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1
The cocktail party was going to be the death of him.
One more moment of idle small talk swirling around him, and Rami, brother of the Sheikh of Al-Dashalid and himself the supreme hater of the boring hours in the middle of cocktail parties, might be forced to put down the glass of tonic half-finished and walk outside into the night. Walk all the way back to Al-Dashalid, if that’s what he had to do.
He followed the conversation happening in front of him, waiting for something—anything—to capture his interest. But the chatter between Lydia Morris, whom he was trying to charm, and a man named Roland Fields, who wore a ten-gallon hat with his suit, centered on some interpersonal drama involving a fence and a field.
Lydia laughed, tossing back her head. Her coppery hair, swept back in an elegant chignon, gleamed in the soft yellow light of her own personal ballroom. It was lovely, for sure—the decor was understated, which let the centerpieces on the tables stand out. They were riots of yellow sunflowers and red gerbera daisies in surprisingly chic white vases, and they drew Rami’s eye again and again.
Was he looking at them too frequently? Lydia wasn’t going to be charmed at the discovery that his attention was more drawn to the flowers. Those red daisies had reminded him of the jaunty red tie his partner for a science class project had worn once. He’d been sick at the idea of having to give the final presentation, so he made a deal with her—she’d do all the talking. He’d do all the work. Her tie had been that same shade—the private school’s color—and neither it nor she had shown up on the big day. He’d blown it, utterly and completely, his sentences stilted and strange. A sea of blank stares had met him at the front of the room, smirks tugging at his classmates’ lips.
Well, he wasn’t going to ruin this, as much as the extended story about some kind of livestock bored him.
Lydia turned and put her hand on his elbow. She was in her late forties, trim and polished, and she ran her company with a deft hand. That was why he was at the party in the first place. Rami wanted Morris International to distribute the oil produced in Al-Dashalid in the United States, and Lydia’s company had the best terms and connections bar none.
“Rami, are you hearing this? Care to weigh in on the dispute?”
He replayed the conversation in his mind. A broken fence. A runaway steer. A trampled lawn. He cleared his throat, flashing a confident smile to the little group. “At one of our nature preserves in Al-Dashalid, the fences are reinforced with steel wire. We’ve never had a break yet. The only things that come and go are the birds.”
There was an awkward pause. Lydia cocked her head to the side. Rami’s heart beat faster.
And then, just like she had earlier, she threw back her head and laughed. “The birds!” she cried, drawing Roland back in despite his hesitation. Rami allowed himself to relax while they let the laugher wind down.
It was all ridiculous, he thought as he withdrew to the outer edge of the conversation. This was a business deal, and though Lydia expected to be courted—to be charmed, to become friends—wasn’t this a bit too much…extra emotion? It was about oil distribution, not a marriage proposal.
He needed a way out. Some excuse he could make. He caught Lydia’s eye the next time she turned to him and murmured something vague about needing to make a phone call. “Of course, of course,” she said. “We’ll connect later.”
He did not make any promises on that front.
Rami only turned on his heel and made for the nearest exit. Only—where was the nearest exit? It only took a moment to find it. His great height gave him an immediate advantage. There—the far wall.
He was only too excited to get out of here and into the fresh air. He took one long stride toward the door, through the crowd, and—
“Oh!”
A cocktail glass crashed to the floor, and Rami looked down to find out what exactly he’d collided with. Who.
“My apologies,” he said quickly, still anxious to get to the door.
And then she looked
up at him.
She was short and took one step back at the sight of him, giving him a full view of the black dress that hugged the lithe lines of her body. The neckline brushed against the swell of her perky breasts. But it wasn’t her body that captivated him.
It was her eyes.
This woman—whom he’d just run over at Lydia’s cocktail party—had the most beautiful blue eyes he’d ever seen. And he’d seen the waters of Bali.
* * *
Catelyn had not planned on being trampled by a prince.
That’s what he was, really, the sheikh who’d just run into her as if the party was a trap he was anxious to escape. She’d seen him coming. How could she not? He was so tall. Above six feet for sure. Maybe even above six foot five. And she’d been staring, to be truthful. She’d been staring at the elegant lines of his face, the darkly determined eyes, and that long, lean body. He was perfect for his tuxedo. Everyone had been talking about him, but Catelyn hadn’t been interested until he’d entered her line of sight a moment ago.
She’d been on her way to Lydia’s clutch of friends to say her goodbyes so she could get out of this party. She only wanted to spend so much of her weekend at home at this kind of event, mingling with businesspeople who were already…settled. They were more interested in talking about dividends than start-ups, which is what Catelyn had spent a year setting up.
It was also why she’d been avoiding Lydia.
Lydia, her former mentor, had taught her everything she knew about business. So, naturally, she’d expected Catelyn to join her company—not start her own wedding-planning business in New Jersey. She’d spent lunch today trying to convince Catelyn to take a junior executive position at Morris International, and Catelyn had spent lunch with a smile plastered on her face.
Now—too bad!—the handsome sheikh had run right into her. No way she could continue on to Lydia now. Not with her cocktail glass on the floor and his utterly entrancing dark eyes searching hers.
“Hi,” said Catelyn. She gave him a little wave. “You must not have seen me.”
“I’m so sorry about that.” A little grin curved one side of his mouth. “I was making my escape.”
Catelyn put on a confused expression. “Why? Party isn’t exciting enough for you?”
“It’s exciting enough now.”
She couldn’t help herself—she groaned aloud. “Don’t tell me that makes you want to stay.”
“You mean to tell me—” The sheikh looked around, as if about to reveal confidential information. “—that you were also getting out of this…” He cleared his throat. “Scintillating event?”
“I was trying to,” admitted Catelyn. “Only now—”
“Catelyn, who’s this fine gentleman?” She stifled another groan at the sound of her mother’s voice, her Texas accent settling over her like a cold blanket. There would be no escape now. “You must introduce us.”
“Sheikh Rami of Al-Dashalid,” the prince said smoothly, extending a hand for Catelyn’s mother to shake.
“Al-Dashalid,” Anna crooned, cutting a glance at Catelyn. “My daughter—Catelyn—will be there in a matter of weeks. She’s taking an international cruise. Shake hands, the two of you.”
