The Sheikh’s American Fiancée: Desert Sheikhs Book Three Read online

  Zatar’s words rang in his head. A fake love interest. Maybe this was totally stupid. Indecision slashed through him, but he pressed forward.

  “She just flew in from America.” Dakaric sent a bright smile down to Christina. She smiled up at him, but he could see the strain at the edges.

  “Sure did,” she quipped.

  Dakaric squeezed his arm tighter around Christina, anchoring her to his side. As though it might prevent her from changing her mind and running away.

  “And how long has…” Tirsa swirled her finger in a circle in the air, “this been going on?”

  “Not very long,” Dakaric blurted. “It’s uh, new, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Mm hmm,” Christina said, nodding excessively. “New.”

  “Well,” Tirsa said, drumming her long, black nails over her forearm. She was statuesque, composed of long, lean lines and bored expressions. She was like a Middle Eastern Barbie doll, pretty and often on display. As the daughter of his late great-uncle’s former policy advisor, she’d come highly recommended. But Dakaric often felt as though she was more interested in knocking hips than rubbing elbows. In fact, he’d dreaded Tirsa catching wind of his slip to the press a few days ago, and her quiet displeasure was exactly what he’d expected. “Can I please have a moment with you, Dakaric?” She had switched back to Arabic, leaving Christina out of the loop. “So we can finalize a formal press release.”

  “Not right now,” Dakaric answered in English, looking down at Christina. “My girlfriend just arrived.”

  “Fiancée, you mean?” Tirsa lifted a brow.

  Dakaric cleared his throat. “Exactly. And I’d like a bit more time with her before we release anything about our relationship.”

  “But I’ve flown all the way from Al Qalb just to—”

  “Not now,” Dakaric reiterated. With a tight smile, he led Christina out of the foyer and toward his own suite at the very back of the inn. He could sense Tirsa’s displeasure almost as strongly as Christina’s confusion. Once he ushered her into his room, he shut the door and then locked it for good measure. Christina’s eyes were wide, impossibly crystalline violet. His body tingled with the absence of her heat at his side.

  “Now what is this about?” Christina hissed.

  “That’s my PR advisor.” Dakaric ran a hand through his hair, heading for the far wall to shut windows. Just in case Tirsa thought to eavesdrop. “I let it slip a few days ago that I was seeing someone. Of course, I’m not; I just get sick of all the questions. People are obsessed with whether or not I’m dating someone. So I invented a fiancée. I never thought it would amount to much. It was just to get the press off my back.”

  “And why does the press care?”

  Dakaric paused. She didn’t know he was a king, and he liked the idea of keeping it that way. He was sick of all the status seekers in his life. And though Christina wouldn’t be around long enough to seek much of anything from him, he wanted to rule out the possibility. Because part of him wanted to get to know her as much as possible over the next two weeks. Even if all it would mean was she still flew away at the end with a piece of his heart.

  “My family is well known,” he said simply. And that was true. “I’m what you would call an eligible bachelor.”

  “Ahh. So you’ve roped me into Kattaharan version of The Bachelor reality TV show.” She snorted. “Great.”

  “Listen, this won’t be painful for you, I promise. All I’ll need is a couple public appearances. That’s it. Just enough to prove to the press there is someone.”

  “Me,” Christina clarified.

  “Right.” Dakaric offered a winning smile. “So you’re in.”

  She sighed, shrugging. “I mean, why not? I’ll get some food out of it, won’t I? Please tell me there will be food. I am starving.”

  Relief flooded him. So maybe he wasn’t a stark raving fool after all. Maybe following Zatar’s advice would lead precisely where he’d intended. “More food than you can even imagine, starting with lunch. You are a gem. And I promise I will make every effort to help find Sabra.”

  “Sabrina,” Christina corrected.

  Dakaric swore to himself. The woman in that picture looked exactly like a woman that used to live at Zatar’s father’s palace years ago, but she’d been known as Sabra. Dakaric hadn’t had a chance to verify her identity, however, before Tirsa came charging in like a bull seeing red.

