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He said that to shock her, and he succeeded. He smugly noted her wide eyes and parted lips. “I was kidding!”
“I am not.”
“But, Your Highness, I couldn’t possibly—”
“You will call me by my first name.” He was distracted by the flick of her pink tongue against the corners of her red lips. He wanted to kiss those lips. Hungered for them. “Let me hear you say it again.”
“I couldn’t,” Beth stammered in the silence, broken only by the hum of the SUV’s engine and the traffic noise as they drove through Paris. She took a deep breath. “Look, Your Highness—”
“Omar,” he corrected fiercely. The command he’d given her as a response to her joke suddenly was an absolute need. He wanted to hear his name on her sensual, delectable lips.
She licked those lips nervously.
“Omar,” she whispered.
Her voice electrified his body. He went so hard, he nearly groaned aloud, just from hearing the two syllables of his given name on her mouth, on her lips and teeth and tongue and breath.
What was happening to him?
He’d never felt such attraction before. He clenched his jaw. He had to put a stop to this, regain control.
He should have his driver return to the residence. He should have his servants escort Beth to her room and put her on a plane back to America at once. Because Omar could not let himself feel this way. Not when he knew he could not choose her as his queen.
Or could he?
The thought infiltrated his soul like a whisper of wind through the wavy green grasses over the sand dunes of the southern Caspian shore.
Had he been hasty counting her out? Could Dr. Beth Farraday be his bride?
No, he told himself firmly. Lust was not enough. She would make a terrible queen. She was committed to her lab. Sacrificing her research would be out of the question. She was too outspoken. Too careless of the opinions of others. Too awkward in high society.
Too warm. Too sensual. Too joyful.
Why would a woman like that wish to be trapped in the gilded prison of a royal palace?
“I have a question,” Beth said softly. She peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. “You don’t have to answer if you think it’s rude.”
Curiosity pricked him. “Go on.”
“Why are you doing this bride market stuff?” She shook her head, looking wistful. “You’re good-looking, charming, rich, powerful. I mean, if someone like you has a hard time finding a partner, what hope is there for the rest of us?”
“I wasn’t having a hard time,” he corrected, stung. “I simply wished to honor my country’s traditions, and be efficient in my choice of queen.”
She snorted. “Efficient? You’re spending millions!”
“Money means little to me. Not as much as quickly finding the right woman.”
“But—why not just marry a Samarqari girl?”
Beth was probably thinking about Laila. His jaw tightened. “My grandfather did that. But when he elevated one noble Samarqari family over all the others, a quarrel turned into a civil war, which spread as all families were forced to pick sides.” He set his jaw. “Half a million people died, including all my grandmother’s family and nearly everyone in my own, except for my father, who was eight years old, tucked in a Swiss boarding school.”
He watched as the color drained from her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know the history.”
“I’m sure.” Omar allowed himself a smile. “It’s something I admire about you.”
She snorted. “My total ignorance?”
“Your single-minded devotion to your life’s work.” Looking at her, he said quietly, “My older brother died of biphenotypic acute leukemia when I was a child.”
