Chosen As The Sheikh's Royal Bride. Jennie Lucas

      So he needed to seriously consider the other eight. Any one of them could be an appropriate queen, one the council would approve of, and if he were lucky, one he could admire and respect. So, for the rest of the afternoon and evening, he’d meet with each woman privately, for as long or short a time as he deemed appropriate.

      But the plans for today had been that he’d get to know his ten potential brides by touring the sights of Paris with each of them separately. That would be more difficult with paparazzi outside the gate, holding up their cameras as reporters yelled obnoxious questions. Anywhere they tried to go, the paparazzi would follow.

      But at least it would not last long. Tomorrow morning, he’d send five more women home. The remaining five, the true contenders, would return with him to Samarqara to meet the council in preparation for the main event: the bride market itself.

      Now, standing beside the banquet table, Omar watched as the ten women entered the grand salon of his Paris mansion.

      Nine women looked like carbon copies, though all in different shades and colors—classically beautiful, slender, elegant, tall and perfectly dressed in sleek designer outfits.

      Then there was the last one, shorter than the rest, and rounder. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright, her light brown hair wavy and wild. Against his will, his eyes traced over her. Her curves were invisible beneath the baggy hoodie and jeans. But his body stirred, becoming instantly hard.

      Why her?

      Omar couldn’t answer the question, even to himself.

      As the women entered the grand salon one by one, he stood near the end of the banquet table in his full sheikh’s robes, making eye contact with each one, giving each a welcoming nod, as he did during any other diplomatic endeavor. The women each smiled, or preened, or nodded back coolly, in their turn.

      And in spite of his best efforts to be open-minded, he found himself unimpressed, in spite of all their obvious charms. He was bored by them, beauty, success and all.

      Except for the woman who came in last, looking pink-cheeked and miserable, hanging in the back of the salon. The one who wouldn’t meet his eyes.

      Dr. Edith Farraday. And again he felt it, along with his powerful attraction—that mystery he couldn’t solve. As Khalid had pointed out, Omar had already made it clear by his attentions that she was his favorite. So why did she hang back, behind the rest? Why did her hazel eyes look haunted and guilty, as if she’d committed some crime?

      He didn’t like ambiguity. He wanted her mystery solved. Now. Tonight.

      And in a perfect world, he would have solved the mystery with them both naked in bed.

      “Welcome,” his vizier said formally, spreading his arms wide in his robes. “I will be presenting each of you in turn to His Highness, the King of Samarqara. Please—” he indicated the tables full of drinks and lavish food “—until your name is called, please feel free to mingle and relax.”

      Omar sat down at the chair at the end of the table. Standing beside him, Khalid motioned to the first woman.

      “Miss Sia Lane.”

      The beautiful blonde came forward and gave a slightly ironic nod, then at his motioned invitation, sat down in the chair beside him. His vizier said gravely, “Sire, Miss Lane is a very well-known actress from Los Angeles, California.”

      “Pleased to meet you, Your Highness,” she said.

      “And you, Miss Lane.” It wasn’t surprising that his vizier had chosen her to make the cut. She was the world’s most famous beauty, and her chilly glamour reminded him of many of his past mistresses. On paper, Sia Lane would make an excellent bride, a prestigious new member to join any royal family, as when Grace Kelly had become Princess of Monaco or Meghan Markle became Duchess of Sussex.

      But when Omar reached out to shake Sia Lane’s hand, her skin felt cold and dry. He felt nothing, in spite of her beauty. He dropped her hand.

      “Welcome,” he said gravely. “Thank you for coming to meet me.”

      “My pleasure,” the blonde murmured, fluttering her eyelashes at him, arrogantly sure of her own appeal. He recalled Dr. Farraday’s tart assessment: She’s the kind of person who would kick a dog, unless, of course, she believed the dog might be helpful to her career.

      Taking his wry smile for praise, the movie star tilted her chin in a practiced move he’d seen in her films. They spoke briefly, then he dismissed her with a polite nod. She seemed almost surprised, as if she’d expected to be proclaimed his queen, here and now.

      Khalid called the next woman forward. “Dr. Bere Akinwande.”

      “Your Highness,” she said politely, with a short bow. Speaking with her as she sat beside him, he thought Dr. Edith Farraday’s character assessment was correct once again. She seemed an excellent choice to be his queen—a doctor, she spoke six languages, and had been nominated for a Nobel prize. She spoke earnestly of the work she was doing, the difference it could make in the world, and thanked him twice for the “donation” he’d given her. She did not try to flirt. She’d clearly come for the money, but then—he thought again of Dr. Farraday’s important research—could he blame her for that?

      Dr. Bere Akinwande was accomplished, intelligent and pretty, but when he shook her hand, again, he felt nothing.

      “Laila al-Abayyi,” his vizier intoned, his voice solemn.

      Omar repressed his feelings as he was formally introduced to the young Samarqari heiress. Looking in her lovely face, he saw the same black eyes, the same dark beauty, the same masses of long, shiny dark hair that he remembered seeing in her half sister Ferida, fifteen years ago. Ferida, whom he’d arrogantly demanded as his bride, before it had all ended in death and sand—

      Dropping her hand, he said shortly, “Goodbye.”

      “Goodbye?” Laila said, looking bewildered at being cut off when she’d been in the middle of shyly praising the improvements of his rule.

      “You may return to your room. I will not meet with you later.”

      “You—you won’t?”

      “I thank you for your intercessions with your father. But any further contact between us would be unwelcome.”

      Laila turned pale. “Oh. I—I see...” With a hurt glance toward the vizier, the brunette fled the salon.

      “Sire,” his vizier said in a low voice for his ears alone, “that was unconscionable—”

      “She should not be here.” Omar’s jaw was hard as stone as he turned on him. “Do you understand? I will not marry her. Ever.”

      His vizier’s eyes narrowed, then he gave an unsteady nod. Turning, he called the next potential bride’s name.

      Omar was glad of the chance to calm the rapid, sickening beat of his heart, as he offered the same polite courtesy to the next woman, then the next, expressing gratitude for their visit to Paris. They always thanked him in return, smiling, their eyes lingering appreciatively over his face and body. So far, so good.

      But after that, he started to feel like a bank manager, not a king. The entrepreneur from Germany, tossing her hair, explained in detail that she was seeking investors for her tech start-up. The gymnast from Brazil, smiling flirtatiously, told him of her desire to build an expensive new training facility in São Paulo. The senator from California, her gaze falling to his mouth, wished to discuss favorable trade negotiations for her state’s dairy farmers. And so on.

      Many of the women had clearly come to Paris to pursue their career goals, as Dr. Farraday had. Only a few of them seemed blindly ready to toss their important careers away for a Cinderella fantasy that had little to do with the rigors of actual leadership.

      He wasn’t sure which was worse.

      But he was always aware of the one woman in the background, standing by the wall,