Читать книгу Desert Justice - Valerie Parv - Страница 11

Markaz kept her at his side as they made their way back to the waiting fleet of cars. If the situation hadn’t been so nerve-racking, she would have enjoyed the ripples her appearance with the sheikh caused among the onlookers.

There were advantages to being under royal protection, she decided. Not only did she feel less vulnerable having Markaz’s guards around her, she felt like a celebrity. Unlike back home, there’d be no tabloid headlines speculating about the sheikh’s mystery woman tomorrow. Nazaar might be edging toward democracy, but the media still treated the royal family with deference.

She had expected to ride in one of the following cars with members of the sheikh’s entourage, but Markaz indicated she was to ride with him in the vehicle flying the royal standard. As they approached, a driver opened the door for them and Markaz gestured for her to get in. She hesitated. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Are you worried about your image or mine?” he asked dryly. Before she could answer, he added, “It’s a little late to trouble yourself about either one. The gossip mills will already be working overtime.”

So Nazaar had its version of the tabloids, she thought. Remembering the whispers following her when she’d been the only child with refugee parents in her class at school, she kept her head high. What people chose to say about her was their business. She knew why she was with Markaz, and if being with him kept her safe and got her closer to her goal of finding Yusef, she could handle the gossip. It wasn’t as if he really had a romantic interest in her.

All the same she was aware of how close together they were once the driver closed the car door. There was room enough for her to stretch her legs out, but Markaz seemed to shrink the space alarmingly. While they were standing, Simone hadn’t noticed a big difference in their heights, but in the car he seemed so broad and solid that she automatically tucked herself into a corner to give him more space.

Fayed squeezed into the front seat beside the driver, and pressed a button, closing a tinted glass screen to give the passengers privacy. In the enclosed space, her senses were stirred by the faint scent of cinnamon and citrus from the sheikh’s cologne. Normally she preferred men who smelled cleanly of soap and talc, but there was something disturbingly sensual about whatever Markaz was wearing.

She wasn’t usually attracted to men in skirts, either, she thought. But the traditional robes looked so perfect on him that she couldn’t imagine him wearing anything else. Up close, the gold embroidery on his mishlah was even more intricate than it had looked from a distance.

The motorcade was gathering speed out of Al-Qasr when he said, “Will you know me again next time you see me?”

She would know him anywhere, came the unbidden thought. He dominated the space in the car as much by force of personality as physical size. Since she could hardly say so, she said, “I didn’t mean to stare, but I’m interested in traditional embroidery, and you’re wearing a wonderful example.”

“You find my clothes riveting?” His tone was all wounded male pride.

The alternative was to admit how riveting she found him, and she didn’t feel any such thing. “My business specializes in heirloom embroidery designs. Nazaar designs are not yet famous, but they should be,” she explained.

“Let me guess. You have a mission to bring our traditional crafts to the attention of the Western world?”

His sarcasm wasn’t lost on her. “Not so much a mission as a passion.”

“Old women have a passion for embroidery. You can’t be more than twenty-five.”

“Twenty-eight,” she corrected, pleased that he thought her younger. “Embroidery is popular with people of all ages. My Internet business even has a few men as customers.”

Looking unconvinced, the sheikh opened a compartment to reveal a well-stocked bar. “Champagne?”

She had never drunk champagne in a moving car before. And she found she didn’t like having him think of her as stuffy, so she nodded. “I’d love some.”

The famous label on the bottle he opened made her blink. But what else would one drink in the back of a Rolls Royce? she thought as he poured two glasses and raised his to her. “Santé.”

She returned the toast. “To Your Highness’s health.”

His dark eyes met hers over the rim of the glass. “I trust we’ll both enjoy good health for a long time to come.”

Reminded of why she was in his company, Simone’s mood darkened and Markaz frowned in response. “I don’t mean to blacken your mood.”

“Business Suit blackened it when he abducted Natalie, then came after me this morning,” she said. “For a few minutes, I allowed myself to forget.”

“Then I must find a way to make you forget again. When you spoke of your passion for embroidery, you looked even more vibrant and beautiful.”

She managed a slight smile. She wasn’t beautiful, but a little flattery never hurt. “How do you stand being under threat as part of your everyday existence?”

He shrugged. “Everyone is under some kind of threat, whether it’s from illness, misfortune or the passage of time. Being royal simply makes one more conscious of life’s hazards.”

She sipped champagne. “I hadn’t thought about it like that. But you can’t equate getting sick or old with the threat of assassination.”

A flicking gesture of his fingers dismissed her argument, but her smile was teasing as he said, “I am the sheikh. I can do anything I choose.”

Not sure why, she felt driven to be contrary. “Your power must have some limits. Surely you can’t command the weather, or make someone fall in love with you?” Now why had she chosen that example?

He didn’t seem fazed. “Are you sure?”

“About the weather?”