  “Right. You will have every inch of my resources at your disposal. Beginning with the palace. If anybody knows about this woman, it’s going to be the king, Zatar. And we will find this woman, if she can be found.”

  Christina tilted her head, studying the ground. “And free room and board?”

  “Of course.” Dakaric waved it off. “Consider the inn yours.”

  She blinked. “Are you allowed to just do that? I mean, isn’t your boss—”

  “I am the boss,” Dakaric interjected.

  She arched a brow. “Oh. Well, then.” She smiled, crossing her arms. “This sounds like a deal. Now where’s lunch?”

  Dakaric was overcome with the urge to hug her, but he restrained himself. She didn’t have any idea what a huge favor this was for him, how desperately he craved the peace and quiet of his former life. The elusive American he’d made up on a whim had wandered into his inn. Finally, luck was on his side.

  “I’ll take you straight to the dining room,” he said, “and then I’ll go finalize the press release Tirsa wants. She might ask us for a picture. And…speaking of pictures.” Excitement rumbled through him. He’d almost entirely forgotten about the party at Zatar’s palace tomorrow night. Of course he’d be attending. And now, Christina could too. “There’s a gala at the palace tomorrow night. I’d been planning on attending, and this would be the perfect opportunity for me to show off my fiancée. Not to mention the perfect opportunity for you to gain access to the palace to begin research.”

  Christina blinked a few times. “A gala?”

  “Yes, a formal event where everyone shows up just to show off. It will be fun. If you agree, I’ll buy your dress and have someone come over later today to take your measurements.”

  “Yes!” she practically shouted.

  “Great. I promise, being my pretend fiancée won’t be all bad.” He headed toward the door, his hand reaching for the knob when she spoke up.

  “But how will you get out of it?”

  He paused, the question sinking into him. “Well, once you return home, we’ll leave the press with the assumption that I’m just waiting for your next visit. And then sometime in the near future, I’ll tell them you decided against marrying me.”

  She furrowed her brow. “I won’t get hate mail, will I?”

  “No, it shouldn’t be so serious. In fact, people will probably be relieved that they can start shoving their unwed daughters at me again.”

  Christina snorted. “Wow, you weren’t kidding. I can see why you might want a break from that.”

  He shook his head. She didn’t know the half of it. An unmarried king made people do crazy things…all the way to receiving used panties in the royal mail. “The older I get, the more intense it gets.

  She eyed him shyly, a glimmer in her face that he couldn’t entirely read. “And how old are you?

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “And do you ever want to actually marry?”

  He shrugged. “I haven’t decided. Perhaps one day I’ll know, if I meet the woman who shows me the way.”

  Their eyes locked, a long, suspenseful silence hanging between them, as if they both knew there was more to say. But what? A shiver raced up his spine.

  “So, I have to pretend to be that woman,” she finally said in a small voice. There was a melancholy there, or perhaps a wistfulness. This delicate, gorgeous woman from America held secrets he was suddenly dying to discover. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and pulled open the door.

  “Let’s get you lunch,” he said, offering his hand. “And then we will talk all ab
out your mysterious photo.”

  5

  The next morning, Christina awoke to a soft but urgent knock on her door. She rubbed at her eyes, checking the bedside clock. Eight thirty a.m. She stumbled toward the door, unable to open her eyes past a perfunctory slit.

  “Who is it?”

  “Dakaric.”

  She tugged the door open. Dakaric smiled at her, his forearm propped against the doorframe. The sight of him—impossibly handsome and casual in jeans and a loose linen shirt—jolted her awake. And that cologne. She took a deep breath. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m sorry to wake you up so early.” He bit his bottom lip, his dark eyes raking up her body. She was wearing just an oversized T-shirt. Shit. She should have remembered shorts or something. “Tirsa is on the way, and I think when she gets here, we should look the part.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come to my room.” He raked a hand through his hair. “You can go back to sleep. I just want you to be there when she shows up.”

