The playboy sheikh’s last temptation...

Thanks to a recent scandalous exposé, the damage to Sheikh Zayn Al-Ghamdi’s reputation is threatening his family’s future.

So when fiercely independent Amalia Christensen has the gall to blackmail him with further ruination to ensure her innocent brother’s freedom, Zayn chooses to keep his enemies close...and make Amalia his temporary fiancée!

Zayn’s only duty is to his country. He can’t allow himself any emotional ties. But the hunger Amalia unleashes in him soon tempts the playboy sheikh to take their relationship from business to the bedroom...

“I’m going to kiss you, Amalia. This is your moment to go all outraged on me and call me a savage beast.”

If possible, she stiffened even more in Zayn’s hold.

“I...refuse to provide you with any more entertainment. I was right in thinking that you would be just as bloated and corrupted with power as—”

Whatever outrage Amalia had amassed to fight the man’s autocratic ideas and her own out-of-control senses, all of it disappeared as Zayn’s mouth touched hers.

The scent and taste of him were an overwhelming assault on her senses. He tasted of mint and some dark potency that stirred everything in her to waking. Heat poured through her in rivulets as he pressed one tender kiss after the other, from one corner of her mouth to the other. The softness of his mouth was a delicious contrast to the rough scrape of his jaw, tugging Amalia’s senses this way and that.

If he had kissed her with the aggressiveness she sensed within him, or if he had employed that sensual mastery that had made him a favorite lover of women, maybe she would’ve resisted.

But instead there was soft flick of his tongue against the seam of her lips, kisses punctuated by the sweetest endearments in Arabic, made Amalia melt like an ice cube on a hot and sultry Khaleej summer day. He tasted her as if he was dying to probe all her beguiling secrets…he kissed her as if she were a treasure he had just discovered.

Brides for Billionaires

Meet the world’s ultimate unattainable men...

Four titans of industry and power—Benjamin Carter, Dante Mancini, Zayn Al-Ghamdi and Xander Trakas—are in complete control of every aspect of their exclusive world...Until one catastrophic newspaper article forces them to take drastic action!

Now these gorgeous billionaires need one thing: a willing women on their arm and wearing their ring! A women falling at their feet is normal, but these bachelors need the right women to stand by their side. And for that they need the billionaire Matchmaker Elizabeth Young.

This is the opportunity of a lifetime for Elizabeth, so she won’t turn down the challenge of finding just the right match for these formidable tycoons. But Elizabeth has a secret that could complicate things for one of the bachelors...

Find out what happens in:

Married for the Tycoon’s Empire by Abby Green

Married for the Italian’s Heir by Rachael Thomas

Married for the Sheikh’s Duty by Tara Pammi

Married for the Greek’s Convenience by Michelle Smart

Married for the Sheikh’s Duty

Tara Pammi

www.millsandboon.co.uk

TARA PAMMI can’t remember a moment when she wasn’t lost in a book—especially a romance, which was much more exciting than a mathematics textbook at school. Years later, Tara’s wild imagination and love for the written word revealed what she really wanted to do. Now she pairs alpha males who think they know everything with strong women who knock that theory and them off their feet!

Books by Tara Pammi

Mills & Boon Modern Romance

The Sheikh’s Pregnant Prisoner

The Man to Be Reckoned With

A Deal with Demakis

The Legendary Conti Brothers

The Unwanted Conti Bride

The Surprise Conti Child

Greek Tycoons Tamed

Claimed for His Duty

Bought for Her Innocence

Society Weddings

The Sicilian’s Surprise Wife

A Dynasty of Sand and Scandal

The Last Prince of Dahaar

The True King of Dahaar

The Sensational Stanton Sisters

A Hint of Scandal

A Touch of Temptation

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Brides for Billionaires

Title Page

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

“WHAT ARE YOUR requirements in a bride, Sheikh Al-Ghamdi?”

Sheikh Zayn Al-Ghamdi stared unseeing at the flat-screen monitor that was attached to the wall in his office. Words came to his lips and fell away.

He had known for a while now that this final step of settling down and marrying was coming at him. It had been drilled into him since childhood that he would one day marry a woman who would serve him well as a wife and his country as sheikha.

Of course she would be mostly an image that would be carefully cultivated and supervised to please the people of his country. He had also been taught, by example of his own parents, that her role even in his life would be very minor. Having his children and continuing the legacy of the Al-Ghamdi family was going to be her primary duty.

Last week when Benjamin had invited him and two other men to confab, following the exposé in Celebrity Spy!, he had been the one to suggest that all his problems would be solved if he married and started producing heirs.

All three men, his rivals for years, turned reluctant allies—Benjamin Carter, Dante Mancini and Xander Trakas—had looked at him as if he’d grown two horns and a tail. Until they had seen the sense in his idea after their initial grumbling and posturing.

But faced with the question asked by Ms. Young, the billionaire matchmaker recommended by Xander, he found himself bewildered.

In the little slice of his life that he was actually the master of, Zayn resented being brought to heel like a dog by some bottom-feeding, trashy tabloid.

But thanks to the dirty exposé on the four of them, his image was utterly besmirched. His parents, even though retired from public life, still had lectured him over his image, the effect of every small minutia of his life over the political climate of Khaleej. Even worse, his sister Mirah’s fiancé’s family was talking about canceling the match.

Conservative to the core, they didn’t believe he had a right to any kind of life, much less the kind of reckless debauchery the article hinted at. But that was not acceptable.

Ten years younger than he was, his sister had been a ray of sunshine in an otherwise solitary life. From their parents’ aloof, almost cold, upbringing, to the rigors of preparing for a political life, if not for Mirah, Zayn would have known no true joy. No companionship at all.

“Sheikh Al-Ghamdi?”

“My bride needs to be attractive and young. Attractive enough for me to be able to look at her for the next five decades. And healthy enough to have children. Someone not approaching or close to thirty.”

