The Sheikh Takes A Bride. Caroline Cross

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      For the first time all evening, Kaj smiled, regarding the other man with cool confidence. “That’s very kind of you, Joff, but unnecessary. This hasn’t a thing to do with luck. It’s all about skill. Trust me.”

      At that his cousin laughed. “Why do I suddenly feel as if I should pen the princess a note of condolence?”

      The sheikh nonchalantly flicked a nonexistent speck from his impeccably tailored Armani tux. “I can’t imagine. But I do hope you’ll excuse me.” His gaze once more located Catherine down below, and he felt a distinct spark of anticipation. “I suddenly find I’m in the mood to dance.”

      “Oh, by all means.” Joffrey stepped back, clearing the way with a flourish.

      A twist of amusement curving his mouth, Kaj strolled away.

      “Please, Highness.” The handsome young Frenchman at Catherine’s side gripped her hand and drew it toward his lips. “You are so very exquisite, with your Titian hair and your yeux emerauds. Take pity and say you’ll dance with me.”

      Fighting an urge to roll her “emerald eyes,” Catherine told herself to be patient. After all, the ball, for which she’d done the bulk of the planning, was going well. Overhead the thousand tiny lights in the mammoth chandeliers twinkled like iridescent butterflies. The lilting strains of the orchestra were neither too loud nor too soft, and the scent of blooming flowers drifting through the score of French doors thrown open to the mild March night was refreshing rather than overpowering.

      Add the men in their sleek black tuxedos, the women draped in silk and satin and a glittering array of jewels, and it was perfect, a storybook scene. Most important to Catherine, the guests of honor—her cousin Daniel and his wife, Erin, Altaria’s new king and queen—appeared to be enjoying themselves.

      She watched for a moment as they danced, smiling at each other. There was such happiness in the looks they exchanged, such perfect understanding. Out of nowhere she felt an unexpected pang of envy.

      What must it be like to share such closeness with another person? Catherine couldn’t imagine. She might be only twenty-four, but she’d long ago concluded that such intimacy wasn’t for her.

      Her conviction had its roots far in the past, when her nouveau-riche mother had happily surrendered Catherine to the royal family, making it clear in the years since that she regarded her illegitimate daughter as a stepping-stone to high society, nothing more.

      It had been further shaped by Catherine’s father, Prince Marc, who had always treated her like a unique trinket to be displayed when he wanted, then promptly forgotten once his need to impress others had passed.

      Only her grandmother, Queen Lucinda, had ever truly cared for her. But that wonderful lady had passed away five years ago, and her loss had only underscored to Catherine how truly alone she was.

      Oh, she had an abundance of suitors, but none of them had ever bothered to get to know the real her, the person beneath the public facade. They were too afraid of making a misstep and losing the chance to win her favor—and with it her money, her connections and, she supposed, her body.

      Usually she didn’t care. But every once in a while she caught a glimpse of what her life might have been if she’d been born plain Catherine Rosemere, instead of Her Highness Catherine Elizabeth Augusta. And she would suddenly feel unutterably weary of fawning admirers, frivolous soirees and always feeling alone no matter how big the crowd that surrounded her.

      Oh, poor, pitiful princess, said a mocking voice in her head. What a trial to be required to spend time in such a lovely setting, surrounded by the cream of high society. How unfair that you have to wear pretty clothes and listen to a few hours of lovely music and some meaningless chatter. What a tragedy that you’re minus your very own Prince Charming.

      One hates to think how you’d stand up to a real problem, like being hungry or homeless. Or wait, how about this—you could be dead, like your father and grandfather, their lives snuffed out in an accident that now appears to have been no accident at all, but rather a deliberate act of murder.

      Appalled at the direction her thoughts had taken her, Catherine cut them off. But she was too late to stop the anguish that shuddered through her. Or the guilt that came hard on its heels as she recalled the report by the Connelly family’s investigator concluding that the speedboat involved in the disaster had been sabotaged. A speedboat meant to be manned by her, not her father.

      “S’il vous plaît, belle princesse.” The Frenchman stepped closer, demanding her attention. She looked up to find him gazing limpidly at her, looking for all the world like an oversize, tuxedo-clad flounder. “Do say yes to just one dance. Then I can die a happy man.” Practically quivering with anticipation, he pressed his wet mouth to the back of her hand.

      The tight rein Catherine had on her emotions snapped. She snatched her hand away, just barely suppressing the urge to scrub it against the delicate chiffon of her midnight-blue dress. “I told you before, Michel, I’m not in the mood. What’s more, I’d appreciate it immensely if you’d hold off expiring for at least the next forty-eight hours. Your absence would throw a decided wrench into the seating arrangement for Monday night’s banquet.”

      The young man blinked. Then, as her words sank in, his smile abruptly vanished. “But, of course,” he said, pouting in a way that made him look more fish-like than ever. “A thousand pardons, Highness.” Stiff-backed with affront, he turned on his heel and marched off.

      Catherine felt a prick of remorse, but quickly dismissed it. After all, she’d been exceedingly polite to Michel the first three times she’d refused his requests to dance. She could hardly be held responsible that he refused to take no for an answer.

      Sighing, she glanced at the miniature face of her diamond-encrusted watch. It was barely half past ten, which meant it would be at least another two hours before she could hope to make an unremarked-upon escape. She wondered a little desperately what she could do to make the time go faster.

      She was saved from having to come up with an answer as a small murmur ran through the throng surrounding her. A second later everyone in front of her appeared to take a collective step back, clearing a path for the tall, ebony-haired man who strode toward her with a palpable air of leashed power.

      Catherine tensed, the way she always did when she encountered Kaj al bin Russard. Although most of the women she knew found the enigmatic Walburaqui chieftain irresistible, she personally didn’t care for him. Granted, his chiseled features, heavily lashed gray eyes and beautifully accented English had a certain exotic charm, but there was simply something about him—an innate reserve, the assured, almost arrogant way he carried himself, his indisputable masculinity—that she found off-putting.

      She watched as he cut a swath through the crowd like some Regency rake from a bygone age, her edginess increasing as she realized his gaze was locked on her face.

      He came to a halt and swept her a slight bow. “Your Highness.”

      She gathered her composure and inclined her head. “Sheikh.”

      “I don’t believe I’ve had the chance to tell you in person how sorry I am for your loss.”

      “Thank you,” she replied dutifully. “The flowers you sent were lovely.”

      He made a dismissive gesture. “It was nothing.” He moved a fraction closer, making her intensely aware of how big he СКАЧАТЬ