Olivia Gates - Claimed by the Desert Sheikh

“I am mortal and there is no special training.”

Which meant it was just him. A slightly scary thought.

“I must go. The car will return and the driver will wait to take you back to the palace.”

“Okay.”

“I look forward to seeing your transformation this evening.”

“We’re doing something tonight?” Not that she minded.

“A play.”

“Right. You mentioned that. I should probably get a calendar.”

“I’ll have my assistant print out a schedule.”

That made her smile. “I’ve never dated by schedule before. Maybe he should include suggestions on what I should wear. Formal, informal, strictly casual.”

“If you like.”

She started to say she’d been kidding, but then realized having that information would help. “Theater is dressy, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” She thought about the clothes they’d bought earlier that afternoon. “I have a couple of things I can wear. What’s the play?”

“A musical. Les Miserables. The king’s favorite.”

“Has he seen it?”

“Many times. He’ll see it again tonight.”

“Oh. He’s going, too?”

“We’ll be in his box. It will be a good opportunity for him to get to know you better. As the woman I’m dating.”

With that he straightened and walked away.

The stylist returned. “He’s so hot. You’re really lucky. Are you all right?”

Maggie shook her head. The king was going to be there tonight? In the same box? Was she expected to talk to him?

Stupid question, she told herself. She would have to carry on a conversation and pretend to be Qadir’s girlfriend and what if the king asked about her being good breeding stock? How was she supposed to answer?

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she whispered.

“I get that a lot,” the stylist said as he wheeled a cart close and reached for scissors. “Deep breaths. You’ll be fine.”

“I can’t do this,” Maggie said as the limo pulled up in front of the entrance to a very large, very old building. “I can’t breathe, I can’t think. This was all a mistake. If I’d already accepted money, I would return it. Seriously, pick someone else. Fainting will not make the king like me.”

“You’re exaggerating your condition,” Qadir said, not sounding the least bit sympathetic. “You said you like musicals.”

She glared at him. “What does that have to do with anything? I can’t meet the king.”

“You already have.”

“As a nobody. You’re being deliberately difficult and for the record, I don’t like it.”

He laughed. He actually laughed.

“You’ll be fine,” he said as he stepped out of the limo and held out his hand to assist her.

“It’s all fun and games now,” she muttered as she followed him. “Let’s see how amusing this is when I throw up on your expensive handmade shoes.”

He had the nerve to chuckle again, then he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her into the theater.

Maggie concentrated on walking in new shoes and breathing and trying not to think about the way her stomach flopped over and over and over. Look at the architecture, she told herself. Admire the clean lines, the soaring ceilings, the whatever the sticky-out parts were called by the corners.

Actually, now that she was paying attention, she realized the building was beautiful. Elegant and oddly feminine, if such an imposing building could be called that. There were mosaics and huge chandeliers, gilded pillars and archways. A staircase that seemed to glide up to heaven.

“What is this place?” she asked.

Instead of answering, Qadir came to a stop and turned her to her right. She stared at the handsome couple in front of them, then gasped when she realized it was them.

The large mirror showed her Qadir was as good-looking as always. Strong, tall and elegant in a tailored tux. The woman next to him wasn’t half-bad, either, and the most amazing part was it was her.

The haircut had brought out the waves she hated, but somehow now they didn’t look so geeky. Instead they were almost loose curls flowing to her shoulders. The makeup she’d been shown how to use made her eyes larger and mouth bigger. But it was the clothes she really liked.

True to her word, Ava hadn’t tried to stick her in a dress. Instead Maggie wore white silk trousers and a white silk tank top. What transformed the outfit from day to night wasn’t just the beading on the tank top, but the fact that her trousers were actually slit from ankle to thigh. While she was standing still, they looked perfectly conservative, but when she moved she flashed a whole lot of leg.

High heeled sandals made her even taller, although she was still several inches shorter than Qadir.

He put his hands on her shoulders. “You have nothing to be nervous about. You are beautiful, smart, funny and charming. The only problem we’re going to have with the king is that he is going to want you for himself.”

That made her smile. “I think you’re safe.”

For a second she thought he was going to kiss her again. There was something in his posture and the look in his eye. But then he took her hand and pulled her along toward the stairs.

Disappointment chased away the last of her nerves. She wouldn’t have minded a little premusical kissing. Honestly, the way Qadir made her body go up in flames, she wouldn’t mind a little anything with him. Something interesting to think about later.

They climbed the stairs and walked to the right. A guard stepped aside, allowing them to step into what Maggie assumed was a private box. She’d never been in one before.

There were several people standing around, drinking champagne and nibbling on appetizers. She had a sudden craving for those little hot dogs wrapped in pastry.

But before she could check out the food, the crowd parted and she found herself in front of King Mukhtar.

“Father,” Qadir said, “I would like you to meet my date for the evening. Miss Maggie Collins. She’s from America. Colorado.”

Maggie tightened her grip on Qadir’s fingers as she smiled at the king. “Your Highness, this is a great honor for me.”

The king frowned. “Have we met?”

One of the guards came forward. “Your Highness, the photographers are here. Shall I let them in?”

The king nodded. Everyone shifted position as several men with cameras entered the booth and began snapping pictures. Maggie found herself blinded. Just when she thought she couldn’t stand it anymore, the king waved his hand and the men instantly stopped.

“There’s power,” she murmured to Qadir. “It really is good to be the king.”

“So I hear.”

He gave her a glass of champagne. She took a sip.

“What am I supposed to say when he asks me what I do?”

“Tell him the truth,” Qadir said.

Easy for him, she thought. He wasn’t a car mechanic. “He’s going to give me that look. The one that says I’m weird and that I should have gone for something more traditionally female.”

“He’s the king. He doesn’t do looks.”

“He’ll have the look. Trust me.”

Someone called Qadir away. Maggie eased into a corner and did her best to be invisible. She picked up a cracker with she wasn’t sure what on top and had just taken a bite when the king walked over.

“This is your first time at our theater?” he asked.

She chewed quickly then swallowed. “Um, yes. Sir. The building is stunning. I was admiring it when we came in. There’s something unique about the architecture.” Or was there? She swallowed again but not because of any food. “At least it seemed that way to me.”

“Early fifteenth century,” the king told her. “One of my ancestors built this small palace for a favorite mistress. He promised to build her something as beautiful as herself. When it was completed she claimed that no woman could live up to such beauty. But she accepted the palace anyway.”