Ms. Young made scrupulous notes but Zayn saw the vertical frown between her brows. “Is there a problem, Ms. Young?”

Her gaze couldn’t quite hide her judgment. “Women are known to have children even at the advanced age of thirty, Your Highness.”

“Yes, but women reaching thirty have stubbornly decided ideas, Ms. Young. They will not be malleable. I might not meet their expectations of an ideal man, either.”

The woman didn’t quite snort but Zayn had a feeling she wanted to. “A woman ambitious about her career will not do. She’ll have to understand that her role in life is to complement me.”

“So beautiful but not really smart.”

“Yes. She will have to come to me as a virgin.”

Outrage flared in Ms. Young’s expressive eyes. “That’s barbaric.”

“That’s the only way I can ensure there’s no future scandal or shame attached to her name.”

“Virginity need not be required. We check their backgrounds very thoroughly before we make matches based on your requirements.”

“Ex-boyfriends and old lovers have a way of showing up in one’s life to make the most trouble. I would like to avoid any future scandals concerning my Sheikha and her past. This ensures it.”

“Beautiful, young, malleable, not particularly smart and a virgin. I don’t know whether to say this is the easiest or the hardest match I’ve ever made, Your Highness.”

“Are you saying you cannot find me a woman to match those requirements, Ms. Young?”

“Of course I can, Your Highness. But I just wondered if love was going to be a part of the equation.”

“You run a matchmaking business for billionaires, Ms. Young. Has love ever been part of it?”

“I was curious about your opinion.”

“Some foolish, fantastic notion will not make my marriage a success. I require a wife who will yield to my superior judgment in all areas of our life and be an asset to my political life.”

“A kind of accessory?”

“The perfect accessory, if you will,” he finished, amused at the flicker of anger in Ms. Young’s eyes.

He had known for a long time that was all a wife could be for a man like him.

Two weeks later

In all her carefully mapped-out adult life, Amalia Christensen had never imagined that one bright, hot-as-Hades day she would be waiting in the administrative offices of the ruling sheikh, Zayn Al-Ghamdi. In the spectacularly grand palace of her father’s homeland, Khaleej, she stared at the breathtaking domes and ornately lavish halls decorated in pure gold.

In the time that she’d lived with her mother in Scandinavia, a lot of things had changed in Khaleej, and for the better.

With infrastructure improved to rival any western nation, and its meteoric entry into the global finance world, Khaleej was now a flawless blend of artistry, tradition and technology.

If not for the constant knot of worry in her gut about her twin, Aslam, she’d have been clicking pics and Instagramming left, right and center. The rust-colored palace with its turrets and domes, sitting in the center of hundreds of acres of landscaped gardens and a golden sandy beach corralling it on one side was a visual feast.

But in all the years that she’d yearned to visit Khaleej, she hadn’t imagined doing it this desperate way. The beauty of Khaleej and her reconnection with her roots was empty, meaningless, without Aslam by her side.

If only she’d visited last year; if only she’d understood how restless and angry Aslam was...

It had taken her two months after arriving in Sintar, the capital city of Khaleej, to get this meeting with a palace official. After one short visit with Aslam, who had poured out the entire story to her in the jail; several tense, monosyllabic conversations with her father over the phone—Amalia had no interest in addressing the decade-old silence that still stood between them—followed by endless reaching out to friends of Aslam and learning about the instigator of the whole escapade; and finally, asking her boss Massimiliano to use his connections and arrange this meeting for her.

Massi had laughed and asked if it would bring back the best executive assistant he’d ever had to work for him. Glad that he hadn’t written her off during her long-term leave, she’d promised to return soon. Much as she missed her career and cringed at the dent in her savings, she couldn’t leave until Aslam was free.

The sound of the glistening blue waters of the gulf gently breaking onto the pristinely white sandy beach, visible to the right of her, added a background score to the pregnant silence of the corridor.

She’d been told the palace was usually a beehive of activity. Instead a sort of hush reigned over the scarcely occupied hall.

Neither did she forget the diatribe that had flown out of the official’s mouth that Amalia’s appointment had been scheduled on that particular day.

There was hardly any staff around, either.

What was going on?

She’d never been a royalist and yet the recent exposé on the four bachelors, one of whom was Sheikh Zayn, had drawn her interest. Apparently, the sheikh led a very colorful and inventive private life away from the highly conservative media of the country and the grueling lifestyle of his powerful position.

Amalia had seen the numerous articles that had mushroomed following the exposé, questioning Sheikh Zayn’s dedication toward the governing of Khaleej, the conservative ideals of most of the cabinet and his very image in the eyes of his people.

She glanced at her watch one more time and stood up from the comfortable sofa. Her thighs groaned from sitting for far too long.

Gold piping in the mosaic tiles winked at her. A quick glance behind her showed no hovering security guard, and she slipped through a grand archway into a long corridor that looked like it belonged in a fantasy novel.

A blast of heat hit her and she realized that the corridor opened into a courtyard on the left. Pristine white marble gleamed for a mile or more in front of her. In a moment of uncharacteristic impulsiveness, Amalia slipped her feet out of her pumps.

With the cold marble kissing the overheated soles of her feet and a soft breeze coming in from the bay touching her cheeks, the sheer beauty of her surroundings calmed something inside her.

In the three and a half hours since the harried-looking official had asked her to wait, if you didn’t count the hour she’d spent standing at the reception, waiting for the said official to appear in the first place, Amalia had begun to see a pattern emerge. Guests were being shown into this wing of the palace with the utmost secrecy and security for there would be a sudden rise in the activity around the reception area every half hour or so.

And with each group, there had been almost always one designer-clad, elegantly coiffed woman in the center, quite like a queen bee in the center of her hive.

Guests of the sheikh?

Passing a sun-dappled courtyard dotted with cool fountains and swaying palm trees on her left, she wondered why the women were being brought to the palace.

They could be applying to join the sheikh’s harem, the man having decided that he needed recreational variety closer to home now that his extracurricular activities had been exposed to the world’s media.

