“I’m sure he was paid handsomely for giving the information to those vultures.”
Rashad withdrew a small pad from his breast pocket. “We have made arrangements for you at the Brighton Hotel in Mission Creek. The Ashbury Suite will be yours for as long as you like. I spoke to the owner of the hotel myself, and he has assured me that his entire staff is eager to see that your every wish is granted.”
“I’m sure it will be just fine,” Omar said absently. “And now you will tell the driver that we will go to the Carson Ranch before checking into the hotel.”
Rashad didn’t blink an eye even though the plan had been for Omar to go immediately to his hotel. Rashad moved to the seat directly behind the limo driver and quickly relayed the change in plans. He remained seated there, as if instinctively recognizing that the sheik wanted a few moments with his own thoughts.
Omar stared out the window at the passing landscape. It irritated him that the press knew he was here. He’d hoped to fly into Mission Creek, accomplish his goal, then return to Gaspar without the glare of the media upon him.
He did not want the press to be privy to his personal business, and this trip to Texas was strictly personal. When he succeeded, he’d be more than happy for the world to know what he’d done.
What if she says no? Again the question came from nowhere to plague him with the disturbing possibility. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a photograph.
The picture was of a young woman in a shimmering silver ball gown. The dark brown wavy hair that framed her heart-shaped face complemented her peaches-and-cream complexion. He remembered her eyes had been like emeralds, flirting and dancing and surrounded by thick, long lashes. A beauty mark at the corner of her mouth drew attention to the lush, thoroughly kissable-looking lips.
Elizabeth Fiona Carson. She’d been twenty-one years old when the photo was taken at a cotillion Omar had attended in this very town. That had been six years ago—and now he had come to claim her as his bride.
What if she says no?
He tucked the photo back in his pocket and straightened up in the seat. Of course she would not say no. He was Sheik Omar Al Abdar, King of Gaspar. Any woman would be proud to be chosen by him as his wife.
As the driver turned onto the Carson property, Omar once again turned his attention out the window. The Carson ranch was known throughout Texas for the quality of its cattle, but he was more interested in the fact that this was Elizabeth’s home, the place of her birth and her upbringing.
In the letters they had exchanged over the past year, she had spoken of this place and of her parents with great affection.
Although not nearly as big as his palace back in Gaspar, the main house was certainly impressive. A large porch ran the length of the front of the massive house, along with dozens of large windows.
The grounds were well kept, manicured to perfection and with aesthetically pleasing flower gardens and an abundance of trees.
As the car began to turn into the half-moon driveway in front of the house, Omar leaned forward. “No,” he said. “Not the main house. There should be a caretaker’s cottage somewhere on the premises.” He pointed to an offshoot drive that led past a four-car garage. “There. Go there.”
The driver did his bidding, passing the garage and other outbuildings. In the distance Omar spied the small cottage where he knew Elizabeth lived.
He knew it not only from the letters she’d written him, but by the baskets of flowers that hung from the small porch. She’d told him she loved flowers.
As the car came to a halt before the little cottage, Omar felt a curious fluttering in the pit of his stomach. It couldn’t be nerves, he thought. He was a sheik, the king of his country. He didn’t get nervous, he made other people nervous.
Hunger. Surely that was what made his stomach roll. They had traveled all day to arrive in Texas, and their last meal had been far too long ago.
Rashad opened the door to allow him to step out. With a head full of thoughts about the woman inside the cottage, Omar absently smoothed a hand down the front of his Armani suit, hoping he didn’t appear too travel rumpled.
As Omar walked up to the front door, his two bodyguards stationed themselves on either side of the porch and Rashad returned to the back of the limo.
Omar drew a deep breath, aware that this would be one of the defining moments of his life. At thirty-eight years old, it was far past time he claimed a bride, and even though he hadn’t seen Elizabeth Fiona Carson for six years, she was the woman he had chosen to make his wife.
He knocked on the door, at the same time aware of the sweet scent of the nearby flower baskets. He made a mental note to ensure there were always fresh-cut flowers in her rooms at the palace.
The door opened, and Omar gazed at his bride-to-be. “Elizabeth,” he said. In an instant he drank in the sight of her, pleased that she looked just as he remembered.
“Omar!” Her brilliant green eyes widened in shock at the same time her hands raced first to her hair, then to smooth down the front of her dress.
Even though her dark wavy hair was slightly tousled and the denim dress she wore was rather plain, she looked lovely, and the desire he’d felt for her on that night so long ago sprang to life as if the six intervening years had never occurred.
“Wha—what are you doing here? I didn’t know you were coming to Texas. I just got your last letter today, and you didn’t mention a word about coming here.” She bit her bottom lip, as if aware she was rambling.
Omar found the rambling charming. He smiled at her, more certain than ever of what he was about to do. “I didn’t let you know I was coming to Texas because I wanted to surprise you.”
“You’ve certainly done that,” she replied. “Uh, would you like to come in?”
“I would not be so thoughtless as to appear un-announced on your doorstep and expect you to entertain me,” he replied. “I have yet to check in to my hotel, but I wanted to stop here first and ask you an important question.”
“Question?” She still looked stunned by his appearance. Again she raked a hand through her hair, and he noticed her hand trembled slightly. “What kind of a question?”
He captured her fluttering hand in his, and again her beautiful green eyes widened. He could smell her fragrance, a floral scent that instantly reminded him of the night at the cotillion.
She had bewitched him that night, blatantly flirting and charming every man in attendance, and Omar had been no exception. But at that time Omar had been no more ready for marriage than she had been.
“Elizabeth, I’ve come to tell you how much I have enjoyed our correspondence over the past year, that through your letters I feel as if I have come to know your mind and your heart.”
Her eyes seemed to grow even wider, and he tightened his hand around hers. “Elizabeth Fiona Carson, I have come to Texas to claim you as my wife. Will you marry me?”
Elizabeth Cara Carson stared at the handsome man before her, fighting against the panic that urged her to jerk her hand away, turn and flee into the cottage.
This
