Maisey Yates - The Inherited Bride

“Time’s up, I’m afraid.”

The devastation in her eyes would have affected most people. He felt nothing. Nothing but contempt. He’d seen far too much of the world to be swayed by the tears of a poor little rich girl, bemoaning her marriage to an extremely wealthy royal.

“I didn’t get to see the Eiffel Tower,” she said quietly.

“What?”

“I didn’t get to see the Eiffel Tower. I took the train from Italy, and I just arrived here this evening. I wasn’t going to go out by myself at night. I didn’t see anything of Paris that I wanted to.”

“You’ve never seen the Eiffel Tower?”

She blushed, her sun-kissed cheeks turning a deep rose. “I’ve seen it. But seeing it from a moving motorcade and actually going to it, getting out and experiencing it, are two very different things.”

“This isn’t a holiday, and I’m not here to give you a guided tour. I’m taking you back to Umarah as soon as possible.”

“Please—just let me go to the Eiffel Tower.”

It was a simple request. One that could be easily accommodated. And, while he wasn’t moved by her drama, he wasn’t cruel. It would also make it much easier to remove her from the hotel if she came of her own free will. He wouldn’t hesitate to remove her by force, but it was not his preference.

“In the morning. I give you my word I will let you stop there on the way to the airport. But you have to come with me now, and not kicking and screaming.”

“And you’ll keep your word?”

“Another thing you will learn about me, Princess: I’m not a nice man, and I’m not particularly good company, but I do keep my word. Always. It is a matter of honor.”

“And honor is important to you?”

“It’s the one thing no one can take from you.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said. He inclined his head in agreement. “And if I don’t go with you …?”

“You’re going with me. Kicking and screaming optional—as is sightseeing.”

“Then I suppose that means my choices are limited.” She chewxed her bottom lip.

“That’s understating it; your choice is singular. The method, however, is up to you.”

She blinked furiously, her shoulders sagging in defeat, her eyes averted as if she didn’t want him seeing the depth of her pain. Although he was certain that in truth she wanted nothing more than for him to witness just how distressed she was.

“My bags will have to be packed. I’ve just gotten all of my things put away.” She didn’t make a move toward the closet, she simply stood rooted to the spot, looking very sad and very young.

“I’m not doing it for you,” he said sardonically.

Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed a delicate rose. “I’m sorry. You work for Sheikh Hassan, and I assumed.”

“That I was a servant?”

She mumbled something he thought might have been a curse in Italian, and stalked over to the closet, sliding the lightweight white doors open.

“I don’t know how you meant to survive in the real world when you still expect someone else to deal with your clothes for you, Princess.”

Her shoulders stiffened, her back going rigid. “Don’t call me that anymore,” she said without turning.

“It’s what you are, Isabella. It’s who you are.”

A hollow laugh escaped her lips. “Who knows who I am? I don’t.”

He let the comment pass. It wasn’t his job to stand around and psychoanalyze his brother’s future wife. His duty was to return her unharmed, untouched, and he intended to do that as soon as possible.

He had other matters to attend to. He had geochemists actively searching for the best place to install a new rig, looking for more oil out in the middle of the Umarahn desert. He liked to be there on site when they were making final decisions about location. He didn’t micromanage his team, he hired the best. But during major events he liked to be on hand in case there was a problem.

Facilitating the growing Umarahn economy was only half of his job. Protecting his brother, and their people, was his utmost concern. He would give his life for his brother without hesitation. So when Hassan had informed him that his bride had gone missing Adham had offered to ensure she was found. He was now regretting that offer.

She whipped around to face him, a pile of clothing, still on hangers, draped over her arms. “You could help me.”

He shook his head slightly, watching as she began to awkwardly fold the clothing and place it in her bag. By the third or fourth article she seemed to develop some sort of method, even if it was unconventional.

“Who packed for you in the first place?”

She shrugged, the color in her cheeks deepening. “One of my brother’s servants. I was supposed to leave his home this morning. I just left a few hours earlier.”

“And went to an undisclosed location?”

She narrowed her eyes, her lips pursed in a haughty expression. “What did you say your name was?”

“According to the report I read on you, you’re a very smart woman. Perfect marks in school. I think you know perfectly well that I didn’t offer you my name.”

Her delicate brow creased. “I think that, considering you know everything about me from my marks in school and I shudder to think what else, I should at least know your name.”

“Adham.” He left out his surname, and in so doing his relationship to Hassan.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, folding a silk blouse and sticking it in the bottom of a pink suitcase. She paused mid-motion. “Actually, it isn’t, really. I don’t know why I said that. Habit. Good manners.” She sighed. “Because it’s what I was trained to do.” She said it despairingly, her luscious mouth pulled down at the corners.

“You resent it?”

“Yes,” she said slowly, firmly. “Yes, I do.” She took a breath. “It’s not nice to meet you, Adham. I wish you would go away.”

“We don’t always get what we wish for.”

“And some of us never do.”

“You’ll have the Eiffel Tower. That has to be enough.”

ADHAM’S penthouse apartment in Paris’s seventh district wasn’t at all what she’d expected from a man who worked for the High Sheikh. It was patently obvious that he had money of his own, and likely the status to go with it. He was probably a titled man—another sheikh or something. No wonder he’d looked at her as if she was crazy when she’d expected him to collect her things.

That had been mortifying. She hadn’t meant to be rude. It was just that she was used to being served. She’d always devoted the majority of her time to studying, reading, cultivating the kinds of skills her parents deemed necessary for a young woman of fine breeding. None of those skills had included folding her own clothes. Or, in fact, any sort of household labor.

She’d always considered herself an intelligent person; her tutors and her grades had always reinforced that belief. But the realization of what a huge deficit she had in her knowledge made her feel … it made her feel she didn’t know anything worth knowing. Who cared if you knew the maximum depth of the Thames if you didn’t know how to fold your own clothes?

The penthouse didn’t provide her with any more clues about the man who was essentially her captor. Unless he really was as sparse and uncompromising as the surrounding décor. Cold as brushed steel, hard as granite. Arid, like the desert of his homeland. That seemed possible.

She looked around the room, searching for any kind of personal markers. There were no family photographs. The art on the walls was modern, generic—like something you might find in a hotel room. There was no touch of personality, no indication as to who he might be, what he liked. That just reinforced her first theory.