She snorted. Not even the playboy sheikh could justify a harem in this day and age. Could he?

What if he was building a strip club sort of thing here in the capital city of Sintar for his personal use and they were women from all over the world at the top of their career in pole dancing? A modern-day harem for one man—wasn’t that pretty much what a strip club was?

Not much of a leap, given that Celebrity Spy! had said the sheikh’s sexual appetites were voracious...

Or they could be princesses and queens and top-tier dignitaries from all over the world attending a banquet given by the royal family—hadn’t she read somewhere that his sister was to be married soon?—which meant the man who’d promised to see Amalia was probably busy with the details of the banquet and not coming for hours.

The second prospect sobered her spirits. But she couldn’t leave until she spoke to him about Aslam and the bogus drug charges built up against him while the real perpetrator was hiding in the lap of luxury.

The moment the palace official had agreed to see her, Amalia knew she’d been on the right path. Someone high up had to know they weren’t Aslam’s drugs.

She glanced behind her to the archway and realized she’d walked quite a way.

A heated conversation in the courtyard to her left lifted the hair on her neck. Alarmed, she opened the first door on her right and slipped inside.

Walking in from the bright light of the day momentarily blinded her vision. Faltering on her feet, she reached out with her hands and found a wall.

It took her a few seconds of blinking and focusing before she could see around the room. Her stomach quivered.

The room wasn’t completely dark as she’d thought first. A large skylight at the far side of the vast room cast a golden glow, showing a man sitting on a throne-like chair, complete with dark gold upholstery and clawlike feet. As if he was the king of everything he surveyed.

Shivers spewed over her spine, as if there was a predator in the room.

Light brown eyes first flicked to the pumps in her hand and then to her bare feet. “You are carrying your shoes instead of wearing them. Why?”

With a jerk, Amalia dropped the pumps and with them, plop went her heart.

Unlike the staff that had catered to her, the man spoke English with an aristocratic, upper-class accent. A deep baritone made the words fall over her like drops of ice-cold water over heated skin.

Without looking at him directly, she could feel the man’s intense gaze on her mouth. Her lips quivered. “I... I walked out into the courtyard and I was too hot.”

“I see that you are too hot.” The dry statement jerked her gaze up. Intelligent and imperious, his brown eyes were wide-spaced and hooded under the dark slashes of his eyebrows. And brimming with amusement. “Why did you walk into the courtyard?”

That made her tongue come unstuck from the roof of her mouth. “I got tired of waiting. If I had to sit on my behind any longer, I’m sure it would have been flattened under me, that’s how long—”

“I hope our furniture didn’t cause your...posterior any lasting harm.”

Her hand went to the particular section of her anatomy. “It’s hard enough to find clothes that fit my height within a budget, so yeah, a flattened backside is not good. And nope, it’s perfectly fine,” she quipped. And only after she spoke the words did she realize this whole line of conversation was ridiculous.

Embarrassment sent heat flooding up her neck, blocked her throat. And she wished she had a genie in hand, like in her father’s elaborate stories, to make herself disappear. Or at least, start over this whole conversation.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt...”

“Apology not required,” he said, and Amalia bit down on the retort that she hadn’t been offering one. “The process is taking longer than it should.” A hint of irritation peeked through that sentence. From anyone else, it could have been an apology. But Amalia was pretty sure he didn’t intend it to be one.

She pushed her feet into the pumps. One hand went to her stomach as if to shoo away the butterflies rioting in there, and one went to her hair. She expelled a sigh of relief when she realized her tight ponytail had stayed put. Once she made sure all of her person was intact—she needed that assurance—she raised her gaze.

Between one rushing heartbeat and the next, she became aware that the man’s utter dominance, over everything in the room, even over the very air she was struggling to breathe, was bred into his bones. His power clung to his skin, not his clothes or to this room or the throne.

It was centuries of legacy, she realized, a sheen of sweat covering her forehead now. He looked like a king because he was a bloody king. Or to use the right terminology, His Royal Highness, Sheikh Zayn Al-Ghamdi of Khaleej. Brilliant statesman, inventive playboy that Celebrity Spy! claimed liked fast cars, fast technology and fast women.

Her first instinct was to mumble an apology and run from the room. The element of surprise was on her side and if she just went back through the unending corridor, back to the waiting area, she could lose herself and slither out of the palace.

Poised on the balls of her feet, Amalia forced herself to calm down and reconsider.

This was the sheikh, the man with all the power, the man who was responsible—fine, indirectly—for Aslam being wrongfully imprisoned. What were the chances that she would ever get an audience with him again?

No way could she tuck her tail between her legs and run away just because the man had to be the most dominating presence she’d ever felt.

Her breath seesawed through her chest as he stood up from the recliner, prowled the width of the room and then stood, leaning against an immense white oak desk. A sitting area to the right had a chaise longue.

Although lounging seemed like too still an activity for him.

The energy of the man, his sheer presence, filled the room and pressed at her from all sides, as if to demand acknowledgement and acquiescence.

A shining silver tea set on the side table made her aware of her parched throat.

As if she’d voiced her request out loud, he moved to the silver service, poured a drink—mint and lemon sherbet—into a tall silver tumbler and walked over to her.

That sense of being overwhelmingly pressed on a sensory level amplified. He had a sandalwood scent. And he gave off heat like there was a furnace inside him. Or was that she who was feeling the heat when really he was giving off none?

Sensations she didn’t like and couldn’t control continued to pour through her and Amalia just stood there, shuddering inwardly in the wake of them.

Where was the super-stalwart Amalia that Massi depended on? Where was the woman who’d been dubbed “the calm in the storm” by colleagues and coworkers?

“Drink. Strangers to the country forget that even when they do not sweat, the heat is still unrelenting.”

His command was supercilious, arrogant, exaggeratedly patient. Better if he thought her brain had short-circuited because of the heat than because of the sheer masculinity of the man.

“I’m not a stranger.”

