Chosen as the Sheikh's Wife

Ahmed took a step towards him, but his grandfather raised a hand to stop him.

She looked at him for what seemed a lifetime, and then she said, 'Nam.'

He repeated his statement and again said, 'Do you accept me as your husband?'

'Nam.'

And a third time.

'Nam…'

Around them the room erupted in uproar, but he scarcely noticed as Violet lifted one of her exquisite brows a millimetre, as if to ask, What have I done?

He responded by lifting her hand to his lips, and murmured, 'You have just accepted me as your husband.' Then, raising her to her feet, he could not fail to miss the barely concealed smile of satisfaction on his grandfather's face as he embraced him, embraced Violet, with the words, 'Welcome, daughter…' Then, 'Give me your hand, Fayad.'

He extended it, expecting the old man to take it, hold it, but instead he raised it, placed the khanjar into it, holding it there for a long moment before turning to the majlis with the words, 'Salute your new Emir.'

Then he let go, stepped back, leaving Fayad centre stage.

It was pure theatre, and it occurred to him that when it came to playing games his grandfather had a fifty year head start on him.

He had been desperate to see him with a new wife-had used the threat of Ahmed al Sayyid to manipulate him. And now it was done, and he'd got his own way, he would retire to the mountains to spend his remaining days tending his soul, leaving his rivals with no choice but to smile and embrace not only Fayad's marriage, but his new position as ruler of Ras al Kawi.

His only thought was for Violet, who, when she realised what he'd done, would believe he had used her.

For an hour they stood, side by side, while every member of the majlis came to embrace him, make their bow to Violet, touch the khanjar.

She kept up a smile throughout, never faltered. Only someone who'd seen the real thing would know that it was a mask. And heaven alone knew what she was thinking behind it.

Finally it was over and, his hand beneath her elbow, he was able to escort her through the line of clapping elders.

The moment the doors closed behind them the smile vanished and she turned on him. 'Wife?' she breathed.

'It was necessary-'

'So that you could have your crown? Why didn't you tell me?

'There was no time…'

'No time? What happened to weeks of showering me with dowry to prove how much you value me?' she demanded, sweeping his attempt at explanation aside. 'The gold, the jewellery, the cloth? Actually, just the cloth would have done. I'm a dress designer, and cloth is always welcome, but then you didn't know that, did you? You didn't ask about my ambitions, about my life. You only care about your own.'

He hadn't asked because he knew. He knew all her history. But somehow he didn't think this was the moment to tell her that.

'In a crisis,' he said quietly, calmly, 'when the situation demands it, a declaration before witnesses serves the purpose.'

'Does it count if the bride hasn't a clue what's going on?'

'If you'll just listen, I will explain,' he said, taking her hand, moving her towards the door. This was not the place to be overhead having an argument with his bride.

She dug in her heels.

'How? You get a country and I get a cut-price registrar and two witnesses job. Is that all I'm worth?'

'I will tell you what you're worth,' he said, looping an arm around her waist and picking her up, carrying her over the threshold, leaving her shoes, leaving his.

He was determined to make her listen, to explain that a divorce would be as simple as the wedding, that all he'd done was protect her. But not here, where anyone might hear.

'Whatever happened to my much-vaunted chance to say no?' she demanded, kicking out in an attempt to free herself, furious, hammering on his shoulders, his back. 'I trusted you, but your words are worth nothing, Fayad al Kuwani. I gave you your khanjar and you used it to buy your country. Used me to buy the alliance of the Sayyid.'

'Will you just listen to me?' he thundered. Forget calm. Forget quiet reason…

'Oh, that's right. Shout. The male answer to everything.'

'Violet, this isn't helping-'

'It's helping me.' She lifted her head, looked down at him. 'So, Your Emiri Highness? What happens now? I'm supposed to go away and get swaddled in veils, is that it? Sit on the white sheet and wait for you to come and unwrap me?'

So intent was she on making her point that she'd forgotten to struggle and, with a nod to the driver, he bundled her into the back of a waiting limousine.

They were cut off from the world, even from the driver, who was hidden behind a darkened wall of glass, but Violet was not frightened.

She was furious.

She'd given Sheikh Fayad everything he wanted. Fallen for all that fake sincerity. Believed him.

And here she was with a man-a virtual stranger- who'd tricked her into marrying him. Sitting in his lap, his arm around her, his breath warm against her hair.

Fight. She'd fight…

'You'd better be wearing body armour!' she warned.

And without warning Fayad laughed. How dared he laugh at her? 'I've married a cat,' he said. 'I'd always heard that Sayyid women fight like tigers.'

'I'm not Sayyid. I'm a Hamilton…'

'No, you're not, Violet. You're mine. You'll always be mine…' And he kissed her. Not gently. Not to distract her from some painful moment. But like some desert lord who, having captured his prize, aroused by the chase, was determined on making her his.

And that he was aroused she was in no doubt.

But that was his problem, not hers.

Her problem was that as his kiss became deeper, the satin pleasure of his tongue giving rather than taking, it was not him she was fighting but her own body's shockingly urgent response.

Need…

Desire…

She felt hampered by far too many clothes. The long skirt, the thaub, were encumbrances, not just holding her down but keeping them apart. She wanted freedom to move, wanted to feel his hand, his hot mouth upon her skin, upon breasts tight with need. Wanted him to soothe the heavy, yearning ache between her thighs.

She wanted, she discovered with a jolt of under-, standing, to be blissfully and repeatedly… overwhelmed.

And then, as swiftly as it had begun, it was over. But although the car had come to a standstill he did not move. Did not speak.

Fayad closed his eyes, for a moment just drinking in the pleasure of Violet, warm against him. Feeling once more the power of desire surge through him for the first time since the death of his family.

To the outside world he had seemed to recover. Carry on. Work for his country, his people. But inside everything that he was as a man had died on that day.

And now Violet had responded to him.

Angry, of course. She had every right to be. But above her anger was desire, hot and potent…

But to take advantage of that was beneath him.

For a moment he had forgotten himself. Had said that she was his. But that was not so. On the contrary. While