Leaning forward, he fingered pads on a control panel. Instantly, the air around her became much cooler. “What is air-conditioning but controlling the weather? As to your second example?”

Despite the chill air sliding over her skin, she felt overheated suddenly. The champagne must be having an effect. “Yes?”

“I would not want to make someone fall in love with me. Love is overrated as a means of choosing a life partner.”

Was he speaking as a man who’d been once bitten? “I wouldn’t know.”

He toyed with the stem of his glass. “You can’t tell me that someone as attractive as you has never been in love?”

Two compliments in one conversation. She’d have to be careful she didn’t start believing him. She paid attention to the walnut grove they were driving through. In contrast to the soaring sandstone hills locking in Al-Qasr, the surrounding region was green and fertile, dotted with villages where time appeared to have stood still. She turned back to the sheikh. “I thought I was in love until recently. It didn’t work out.”

He smiled in satisfaction. “See? You bear out my thesis that love is overrated.”

“Just because one relationship goes sour doesn’t mean the whole notion is a crock.”

“Then you are a romantic fool.”

She shifted sideways, the buttery-soft leather tilting her closer to him. “You’re the boss, Your Highness.”

Without asking, he topped up her champagne glass. “If I thought you meant that, I’d be disappointed.”

She lifted the glass and studied the bubbling liquid, then lowered it slowly. “Then with respect, Your Highness, you’re dead wrong. I may be a romantic, but I don’t think I’m a fool.”

“No,” he said after a pause, “I don’t think so, either.”

“Thank you.”

His low laugh rippled through her like a caress. “Didn’t you expect me to concede the point?”

She dragged her free hand through her hair. “After this crazy day, I don’t know what I expect anymore. This morning I was an ordinary visitor. Now I’m the target of a criminal, forced to hide out in a royal palace.”

His gesture took in their luxurious surroundings. “Is it such a troubling prospect?”

“If I said yes, I would be a fool. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience.” Afraid the champagne was starting to affect her, she put her unfinished glass down on the bar. “I only wish I were here under less harrowing circumstances.”

“The police are already at work tracking down Natalie’s car. Her assailant will not be a threat to you for long,” he assured her.

Their bodies were so close. Another couple of inches and she’d be touching him. She held herself rigid, aware of the champagne working to undermine her self-control. “I was thinking of the threat to you.”

His gaze skimmed over her face. “You aren’t a fool, Simone Hayes. But you are a dreamer.”

He made it sound like a flaw. “Because I don’t want to see you hurt?”

Her concern had touched him, she saw as his gaze softened. “I didn’t mean it as a criticism. Dreams are the first steps to making the world better. But you should be dreaming on your own account, not on mine.”

“Can’t I do both?”

The car rounded a curve, sliding her farther into his personal space. The contact was momentary before she pulled back, but the effect lingered. He fascinated her for all the wrong reasons. Concern for his safety only went so far.

She was still pondering the problem when the motorcade approached the massive wrought-iron gates guarding the entrance to the Raisa Palace. She had already seen the complex from her hotel. Indeed it was hard to miss. Situated on a massive rocky spur overlooking the city, the palace had the stark simplicity of a fortress and dominated the road linking Raisa to Al-Qasr and the desert beyond. Terraced gardens surrounded the palace, while more gardens planted with cypress groves decorated the park within the gates and around the buildings. She had read about the palace, but never expected to be a guest here. “It’s hard to believe this is a private home.”

“It also serves as the administrative heart of the kingdom,” he explained. “We are passing Dar el Baranie, the exterior lodging. Next is Dar el Wousta, the middle lodging. My true home is Dar el Harem, the private quarters.”

Here Markaz’s motorcade glided to a halt under an elegant arcade. The facade of this building was adorned with delicate sculptures and wonderful carved marble and alcoves. As the driver opened the door for them and staff hurried to assist them, she felt as if she were stepping into the pages of a fairy tale.

Markaz’s pleasure in his home was magnified by seeing it through Simone’s eyes. Having grown up in the palace, he was largely immune to the effect, but he enjoyed watching others gain their first glimpse of royal life. Simone’s evident appreciation was especially satisfying.

Seldom had anyone shown as much selfless concern for him as she’d done today. She’d risked her life to bring him the ring, without knowing that it contained codes to the operation of a new defensive weapon developed between his country and America for Nazaar’s future security. His visit to Al-Qasr had been devised so Natalie could deliver the codes. Only concern for both women’s safety had stopped him from telling Simone of the great service she’d done his country. He decided to find a special way to show her his gratitude.

Only a generation ago, the sheikh would have thanked her by taking her to his bed. Just as well she was preoccupied, he thought as an almost painful pleasure bloomed through him. He shifted to ease the sudden pressure in his loins, wondering how she’d react if she knew. Probably violently, and his eyes gleamed at the thought of intercepting her hand on the way to his cheek and crushing her fingers to his lips. She’d be no easy conquest, this curious mix of desert daughter and self-assured Western woman.

