The Inherited Bride Read online

  “I don’t know how you meant to survive in the real world when you still expect someone else to deal with your clothes for you, Princess.”

  Her shoulders stiffened, her back going rigid. “Don’t call me that anymore,” she said without turning.

  “It’s what you are, Isabella. It’s who you are.”

  A hollow laugh escaped her lips. “Who knows who I am? I don’t.”

  He let the comment pass. It wasn’t his job to stand around and psychoanalyze his brother’s future wife. His duty was to return her unharmed, untouched, and he intended to do that as soon as possible.

  He had other matters to attend to. He had geochemists actively searching for the best place to install a new rig, looking for more oil out in the middle of the Umarahn desert. He liked to be there on site when they were making final decisions about location. He didn’t micromanage his team, he hired the best. But during major events he liked to be on hand in case there was a problem.

  Facilitating the growing Umarahn economy was only half of his job. Protecting his brother, and their people, was his utmost concern. He would give his life for his brother without hesitation. So when Hassan had informed him that his bride had gone missing Adham had offered to ensure she was found. He was now regretting that offer.

  She whipped around to face him, a pile of clothing, still on hangers, draped over her arms. “You could help me.”

  He shook his head slightly, watching as she began to awkwardly fold the clothing and place it in her bag. By the third or fourth article she seemed to develop some sort of method, even if it was unconventional.

  “Who packed for you in the first place?”

  She shrugged, the color in her cheeks deepening. “One of my brother’s servants. I was supposed to leave his home this morning. I just left a few hours earlier.”

  “And went to an undisclosed location?”

  She narrowed her eyes, her lips pursed in a haughty expression. “What did you say your name was?”

  “According to the report I read on you, you’re a very smart woman. Perfect marks in school. I think you know perfectly well that I didn’t offer you my name.”

  Her delicate brow creased. “I think that, considering you know everything about me from my marks in school and I shudder to think what else, I should at least know your name.”

  “Adham.” He left out his surname, and in so doing his relationship to Hassan.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said, folding a silk blouse and sticking it in the bottom of a pink suitcase. She paused mid-motion. “Actually, it isn’t, really. I don’t know why I said that. Habit. Good manners.” She sighed. “Because it’s what I was trained to do.” She said it despairingly, her luscious mouth pulled down at the corners.

  “You resent it?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly, firmly. “Yes, I do.” She took a breath. “It’s not nice to meet you, Adham. I wish you would go away.”

  “We don’t always get what we wish for.”

  “And some of us never do.”

  “You’ll have the Eiffel Tower. That has to be enough.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  ADHAM’S penthouse apartment in Paris’s seventh district wasn’t at all what she’d expected from a man who worked for the High Sheikh. It was patently obvious that he had money of his own, and likely the status to go with it. He was probably a titled man—another sheikh or something. No wonder he’d looked at her as if she was crazy when she’d expected him to collect her things.

  That had been mortifying. She hadn’t meant to be rude. It was just that she was used to being served. She’d always devoted the majority of her time to studying, reading, cultivating the kinds of skills her parents deemed necessary for a young woman of fine breeding. None of those skills had included folding her own clothes. Or, in fact, any sort of household labor.

  She’d always considered herself an intelligent person; her tutors and her grades had always reinforced that belief. But the realization of what a huge deficit she had in her knowledge made her feel … it made her feel she didn’t know anything worth knowing. Who cared if you knew the maximum depth of the Thames if you didn’t know how to fold your own clothes?

  The penthouse didn’t provide her with any more clues about the man who was essentially her captor. Unless he really was as sparse and uncompromising as the surrounding décor. Cold as brushed steel, hard as granite. Arid, like the desert of his homeland. That seemed possible.

  She looked around the room, searching for any kind of personal markers. There were no family photographs. The art on the walls was modern, generic—like something you might find in a hotel room. There was no touch of personality, no indication as to who he might be, what he liked. That just reinforced her first theory.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, without turning his focus to her.

  “Can I get something besides bread and water?”

  “Is that what you think, Isabella? That you’re my captive?”

  She swallowed hard, trying to move the knot that had formed in her throat. “Aren’t I?”

  Wasn’t she everyone’s captive? A puppet created by her parents and trained to respond to whoever was pulling the strings.

  “It depends on how you look at it. If you try to walk out the door I can’t let you. But if you don’t make another escape attempt we can exist together nicely.”

  “I believe that makes me a prisoner.”

  Her words made no difference to him. It was as though he took a hostage every day of the week. The only change in his facial expression was the compression of his mouth. The scar that ran through his top lip lightened slightly at the pull of his skin, the small flaw in his handsome face only reinforcing the warrior image her mind had created for him.

  “Prisoner or not, I was wondering if you might like some dinner. I believe I took you from the hotel before you had a chance to have yours.”

  Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she’d been hungry for a couple of hours now. “I would like some dinner.”

  “There is a restaurant nearby. I have them deliver food whenever I’m here. I assume that will be all right for you?”