His gaze swept over her. “You do not look like a woman from my country.”

She took the tumbler and drank the sherbet without pause. The liquid was a cool, refreshing breeze against her throat. Even her head felt better. Lowering the glass from her mouth, Amalia wondered if the man’s theory had credit.

Really, she’d been meandering for almost twenty minutes. Was it a stretch that she had lost her composure because of the heat? Armed with that defense, she extended the glass back to him. “Thanks, I needed that.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t take the glass she offered. He didn’t speak, either.

Slowly, Amalia raised her gaze and looked at him. Really looked at what had to be the most aggressively masculine specimen on the planet.

And promptly realized all her theories about heat and dehydration messing with her composure were just those: theories with a hefty dose of self-delusion.

Tall windows above and behind her cast just the right amount of golden light onto his face as if they, too, had been beat into submission by the will of this man.

A single brow rose imperiously, his gaze very much on her face. A gesture filled with a dark sarcasm. Was it because she had given the glass back to him, as if he was a servant? Was his sense of consequence so big that he was insulted by her innocent gesture?

He had short, thick, curving eyelashes that shaded his expression—a tactic she was sure he used to intimidate people. Light turned the brown of his eyes into a hundred golden hues, the eyes of a predatory cat.

Square jaw, rough with bristles, sat below high cheekbones and a straight nose that lent his features a hardness she didn’t like. His mouth was wide and thin-lipped. A mouth given to passion; the strange thought sent a shiver down her spine.

Amalia was tall, only two inches short of six feet. He topped over her easily by four or five inches. His neck was the same glistening tone as his face—a dark golden, as if he had been cast from one of those ancient metals that Khaleejians had used several centuries ago. Her father had had a small knife whose handle gleamed like his skin tone.

He propped a finger under her chin and lifted it up. All of her being seemed to concentrate on that small patch of skin. “Your appraisal is very thorough after being so flustered.”

Heat poured through Amalia’s cheeks. “I wasn’t flustered.”

“No?” The brow-rise again. “A lot of women lose their composure when they see me.”

“Second of all,” she continued, “you look like a man who needs to be met square in the eye, Your Highness.”

Amusement filtered through the implacability in his eyes. “That is a bold statement to make. Tell me your name.”

“Ms. Christensen.”

“Did your parents not give you a first name?”

She didn’t want to tell him her name, which was the weirdest thing Amalia had ever felt.

He waited and the silence grew. “Amalia Christensen. I was dehydrated. Now I’ve found my bearings again.”

Taking the coward’s way, Amalia stepped back from the sheer presence of the man and made a meandering path through the room.

A haunting memory of listening to one of her father’s stories of ancient history of Khaleej gripped her. A traditionally designed curved dagger, almost the size of her lower arm, hung against a beige-colored rug on the wall, its metallic hilt gleaming in the afternoon light. She ran reverent fingers over the handle.

Yet, she couldn’t leave the infuriating presence of the man behind. It was like trying to ignore a lion that was sitting two feet away from you and eyeing you for his next meal. Neither could she curb the rising panic that the longer she took to explain herself, the harder it was going to be to convince him to help Aslam.

The scent and heat of him rubbed up against her senses.

“This is a fifteenth-century khanjar, isn’t it?” she said, just to puncture the building tension around them. “Men used to wear them on their belts. It was a sign of status, a sign of prowess.”

“Among other things, yes,” he said drily, and a fresh wave of warmth washed over her.

“A sign of their macho-ness, in modern words,” she added, tongue-in-cheek.

It seemed they didn’t even have to look at each other for that almost tangible quality to build up around them. Was it just awareness of each other? Attraction? Or was it her fear of the consequences of her pretense that was making her heart ratchet in her chest so violently?

“Decorative pieces now.”

His surprised gaze rested on her face but Amalia looked straight ahead. She couldn’t rid herself of the lingering sensation in her gut.

“You’ve studied the history of Khaleej in preparation for this interview?” he said, a thread of something in his tone. “I have to admit to both surprise and admiration for that. Having a knowledge of Khaleej and its customs is a huge point in your favor.”

Interview? For a position with him?

For the first time in two months, luck was on her side. If it was a job among the palace staff, a position closer to the sheikh himself, much better. Maybe she wouldn’t have to blurt out the truth this minute and risk getting on the wrong side of the man.

Would waiting only make it worse for Aslam? Which option was better?

“Yet, I didn’t receive a file on you from Ms. Young.”

Face coloring, Amalia pulled her phone out of her bag. “I can email you my résumé in a minute.”

“No, that is far too...strange, even for me.”

Now, what did he mean by that?

“Tell me about yourself. I’m curious why Ms. Young picked you to be a candidate when it’s clear you don’t have a royal connection or any other advantages.”

Royal connection? How high up was this job that there were candidates with royal connections applying?

“I didn’t actually prep for the interview,” she said, deciding to dole out truth little by little and see how he reacted. She needed to get a sense of what kind of man he was—if he was fair-minded or just like his cousin.

“I was born here in Khaleej and lived here until I was thirteen. My...father is a historian at the Sintar University and an expert on antique objects. He...” The sudden lump in her throat made it hard. “My twin, Aslam, and I...it used to be our favorite pastime to sit in his study and listen to his long, rambling stories about Khaleej. He is, or used to be, a consummate storyteller.” So good that she’d utterly believed him when he had said he’d send for her very soon. That had been more than a decade ago.

“Used to be?”

“I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“You seek to make a home in Sintar again, to reconnect with him?”

“No. And I have no intention to.” He frowned and she added, “No intention to reconnect with him, I mean. I have other reasons for being here.”

“But you do not have a Khaleejian name.”

She shrugged. “My mother and he divorced and they split us up. She took her name back and asked me if I wanted to, as well. I said yes.”

“You should have your father’s name. You should have something that speaks to that part of your heritage.”

“I don’t really see why when he and I have had nothing to do with each other,” Amalia retorted, angry with him, angry with herself for reacting at all. She was supposed to learn about his temperament, not pour out her own nonexistent relationship with her father.

