“As these proceedings cannot begin without me, I’d say it’s impossible for me to be late.”
A tiny flicker moved at the corner of his lips. Definitely not a smile, but a reflection of emotion. “These proceedings were supposed to begin thirty minutes ago.”
Her eyes narrowed. He must be well regarded by Khalid to feel free to speak so impertinently to her. “Then perhaps we shouldn’t delay any longer,” she remarked, angling her body away from him in a silent gesture of dismissal.
As if such a man could be dismissed! She could feel him right behind her, as though his proximity was actually a touch. Her skin felt warm all over.
She walked slowly towards the front of the room, willingly ignoring the unwelcome fog of awareness that was throbbing through her.
In contrast to her brother, Sally was naturally petite. Short, slender and dainty. At Abigail’s suggestion, her parents had brought a former prima ballerina from Moscow to teach her the beautiful style of dance. Even as a child, she had excelled, and that grace of movement translated into every step she took.
Sheikh Khalid was standing perfectly still and watchful.
Yes, it must surely have been a test, to expose her to someone as rude and intimidating as the henchman had been.
“Emira,” Khalid spoke, bowing his head towards her. His tone was pleasingly friendly, his voice deep but clear. The name sounded odd, but she remembered that Abigail had prepared her for this, too. Despite the fact they were not yet married, she was regarded as Emira simply by the fact she was engaged to the ruling Sheikh.
Her smile was as natural as it could be in the circumstances, and she issued it with no idea how it changed her appearance completely. She returned his greeting with a tilt of her head.
“My cousin Kaman,” The sheikh said, waving a hand towards the man-beast.
She didn’t dare look his way again. “I apologise for my lateness. There was a delay at the airport.”
“A delay?” The cousin, Kaman. She couldn’t tell if the deep throb of his voice was disapproval or disbelief, but its effect on her was the same regardless. Nerve-endings jangled and heat began to pulse through her.
She didn’t look at him. How could she? “A problem with customs.”
The sheikh’s eyes locked with Kaman’s, over her head.
“Did you know about this?” Kaman asked and arrows darted down her spine.
“I was not informed,” Khalid responded with a thoughtful nod.
“It doesn’t matter,” Sally said. Though it had worried her at the time; the possibility that the objections to her marriage were far more widespread than she’d appreciated. “The issue was sorted out efficiently enough.”
“I will need to know more about this incident,” Kaman pressed, moving his large frame to her side, so that she had no choice but to look at him.
“Do you think it could wait until I have properly been introduced to the man I am to marry?” Her query was loaded with a hint of simpering impetuousness.
Kaman’s eyes were at war with hers. The challenge in them was unmistakable.
“My cousin Kaman has been appointed as my intermediary,” Khalid spoke with a light deference. The bond between the two men was obvious. So too was the trust Khalid felt for the larger relative.
Anxiety flooded her system. “Your intermediary?” What the hell did that mean?
Khalid nodded. “Given the unusual nature of our betrothal, Kaman will conduct an initial vetting process.”
“A vetting process?” She let the words sink into her exhausted, emotional brain. A vetting process? She looked from the Sheikh to his virile, masculine cousin, careful to keep the fear from her face.
Was this possibly another test?
“Tashana had undergone a lengthy process to ensure her … suitability … for this marriage,” Kaman’s voice was slow and rich. “With the wedding to take place in a matter of weeks, this process will not be possible to re-enact.”
Sally’s heart was pounding against her rib cage. She had arrived in Tari’ell prepared to do her duty and marry the Sheikh. The very idea of having to jump through hoops to bring about the union was like adding flame to a gas can.
Though it was obviously a directive from the Sheikh, she found it far more palatable to direct her insulted rage at the hulk of a man delivering her with this information. “Perhaps you misunderstood, sir,” she ground out from between gritted teeth. “My name is Saaliyah Ibarra. I am a descendant of the ancient desert Kings. Their blood runs through my veins. Beyond this, what vetting do you require?”
The Sheikh’s laugh was unexpected, but he silenced himself quickly enough. He angled an almost apologetic look at his cousin. “Think of it as an orientation to the palace,” he said with a kindly softness. “It is in both of our interests to ensure we are compatible.”