  “I.” Now’s the time to do it … get what you want now or you’ll never have the chance. “Actually, I’d like to have a hamburger.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “A hamburger.”

  She nodded curtly. “Yes. I’ve never had one. And I’d also like chips. Fries. Whatever you call them. And a soft drink.”

  “Seems a simple request for a last meal. I think I can accommodate my captive.” She thought she might have heard a hint of humor in his voice, but it seemed unlikely. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed, then spoke to whoever was on the other end in polished French.

  “You speak French?”

  He shrugged. “I keep a residence here. It’s practical.”

  “Do you speak Italian?” she asked, moving to a sleek black sofa that looked about as soft as marble and sitting gingerly on the edge.

  “Only a little. I’m fluent in Arabic, French, English and Mandarin.”

  “Mandarin?”

  His lips curved slightly in what she assumed might be an attempt at a smile as he settled in the chair across from her. “That’s a long story.”

  “I speak Italian, and Latin as well, French, Arabic—obviously English.”

  “You’re quite well-educated.”

  “I’ve had a lot of time to devote to it.” Books had been her constant companion, either at the family home, or for those brief years she’d gone to an all-girl school in Switzerland. Her imagination had been her respite from the demands that her parents had placed on her. From their constant micro-managing of her actions. In her mind at least she’d been free.

  But it hadn’t been enough lately. She’d needed more. An escape. A reality apart from the life she’d led behind the palace walls. Especially if she was expected to go and live behind more walls, to be shut away again. Set apart. Isolated even when surrounded by hundreds of people.


  She shivered, cold loneliness filling her chest, her lungs, making her feel as if she was drowning.

  “It’s nice to know all those languages when you move in the type of circles my family do. I’ve gotten to practice them with various diplomats and world leaders.” During their frequent trips to Italy they’d always met with politicians, wealthy socialites. The same kind of person, the same sort of conversation. Always supervised. She clenched her fists. “So, what have you used your linguistic skills for?”

  Probably for seducing women all over the world …

  “They have been a matter of survival for me. In my line of work, understanding the words of the enemy can be a matter of life and death.”

  A chill settled over her, goosebumps rising on her arms. “You … that’s happened to you?”

  He gave her a hard look, one void of expression, but conveying an intense amount of annoyance over having to carry on this extended conversation with her. “Yes. I am in the service of my country. My king. It’s my job to protect him, and now to protect you.”

  The fierce loyalty in Adham’s voice shocked her. She didn’t know if there was anything in the world she felt so much passion for. She’d lived her life by the rules until recently, but she hadn’t followed the rules out of any great love for them. She had just done it. Existed. Her future, her marriage, was a given—her duty to her people. But there was no fire of conviction there.

  “Is that why you’re here? To protect me?”

  “He trusts you with me. He would not send just any man to search for his fiancée. He was concerned for your safety. And I will protect you. I will bring you back to him.”

  “Why is it that everyone seems to think I can’t walk from room to room without someone holding my hand?” Frustration pulled at her, making her feel she might explode.

  His jaw tightened. “Because you present yourself in such a way that suggests it.”

  “That isn’t fair. I’ve never been given a chance to make my own decisions. It’s assumed I’m incapable.”

  “If you show as much maturity in the rest of your life as you have with your decision to run from your duty, I can see why.”

  “I’m not running from my duty. I understand what’s expected of me. I even understand why. But I realized something a few weeks ago. I’ve never been alone. Ever. Not really. I’ve always had a security detail following my every move, chaperones making sure I never put a toe out of line, dressers telling me what to wear, teachers telling me what to think—all leading up to a future that was predestined for me and that I have no control over.” Her throat tightened. “I just wanted time. Time to find out who I am.”

  A buzzing sound echoed in the room, signaling the arrival of their food. Adham stood and walked to the door, punching in a security code that she assumed allowed the delivery man access. In a few moments Adham returned, holding two bags that looked as if they were packed full of food.

  She tried to find some of the optimism she’d felt earlier, when she’d first boarded the train from Italy. She only had this one night of freedom, and a very limited amount tomorrow. There would be a lot of time for her to cry later. And she would. For now she was seizing the moment. She was going to enjoy her dinner. A dinner she had chosen—not the palace dietician.

  Adham set the bags on a glass coffee table and opened them. The smell that filled the room made Isabella’s stomach growl more insistently. She lost focus on that, though, as she watched Adham remove the tightly wrapped food from the bag, her eyes transfixed on his hands. They were so masculine, so different from her own. Wide and square, with deep scars marring the golden skin of his knuckles.

  What kind of man was he? What had he done to earn so many marks of pain on his body? He’d said he’d been in life-or-death situations. It was clear that he was still alive. Not so clear what had happened to his opponents. Not for the first time she wondered if she should be afraid of him. But she wasn’t. He unsettled her. Made her feel a strange sort of jumpiness, as though she’d had one too many shots of espresso—one of the only vices her parents allowed her.

