“You no-good, despicable—”
Her words were all-American, and his reaction was all male. There was only one way to silence her and he took it, lifting her to him and capturing her lips with his. She struggled. She fought. He kept kissing her, told himself it was the best way to keep her quiet.
Told himself that even as he felt himself drowning in her taste, her scent, her heat.
“Don’t fight me,” he whispered against her lips.
And for one amazing moment she obeyed. Her body softened; he let go of her fists and gathered her in his arms, bringing her tightly against him. Her lips softened, too, and parted just enough so he could slip the tip of his tongue into her mouth and savor its sweetness.
Savor it until he felt the sharp bite of her teeth.
Khalil cursed, jerked back, and dragged his handkerchief from his pocket. He put it against his lip, looked at the tiny crimson smear on the creamy white linen—and laughed.
Layla stared at him in disbelief. She’d bitten him and he’d laughed? Maybe she was losing her mind. It was the only thing that made sense…
THE SHEIKH’S WAYWARD WIFE
BY
SANDRA MARTON
CHAPTER ONE
HE STOOD on a terrace outside the Grand Ballroom, looking
over the deserted beach and the sea. A crescent moon hung in the sky, a cool ivory scimitar against the fiery backdrop of stars.
The pleasant sounds of conversation and music drifted through the partially opened doors behind him but he was alone.
Alone and annoyed.
The night was soft, the view enchanting, but Khalil had come to Al Ankhara on business, not in search of pleasure. So far no business had taken place.
He was familiar with everything here. The great Moorish palace. The white sand. The endless sea. He had been born here, not just in Al Ankhara but in the palace itself, born to all it represented. Legend said his nation was as ancient as the sea, as timeless as the desert. Once it had been a country of warriors. Now it was struggling to find itself in a new and different world.
Khalil was a part of both worlds. His heart would always be here, in this harsh and beautiful land, but his life was in New York City where he had lived for the past decade.
A frown crossed his ruggedly handsome face.
He had arrived early this morning, summoned by his father on what the older man had called an urgent matter of state. The summons had come at an inconvenient time but Khalil, although not a believer in some of the old ways, did believe in showing respect to one’s father.
That his father was also the sultan gave the summons added weight.
He’d read the e-mail, cursed softly, then phoned to arrange for his private jet, leaving a billion-dollar deal on the table and a new mistress alone in her bed. Hours later he’d stepped off the plane, ready for anything….
And instead been greeted as if his homecoming was nothing but a usual visit.
Sheikh Khalil al Kadar, Crown Prince of Al Ankhara, Protector of his People, Heir to the Throne of the Lion and the Sword and, for all he knew, possessor of a dozen other outmoded titles, tucked his hands in the pockets of his trousers and sighed in frustration.
His father, surrounded by the usual coterie of ministers, had greeted him warmly.
“Excellent, my son,” he’d said. “You wasted no time in getting here.”
“Of course not, Father,” Khalil had replied. “Your message spoke of urgency.”
“It did, yes.” One of the ministers moved closer and whispered to the sultan, who nodded, then clapped Khalil on the shoulder. “Right now, however, I have business to attend to.”
“But this urgent matter…?”
“In a little while,” the sultan had said, and hurried off.
The “little while” had gone from minutes to hours and as it did, Khalil’s attitude had gone from curiosity to impatience to glowering irritation. His mood had not been improved when his father’s private secretary had knocked at the door of his rooms in late afternoon to inform him that the sultan would see him at the state dinner scheduled for the evening.
Just thinking about it now made a muscle knot in Khalil’s jaw.
How “urgent” could a thing be, if it was to be discussed while two hundred guests milled about?
Khalil had done his best to be pleasant during the meal, but he’d felt his temper rising. Finally he’d excused himself and come out on the terrace where he could pace its length, check his watch, wonder what in hell was going on and—
What was that?
A figure stepped from the shadow of the palace and began walking quickly along the beach toward the sea. Khalil frowned. Who could it be? The hour was late. More to the point, the area was private, restricted for the use of the sultan’s household, and securely guarded.
One of the guests? No. The figure wore a hooded djellebah. A man’s garment. But the men here tonight were all wearing dark dinner suits.
Khalil moved closer to the railing.
Besides, this couldn’t be a man. The figure was too slight. A boy, then. A servant—but surely they would know that the sultan, a believer in the old ways, would not approve of a servant taking a stroll on this bit of royal land.
The boy had reached the place at which sea and sand met. Khalil’s eyes narrowed. Was he imagining that there was tension visible in the line of the child’s shoulders, the rigidity of his spine?
The boy took a step forward. The sea foamed around his ankles. Around his legs, soaking the djellebah, wrap ping it around them.
What the hell was the kid up to?
It was a fool’s question. The boy was walking steadily into the sea—a sea that dropped sharply only twenty feet from shore and was often home to hungry, man-eating sharks.
Khalil cursed, grabbed the railing and vaulted onto the sand.
Layla’s heart had been beating so hard as she slipped out the door of the harem that she’d been sure everyone could hear it.
She was amazed she’d gotten this far.
She’d slipped away without any of her guards noticing. Not that they called themselves guards. The two women who never let her out of their sight were her servants, according to her father, and when she’d glared at him and demanded to know what was the function of her third “servant,” an enormous thug with a pockmarked face and missing teeth, he’d said that Ahmet was for her protection.
“Al Ankhara may look like a land of fantasy,” he’d said, “but it is not.”
That, at least, was true. Al Ankhara might look like something out of the Arabian Nights, with its minarets and Moorish arches, but it wasn’t. What had happened to her in the past few days proved it.
But she had not let herself think about that tonight.
Instead, she had concentrated on escaping. The question was, how?
She and her so-called servants were in a separate part of the palace. It must have been beautiful once. Now the marble floors were dulled by age, the silk carpets were threadbare and the walls were grimy. The windows, looking out on an empty stretch of beach, were barred with decorative ironwork. The door that led into the palace was securely bolted; the lock on the door that gave onto the beach looked as if