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“And immediately have children?” Another woman sounded horrified. “I don’t care how sexy the man is, I barely know him!”
“And there’d be no escape hatch of a divorce if it doesn’t work out!”
The vizier’s smile widened. “If you cannot agree, then please do not sign.”
Strange, Beth thought. Rather than trying to convince the women to sign, the man seemed almost pleased that so many were backing out.
But others at the table were more eager. Laila al-Abayyi signed it at once, barely bothering to read the words. The lawyer from Sydney was next, followed swiftly by Sia Lane and the Silicon Valley executive. For all their obvious success, they seemed eager to toss aside the daily grind of difficult careers for the fantasy of running away to an exotic land to live in a palace as the bride of a devastatingly handsome sheikh king.
“What about you?” someone asked Beth.
“Only four signed,” someone else pointed out.
“Four is enough.” The vizier scowled as he turned to Beth. “Dr. Farraday, there’s no need for you to—”
Not waiting, Beth took a pen and signed E. Farraday with trembling fingers. Her sister’s name, but hers, too—E for Elizabeth. She had no concern about a quick marriage or pregnancy or the lack of possibility of divorce. Because Omar wouldn’t choose her.
She could still remember how she’d felt when Omar had kissed her hand. I need you, he’d said. Say you’ll come. And she’d answered, Yes.
For the sake of that promise, she could endure twenty-four hours more. Then she’d go home to Houston with three million dollars for her brainy sister to save the world, and return to being invisible at the thrift shop—forever.
It was all Beth wanted now. All she could hope for. To return to her ordinary life, to her ordinary self, and to never, ever give any man the opportunity to hurt her like that again.
But first, she had to prevent Omar from choosing Sia as his bride. Even if he didn’t realize how miserable she’d make him, Beth did. So she’d act like the friend he needed. She’d save him from himself.
Now, sitting on the plane, Beth looked at Sia still talking loudly on the other side of the cabin. She still couldn’t believe Omar had slept with Sia. Every time she thought about it, she felt sick.
But she still didn’t get it. “Why would Sia Lane sign that contract?” Beth said slowly. “She’s a movie star with the whole world at her feet.”
“Because Omar’s gorgeous, and a king,” Laila replied. She called him by his first name, Beth realized. Her heart twisted in spite of her best efforts. “Besides—” the girl tossed her head “—her last three movies were flops. And she’s thirty-six years old. Being a movie star doesn’t last forever.”
“What about you?” Beth said. “Why do you want to marry him?”
Laila’s expression changed. She gripped her hands together so tight that the knuckles were white. “It’s my birthright.”
Her words echoed Omar’s. Beth wondered if the girl was already half in love with Omar, too. They seemed perfect for each other, she thought sadly.
Pushing the pain in her heart away, Beth said brightly, “You should be queen. I’m going to say that when I dance with the king tonight.”
Laila looked at her with almost tearful gratitude. “Thank you.”
Lulled by the low hum of the plane, or perhaps the unshed tears stinging the backs of her eyes, Beth curled up in her white leather chair and fell asleep. She woke to find Laila gently shaking her.
“Samarqara.” She pointed. “That’s the capital city, Khazvin.”
Looking out the porthole window, Beth was awed by the exotic beauty of the city in the warm golden afternoon light. She saw minarets and domed buildings in sapphire blue, next to squat clay houses, beside new glass-and-steel skyscrapers overlooking the sparkling Caspian Sea.
But after the jet landed it wasn’t the view that hit her first. It was the warmth.
Unlike Paris, which was still held by the last gasp of winter, here in Samarqara there were flowers in bloom, and the sun shone golden in the bright blue sky. Palm trees waved lazily in the softly stirring breeze, redolent of sea and spice, as the five potential brides were taken by waiting limousines through the city to the vizier’s gilded palace.
“Welcome to Samarqara,” the vizier greeted them, spreading his arms wide. “You will be staying at my palace until the bride market tomorrow. Tonight, there will be a ball, so the nobles of the high council can meet you and decide who amongst you is most worthy.”
The women looked at each other nervously.
“What about the king?” the Silicon Valley executive demanded boldly. The vizier gave her a thin smile.
“He will dance with each of you just once at the ball tonight. Then, after the parade of brides through the market tomorrow, he will take the advice of his council and formally announce his decision from the steps of the royal palace.”