  One thing she knew for certain was that she wanted to be rid of the man. No one had babysat her brother while he’d gone out and had his taste of freedom. No one had doubted he would return to do his duty. She would do what she was meant to do. She’d always known that a love match wasn’t in her future, even before Hassan had been chosen for her. But that didn’t mean she wanted to be kept under lock and key her entire life. A few short weeks was all she’d asked for. A small concession when a lifetime of what amounted to servitude was in her future.

  She wasn’t going to think about it now. All she was going to do was enjoy her dinner.

  She took the first bite of her burger and closed her eyes, sighing with absolute pleasure. It was much better than she’d even imagined. A literal taste of freedom. She chewed slowly, savoring the experience and everything it represented for her.

  Her last meal, he’d called it. He’d been joking, but it was true enough to her. Her first and last night on her own, making her own choices. Except she wasn’t really. He was here.

  She blinked back the tears that were forming in her eyes and took another bite. She sighed again, relishing the flavor. Relishing freedom. All she would ever have was a taste, before she was shipped off to marry a man she didn’t know. A man she didn’t love or even have a special attraction to. And she was prepared to do that—had been her entire life. Was prepared to face her duty for the sake of her country. But she’d wanted time out from it all first. She hadn’t thought it was too much to hope for. Apparently it had been.

  Now the food felt dry in her mouth and heavy in her stomach.

  “Isabella?”

  She looked up, and her eyes locked with Adham’s. Being the subject of his intense focus made her insides feel jittery. She didn’t like being on the receiving end of that dark, knowing gaze. It was as if he could see into her, into every private thought and feeling she’d ever had.

  She lowered her eyes, staring hard at her food. Anything to keep from showing him just how much he unnerved her. She was used to being at an advantage, used to being royalty and feeling like it. But it didn’t seem to matter to this man at all. There was no deference towards her position, not even the semblance of respect she was used to receiving from strangers by virtue of her status.

  “You are thinking hard, Isabella.”

  She looked up at him. He flexed his hand, curled it into a fist as if he’d been seized by sudden tension.

  “Your emotions are easy to read,” he said finally.

  “There are two months until the wedding,” she said, trying to cultivate her best vulnerable expression, trying to appeal to him in some way. If her emotions were easy to read, she would use everything she had. “Two months and ten days. I haven’t gotten to do anything I planned to do. I’ve never been to the cinema, or to a restaurant. I just want … I want something of life—my own life—before I … I get married.” She watched his face, hoping to see some expression of sympathy, a sign he was at least hearing her words. She got nothing but that coal-black impenetrable stare. She could feel the wall between them, feel the distance he’d placed so efficiently between them.

  She pressed on, her heart beating faster. “Could you …? Why couldn’t I do some of the things I planned, only with you?”

  This at least earned her a small response, in the form of a fractional lift of his eyebrow. “I am not a babysitter, amira.” The Arabic word for princess was tinged with mockery.

  “And I’m not a baby.”

  “I am here to bring you to your fiancé, and that is where our association begins and ends. After you’ve been to see the Eiffel Tower tomorrow we will fly back to Umarah. You will go to the palace there, and then I will leave you in the capable hands of the High Sheikh.”

  “But.” She was stalled by the look on his face, the blank hardness that conveyed both disinterest and contempt with ruthless efficiency. She took another bite of h
er hamburger and tried not to cry. Not in front of him. She wasn’t going to confirm what he thought—that she was some silly child who didn’t know what was best for her own life.

  Although that was half true. She didn’t know. She realized that. How could she possibly know what was best for herself if she had no idea who she really was? She didn’t know her own likes, her own dislikes, her own moral code. She only knew what she’d been told she liked. What she’d been told was best for her. How could she go to a strange country, with customs entirely different from any she was familiar with, marry a man she didn’t know, if she still didn’t know herself? What would be left of her when she was stripped away from everything she knew?

  When her surroundings changed, when the people who chose her clothing, dictated her actions changed, she was terrified she might lose herself completely. That was just one reason she needed some time to find out more about herself on her own terms.

  Her throat felt tighter. It felt as if everything was closing in on her. The room, her family’s expectations. This was why she’d left in the first place. It was why she couldn’t stay now.

  She took a deep breath and made an effort to smile. She had a limited amount of time to form a plan, and she couldn’t sacrifice her head start by tipping him off to what she was thinking.

  “I’m tired,” she said. It was true. She was so tired she felt heavy with it. But she didn’t have the luxury of collapsing yet.

  “You can sleep in the guest bedroom.” He gestured to a doorway that was situated across the open living room. She put her half-eaten dinner back on the wax paper, sad that she hadn’t been able to enjoy it more, and stood, making a move to grab her pink suitcase.

  Adham reached over and put his hand on the suitcase. Over hers. The heat singed her, blazed through her body. It shocked her that his touch could be so hot.

  “I’ll get it,” he said, standing. He kept his hand on hers, though and the warm weight was comforting and disturbing at the same time. “That’s called chivalry, not servitude.”