LITMIR.BIZ

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is called Layla.”

      Layla. A soft, feminine name. It suited her. The lushness of her body, the beauty of her face…but it was a direct contradiction to the fire of her temperament.

      “Khalil?”

      Khalil cleared his throat. “Sorry. I was… What about her?”

      “She is to be married.”

      “So her people told me.”

      “It is an important union. Her father is Sheikh Omar al Assad.”

      “Are you certain? Her people said—”

      “I am quite certain, Khalil. And her betrothed is Butrus al Ali.”

      Khalil blinked in surprise. “The renegade?”

      “Not after this marriage takes place. Butrus will swear his allegiance to me, as will Omar, for brokering the union. An old and dangerous rift will be healed and our people in the north will finally have peace.”

      Khalil nodded. A marriage would take place for reasons of state. It was an old custom, not just here but in many parts of the world, and though he knew Westerners would scoff if he said such arrangements still took place among them, too, it was true; the sons and daughters of wealthy, powerful families often married to secure alliances and create dynasties.

      But the woman on the beach, the bride of Butrus? He had met the man years ago. Could he recall what he looked like?

      His jaw tightened. Yes, he damned well could.

      Overweight. Hell, that was too polite a term. Butrus al Ali was grossly obese. He had long, greasy hair; there’d been caked black dirt under his fingernails and a stench to his breath that made it impossible to stand close.

      The woman on the beach—Layla—was to take such a pig as her bridegroom?

      “Khalil?”

      “Yes, Father.”

      “Have you been listening to me?”

      “I’ve been trying to remember the renegade. What I’ve come up with is not pleasant. The woman. Layla. Is she aware of his, ah, his shortcomings?”

      The sultan cocked his head. “Should she be?” he said, with genuine surprise.

      The obvious answer was no. This was Al Ankhara, not the United States. It was part of an alliance known as The Nations. All countries in The Nations were rich beyond measure; each sported skyscrapers in their cities, but also in each a traditional way of life existed side by side with the new.

      “As you said, I met her last night. She is young and attractive.”

      “I would say she is beautiful, Khalil, not simply attractive.”

      “You’ve seen her, then?”

      “Of course. I met with her and her party yesterday. Briefly, just long enough to be sure her father had not lied. There will be an exchange of money in this marriage but Butrus made it clear he would only accept a bride who met a standard of beauty. Fortunately, the woman does.”

      “Why is she traveling with such a small party? And why haven’t you granted her the palace’s full hospitality?”

      “I deemed it safer that no one know of the marriage plans for as long as possible. You surely are aware there are those who would wish to prevent it from taking place.”

      He did, of course. Butrus’s enemies. Omar’s enemies. Even his father’s enemies.

      What of Layla? Would she wish to prevent it? Was that the reason she’d walked into the sea last night? Had she been trying to kill herself or, impossible as it seemed, swim to freedom?

      “And the woman?” he said carefully. “You didn’t answer my question. Does she know anything about her bridegroom?”

      The sultan shrugged. “She knows he is rich. Beyond that, I have no idea. As we both know, it doesn’t matter. Whom she marries is Omar’s decision.”

      “Yes, but—”

      “There is no ‘but’,” the sultan said sharply. “This is not the West, my son, it is Al Ankhara and she is of our people. She has been raised to respect her father’s wishes.” He paused. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a thread of warning. “As have you.”

      “Why don’t you tell me why you called me home, Father?”

      “I have a task for you. A vital one.”

      Icy fingers seemed to brush down Khalil’s spine. “And that task is?”

      “You asked why the woman, Layla, travels with such a small party. I told you it was for her safety.”

      “You mean,” Khalil said carefully, “it was for the safety of the planned alliance.”

      The sultan shrugged. “It is the same thing.”

      It was, by the standards of an earlier century but not, perhaps, by the standards of this one—or by the standards of a beautiful woman who was about to be given in marriage to a man who would surely make her skin crawl.

      A man who would put his filthy hands on her soft breasts, whose diseased mouth would cover hers, whose grotesque body would possess hers night after night.

      Khalil got to his feet. None of that mattered. The marriage, the marriage bed, had nothing to do with him. All the points his father had made were valid.

      “And?” he prompted.

      The sultan sighed and rose, too.

      “And, I’m afraid the wedding is no longer a secret. Rumors of it are everywhere. Anything could happen, but nothing must. The woman must be delivered to Butrus as planned.”

      “You fear a raiding party. An abduction.”

      “Or worse.”

      More images raced through Khalil’s head, scenes of brutality and carnage. Of Layla, pleading for her honor and for her life.

      But she would not beg.

      She would fight to her last breath, as she had fought him last night. Last night when she had twisted in his arms, when he had felt her body hot against his….

      “These things must not happen. Surely, you see that, Khalil.”

      Khalil took a steadying breath. “Did you call me home to advise you? I’m sure your ministers have already done that.”

      “Have they?”

      “Certainly. An alternate plan is simple to devise. All you need do is increase the size of the traveling party. Fifty men. One hundred. In dress uniform, of course, with lances, and riding the finest horses to honor tradition, but all of them armed with modern weapons to make it clear that they are unstoppable. What? Why are you shaking your head?”

      “No horses,” the sultan said impatiently. “No medieval nonsense. Why would we do that?”

      Khalil barked a derisive laugh. “Because this is medieval nonsense,” he said harshly. “We both know that.”

      “There is a much simpler and more effective way of guaranteeing royal protection to the woman, Khalil, one that no man will dare ignore.”

      “And that is?”

      The sultan put his hand on Khalil’s shoulder. “You are my son, heir to the Throne of the Lion and the Sword. You are the crown prince, the sheikh of Al Ankhara, protector of all its people.”

      The icy fingers swept over Khalil’s spine again.

      “Father—”

      “You shall escort the woman to meet her groom.”

      Khalil jerked back. “No.”

      “Your plane will fly you and her to the city of Kasmir.

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