LITMIR.BIZ

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had always been a progressive nation. Even Zayn agreed there was a place and reason for gender equality and the feminist movement.

      Just not in his life. Or in his bed. He had no doubt that he, in particular, would be deemed a male chauvinist or an antifeminist devil for there was no room for another strong personality in his life, let it be a lover or a wife.

      He liked and preferred women who understood and accepted that he was the dominant one in bed, that he would take care of all their needs as long as they trusted him. As long as they were equally wild as he was.

      Every aspect of his life had been controlled, first by his father and then by himself, and would continue to be until he was dead. But his private life, his sex life—it was where the wildness in him ran free.

      With the little time he had, contrary to the Celebrity Spy! lurid exposé about his alleged orgies and depraved tastes, he needed his sex life to be easy and simple, not an ongoing battle of sexes.

      So Amalia Christensen—with her long, wavy, dirty-blond hair tightly pulled back in a ponytail that brought her exquisite features into stunning focus, her pillowy, lush mouth that argued that she wasn’t flustered when she so obviously was and her hot little body hidden in her buttoned pencil skirt and long-sleeved top—was not the kind of woman Zayn would engage with sexually.

      If she was the innocent type who couldn’t even own her sexuality, he didn’t have the time or patience to teach her. If that innocence was a cunning act to attract his attention, he didn’t want to play that game.

      Neither was her vehemence that her father’s heritage had no part in her life something he liked. Clearly, she had been raised to disrespect authority figures, encouraged in her rejection of an important part of her identity. He would bet her mother, who had given her those light brown eyes and the stunning golden-blond hair, was the author of that disillusionment, too.

      So Ms. Christensen was not fit to be his wife in any form or way.

      Was this Ms. Young’s rebellion because he had ruffled her sensibilities with his requirements in a wife? She couldn’t have believed Zayn would choose this contradiction of a woman to be his sheikha in a hundred years.

      But after a morning of meeting eligible candidates—all lovely virginal women with connections in high places and with a full understanding of what it meant to be the future Sheikha Al-Ghamdi, docile and respectful of his country’s norms and traditions, and even more important, thoroughly and admittedly bowled over by what he represented—this woman was a maddening, arousing novelty. His response to her and her rough, almost insulting manner was both curious and irrational.

      Because staring into those long-lashed, honey-colored eyes, he couldn’t help wishing he’d met her a few months ago. Even a month ago, before the episode of Celebrity Spy! and ruffled sensibilities of his countrymen.

      She was nothing like the women he slept with but she completely intrigued him—a novelty—and that would have made the chase and the final victory that much more exciting.

      For a minute he wondered if he could give her a position in the palace and keep her close. Until he was married and Mirah was happily married and the dust settled around his image. Until he was free to pursue her... No. Even for a man who considered marriage nothing but an advantageous step in his preordered life, the idea was utterly distasteful.

      He had long been resigned to the idea that, like his father, after a few years of marriage, he would find sexual satisfaction with other women. But beginning his marriage with a mistress in mind was repugnant.

      He should be sending her on her way. He should think back to the women he had met this morning, make a decision and get it over with. Move on to the next task in his unending list of state duties.

      “Have I insulted you by that statement, Amalia?” he said instead, using her given name on purpose.

      Just as he expected, her mouth tightened. Her shoulders went back into a ramrod line, which thrust her breasts out provocatively. He had a feeling she’d never do that if she knew how alluring that gesture looked.

      “I’m wondering why you’re not sending me on my way if I’m such a bad candidate, Your Highness. I’m also wondering how to make the best of this situation. It seems my options are lose-lose.”

      Something in her eyes, a conflict, a hesitation, made him think she wasn’t just sparring with him anymore. She was upset by the sure outcome of this meeting and she was mustering defenses.

      Had she been so sure that she would impress him? Would this alliance mean so much to her?

      Or had she conspired with Ms. Young to lure him into an alliance of a different nature? Why not? Women tried to attract his attention in every which way. He was known to be a kind and generous lover. If there was a connection he could use in high places, or a recommendation he could make to advance the current woman in his life’s career in some way, he’d always been open to it.

      Was this Amalia’s game? Had she somehow inveigled this invite so that she could present herself as a candidate, but for something altogether different?

      Doubts ensnared him.

      He didn’t forget that even though she’d lost her footing, she’d recovered her composure very well. She had been the most interesting woman he had met today among all the candidates. The most interesting woman he had met in a while, if truth be told. But was that interest being cultivated and engineered with a purpose in mind?

      “In your life, are there any skeletons I should know of?”

      Instantly, her gaze shuttered; a paleness touched her skin. Guilt was a shining emblem on her forehead. He’d been right. The woman was here under false pretenses and convoluted motives.

      Send her away, one voice inside his head said.

      Play her at her own game, another said.

      “You’re hiding something. Or are you counting your lovers in your head?” something savage and out of control goaded him to ask.

      Outrage filled her eyes. “That’s none of your business. Unless you’re offering to do the same count for my benefit. Will you reveal what you ask of me? Should I pull out the Celebrity Spy! exposé and tally your number against theirs to verify the veracity of your claim, Sheikh?”

      Utter scorn, for him as a man and for his position, reverberated in her defiant question.

      Instead of being infuriated, Zayn smiled. He deserved that after his probing remark. Still, he found himself unwilling to give up this sparring match with her. With every back and forth, he knew he was indulging himself in something that was fundamentally against his principles. Against the little personal respect he had put aside for his wife’s position.

      But the compulsion was fierce, the urge too primal to be denied. There was something about her that called to things he’d never before experienced. “It is my business if we are going to consider this, Amalia. And I will not apologize for having lovers in the past.”

      He hadn’t decided on a candidate yet. Technically, he was still a single man. Even if that line was very thin right now. He ran the tip of his finger over her cheek. Her skin was gossamer silk under his hands. “Every past and present aspect of your life is going to be considered fair game. There has been enough scandal in my life and I do not want to deal with jealous ex-lovers.”

      She didn’t push his hand away. A fine tension began to vibrate from her. “That’s a double standard, and you know it.”

      Why didn’t the infuriating woman just tell him about her past? What was this curiosity that drove him to learn about a woman he could have nothing to do with? “The world is full of them.”

      Chin tilted at a defiant angle, she stared back at him. “So let me get this straight. If I have my hymen intact, it will give me a few more points on this list of yours?”

      The fire in her eyes, the soft tremble of her lips...it made Zayn think of sultry nights and damp, tangled limbs.

      “I

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