The Sheikh's Convenient Bride. Sandra Marton

on slick roads would be the perfect ending to a perfect day.

      Her life was starting to feel like a soap opera.

      She hit every red light between the parking lot and the freeway entrance ramp. Okay, she thought, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. That gave her plenty of time to try and figure out why Simpson hadn’t dumped her.

      Could he really have fallen for the lawsuit thing?

      No. The Worm was a rat and if that was a mixed metaphor, so be it. The point was, rats were miserable creatures but they weren’t stupid. Her boss had seen through her threat.

      He had to know that she wouldn’t go to the media, either. Any action she took that would tarnish the company and the sheikh would tarnish her.

      Goodbye, career. Goodbye, all these years spent climbing the corporate ladder.

      Simpson had to know she’d calm down and come to her senses.

      But the sheikh had no way of knowing it. He’d fall for anything she said. Obviously he had. That was the reason he’d made that loathsome offer to buy her off.

      Had he gone to Simpson? Told her boss not to worry, that he had things under control? Was that why Simpson hadn’t fired her, or even come near her for the balance of the day?

      Maybe so.

      Well, they were both in for a big surprise. Just let His Almightiness try and send her a check. Just let the Worm try to think she could be bought off. Just let…

      “Stop,” Megan said firmly. “Just stop.” She was working herself up all over again, and for what? She’d already decided what to do with a check, if the sheikh sent one. As for Simpson…She wouldn’t let him buy her off, either. To hell with the big Hollywood client. To hell with the partnership. She’d polish up her résumé, call up a headhunter, find herself a new job…

      And lose the chance to make partner. Simpson saw it as a bribe but she deserved it. She was a hard worker. An excellent financial analyst. Was she really going to let Simpson and the insufferable Qasim of Suliyam make her lose everything she’d striven for?

      She was not.

      If she could just come up with the reason for Simpson’s silence…

      Her cell phone rang. Megan ignored it. She hated taking calls when she was driving, especially in heavy traffic made even worse by a steady rain. Whoever it was would call back. Or leave a message. Or—

      Or be as persistent as an ant at a picnic. The phone rang again. And again. The fourth time, she kept her eyes on the wet road and dug the phone from her purse.

      “This better be important,” she said, “because I am knee-deep in rain and traffic and—”

      “Megan?”

      “Yes?” she said cautiously. It was a male voice, familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.

      ‘‘Thank God,’’ the voice said, and sighed with relief. ‘‘It’s Frank.’’

      ‘‘Who?’’

      “Frank Fisher. From the office.”

      “Frank?” Her mind buzzed with questions. Why was he calling her? And why did he sound so…panicked?

      “Look, I hate to bother you, but—but, uh, I guess Mr. Simpson spoke to you about, uh, about things.”

      Mr. Simpson? Her eyes narrowed. “If you mean, did he tell me that you’re stealing my work and claiming it as your own, yes. He spoke to me about, uh, things.”

      “Hey. I didn’t steal anything. This wasn’t my idea, it was Mr. Simpson’s.”

      Oh, hell. Frank was right, it wasn’t his fault. It would have been nice if he’d spoken up and told the Worm he wouldn’t take credit for something that wasn’t his, but Frank was spineless. Everyone in the office knew it. Intelligent, but spineless. Simpson had chosen him wisely.

      “Forget it,” she said wearily.

      “I was hoping you’d say that.”

      A horn bleated behind her. She looked in the mirror, saw, through the water racing down the rear window, a small, low, obscenely expensive sports car. Typically L.A., and no doubt driven by a typically L.A. jerk who thought the car would make him look more important than he really was. She couldn’t see the driver, thanks to the rain, but she didn’t have to. She knew the type.

      “Yeah, well, it’s good of you to call, Frank. I mean, the apology doesn’t change anything, but—”

      “The apology?” Frank cleared his throat. “Uh, right, right. I’m glad you understand but actually—actually, I called to ask you something.”

      Megan frowned. “What?”

      “Well,” Frank said, and paused. “Well, see, I was reading through your—through my—through the proposal—”

      Megan felt the blood start to drum in her ears. “Get to it, Frank. What do you want?”

      “There are a couple of things here I don’t quite follow…”

      Frank began to babble. A couple of minutes later, it was clear there were lots of things he didn’t follow. Like, for instance, the entire purpose of her suggestions for the investments the sheikh was seeking.

      “He’s rich, right?”

      “Stinking rich,” Megan agreed.

      “And they’ve already got oil coming out of the faucets in Suminan, right?”

      “Suliyam. Yes, the oil’s pumping. But there’s more to be found, and there are minerals in the mountains…”

      And what was she doing, giving Frank a quick education based on her research? The man was an idiot. Why should she help him? Damn it, the jerk behind her was beeping his horn again.

      “What?” she snarled, shooting an angry look in the mirror. Did Mr. Impatient expect her to fly over the cars ahead of her?

      “I need answers, Megan. That’s what.”

      “I wasn’t talking to you, Frank.”

      “Yeah, but I need answers.” Frank’s voice cracked. “And soon. I’m meeting the sh—I’m meeting my client in less than an hour and, like I said, I just took a quick look at this proposal and—”

      “And you’re in over your head,” Megan said sweetly, and hit the disconnect button so forcefully she thought she might have broken it.

      The phone rang a second later. She ignored it. It rang again, and she grabbed the phone, shut it off and, for good measure, tossed it over her shoulder into the back seat.

      This was why Simpson hadn’t fired her.

      He needed her. All that crap about her staying in L.A. to assist Fisher was just that. Crap. She was going to stay here and force-feed everything to her replacement. Frank would get the scepter. She’d get the shaft.

      “Forget it,” she snapped.

      No way was she going to take that kind of treatment. What was with men, anyway? Three of them had tried to step on her today. Simpson. Fisher. And the sheikh.

      “Don’t forget the sheikh, Megan,” she said out loud, but how could she possibly forget a man so despicable?

      He’d kissed her. So what? It was a kiss. That was all, just a kiss. Okay, so he was good at it. Damned good, but why wouldn’t he be when he’d been with a zillion women? That was what he did. Made love to women, ordered his flunkies around, and sat on his butt the rest of the time, counting his money, figuring out ways to make it grow.

      What else would a rich, incredibly good-looking Prince of the Desert do with his life?

      To think that such a man believed he could buy her…

      The