His frown sliced through her anger. “My point is I would be an asset in any position with my understanding of the cultural norms. My Arabic is rusty but I can polish that up, too.”

He gave her one of those considering looks again. Never had she struggled so much to hold a man’s gaze. “That is good but might not be completely necessary. Both parts of your heritage could be put to use. You could be the western connection that Khaleej needs.”

So it was a position in close quarters with him? Excitement and alarm twisted in her stomach.

“Tell me more about yourself, Ms. Christensen,” he invited in a languorous voice.

Keeping her gaze on some point left of his face, she began, “I worked for five years as an executive assistant to the CEO of a multimillion-dollar company. I’m fluent in four languages. I never lose my cool.” The raised brow again, damn it. “And I work extremely well under pressure. Also, I’m very good at managing public relations and media, too.”

“You sound like a paragon of hard work and efficiency, Ms. Christensen.”

“You sound like it’s a bad thing,” she retorted.

He smiled, and Amalia for the first time understood the meaning of knee-buckling. Her fingers tingled to trace the grooves in his cheeks.

“I should warn you that this is unlike any job you’ve worked at before. What are your expectations?”

“That I would be compensated well and dealt with fairly.”

He laughed then. She’d been right. Full of his own consequence he was, but he also had a sense of humor. The laugh lines around his mouth sat easily on the hard contours of his face. “Your bluntness is refreshing. You know that monetarily, you will be set up very well for the rest of your life.” He sobered up. “As to being treated fairly, I always treat women well.”

“Have I convinced you that I am right for this...position, then?”

“I’m holding judgment on that. As you know,” a glint in his eyes made Amalia aware of her own skin, the rapid beat of her heart, the slow tingling low in her belly, “it is not a decision I can make in a half hour. But you will be glad to know, on paper, I would have rejected you immediately. I have to hand it to Ms. Young. She made a bold but different choice with you.”

“You would’ve rejected me? When I’m supremely qualified?”

“Defiant as you are in rejecting your Khaleejian heritage, I can’t believe you can be that naive about your suitability, Ms. Christensen. Khaleej is at the most troubling and exciting point in history now, straddling ancient traditions and the modern world. Everyone around me reflects on me.”

Amalia prided herself on the career she’d worked so hard for. She’d dedicated years to it, had looked after her mom before she’d passed away last year, paid for her endless treatment... His dismissal of her stung. “Just tell me why,” she demanded.

“A career woman full of her own ideas about independence and gender equality and with a grudge against her own father is the last thing I need on my hands.”

All those fluttery, useless sensations that she was beginning to recognize died a sudden, much-appreciated death as Amalia tried to wrap her head around the sheikh’s statement.

If he didn’t want a professional, dedicated, experienced career woman for the position, how did he expect to get anything done? What use would a woman who couldn’t think for herself be in—?

Her heart sank to the soles of her sensible pumps.

It wasn’t a job he was interviewing for.

And if it was a stripper or a belly dancer she’d insanely thought, well, he’d have asked questions about that field, wouldn’t he? Maybe even asked her to give a trial performance. But even that crazy idea was better.

Her pulse skidding everywhere, her eyes wide, Amalia stood rooted to the spot as the last piece of the puzzle slotted into place.

That was why the palace was mostly empty, why women had been brought in all morning. The Ms. Young he kept mentioning wasn’t a headhunter but a matchmaker.

Sheikh Zayn Al-Ghamdi of Khaleej was interviewing eligible candidates for a wife, for his sheikha, and Amalia Christensen, dedicated career woman and valuer of her independence, had inadvertently applied for the position.

Her pulse skittered as fear filled her veins.

What if she had ruined Aslam’s only chances for release with her dangerous charade?

CHAPTER TWO

AMALIA CHRISTENSEN WAS the kind of woman who made men grateful for being men, who brought forth all the uncivilized, rampantly aggressive instincts that men pretended they didn’t feel anymore to cater to the modern feminist’s sensibilities.

He had never been struck by an attraction so hard and so fast.

The way she’d been so hotly flustered when he’d let his gaze sweep over her lithe form had been incredibly interesting and stroked his masculinity in a way he hadn’t needed in more than a decade.

Zayn couldn’t turn his gaze away from the color seeping up her cheeks or the way her expressive eyes flashed her dismay, confusion, followed by the resolve. He could practically see her spine lock into place.

Khaleej had always been a progressive nation. Even Zayn agreed there was a place and reason for gender equality and the feminist movement.

Just not in his life. Or in his bed. He had no doubt that he, in particular, would be deemed a male chauvinist or an antifeminist devil for there was no room for another strong personality in his life, let it be a lover or a wife.

He liked and preferred women who understood and accepted that he was the dominant one in bed, that he would take care of all their needs as long as they trusted him. As long as they were equally wild as he was.

Every aspect of his life had been controlled, first by his father and then by himself, and would continue to be until he was dead. But his private life, his sex life—it was where the wildness in him ran free.

With the little time he had, contrary to the Celebrity Spy! lurid exposé about his alleged orgies and depraved tastes, he needed his sex life to be easy and simple, not an ongoing battle of sexes.

So Amalia Christensen—with her long, wavy, dirty-blond hair tightly pulled back in a ponytail that brought her exquisite features into stunning focus, her pillowy, lush mouth that argued that she wasn’t flustered when she so obviously was and her hot little body hidden in her buttoned pencil skirt and long-sleeved top—was not the kind of woman Zayn would engage with sexually.

If she was the innocent type who couldn’t even own her sexuality, he didn’t have the time or patience to teach her. If that innocence was a cunning act to attract his attention, he didn’t want to play that game.

Neither was her vehemence that her father’s heritage had no part in her life something he liked. Clearly, she had been raised to disrespect authority figures, encouraged in her rejection of an important part of her identity. He would bet her mother, who had given her those light brown eyes and the stunning golden-blond hair, was the author of that disillusionment, too.

