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His voice was low. “You look beautiful.”
With an intake of breath, she met his gaze. “I do?”
He came forward. His black eyes reflected the moonlight from the window as he looked down at her, his tall, powerful body just inches from hers.
“More than beautiful.” Reaching out, he cupped her cheek and said huskily, “You look tempting beyond belief.”
As she felt his touch against her skin, all rational thought disappeared from her brain. His gaze fell to her lips, and a pulse of electricity went through her body. Her knees went weak.
He turned away. Reaching into the large wardrobe, he selected a new, faux fur coat, and wrapped it around her bare shoulders in an old-fashioned, almost courtly gesture.
“Are we going somewhere?” she breathed, still dizzy at his nearness.
Silently, he nodded.
“I thought you were doing all your interviews—dates—whatever you call them,” she stammered, “here at the mansion.”
“You’re my last date. I’m taking you out.” He held out his arm. “Shall we?”
Nervously, she put her hand around his arm. She could feel the warmth of his body through his sleeve. Feel his strength and power. Blood rushed through her veins as her heart pounded. She swallowed, lifting her gaze to his.
“Where are we going?”
Looking her over slowly in a way that made her melt inside, he glanced at her stiletto heels then gave her a low, sensual smile. “You’ll see.”
CHAPTER THREE
INTERVIEWING POTENTIAL BRIDES had been even less enjoyable than he’d imagined. For Omar, it had been a long day.
For the sake of the bride market, he had cleared his schedule of all diplomatic and governmental meetings today. He’d done it reluctantly, because there was never enough time for affairs of state, whether he was negotiating new trade treaties, building new business alliances or dealing with rival factions amongst his nobles.
Ruling was serious business. Unlike most billionaire bachelors, Omar didn’t take holidays. He didn’t do vacations. For fifteen years, since he’d inherited the throne, he’d been keenly aware of his duty. His people needed everything he could give. He could hardly risk their prosperity or security while he selfishly relaxed on a beach, or slept in, or went out partying at night.
He’d sworn he’d never be like his father, who’d been self-indulgent and weak, allowing Samarqara to fall into poverty and disarray and ignoring his sickly Samarqari-American wife to enjoy one mistress after another, abrogating his royal responsibilities to the powerful oligarchs, especially Hassan al-Abayyi.
But it had taken Ferida’s death for Omar to realize he must never be like his grandfather, either. Yes, the man had been strong, mercilessly destroying all his enemies to maintain his grip on power, hold Samarqara together and end the civil war. But the cost of his single-minded ruthlessness had been too great. It had burned everything it touched.
A good ruler had to balance between strength and compassion. A treacherous tightrope to walk. Which was why Omar could never rest. Why he had no honorable choice but to sacrifice his own needs for those of others.
And that included marriage.
But an equal sacrifice would be demanded of his queen. Any potential bride must understand this, and realize that beneath the glitter and glamour of crowns and palaces, the royal family were, at their hearts, just servants, working to improve the lives of the Samarqari people.
The women he’d brought to Paris were all incredibly intelligent and ambitious. He’d been sure they would intuitively understand what would be expected of them.
But with a few possible exceptions—Dr. Edith Farraday, Dr. Bere Akinwande and, regrettably, Laila al-Abayyi—they hadn’t. They seemed to think of Omar as a bank offering limitless investment money, or a glamorous, romantic prize to be won, rather than a potential partner in personal sacrifice.
Omar had thought the bride market would make finding a wife and queen efficient, if not easy. Simply put, he was looking for the best—a brilliant, beautiful woman with dignity, strength, integrity. A woman he could be proud to call his own, a queen who would serve the people well, a loving mother for his future children.
That was the theory, anyway.
In practice, he felt like he’d wasted an entire day, making small talk with women he couldn’t remotely imagine spending a honeymoon with, let alone a lifetime.
And the one he lusted for, he could not have.
By the end of the evening, Omar had almost felt tempted to put marriage off a few more years. But even that option was lost, because thanks to the paparazzi, the whole world had now heard of his bride market. The international mockery of it was already high. If, on top of everything, it also proved a failure, leaving him still a bachelor at the end of it, both Samarqara and its king would be a laughingstock.
No. Omar had started this path. He had to finish it. In the end, if he, with the advice of his council, made the correct choice, his new queen would be admired and adored by his people. His unorthodox choice of using the bride market would no longer be a cause for mockery, but respect.
