The Sheikh's Wayward Wife. Sandra Marton

looked cold and dangerous. And he’d kissed her as if he owned her.

      But Butrus would own her, unless a miracle happened.

      “Answer,” he growled, “or I’ll step away from the door and let the pig outside handle things.”

      She licked her lips. Khalil felt his gut tighten. Even now—furious at himself for the moment of weakness when he’d kissed her, the door shuddering under the strength of a knife-wielding brute—even now, damn it, he couldn’t keep from watching that simple motion as if his life depended on it.

      “Last chance, sweetheart,” he said, and that easy use of the American word did it. After all, Layla thought, what more did she have to lose?

      “My name is Layla Addison. Omar was my father.”

      “Lord Khalil!” The door shuddered again. “Open this door or I will call for the guard!”

      “Was your father?”

      “Is my father, but he didn’t raise me. My mother is American. Twenty-three years ago she was here, in Al Ankhara, and he…he stole her. She escaped. I was born in the States, raised there…please, please, I beg you, get me out of this terrible place!”

      It was an unbelievable story, but then, everything that was happening was unbelievable. Back in New York, Khalil could have verified it within a day. He’d have contacted his attorney, hired a private investigator, gone to see Layla’s supposed American mother.

      Here all he could do was believe her, or see her as a liar.

      Another bang against the door. Another shouted warning from the man on the other side of it.

      “If this is true,” Khalil hissed, “what are you doing in Al Ankhara?”

      “It’s a long story,” she said, with a wild-eyed glance at the door.

      And no time to tell it, Khalil thought grimly.

      “Lord Khalil! If you do not open this door…”

      Khalil stepped back. The door swung open; the thug all but fell into the room. His beady eyes went from Khalil to Layla, then back again to Khalil.

      “What is happening here?

      “Do you dare question me?” Khalil said coldly.

      The man hesitated. “I only meant—

      “I am taking the woman to the council. You will remain here.”

      Khalil grasped Layla’s arm and hurried her away. She stumbled as she tried to keep pace.

      “Where are we going?”

      “To meet with my father’s ministers.”

      “What for?”

      “To save my father from making a terrible mistake.”

      “I don’t give a damn about your father! What about me?”

      “You are the mistake. Can’t you move any faster?”

      “What are you going to do?”

      “I’m going to get you your freedom.”

      “How?”

      “Just do as you’re told.”

      “But—”

      “Is it beyond you to obey a simple command? Be quiet. Say nothing. Do nothing. I have a plan.”

      Well, he did—except, it hadn’t involved kissing the woman. No matter. The incident changed nothing. The kiss had been a matter of expediency, that was all. And yes, perhaps she had responded. So what?

      She was beautiful. He didn’t believe in sorcery but he did believe in a woman’s ability to use her feminine wiles. And he was a man, with a man’s hunger. Add a touch of mystery, of danger, and it took little to start a fire.

      But the conflagration had been momentary.

      Sex was exciting, a function of the body and the senses, but the emotions sex roused were controllable. A man was a man. A woman was a woman. Biology, even passion… but not uncontrollable emotion.

      He had kissed the woman, but it wouldn’t happen again. That wasn’t the problem. Getting her out of here was the problem.

      But he had a plan for that, and it was a plan that would work.

      At least, he hoped it would.

      He paused in the great entry hall of the palace only long enough to place one final, confirming cell phone call.

      Then he hurried Layla to the council chamber. The ministers and his father were waiting for him. They rose when he entered, looking as shocked to see Layla walking demurely behind him as if he’d entered the room accompanied by a lioness.