Teresa Southwick - The Sheikh's Reluctant Bride

At least she had a great view for her pacing and his suite wasn’t bad, either. Not bad was a gross understatement. It was big. And while she was tempted to explore, she didn’t want to lose her way and get caught snooping. What she could see right here was pretty awesome. Celery-green sofas done in a suedelike fabric faced each other in front of a white brick fireplace. Pictures, each with their own lighting, hung on the walls throughout the spacious living and dining rooms. She didn’t know a darn thing about art but would bet each one cost more money than she made in a month because they were filled with difficult to identify body parts. And they were difficult to identify because they weren’t where they were supposed to be. Kind of like the mess she now found herself in.

How could she be married and not know it? What about the white dress, flowers, rings and vows—preferably of the verbal kind. Her low-heeled pumps clicked on the mosaic tiles in the suite’s foyer as she checked the door to make certain it wasn’t locked, then peeked outside to see if anyone was standing guard there. No and no, she thought, closing the door.

That didn’t mean she wasn’t a victim in some bizarre sex slave ring. She’d seen stories. Granted it was far-fetched. When the royal family had taken her under their wing, she’d never suspected another agenda, but what did she know? She thought proxy marriages had gone out with horse-drawn buggies and hoop skirts.

While she was trying to decide whether or not her luggage would slow her down too much when she made a run for it, the door opened and Kardahl joined her in the living room.

“I have news,” he said.

She tried to read his expression and when she couldn’t, made a hopeful guess. “We’re not married.”

“On the contrary.” He held out a piece of paper. “Is this your signature?”

She took it from him and stared at the familiar scrawl beneath the foreign words. “It looks like mine, but—”

“Were you coerced?” he interrupted.

“No. But I remember a stack of paperwork taller than me and—”

“Not such a very great stack of paperwork then,” he interrupted, looking her over from head to toe.

She was going to ignore that. “Not being fluent in the Bha’Kharian language, I couldn’t read this. The man who was supposed to be helping me said it was nothing important. That I was simply giving my permission to open records that would unite me with my family.”

Kardahl nodded as he took the paper she handed back and set it on the glass-topped coffee table. “In his overzealous desire to serve the king, he may have stretched the truth.”

“He lied?”

“Not exactly. Your signature gives your permission to access records, but it also bears witness to your agreement to the marriage by proxy.”

“That’s absurd. This is 2007. No one gets married by proxy.”

“I assure you it is quite real and legal.”

As yet, she wasn’t outraged to the point where she missed the irony of being this man’s bride. Nine out of ten women would be alternately doing the dance of joy and counting their lucky stars. But Kardahl got reluctant woman number ten. But irony worked both ways. She was apparently legally married to her worst nightmare. That kicked her outrage into overdrive.

She put her hands on her hips. “How do you know I’m not already married?”

“Do you not think someone would have checked that?”

“I never thought I’d be in a proxy-marriage situation. How did this happen?” she asked, pacing again. “Why did I draw the short straw?” At his blank look she translated, “Why me?”

“Your mother’s lineage can be traced back to royalty and there is a long friendship between our families. Many years ago it was decided that her offspring would become the bride of the king’s second son—”

“What if she’d had a boy?” Jess demanded.

“But she didn’t,” he pointed out, far too calmly as his gaze lingered on her breasts. “So when your attorney made inquiries and you were located, plans for the union proceeded.”

This was wrong in so many ways, she didn’t know where to start. Actually that wasn’t entirely accurate. “Did you sign one of those papers, too?”

“Yes.”

“Voluntarily?”

“Yes,” he answered far too patiently.

The playboy prince signed a marriage agreement without a gun to his head? “Why?”

“It is my destiny. The spare heir is required to marry and produce children.”

Since when was he the poster boy for following the rules? “What if I’d never been found?” When he opened his mouth, she held up a finger to stop him. “Don’t you dare say ‘but you were.’”

The corners of his mouth curved up. “It is not necessary since you have said it for me.”

“Then I’ll rephrase—What prevented you from getting married before this? If I’d never turned up, would you never have married?”

“A suitable bride would have been selected.” He shrugged. “When the time was right.”

“So the time was right now? Because I was located?”

“That—and other things.” He looked like a naughty little boy caught red-handed.

The expression was cute, she thought, before her outraged self scratched the observation and replaced it. He was no boy. The girly parts of her recognized and responded to his masculinity against her will and better judgment.

“What did you do?” she managed to ask.

“Why do you assume that I am at fault without really knowing me?”

She folded her arms over her chest and looked up. “How can you ask that with a straight face. This is you we’re talking about. The whole world knows about your romantic escapades. Of course you did something. What was it this time? I’m sure a woman is involved,” she guessed.

“She left her husband, although the separation is not yet legal.”

“That would make her a married woman. I guess the king wasn’t too happy with you.”

“Not me so much as it is the pictures of myself and the lady taken with the telephoto lens.” He shrugged, but his eyes narrowed. “My father and his advisers made it clear that this was an opportune time to—what is the expression—kill two birds with one stone.”

“Squash the scandal and do your duty?”

“Exactly,” he agreed.

So the king had one nerve left and Kardahl had gotten on it—and dragged her along with him. She put her hands on her hips. “There’s just one problem. I don’t want to be married.”

“May I ask why?”

“So many reasons, so little time,” she said. “And if I did decide to walk down the aisle—and I mean walk down the aisle, not sign a piece of paper and presto you’re hitched—you’re the last man on the face of the earth I would choose.”

Instead of irritation, amusement sparkled in his eyes. “Is that so?”

“Your behavior proves you’re not capable of commitment.” She waited for his expression to change and when it didn’t, she said, “Feel free to deny it and set the record straight. The basis for that opinion comes directly from the tabloids.”

“There is no need to deny it. You are correct.”

“Then why didn’t you refuse to go through with this proxy thing?”

The amusement finally disappeared, replaced by a dark look that made his eyes hard as granite. “It is the price of royal birth. This marriage is about duty.”

“That’s the thing. There is no marriage because I didn’t knowingly give my consent.” She never would have given it, especially if she’d known who she was marrying. “In case there’s any question, I am not happy about this.”

“That is understandable. You have been ill used.”

He was agreeing with her again. Why did he keep doing that?