So Ms. Christensen was not fit to be his wife in any form or way.

Was this Ms. Young’s rebellion because he had ruffled her sensibilities with his requirements in a wife? She couldn’t have believed Zayn would choose this contradiction of a woman to be his sheikha in a hundred years.

But after a morning of meeting eligible candidates—all lovely virginal women with connections in high places and with a full understanding of what it meant to be the future Sheikha Al-Ghamdi, docile and respectful of his country’s norms and traditions, and even more important, thoroughly and admittedly bowled over by what he represented—this woman was a maddening, arousing novelty. His response to her and her rough, almost insulting manner was both curious and irrational.

Because staring into those long-lashed, honey-colored eyes, he couldn’t help wishing he’d met her a few months ago. Even a month ago, before the episode of Celebrity Spy! and ruffled sensibilities of his countrymen.

She was nothing like the women he slept with but she completely intrigued him—a novelty—and that would have made the chase and the final victory that much more exciting.

For a minute he wondered if he could give her a position in the palace and keep her close. Until he was married and Mirah was happily married and the dust settled around his image. Until he was free to pursue her... No. Even for a man who considered marriage nothing but an advantageous step in his preordered life, the idea was utterly distasteful.

He had long been resigned to the idea that, like his father, after a few years of marriage, he would find sexual satisfaction with other women. But beginning his marriage with a mistress in mind was repugnant.

He should be sending her on her way. He should think back to the women he had met this morning, make a decision and get it over with. Move on to the next task in his unending list of state duties.

“Have I insulted you by that statement, Amalia?” he said instead, using her given name on purpose.

Just as he expected, her mouth tightened. Her shoulders went back into a ramrod line, which thrust her breasts out provocatively. He had a feeling she’d never do that if she knew how alluring that gesture looked.

“I’m wondering why you’re not sending me on my way if I’m such a bad candidate, Your Highness. I’m also wondering how to make the best of this situation. It seems my options are lose-lose.”

Something in her eyes, a conflict, a hesitation, made him think she wasn’t just sparring with him anymore. She was upset by the sure outcome of this meeting and she was mustering defenses.

Had she been so sure that she would impress him? Would this alliance mean so much to her?

Or had she conspired with Ms. Young to lure him into an alliance of a different nature? Why not? Women tried to attract his attention in every which way. He was known to be a kind and generous lover. If there was a connection he could use in high places, or a recommendation he could make to advance the current woman in his life’s career in some way, he’d always been open to it.

Was this Amalia’s game? Had she somehow inveigled this invite so that she could present herself as a candidate, but for something altogether different?

Doubts ensnared him.

He didn’t forget that even though she’d lost her footing, she’d recovered her composure very well. She had been the most interesting woman he had met today among all the candidates. The most interesting woman he had met in a while, if truth be told. But was that interest being cultivated and engineered with a purpose in mind?

“In your life, are there any skeletons I should know of?”

Instantly, her gaze shuttered; a paleness touched her skin. Guilt was a shining emblem on her forehead. He’d been right. The woman was here under false pretenses and convoluted motives.

Send her away, one voice inside his head said.

Play her at her own game, another said.

“You’re hiding something. Or are you counting your lovers in your head?” something savage and out of control goaded him to ask.

Outrage filled her eyes. “That’s none of your business. Unless you’re offering to do the same count for my benefit. Will you reveal what you ask of me? Should I pull out the Celebrity Spy! exposé and tally your number against theirs to verify the veracity of your claim, Sheikh?”

Utter scorn, for him as a man and for his position, reverberated in her defiant question.

Instead of being infuriated, Zayn smiled. He deserved that after his probing remark. Still, he found himself unwilling to give up this sparring match with her. With every back and forth, he knew he was indulging himself in something that was fundamentally against his principles. Against the little personal respect he had put aside for his wife’s position.

But the compulsion was fierce, the urge too primal to be denied. There was something about her that called to things he’d never before experienced. “It is my business if we are going to consider this, Amalia. And I will not apologize for having lovers in the past.”

He hadn’t decided on a candidate yet. Technically, he was still a single man. Even if that line was very thin right now. He ran the tip of his finger over her cheek. Her skin was gossamer silk under his hands. “Every past and present aspect of your life is going to be considered fair game. There has been enough scandal in my life and I do not want to deal with jealous ex-lovers.”

She didn’t push his hand away. A fine tension began to vibrate from her. “That’s a double standard, and you know it.”

Why didn’t the infuriating woman just tell him about her past? What was this curiosity that drove him to learn about a woman he could have nothing to do with? “The world is full of them.”

Chin tilted at a defiant angle, she stared back at him. “So let me get this straight. If I have my hymen intact, it will give me a few more points on this list of yours?”

The fire in her eyes, the soft tremble of her lips...it made Zayn think of sultry nights and damp, tangled limbs.

“I will tell you my expectations, then. You will be given a certain amount of freedom. Your primary role will be to present an image of a healthy marriage and to give birth to our children. An affair with another man will have disastrous consequences. The media will rip us into shreds and the country will be in uproar.”

“Is Your Highness promising the same fidelity in marriage, then?”

It was already a fantasy, this game they were playing with each other. This pretense they were both playing at, knowing that it was leading nowhere. Only one thing they both wanted.

She had to know that he would never marry her. He had told her that. And yet, she was still here, provoking him, luring him in for a taste. An affair with him—was that truly what she wanted, then?

Even in the charade, Zayn wouldn’t lie. “On the contrary, I fully expect that within a few years, the reality of our marriage and the pressures of this life will make us, if not hateful, at least indifferent toward each other. And when that day comes, I intend to seek another woman. I’m sure you’ll be glad to not have to bear my unwanted attentions. I enjoy sex and I do not intend to give it up.”

“And this is your idea of marriage? This is what you’ve been offering all the women you’ve been meeting all morning?”

“No. All those women already understood these terms and accepted them. They knew even before they saw me today, that that was reality. It is only for you I see the need to set the expectation.”

