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“What do you mean?”
With his bodyguard following at a discreet distance, he led her to the private entrance, where he spoke quietly in French to a waiting guide. It had been arranged as a favor for the King of Samarqara, in the interest of international diplomacy.
Omar turned back to her. “Stairs or elevator?”
“Stairs.”
“There’s a lot of them,” he warned.
“I’m not scared.”
He smiled, liking her fearlessness. “This way.”
They walked up the stairs to the first platform, and then the second. Even in high heels, she kept up with him. When they came out onto the viewing area, she gasped. She couldn’t look away from the beauty of the city at their feet. And he found he couldn’t look away from her.
“Thank you,” she whispered, looking out at the sparkling lights of the French capital. He saw tears in her eyes. “I’ll never forget you made this possible.”
“You’re giving me too much credit.”
“You’re wrong. I’ll always remember this moment,” she said fervently, and he found himself wishing that she was talking about him, not some iconic building made of steel.
Was it irony, or punishment, that he hadn’t had that thought about any of the other nine potential brides?
No, not nine. Eight. He’d ignored Laila al-Abayyi’s existence after their brief introduction in the salon. She was the only one he’d refused to meet with privately today.
For the other eight, Omar had dutifully knocked on their doors at the residence to escort them to the garden or salon or library for a private hour of discussion. Half had giggled and blushed, as if all their obvious sense had surrendered in face of the primordial Cinderella dream. The other half spoke to him as if they were at a job interview, giving well-planned business presentations about whatever company or cause they were hoping he might invest in, while also giving him subtle signals they might be interested in taking the discussion to bed.
None of them seemed interested at all in the political and economic situation in Samarqara, and how they personally could influence the country. None bothered to interview Omar as a potential mate or lifetime partner. Did they not realize the seriousness of this choice?
No, he thought dimly. How could they?
But the last woman had truly shocked him, when she’d bluntly offered him a blow job in her bedroom to “seal the deal”—offering it with cold eyes, as if it were a simple transaction: one blow job equaled one royal crown!
Omar shuddered. Sia Lane might be the most famous movie star in the world, but she left him cold. He’d immediately refused, stating the simple truth that the tradition of the bride market did not allow him to even kiss any woman, until he’d chosen her formally as his bride.
Sia had shrugged. “Fine, follow protocol. But I’m the best. You’ll choose me.”
Perhaps he should, in spite of his distaste. It wouldn’t be hard to convince the council to select an internationally famous movie star, who’d create huge publicity for Samarqara. And at least she wasn’t Laila, the half sister of the woman whose life he’d unthinkingly destroyed.
When Omar closed his eyes, he could still imagine Ferida walking out into the desert to die.
“What are you thinking right now?”
Beth was looking at him. Through him. As if she saw everything, all the faults and weaknesses, which, as king, he fought so hard to hide and repress.
Of all the many reasons he couldn’t choose to marry her, this was the strongest of all.
“That the night is growing cold.” An icy wind blew against them on the platform, and he turned, holding out his arm. “Come. Dessert has been arranged.”
As they were seated in the glamorous restaurant inside the Eiffel Tower, they were given the very best table. They were the only customers, as the restaurant had officially closed hours ago. Beth’s face lit up like a child’s when she saw the view, and they were served a variety of French pastries and cheeses on a silver tray.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle. Monsieur.” The French waiter smiled at Beth, then bowed his head respectfully to Omar in turn. “Would you like to begin with coffee or champagne?”
“Are you kidding?” she blurted out. “I drink coffee all the time. I’ll have champagne!”
As they sipped a very expensive vintage, the servers discreetly disappeared. Beth looked out at the amazing view of Paris, and he looked at her in the soft glow of the flickering candle on their table. The gold-red light moved over her cheek, over the curve of her throat and sensitive corner of her bare neck. Over her collarbone, and lower, to the enticing shadows of her breasts.
“So what do you—” As she turned back to look at him, her voice abruptly cut off. He relished the pink blush that rose on her creamy cheeks. She licked her lips, and he nearly groaned. She swallowed, then said, “So...what do you think so far?”
