I Married A Sheikh. Sharon Vita De

just annoyed her so with his arrogant, high-handed orders and demands. As if the world revolved around him.

      “Would it have changed your behavior if you had known?” Or your viperous tongue, he wondered.

      “Probably not,” she admitted honestly. “Unless you have the power to have someone beheaded.”

      He threw back his head and laughed, the sound rich as it rumbled around the room. “I’m afraid, Ms. Martin, that we no longer behead people.” He flashed her a brilliant smile. Faith felt as if the temperature in the office rose twenty degrees. “Too messy.”

      “Well, I’m grateful for small favors.”

      Cocking his head, he studied her. “And would it have mattered anyway?”

      “The beheading?”

      He shook his head, amused. “No, my bloodlines.”

      “Not unless you plan on running in the Kentucky Derby.” She shrugged. “Otherwise, your bloodlines don’t matter one whit to me.”

      He laughed again. It had been a very long time since anyone had dared to speak to him so freely. Not since his beloved grandmother. But this woman certainly did not remind him of his grandmother.

      On the contrary, she was young and vibrant, with a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue. And he found himself suddenly both irritated and amused by her.

      A woman who was not impressed by his title, his bloodlines or apparently his money. A novelty, for sure.

      “My title, it is, as you said, perhaps, of no real importance,” he admitted, “except to those who are impressed by such things.” He smiled and she realized anew just how incredibly attractive he was. “And you apparently are not one of those people.”

      She shrugged. “I couldn’t care less if you’re the King of Siam.”

      “Wrong country, wrong continent.” He pointed to a large, full-scale color map framed and anchored to one wall. “The land of my birth is Kuwait, Ms. Martin.”

      Faith glanced across the room to where he was pointing. The details of the map were so precise, so vivid, it actually looked hand-painted. Probably was, she decided. He probably had his minions paint the little trinket just to decorate his office. Why, she wondered, did the mere thought annoy her?

      Faith shifted her gaze back to his. Kuwait. So that explained the faint accent, the inlaid family crest on his desk, above the fireplace. It explained a lot of things about him.

      She’d been right; he was spoiled and rich and, on top of it, a royal. Terrific.

      “You are frowning again, Ms. Martin. Have I said something to annoy you?” Apparently, he’d been saying and doing a lot that annoyed her.

      “You can call me Faith,” she said absently. If the man had royal blood, she supposed he could use her first name. “So what is a man of royal blood from Kuwait doing in California?”

      “What all normal men do, I suppose. Conducting business.” He cast another scathing look at the computer on his desk. “Or trying to.” He didn’t know why it was important to explain, but for some reason he did. “Many years ago my father and his partner, Joe Colton, who happens to live in Prosperino, California, went into business together. It was the perfect merger of two like-minded men, two countries and cultures.”

      “I’ve heard of the Coltons,” she said with a quiet nod.

      The Coltons were California’s version of royalty—well-connected, well-respected, and with a sterling reputation in the business, political and social community.

      She’d always admired the vast family from afar, eagerly reading about them in the paper, envying them for their closeness, their love, their incredible devotion to one another. The Coltons were, in her mind, what the definition of what a true family was, the kind she’d never had.

      But her affection for the Coltons went far deeper than what she’d read in the society pages. The Coltons were a philanthropic family, giving to a great deal of needy causes. They had, in fact, funded the Hopechest Ranch, where she’d spent some of her teen years. Without the ranch, she would have probably ended up on the streets, just another lost kid.

      She owed a lot to the Hopechest Ranch and, ultimately, the Coltons for making such a place possible for children who either had nowhere to go or had no one who wanted them.

      She’d been just such a child. But she wasn’t about to tell this man any such thing. Someone like Ali El-Etra would never understand what it was like to be alone in the world, never knowing where your next meal was coming from, never knowing if you’d have a roof over your head.

      He had minions who did nothing but hand-paint maps for him. Obviously he’d never understand where she came from.

      Ali continued. “My father is a descendant of the Kuwaiti royal family, and our family is the largest land-holder in our country, land that is rich with oil. Oil my country was not even aware of so many years ago, nor did they have any experience extracting that oil from the land. Joe Colton, on the other hand, had equipment, experience and an oil-rigging company.” Ali shrugged, not mentioning how close the El-Etras and the Coltons had become over the years. They’d been like a surrogate family to him, particularly during the years of unrest in his country, when his father, fearing for his safety, had sent him to America, to the Coltons, to live.

      It was a painful time for Ali, a time when he’d been separated from his family, and when he’d lost his beloved Jalila.

      Ali shook away the memories, preferring not to think of them. They were still far too painful.

      “Together, Joe Colton and my father became not just partners and very close friends, but very, very successful men.” He shrugged, his massive shoulders moving beneath the custom-tailored suit. “It has worked out quite well for all concerned.”

      Faith glanced around at the room. “Apparently,” she said with a nod and a smile. Her initial assessment of him had been accurate. He was an impossibly spoiled man who had no idea what it meant to work. A man who’d been handed everything in life. A man she could never relate to or understand.

      She was proud of all that she’d worked for and accomplished on her own, without any help from anyone.

      But then again there’d never been anyone to help her, she thought. She had no choice but to do everything on her own.

      She shifted her gaze back to him. “So it’s daddy’s money you’re pledging to cover your investors.” She nodded thoughtfully, trying not to feel envious. “Now I understand.” Cocking her head, she met his gaze. “I imagine it’s easy playing at being successful when someone else is footing the bills.”

      “My father’s money?” The words boomed out of his mouth. His face darkened, and an unrecognizable emotion swept through his eyes as he shot to his feet like a cannon.

      “On the contrary, Ms. Martin. It is my money,” he corrected firmly, coming around the desk to stand in front of her. He was so close she caught a hint of his aftershave. It was something discreet, masculine, and absolutely intoxicating.

      At a distance, he was impressive; standing so close, his presence was nearly overwhelming. She could see the tiny pinpoints of annoyance glinting from his dark eyes, eyes that were nearly hypnotizing. She could see the way his mouth tightened, thinned.

      “Ms. Martin, I came to America and started El-Etra Investments on my own nearly ten years ago, without any assistance from my father or my family, financial or otherwise.” Feeling defensive, Ali glanced around the spacious room. “The only assistance my father has provided to me has been advice and counsel, something I value tremendously since he is not only successful, but a man of quality and integrity.”

      He paused to level her with a gaze that almost had her quaking in her shoes. “My father was one of my very first clients, but make no mistake, Ms. Martin, my father is not a fool. He would never have entrusted or