voice said, and sighed with relief. ‘‘It’s Frank.’’
‘‘Who?’’
“Frank Fisher. From the office.”
“Frank?” Her mind buzzed with questions. Why was he calling her? And why did he sound so…panicked?
“Look, I hate to bother you, but—but, uh, I guess Mr. Simpson spoke to you about, uh, about things.”
Mr. Simpson? Her eyes narrowed. “If you mean, did he tell me that you’re stealing my work and claiming it as your own, yes. He spoke to me about, uh, things.”
“Hey. I didn’t steal anything. This wasn’t my idea, it was Mr. Simpson’s.”
Oh, hell. Frank was right, it wasn’t his fault. It would have been nice if he’d spoken up and told the Worm he wouldn’t take credit for something that wasn’t his, but Frank was spineless. Everyone in the office knew it. Intelligent, but spineless. Simpson had chosen him wisely.
“Forget it,” she said wearily.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
A horn bleated behind her. She looked in the mirror, saw, through the water racing down the rear window, a small, low, obscenely expensive sports car. Typically L.A., and no doubt driven by a typically L.A. jerk who thought the car would make him look more important than he really was. She couldn’t see the driver, thanks to the rain, but she didn’t have to. She knew the type.
“Yeah, well, it’s good of you to call, Frank. I mean, the apology doesn’t change anything, but—”
“The apology?” Frank cleared his throat. “Uh, right, right. I’m glad you understand but actually—actually, I called to ask you something.”
Megan frowned. “What?”
“Well,” Frank said, and paused. “Well, see, I was reading through your—through my—through the proposal—”
Megan felt the blood start to drum in her ears. “Get to it, Frank. What do you want?”
“There are a couple of things here I don’t quite follow…”
Frank began to babble. A couple of minutes later, it was clear there were lots of things he didn’t follow. Like, for instance, the entire purpose of her suggestions for the investments the sheikh was seeking.
“He’s rich, right?”
“Stinking rich,” Megan agreed.
“And they’ve already got oil coming out of the faucets in Suminan, right?”
“Suliyam. Yes, the oil’s pumping. But there’s more to be found, and there are minerals in the mountains…”
And what was she doing, giving Frank a quick education based on her research? The man was an idiot. Why should she help him? Damn it, the jerk behind her was beeping his horn again.
“What?” she snarled, shooting an angry look in the mirror. Did Mr. Impatient expect her to fly over the cars ahead of her?
“I need answers, Megan. That’s what.”
“I wasn’t talking to you, Frank.”
“Yeah, but I need answers.” Frank’s voice cracked. “And soon. I’m meeting the sh—I’m meeting my client in less than an hour and, like I said, I just took a quick look at this proposal and—”
“And you’re in over your head,” Megan said sweetly, and hit the disconnect button so forcefully she thought she might have broken it.
The phone rang a second later. She ignored it. It rang again, and she grabbed the phone, shut it off and, for good measure, tossed it over her shoulder into the back seat.
This was why Simpson hadn’t fired her.
He needed her. All that crap about her staying in L.A. to assist Fisher was just that. Crap. She was going to stay here and force-feed everything to her replacement. Frank would get the scepter. She’d get the shaft.
“Forget it,” she snapped.
No way was she going to take that kind of treatment. What was with men, anyway? Three of them had tried to step on her today. Simpson. Fisher. And the sheikh.
“Don’t forget the sheikh, Megan,” she said out loud, but how could she possibly forget a man so despicable?
He’d kissed her. So what? It was a kiss. That was all, just a kiss. Okay, so he was good at it. Damned good, but why wouldn’t he be when he’d been with a zillion women? That was what he did. Made love to women, ordered his flunkies around, and sat on his butt the rest of the time, counting his money, figuring out ways to make it grow.
What else would a rich, incredibly good-looking Prince of the Desert do with his life?
To think that such a man believed he could buy her…
The idiot behind her hit his horn again. This time, it was a long, long blast that seemed to go on forever.
Megan looked in the mirror.
“Go on,” she snarled, “pass me if you can, you idiot!”
The horn blared again. Megan cursed, put down her window just enough so she could stick out her hand and make the universal sign of displeasure. She’d never done such a thing before in her life but oh, it felt good!
The driver behind her swung out, horn blasting in answer to her gesture. He cut in front of her, then put on the speed and zoomed away, in and out of the smallest possible breaks in traffic until he vanished from sight.
“Are you really in such an all-fired hurry to get to hell?” she yelled.
Then she put up her window, glared straight ahead and wished nothing but life’s worst on the Worm, the Sheikh, Frank Fisher, and the idiot driving the Lamborghini.

California drivers were not only fools, they were foolhardy.
The mood he was in, Caz had half a mind to force the VW onto the shoulder of the freeway, yank open the driver’s door and tell the cretin behind the wheel that making a crude gesture to a stranger wasn’t a good idea.
Luckily for the cretin, he was in a hurry.
The traffic had been bumper to bumper. When it finally loosened up, he’d waited for the guy ahead to start moving. He hadn’t. Or maybe she hadn’t. Caz had pretty much generated a picture of who was behind the VW’s wheel. A woman. Middle-aged, peering over the steering wheel with trepidation, nervous about the rain.
The finger-in-the-air thing had changed his mind.
No gray-haired Nervous Nellie would make such a gesture. She wouldn’t yap on a cell phone while she was driving, either. At least, he thought he’d seen the driver holding a cell phone to her ear. It was hard to tell much of anything because of the rain, and who was it who’d said it never rained in Southern California?