“Because you think I’m naive enough to believe in love? To believe that a man like you will offer fidelity and respect and love?”

The cynical light in her eyes shocked him. Why, when she was clearly here with not so pure motives... “No, I explained it all because I thought it would tell you that I’m as unsuitable a husband for you as you are a wife for me. Marriage to each other would be war, Amalia, and I have enough of them to contend with in the other areas of my life.”

“Wait, you thought I’d be heartbroken that you’re rejecting me for the role of your wife and this is you softening up the loss for me?”

“Yes.” Before she could skitter away from him in her outrage, Zayn cupped her neck and arrested her movement. The small indent at the base of her nape was the sexiest part of a woman he had ever touched.

He swallowed his shock at how swiftly lust rose through him.

Her breath fell in rough exhales while a tight stiffness entered her body. He held her loosely enough to not threaten her, leaving it in her hands if she wanted to move away. Other hand sliding to her waist, he exerted enough pressure to bring her closer to him.

Gorgeous brown eyes widened into innocent pools. Very likely, the vulnerability in her eyes was a well-rehearsed act, but still it turned him on incredibly. Pursuing one sophisticated woman after the other, sleeping with women who knew the score, Zayn had forgotten, or maybe he had never known, how hot this kind of vulnerability was.

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to make her all flustered again. He wanted to see if she would taste sweet as her soft sigh said or tart as her words suggested. When it came to women, Zayn had always taken what he wanted, pursued models and actresses ruthlessly. He wasn’t going to let this rough-around-the-edges woman slip past him.

“I’m going to kiss you, Amalia. This is your moment to go all outraged on me and call me a savage beast.”

If possible, she stiffened even more in his hold. “I...refuse to provide you with any more entertainment. I was right in thinking that you would be just as bloated and corrupt with power as—”

* * *

Whatever outrage Amalia had amassed to fight the man’s autocratic ideas and her own out-of-control senses, all of it disappeared as Zayn’s mouth touched hers.

The scent and taste of him was an overwhelming assault on her senses. He tasted of mint and some dark potency that stirred everything in her to waking. Heat poured through her in rivulets as he pressed one tender kiss after the other, from one corner of her mouth to the other. The softness of his mouth—who could know such a hard man could have such soft lips?—was a delicious contrast against the rough scrape of his jaw, tugging Amalia’s senses this way and that.

If he had kissed her with the aggressiveness she sensed within him, or if he had employed that sensual mastery that had made him a favorite lover of women, maybe she would’ve resisted.

But instead the soft flick of his tongue against the seam of her lips, the kisses punctured by the sweetest endearments in Arabic, Amalia melted like an ice cube on a hot and sultry Khaleej summer day. He tasted her as if he was dying to probe all her beguiling secrets; he kissed her as if she were a treasure he had just discovered.

This supposed connoisseur of women requested entry into her mouth as if she was the most enchanting woman he had ever met. And sensible, rational, rarely discomposed Amalia fell for it all. She eagerly opened her mouth under his questing one.

And just like that, the tenor of the kiss changed. It went from a pleasant seaside breeze to an intense scorching heat wave. His tongue swiped over the moist recesses of her mouth, teasing and taunting her tongue to play with him. The stroke of his tongue over hers released a dampness between her thighs. It was what he had done with words, too. He had somehow provoked her, called the part of her that she didn’t even know existed, made her revel in the moment, made her prolong what was only a dangerous charade.

He was seducing her mind.

He was doing that now, too. It was as if he knew to soften his aggressiveness for her, to slowly draw her out instead of demand. At least until she came to him of her own volition.

With a shamefully wanton moan, she sank her fingers into his hair and pushed herself closer to him. She sucked his tongue into her mouth just as he had done with her.

Large hands roved over her body now, tracing the ridges of her shoulders, the line of her spine, setting every nerve ending on fire. Urgent and aggressive, he stroked every inch of her to the same need. Amalia had never felt like this before and she didn’t know how to stop it, how to gain control over herself or this madness that had overtaken her.

All she knew was that she never wanted to stop.

Her mouth stung and her nipples peaked to tight points, grazed again and again by the hard contours of his chest. His hungry hands finally stilled on her waist and he pulled her even closer. Mouth left hers, giving her a chance to breathe. “Point proven. You can huff and puff and act outraged but truly, you want me. And you can’t see how all your self-control and rules about needing respect and recognition before attraction are out the window already. That’s what all this feminist bluster is about, isn’t it?

“It’s not about my double standards but about your own conflict in wanting me when you do not want to.”

If he had slapped her, Amalia couldn’t have been more shocked. It was like being drenched in an ice bath to douse her overheated senses. Still, her body throbbed in all these newly aware places, slow to cool down.

With a disgusted growl, she pushed away from him and turned around. Lungs burned as if she had run a long distance, her mind blank under the onslaught of such heady pleasure.

She rubbed her palm roughly against her stinging lips as if she could get rid of his taste. A horrified sound escaped her mouth. Dear God, she couldn’t believe she’d been kissing the Sheikh of Khaleej.

The thought of her twin rotting in that jail cell while she played ridiculous games with the man who held his fate in his hand made nausea whirl up through her throat. How could she have forgotten Aslam so thoroughly?

How had she gone from asking for help to a harmless pretense to climbing all over him like a vine?

“You’re offended by the kiss. But I will not apologize for doing something both of us wanted.”

She whirled around, his self-assured words scraping at her. Could she blame him for thinking she was putty in his hands? “I’m not just offended. I’m disgusted with myself.”

He laughed again. And this time the sound was redolent with mockery. “Because you got what you came for? Or because you enjoyed the kiss thoroughly?”

“What I came for?”

“You and I both know that you’re not suitable to be my wife in any way or form. So the only conclusion I draw from your being here is that you came seeking an affair. It is not a secret, anymore, that I treat my women well.”

