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He dropped her hand. And the question echoed through his heart like a curse: Why her? Why did his body react to the one woman he already knew he could not make his queen? The universe had a strange sense of humor.
No, not strange, Omar thought grimly as he watched Dr. Farraday depart the salon. His jaw was tight. Vengeful.
* * *
Beth waited in her room all afternoon, but the king didn’t come. She read books, paced around her elegant room, left frantic messages for her sister in Houston. She ate lunch brought to her room on a silver tray. She changed into one of the new dresses he’d had sent to her, nervously watching the hours tick by.
But he never came.
Good, Beth tried to tell herself. She glanced at the gilded antique clock on the fireplace mantel. Ten o’clock at night. Obviously, his other dates had gone well. Perhaps he’d already chosen one of the other nine as his bride.
She told herself she was relieved. She couldn’t continue this farce for much longer. It was horrifying, exhausting, even terrifying, to pretend to be someone she was not.
Beth shuddered, remembering the moment the king had casually mentioned that he “kept up on developments” in biphenotypic acute leukemia!
Her cheeks burned. All they needed was one in-depth scientific conversation and he’d realize that Beth knew nothing at all about it. She’d tried to memorize the scientific jargon, honestly she had. But her brain just blocked it out.
Even in elementary school, Edith had been the genius, not her. So Beth had simply stopped trying. Let her twin sister be the one to excel in academics. She would be good at something else.
The trouble was, at twenty-six, Beth was still trying to figure out what that something else was. She was starting to suspect it might be nothing.
She should be glad that Omar had forgotten about her. Beth would be able to go home in triumph, knowing Edith now had two million for research. And she didn’t even need to feel guilty about coming here under false pretenses, as long as the king chose a better bride than Beth. Which was basically any of the other nine women—except Sia Lane.
For some reason she couldn’t fathom, she felt protective of the king. It was ridiculous. Handsome, powerful and rich, he was the last person on earth who needed Beth’s protection. And yet something about his gentle nature suggested a kind heart, beneath all the arrogance and ferocity. Some dark past, Beth thought. As if he’d been hurt before.
And she already knew he deserved better than that cold-hearted, beautiful, two-faced movie star as his wife.
She paced over the white fluffy rug on the pale gray floor. The bedroom she’d been assigned in his royal residence was even more luxurious than the hotel suite on the avenue Montaigne. Glamorous and sleek, with Art Deco flourishes, the pretty, feminine room was silver and white except for the brilliant splashes of pink and red provided by the flowers in the silver vase on the vanity table.
Beth stopped. If she could only be sure he would choose a wife who would love him, someone obviously worthy, like Laila al-Abayyi! Then she could leave tomorrow with a clear conscience, if not a joyful heart.
Seeing herself in the full-length mirror, she caught her breath. All the time she’d spent getting ready tonight for a so-called date had made her look...different. She wasn’t wearing her usual baggy clothes. Nor was she packed like a sausage into a too-tight gown.
The clothes he’d arranged to be sent to her room were—perfect.
Beth didn’t have an easy body to fit. She was petite, and unlike her totally skinny, size two sister—Edith often forgot to eat in the lab whereas Beth had never seen a slice of cake she didn’t like. Beth’s waist was small, but she was cursed with big breasts and big hips. The modern, straight-shaped styles just looked like oversize sacks on her.
But now, staring at the new gown that was fitted to her shape, Beth came closer to the mirror, staring at herself in amazement. The dress was a deep sapphire, in soft silk. She’d brushed out her frizzy light brown waves and made her hair glossy and straight, hanging to the middle of her back. She’d experimented with the boxes of brand-new makeup in the en suite bathroom. She’d put on eyeliner, mascara, lipstick. It was the first time she’d worn makeup in a year, since the night her boyfriend announced he was breaking up with her for a girl who was, in his description, “more interes
ting.”
Wyatt’s harsh breakup had been the second time a boyfriend had told Beth she wasn’t desirable. Against such evidence, she’d decided that, in addition to not being good at school, she apparently wasn’t good at relationships, either. At least not romantic ones. So rather than risk being hurt again, for the last year, she’d just opted out.
Now, Beth looked at herself. Her hazel eyes glittered dangerously, lined in black. Her lips looked glamorous, full and red. Her hips thrust forward, forced by the angle of her designer stiletto heels.
There was a brief hard knock at the door.
“Wait,” Beth said, whirling around.
But too late. The door pushed open, and Omar stood in the doorway, dressed in his regal sheikh’s robes that made him look almost too sexy to believe he was even real. His black eyes widened as he stared at her, standing in the dress in front of the mirror.
Her cheeks burned with indignation. “You should have waited a minute before you flung open the door like that. You might have walked in to find me naked!”
Her voice faltered as his dark eyes narrowed at her words. He wasn’t touching her. He was on the other side of the bedroom. So why did she feel such a blast of heat from his gaze? Why did waves of awareness—hunger—suddenly wash through her like an earthquake?
“You are right,” Omar said in a low voice, his gaze slowly tracing over her. “You look....”
For a moment, beneath his hot gaze, Beth couldn’t breathe. When he didn’t finish the sentence, she managed with a crooked smile, “Weird, right? I look weird?”