  She knew her answer before he’d even finished speaking. In her early morning, jetlagged haze, all she wanted was to be near this man. Bathed in that scent. Even if it was under bizarre pretenses. “Sure. But let’s go, because I’m tired.”

  “Yes. Of course.” He shut the door behind her and then led the way to his suite, the place they’d spoken in private the afternoon prior. His room was much like hers: exotic and sprawling, lushly decorated and calming. The only difference was that his bedroom had a door to the garden, while hers overlooked it. Stout palm trees lined a wall of pure glass; beyond, the greenery of ferns mixed with shots of orange and red lilies drooping along a paved pathway.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Dakaric said, his voice hushed. She immediately climbed into his bed, the oaky remnants of his cologne clinging to the pulled-back sheets. Warmth raced through her, and she burrowed into the covers.

  “Thanks,” she said, yawning. “I was planning on sleeping in today; hope that isn’t a problem.”

  “Of course not.” He watched her for a few moments too long as she settled into place. He jerked his gaze away, rummaging in his wardrobe, his voice halfway muffled. “Whenever you wake up, your dress will be waiting for you. And Tirsa may have some things to cover with you as well.”

  “Mm hmm.” She hugged his silken pillow, another yawn overcoming her. Being in this man’s bed, even though he was a relative stranger, almost felt more familiar than her own house. Was it possible he just clicked with her? Even when he smiled at her, it felt as natural as an old friend.

  Or maybe she was just so starved for affection, she was willing to see intimacy in a fake fiancé.

  Her skin prickled, like there was a sudden blast of hot air. She opened one eye. Dakaric’s gaze sizzled on her from across the space, and then he turned and left the room.

  Her thoughts dissolved as sleep overcame her again. Everything blurred into peaceful oblivion, until she jolted awake hours later. This time, birds twittered and voices reached her from…somewhere. She sat up, a whiff of Dakaric’s scent washing over her. A sigh escaped her. She could get used to that.

  Once she’d rubbed her eyes and taken stock of the room, she noticed the door to the garden hanging ajar. Dakaric’s low voice drifted through it. She pushed out of the bed and walked slowly toward the garden, clarity thrumming through her. She was well rested and ready for the day. Ready to play the part of Dakaric’s fiancée at a gala later that night. She fought a grin.

  The door creaked open. At a small wrought iron table, Dakaric and Tirsa sat, papers spread out between them. Tirsa’s nostrils flared when Christina stepped out. Today, the woman looked even more dolled up than yesterday. Precision-painted black eyebrows, long black hair worthy of a Kardashian. Dakaric turned, his face lighting up.

  “Christina! Darling! You’re awake.” He stood and glided toward her. He lowered his mouth to her ear. “You can sneak upstairs to change. I hope you slept well.”

  She giggled, like maybe it would help convince Tirsa he’d muttered something naughty instead of logistical, and swatted at his shoulder. “Morning, you two. Sorry I overslept. It was a long trip yesterday.”

  “No worries. Would you like coffee, darling?”

  “Of course. Let me change, and I’ll be right back.”

  Dakaric squeezed her arm before she reentered his bedroom, sending a rush of heat down her legs. On a scale of one to sensual, it fell somewhere around friend status. So why did her entire body buzz on the way upstairs to change? Something knotted deep inside her, and she couldn’t see anything other than Dakaric’s face as she pulled on a light sundress and sandals.

  Once she rejoined the garden party downstairs, Dakaric had made a space for her. A steaming cup of coffee awaited her, as well as a bowl of fruit.

  “We must keep you nourished,” he said, taking her hand in his as she sat down. He grinned over at Tirsa. “Isn’t she just gorgeous?”

  Christina tried to keep the flush out of her cheeks as she sipped her coffee. He doesn’t mean it. It’s just for show. Tirsa’s smile was passable but strained, the type reserved for bad jokes from coworkers.

  “Of course. You two look so cute together.”

  Part of her wished that was true, or rather, that she could ever hope to be on the arm of someone as stunningly hot as Dakaric. Even if his family weren’t well known, he would probably still have a line a mile long of interested ladies. This was an unexpected treat, the type of adventure that never found her in her boring, stressed life back home.

