Prince Under Cover. Adrianne Lee

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СКАЧАТЬ she caught her left thumb in her right fist and began kneading it, a nervous habit she had. She blurted out, “I know ‘The Gorgeous One’ is the fantasy of our youth come true, but if I were you, I’d be terrified of marrying a man I hardly know.”

      “I’ve gotten to know him.”

      “I thought I knew Bobby The Buzzard.”

      Bobby Redwing was a physically abusive brute. “Zahir is not Bobby. He’s kind and gentle. Hey, I’m the one who’s supposed to have cold feet, not you.”

      “Maybe I’m all wet, but something about this whole thing—” She worried her bottom lip.

      “Your run-in with the security guards has your imagination working overtime.” Miah thought she’d gotten a handle on her uneasiness, but having Cailin voice concerns started the butterflies moving in her stomach with renewed vigor. She could do nothing to change what was about to happen. Would do nothing to change it. But she could change the subject. “You have a lot of nerve, Cailin Finnigan, looking so great. The bride is supposed to outshine the other women at her own wedding, but that’s not going to be the case today.”

      “Diversion tactics are wasted on me.” Cailin’s frown deepened. “I’ve got four brothers who are way better at it than you. Maybe what I’m feeling is just a reaction to the state of the world. Are you going to be safe in Nurul?”

      “As safe as when I’m traveling in America. Very safe. This is my heritage, Cailin. I belong in Nurul. I feel that in my heart. Besides, if not for a quirk of fate, I would never have been in America.”

      “I’m going to miss you.”

      “I’ll be in Chicago as much as the Middle East. More, given mom’s health. You’ll see me so much you won’t have time to miss me.”

      Her mother swept into the room, looking anything but ill. She might be a toy angel in a solid gold silk suit and a pillbox hat. Her eyes brimmed with joy, her tiny hands went to her throat. “Oh, Me-Oh-Miah, you are the most beautiful bride. It’s time, darling. The judge is ready.”

      THE JUDGE STOOD at the aft end of the great salon buffeted by baskets of white roses and twin shoulder-height candelabra crowned with flaming six-inch gold-colored candles. Miah carried a bouquet of white baby roses tied with a lacy golden ribbon. In fact, white rose arrangements tied with golden ribbons dominated the salon. The floral scent filled her nostrils with such sweetness that she might have been in a garden.

      A floating garden.

      The boat was a half-mile offshore, far enough to offer privacy, close enough to see the harbor front from the large windows on both sides of the salon.

      The guests were seated on padded folding chairs—glad, she supposed, to be indoors on this stifling day. Outside, the temperature hovered near one hundred degrees Fahrenheit with one-hundred-percent humidity. Inside, it was a controlled and cool seventy-two degrees.

      The guests included their nearest Mohairbi relatives, an aunt and uncle on her mother’s side of the family, associates of the groom, her father Khalaf’s American friends, and security. She’d been disappointed that Zahir’s parents could not leave Anbar at the moment—but they would, he’d assured her, attend the royal wedding in Nurul.

      Of course, the scheduled trip to Nurul, her coronation, and the royal wedding were all subject to change if a donor became available for her mom.

      But for now, all she had to concentrate on was reaching the judge without tripping over her feet. A string quartet began a lilting version of the “Wedding March,” and Miah’s heart skipped as she lifted her gaze to the man standing next to the judge.

      Zahir. He wore a white tuxedo with gold cummerbund and tie, his raven hair curled against the crisp white collar of his shirt. The suit seemed to add inches to his six-foot frame, expand the glorious width of his broad shoulders, emphasize his narrow waist and hips. His sheer beauty stole her breath, leaving her unprepared for his gaze catching hers, holding hers. The look of wonder and appreciation in his dark brown eyes sent a jolt of heat spiraling from her heart to the tips of her limbs, to settle like a hot coil in her most private place.

      Her grip tightened on her bouquet. And the butterflies in her stomach took flight.

      “Ready, Me-Oh-Miah?” Lina asked softly.

      Miah smiled at her mother, who was giving her away today, took her tiny hand and thanked God for the hundredth time that they were sharing this day. She intended to make it one her mom would never forget. She would be “the happy bride” Mom expected—even if it stretched truth to the limits.

      Miah nodded and whispered, “Oh, yes.”

      The “Wedding March” began. Cailin moved down the white carpet dropping golden rose petals; Miah and her mother followed after her. The very air seemed to shimmer. Perhaps it was light dancing off Lake Michigan, or the sudden light-headedness Miah felt. She clung tighter to her mother, her feet moving on their own. She spied her father in the front row.

      Sheik Khalaf Al-Sayed was hard to miss as he alone wore formal Moslem attire. Diminutive in stature, he had a kinetic presence. His face was lean and leathery, lined from the trials of his life, and his eyes were deep-set and as black as his thick mustache.

      He nodded as they moved past him. Cailin took her place at the other side of the judge, and Miah stopped and kissed her mother’s cheek. Lina stepped back to allow her to move beside her groom. Zahir’s subtle, spicy aftershave reached out to greet her as he took her hand. His touch was warm, pulsing, reminding her that for all the business aspect of this marriage, at the end of it was a thriving wholly masculine male who exuded a raw and heady sexuality.

      Her pulse kicked a beat faster, moving the blood through her veins with a disturbing speed, making her more aware of everything—scents: the flowers, Zahir; touches: his, gentle ones, firm ones; breath: his, feathering her face, her lips.

      She repeated her vows and slipped a wedding band on his tapered finger, glancing at Zahir as though rapt, actually feeling rapt, unable to pry her gaze free of his.

      Vaguely, she heard the judge pronounce them husband and wife and state that Zahir could kiss his bride. He drew her to him then with all the skill she’d known he would possess, pressing her unresisting body to his, lowering his head with deadly accuracy, his mouth finding hers as though from memory.

      His lips were pliant, hungry, demanding, dominating. Her knees weakened, and she melted into him, deepening the kiss on her own. The guests began to clap. Miah stiffened, pushing away from Zahir, her face as hot from passion as from embarrassment at having an audience witness her loss of poise.

      He leaned closer and whispered, “We’ll finish this later, love.”

      Miah laughed…at him, at herself, at the situation.

      MIAH’S LAUGH held a throaty, sensuous tone that roused a carnal awareness in Javid. Her lips were the richest wine, the sweetest berry, forbidden fruit. She was a vixen. One moment playing hard to get, the next compliant, teasing. She had inherited the worst of her sire: his cunning. His charm. His treachery…as evidenced in the engagement ring she wore. A ring given to Nana by Grandfather Hayward for their twenty-fifth anniversary. Zahir had to have stolen it, for Nana had been looking everywhere for it and was heartsick at its loss.

      When this was over, he would be sure to take it back to Nana.

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