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His last blurry image of Beth Farraday as she climbed into the Rolls-Royce was from the same window of the throne room, where he’d first conceived of the bride market a few months before.
In spite of her objections, he’d arranged a settlement with his lawyers. An enormous sum would be wired to her bank account, waiting for her when she arrived in Houston. His private jet was already collecting Dr. Edith Farraday from his island in the Caribbean. She would be in Houston to greet her sister. He couldn’t bear the thought of Beth being alone.
Someday, I’ll find someone who loves me. And we’ll love each other forever.
Beth was going to a better life. A better world. Where all her dreams could come true.
And as for him...
“The shop girl’s gone, sire,” his vizier said brightly behind him. “Shall we discuss your imminent engagement to Laila al-Abayyi?”
Omar didn’t move. He’d never felt the chains of kingship more than right now. Or felt so alone.
He shut off all emotion. All feeling. All memory. It was the only way he knew to survive.
Numbly, Omar turned to him. “No engagement.”
“But, Your Highness...” his vizier sputtered. “Surely you see that it’s necessary. The country needs a firm hand!”
Omar looked down at his hands, which had so recently held Beth in his arms, but never would again. “No engagement,” he repeated. “If Laila is willing to be queen, I want the wedding ceremony as soon as possible.”
The vizier exclaimed in delight, “Sire!”
“Tomorrow,” Omar said flatly. He looked back out the window. “I want this over and done with.”
CHAPTER TEN
BETH WAS DOING the right thing.
The only thing.
She repeated that to herself, again and again, on the long flight to Houston. Trying to sleep, she stared numbly out the windows, looking down through the
clouds as the private jet traveled over Europe, then the gray Atlantic. She’d done the right thing.
So why did her heart feel like it had been ripped out?
Omar deserved a better wife. A better queen. One who wouldn’t be hated by his people and pummeled with rocks. She’d had to let him go.
But when Beth arrived in Houston at sunset, her shoulders were drooping and her heart felt sick. A limo was waiting for her on the tarmac of the private airport. As the driver loaded her luggage—just her rucksack, and a suitcase of cheap bohemian clothes from the funky shop in Khazvin—she wearily climbed into the back seat. Then she saw the person in the back seat waiting for her.
“Beth,” Edith cried, holding out her arms.
Just seeing her sister’s face, her eyes so concerned beneath her thick glasses, made tears finally flood Beth’s eyes. Sobs choked her throat as she threw herself into Edith’s arms.
Her sister murmured comforting words, stroking her back, saying, “I’m sorry, Beth, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I never should have convinced you to go.”
But for her sister to blame herself was absurd. Beth pulled back, wiping her eyes. “It’s not your fault. You’re not the one who—” The one who let yourself care for a man you knew you could not have. She swallowed hard. “What are you doing here?”
“Your—King Omar sent his jet to collect me. He didn’t want you to be alone.”
As the limo’s engine started, and the driver drove them away from the tarmac, the lump in Beth’s throat thickened.
“Bastard,” she whispered.
Edith looked confused. “He was just worried about you.”
And that was what hurt most. Knowing that he cared. He actually cared.