The gall of the man to think she had expressly come so that she could lure him into an affair. Was there anything bigger in the world than the man’s ego? “You mean you pay them for sex?” she hurled at him.

His mouth curled, a hardness entering his eyes. “I do not like games, Ms. Christensen. I do not find affected outrage of the kind you’re displaying attractive at all. If you find my conclusion that offensive, why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

This was it, her opening. To prolong hiding the truth meant resigning Aslam’s life to the jail cell for who knew how long. And yet, Amalia hesitated.

Something in the glittering gaze, in the sensual but hard contours of his mouth, told her he wasn’t going to like it. He wasn’t going to forgive her easily and then offer to help with Aslam. She might have made it worse if the sheikh thought she’d made a fool of him.

She was completely screwed.

“I did not come here hoping to marry you. In fact, I don’t think there’s a couple in the entire world more unsuited to each other for marriage.”

His hands behind his back, he looked at her as if she was one of his subjects. “My sentiments exactly. So I see only one reason why you would be on Ms. Young’s list.”

“No... I’m not one of the candidates lined up for your pleasure by Ms. Young. I would never allow myself to be presented like prize cattle for viewing.”

His hardened jaw told Amalia she was only making it worse, but she couldn’t stop. “I figured that much, too. Which is why I have to believe that you came here seeking a different kind of alliance.”

“I’m not here for an affair with you.”

“No?”

“A hundred times no. I came to meet with a state official about my brother Aslam’s case. I have spent two months dragging myself from one state office to the other, hoping someone would listen to me. He is in jail for—”

“Ah...so you’re a family of criminals, then?” His eyes were cold, flinty, his mouth a study in utter distaste. “Brother goes to jail, and sister inveigles herself into the palace under false pretenses. Is your father really a historian? Is anything you told me the truth?”

Amalia flinched. Her credibility was zero with him and she had no one but herself to blame. She softened her tone, hoping it would appeal to his good side. If he had one. “All I did was tell a white lie. No, I didn’t even do that. I just didn’t clear it up. I...couldn’t pass up the opportunity—”

“Opportunity to do what? To get into the sheikh’s chamber? To present yourself as a temptation?”

He looked so threatening right then, Amalia could practically feel the power coming off him. Utterly different from the man who had kissed her so tenderly, even from the man who’d laughed so openly. “Of course not! I don’t want to kiss you much less want an affair with you. I have a successful career and do not need any favors from a man like you, whether given freely or in exchange for something else.”

She now realized how fooled she’d been by the Celebrity Spy! Article, too. Having read about the sheikh’s escapades and orgy fests, she’d decided in her head that he was someone she could persuade and plead with.

But the man who stared at her with those inscrutably brilliant eyes didn’t have a soft bone in his body. The last thing he looked like right now was a self-indulgent, reckless playboy the exposé had called him.

“I intended nothing like that. I was tired of waiting and I snuck in here out of pure panic. When I realized who you were, for a few minutes, I even completely forgot...” She flicked her eyes closed for a second. Not everything had to be revealed now, even if he knew what her reaction had been to him. Opening her eyes, she willed her tone to be matter-of-fact. “Aslam has been imprisoned unfairly for something he was only a marginal part of. He was angry at life and reckless and irresponsible.”

“How old are you, Ms. Christensen?”

Amalia couldn’t figure out what he was getting at. “That’s neither here nor there.”

“I can have your entire history in my hands in ten minutes.”

Domineering ass! “Twenty-six, Your Highness.”

“It’s a little late to be all deferential, yes?” He folded his hands and leaned against the table. The crossing of his ankles stretched the black trousers tight against the length of his thighs, and Amalia had to force herself to pull her gaze up.

When was her body going to move past the fact that the man was insanely, knee-meltingly gorgeous and a domineering, arrogant tyrant who thought every woman was out to ensnare him?

“So your brother is, too. You know what I was doing at that age, Ms. Christensen?”

Partying with your groupies, she wanted to say, but she held her tongue.

He smiled then, as if he was perfectly aware that she was biting down on her tongue. Hard. “For three decades, there have been constant skirmishes between Khaleej and our neighboring country. I was at a weeklong summit, working nights and days to sign a peace treaty that would end useless bloodshed. Once the treaty was signed, I partied, hard. Your brother is not a teenager. He has to face the consequences of his actions.”

“He doesn’t deserve to spend the next decade in jail when the actual perpetrator—”

“What is your twin in jail for?”

How she wished she could offer a different answer, to stop the guilty flush from climbing up her neck...“Possession of illegal substances, with intent to sell.”

Instant judgment pursed his mouth tight. Her heart sank. “There’s nothing I can do about it. Sentences for drug possession and distribution are meant to be harsh. He shouldn’t have been using if he doesn’t have the constitution for jail. And really, to send his sister to—”

Amalia covered his mouth with her hand, rage burning through her. And yet, seeing her white knuckles against his golden skin sent a shock through her, too. As did the warmth of his mouth searing through her palm. “I didn’t come here to sell myself just to save my brother.”

Long fingers gripped her wrist and pushed her away. “No?”

“I came hoping that your administration was a fair one. Even after I saw you and realized what you thought, I kept quiet because I thought you would be fair like you promised.”

Tears threatened and Amalia pushed them back. No way was she going to cry in front of the callous man. He was picking his own damn wife from a marriage mart, like he was picking an outfit for the next week. The minute she’d realized that, she should’ve known he was going to have no sympathy for her case. It was clear Sheikh Zayn Al-Ghamdi had no heart. “I should’ve known when I spoke to your cousin that you’d be no better than him.

“Aslam is serving the sentence for what your cousin did. He took that package from him because he couldn’t refuse someone ‘so cool,’ in his words, and yes, because my brother is a reckless, foolish idiot who didn’t know who he was trusting. Your government is bloated with corruption and no wonder Celebrity Spy! exposed the truth of you like that.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire Al-Ghamdi family is a bunch of corrupt, drug-trafficking, womanizing men bloated with power.”

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