Hell.
He had to calm down.
Driving fast would help. It always did. It was what he did at the end of virtually every meeting with his advisors back home, take one of his cars out on the straight black road that went from one end of Suliyam to the other.
From no place to nowhere, his mother used to say.
Caz always thought of her when he was in California. She’d left his father and come here, where she’d been born, when he was ten. She died when he was twelve, and he’d only spent summers with her for the intervening two years.
“Won’t you come home with me, Mama?” he’d ask at the end of each summer. And she’d hug him tightly and say she’d come home soon…
But she never did.
He’d hated her for a little while, when he was thirteen or fourteen and Hakim let slip that she’d left his father and him because she’d despised living in Suliyam. He hadn’t known that. His father had always told him his mother had gone back to her beloved California for a holiday, that she’d taken ill and had to stay there to get the proper medical care.
It turned out only part of that was true. She’d gotten sick and died in California, all right, but she hadn’t gone for a holiday. She’d abandoned everything. Her husband, her adopted country…
Her son.
Caz frowned, saw an opening in the next lane and shot into it.
It had all happened more than twenty years ago. Water under the bridge, as the Americans said.
He had more important things to think about.
Caz sighed. He was wound up like a spring about tonight’s dinner appointment. He had to relax. That woman was to blame for his bad mood. What an aggressive female! A feminist, to the core.
Was that the genie in the bottle he’d be setting loose, once he began implementing his plans back home? Maybe, and maybe he’d regret it, but you couldn’t lead a nation into the twenty-first century without granting rights and privileges to all its citizens.
Even women.
Surely they wouldn’t all turn out like…
No. He wasn’t going to think about Megan O’Connell. He’d wasted too much time on her already. All in all, this day had been a mess.
First that abominable meeting this morning. He’d taken one look at the buffet table, the champagne, the people staring at him and he’d been tempted to turn and walk out. He hadn’t, of course. He was his nation’s emissary. Manners, protocol, were everything.
How come he’d forgotten that with the woman? He’d lost it with her and he knew it but, damn it, she’d deserved it. That temper. Those threats…
Those eyes, that mouth, the certainty that the body beneath the awful suit was meant for pleasure…
“Hell,” Caz said, and stepped harder on the gas.
Business. That was what he had to concentrate on tonight.
It was what he’d wanted to concentrate on this morning, but Simpson had screwed it up. Instead of serious discussion with the man who’d written that excellent proposal, he’d had to endure an eternity of all those people fawning over him.
Bad enough his own countrymen insisted on treating him as if he were Elvis risen from the dead. That, at least, was understandable. It was tradition, the same tradition, unchanged for centuries, that would make implementing his plans a rough sell. His advisors would look aghast at his determination to create a modern infrastructure in Suliyam by opening it to foreign investors. He intended to commit much of his own vast fortune to the plan, as well.
His people would balk, protest, tell him such things could not be done.
It was tradition.
And it was tradition, too, that said he could not possibly bring a woman into Suliyam as his financial advisor.
He had explained all of that to Simpson from the first. He knew there were bright, well-educated women in the west. Hadn’t his mother been one of them? But Suliyam wasn’t ready for such things. He supposed it was one of the reasons his parents’ marriage had fallen apart.
He hadn’t told that to Simpson, of course, but he’d made it clear he would not be able to work with anyone but a man.
‘‘No problem, your worship,’’ Simpson had said.
“I am not called by that title,” Caz had told him pleasantly. “Please, just address me as Sheikh Qasim.”
Hakim had given him a look that meant he didn’t approve. Caz had ignored him. Hakim was devoted and loyal, but he believed in the old ways and those days were coming to an end.
“I will assign my best person to write this proposal, your majesty,” Simpson had replied.
Caz put on his signal light and shot across three lanes of traffic to the exit ramp.
He’d given up correcting the little man. What did it matter how Simpson addressed him as long as he found the right man to get the job done?
He had. The proposal was everything Caz had hoped for and more. He’d searched hard for the right firm to handle the account, narrowed his choices to three and asked them to come up with written proposals for the best possible utilization of investment funds in Suliyam.
Three months later, each company had submitted a fine proposal. Still, making the final decision had been easy. The T S and M report stood head and shoulders above the others. Caz knew he’d found his man.
Simpson was an annoyance, but Frank Fisher, whose name was on the proposal, was brilliant. He was the right person for the job: logical, methodical, pragmatic.
All the things Megan O’Connell wasn’t.
The woman was a creature of temper and temperament, all blistering heat one moment and bone-chilling ice the next. Their encounter proved, as if proof were necessary, that she could not possibly have written the document in question.
It took no great genius to figure out that Simpson was right about her.
She’d accept the money Caz had offered and be grateful for it. The thought of paying her off infuriated him, but sometimes the old saying was right. Better to placate the occasional jackal than to lose the entire flock.
Caz glanced at his watch. Almost seven. He was meeting Fisher for dinner. He hadn’t intended to bother with such a meeting—Fisher was making the flight to Suliyam with him tomorrow, so there’d be plenty of time to talk—but Fisher hadn’t been present this morning. He was tying up loose ends on another account, Simpson said.
No problem, Caz had answered.
But he’d reconsidered. He really did want to meet Fisher as soon as possible. There was always the faint chance they wouldn’t hit it off. If Fisher were anything like Simpson, for instance. If Caz intimidated him simply by being there, they’d never be able to work together.

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