of succession to the throne of Bha’Khar—”
“The spare heir?”
“Some would say.”
“So you’re like the equivalent of the vice president in my country.”
“I suppose that is true.”
“You’re so busy keeping women happy all over the world. When do you have time to get ready?”
“For what?”
“To rule the country. If you’re called on.”
He did have a reputation—some of it deserved, some embellished. But no one knew why he took pains to cultivate it. “I will do my duty should the need arise, but I pray it will not because my brother, Malik, will one day be king.”
“Of course. Tell me more.”
“What do you wish to know?”
“I wish to know how someone like you who was born with so many advantages and opportunities to do really good things can turn into a self-absorbed pleasure seeker who’s only interested in his next romantic conquest.”
Her tone was friendly, conversational. And because he liberally used flattery, he recognized it in women. He was accustomed to it. He definitely did not see it now. “You have quite a low opinion of me.”
“It’s hard not to, what with all the stories printed about you and women who are equally self-absorbed and pleasure seeking.”
His emotions had shut down two years ago after burying his beloved Antonia and he almost didn’t recognize the prick of anger now. “Do you believe everything you read in those publications?”
“At the very least there has to be a grain of truth or they would be subject to accusations of slander followed by expensive lawsuits. And how many times have denials been issued only to find out the story was true? So, yes, I do believe a lot of what I read.” She met his gaze directly. “Although I have to say you look nothing like your pictures.”
“The paparazzi are not interested in taking favorable photographs. Their goal is to take infamous ones.” And they did not care who they hurt in the pursuit of that goal, he thought bitterly.
“And you certainly give them ample opportunity.”
“If you have such a low opinion of me, it begs the question. Why did you agree to come here?”
“You know why. The king’s representative promised to make it possible for me to meet my family.” She met his gaze. “After that, I’m going back home to my job with the department of social services—important, relevant work. Something you probably wouldn’t understand.”
“You would be wrong.” He was the minister of Finance and Defense. “I am quite social.”
She smiled. “No doubt about that, but the services you provide are questionable.”
She was making assumptions without knowing him and it was beginning to grate. It was as if she were trying to elicit emotion from him, even if that emotion was negative. If that was her objective, she was destined for more disappointment. The passion he had once felt was big and blazing, an entity with a life of its own and an excitement that had consumed him. When he lost that, he lost everything. He was empty inside. He had learned to go on by embracing that feeling of nothing and Jessica could not do or say anything to make him care.
This was about duty—in his case duty had been helped along by the unfortunate photographs of him with a certain still-married and much divorced actress. With negotiations in progress for Bha’Khar to join other nations in the Global Commerce Union, a scandal in the royal family would not be tolerated. As the public relations minister had pointed out—the only thing the media loved more than a salacious story was a salacious love story that included a wedding.
But that was not the real reason her presence in Bha’Khar had been expedited. The woman Kardahl had loved was dead, along with their unborn child and a part of him had died with them. Now one woman was the same as the next. It had ceased to matter to him that the king had chosen his bride when Kardahl was just a boy. His heart had turned to stone.
But his confusion was increasing. What was this about her going back to a job? It would explain her scarcity of luggage, but created more questions.
Kardahl frowned. “One who takes vows so cavalierly should not be so swift to point accusing fingers.”
“Vows?” Her smile disappeared. “What are you talking about? What vows?”
“The vows we took by proxy.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t understand.”
Neither did he. But this he knew for certain. “You are my bride.”
CHAPTER TWO
THREE hours ago Jessica had been afraid the family she’d only just found might reject her because she was the result of her mother’s out-of-wedlock pregnancy. Now she had bigger things to worry about, like marriage to a man who didn’t know the meaning of the words vow, dedication and loyalty.
In his palace suite, she paced back and forth in front of the French doors that opened to a balcony overlooking the Arabian Sea while she waited for him to return and tell her it was all a big mistake. They’d have a laugh, then she could get on with the reason she’d come here.
At least she had a great view for her pacing and his suite wasn’t bad, either. Not bad was a gross understatement. It was big. And while she was tempted to explore, she didn’t want to lose her way and get caught snooping. What she could see right here was pretty awesome. Celery-green sofas done in a suedelike fabric faced each other in front of a white brick fireplace. Pictures, each with their own lighting, hung on the walls throughout the spacious living and dining rooms. She didn’t know a darn thing about art but would bet each one cost more money than she made in a month because they were filled with difficult to identify body parts. And they were difficult to identify because they weren’t where they were supposed to be. Kind of like the mess she now found herself in.
How could she be married and not know it? What about the white dress, flowers, rings and vows—preferably of the verbal kind. Her low-heeled pumps clicked on the mosaic tiles in the suite’s foyer as she checked the door to make certain it wasn’t locked, then peeked outside to see if anyone was standing guard there. No and no, she thought, closing the door.
That didn’t mean she wasn’t a victim in some bizarre sex slave ring. She’d seen stories. Granted it was far-fetched. When the royal family had taken her under their wing, she’d never suspected another agenda, but what did she know? She thought proxy marriages had gone out with horse-drawn buggies and hoop skirts.
While she was trying to decide whether or not her luggage would slow her down too much when she made a run for it, the door opened and Kardahl joined her in the living room.
“I have news,” he said.
She tried to read his expression and when she couldn’t, made a hopeful guess. “We’re not married.”
“On the contrary.” He held out a piece of paper. “Is this your signature?”