  Because between caring for Hope, helping Kasha cope, and working her own overtime hours, Christina had given up love, romance, and gallivanting long ago. As a twenty-six-year-old single lady, her life should be much more interesting and carefree.

  But it wasn’t. It was tedious and exhausting and full of worry. She stabbed a slice of papaya. Juice flicked onto her cheek, which she wiped away quickly. The attention that Dakaric lavished on her, even if it was just for show, was a welcome breeze in an otherwise stagnant room. And she’d enjoy every second of this unexpected treat, even if it would inevitably come to an end.

  “Tirsa, I thought you could give Christina the rundown later. About appearing at the gala. People to look out for, things to know…"

  “Of course.” Tirsa closed a datebook. “There’s a lot to learn, and not much time.”

  Dakaric brushed her knee under the table. Her skin practically sizzled where he touched her. “She’s up for the task. After all, we knew this day would come. Her first gala.”

  “I’ve been looking forward to it!” She forked a strawberry slice and chewed happily. It was true, in the way that every girl hopes for that fairytale invitation to a palace party far, far away. “And I can’t wait to see the dress.”

  “I picked it especially for you,” Dakaric said in a low voice, leaning closer. His forehead almost brushed hers, and her breath caught in her throat. She locked eyes with him as she brought her coffee mug to her lips.

  “Then I’m positive it will be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever worn,” she murmured. Was that true? She hoped so. Playing this part came more easily than she imagined. She gulped back some coffee as Dakaric pushed out from the table.

  “Ladies, I must excuse myself. I have some other matters to attend to, but Tirsa, please make sure she’s briefed by the afternoon.” Dakaric placed a protective hand on Christina’s shoulder before leaning down to whisper in her ear. “Find me if you need anything.”

  Christina nodded as Dakaric wound his way along the garden path, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his linen slacks. Tirsa watched her with a tight smile, the silence stretching for miles between them.

  “He sure is a sweetie,” Christina finally said, the first thing she could think of to break the stony silence.

  “Mm hmm.” Tirsa still wore that unmoving smile as she shuffled papers around. “Are you finished eating?”

  Christina eyed the grapes at the bottom of her bowl and popped th
em in her mouth. “Now I am.”

  Tirsa lifted a brow. “So. Palace protocol.” She launched into a monologue-like information session about the history of the Kattaharan palace, who would be attending, and what the purpose of this gala was. She scarcely breathed as she spoke, avoiding Christina’s gaze as she doodled lazily on a scrap of paper. When she mentioned kissing the feet of the king, Christina held up a hand.

  “Hang on.” She paused, running Tirsa’s words through her head again. “I have to seriously kiss the king’s feet?”

  “It’s a display of deference.” Tirsa sniffed, her chocolate-brown eyes finding hers for a split second. “Zatar Balizar requires it from all who enter his palace.”

  Christina nibbled on her lip. That seemed odd, but maybe it was just part of the culture around here. She hadn’t seen it in any of the travel guides she’d read during the flight over, though. “Okay. This is good info. What else?”

  Tirsa droned on about some obscure history of the Balizar lineage in the 1600’s, details that made Christina’s gaze drift and her mind wander. Why is she telling me all this? She tried to listen about the Old-World coronation ceremonies, but she kept thinking about Hope. Feeling guilty. You’re gearing up for fun and cocktails while Hope withers away at home.

  Tears pricked at her eyes. She was good at feeling guilty; it was practically all she knew how to do. Guilty that it was Hope sick and not her; guilty that she could see the world, while Hope might not even see her sixth birthday. Guilty that she could go to sleep without the imminent stress of losing a child, like her sister. She took a calming breath, tuning into Tirsa once more.

  “And that’s why it’s so important that the king’s companion be dressed in purple.”

  “Who is the king’s companion?”

  “You.”

  Christina gnawed on the inside of her lip, staring at Tirsa’s beautiful, symmetrical face trying to understand. “The king? You mean Zatar?”