Who was Simone Hayes? He looked forward to finding out. Not the practical details his security people would provide for him within hours, but the essence of her that was less easily uncovered. A closer look had affirmed his suspicion that Arab ancestry had sculpted her distinctive features and kissed her flawless skin with gold. But where and how, and was the connection recent or generations ago? And where did her heart belong?

Back in his father’s time, the law had allowed the sheikh of sheikhs to possess any woman catching his eye. Not that Kemal bin Aziz al Nazaari had ever indulged the privilege, Markaz thought, with the inescapable sense of loss accompanying memories of his father. Kemal had joked about taking more wives, knowing full well that there was only room for one woman in his heart.

Norah Robinson had been an American nurse working for a royal cousin, when Kemal went to stay with them. After his arm was slashed to the bone while training a new falcon, Norah had tended his injury and captured his heart. Ten years ago a rebel bomb had killed Kemal and their older son, Esan. Norah had carried on magnificently, but Markaz knew his mother still grieved the loss every day.

His parents’ example was the reason Markaz had married Natalie so quickly. Wanting what they’d had, he’d assumed it automatically followed physical desire. Even choosing an American wife had been an unconscious wish to replicate his father’s happiness. Nowadays Markaz knew better. But by his oath, Simone made him wish the dream had not died with the ending of his marriage.

He watched her until the driver opened the car door, then got out slowly, reluctant to leave their shared cocoon. Usually surrounded by servants and advisors, he treasured his moments of solitude, yet traveling with Simone was better than being alone. It was all he could do not to step back into the car and order the driver to keep going.

At the entrance to Dar el Harem, she’d been greeted by an army of servants. Markaz had assigned a young relative called Amal to look after her, and Simone was pleased with his choice.

In her late twenties, Amal was tall and reed-slim, with hair like black silk reaching to her waist. The unconscious elegance of her movements suggested a dancer’s training, unless all members of the royal family moved with such grace.

Simone’s professional interest was piqued by the woman’s outfit of a long galabia over a pair of loose, flowing trousers known as the sirwall. A closer look at the exquisite beadwork on the galabia would have to wait until she’d settled in, Simone thought.

“I always thought a harem was a place of seclusion for women,” Simone commented as Amal showed her around the women’s quarters. Like most people Simone had encountered in Nazaar, Amal’s English was excellent, far better than Simone’s Arabic. At this rate she’d have little chance to work on her language skills, but resolved to make the effort.

“The word harem describes the living quarters of the sheikh and his family,” Amal explained in her soft, musical voice. “Because we women have our own quarters, don’t imagine that we’re locked away. Some of us wear the abaya—the long cloak—over our clothes in public because we like creating an air of mystique. But we are educated, have careers and personal freedom much like your own. I live in the harem while studying for a degree in social work at Raisa University. These quarters are a sanctuary, not a prison.”

“I never thought they were,” Simone demurred, although she had been thinking along those lines. Hardly surprising, given the massive doors separating the women’s quarters from the rest of the palace, and the guards at the entrance.

Although she studied the guards unobtrusively, none of them fit her mother’s description of her father’s half brother. Not unexpected, given that the sheikh’s staff must number in the hundreds. Finding Yusef was unlikely to be that quick or easy.

She returned her attention to her guide. “Should I address you as Princess, Your Highness, or what?”

Amal smiled. “As a member of the al Nazaari family, technically I am addressed as Princess, but I rarely use a title. I’d like you to call me Amal.”

“And I’m Simone,” she agreed, feeling as if she’d made a friend in the palace.

“Before he left Al-Qasr, Sheikh Markaz ordered your things brought from your hotel. They have been placed in your room,” Amal said.

The room was a gracious blend of East and West, with priceless carpets scattered over the marble floors. The ceilings were finely carved and colored, and arched doorways opened onto a terrace hung with ferns. The canopied bed could have accommodated several people, Simone thought. Her bags looked lost beside it. They were already unpacked, she found when she checked. The staff hadn’t wasted any time carrying out the sheikh’s orders.

Amal opened another door to reveal a marble-floored reception room and beyond that, a domed bathroom. In the center, framed by columns, was a bathtub as large as a child’s wading pool. Simone immediately put a dip at the top of her to do list.

But first she needed to do something else. “Is there a telephone I can use to call my mother in Australia?”

Amal looked surprised at the question. “Of course.” Returning to the bedroom, she opened an ornate cabinet to reveal an electronic console and took out a remote control. “I’ll translate the settings for you.”

“My Arabic isn’t as good as your English, but I can read this.” Simone laughed. “Knowing how it works is a different matter.”

Leaning across her, Amal tapped keys with a long, rose-tipped nail. “This operates the audiovisual system, this the climate controls and these buttons are for the telecommunications system. If you give your mother the number on the handset, she can call you directly or leave voice mail for you. The line is scrambled for security. If you require anything else, call me on the internal system. After you make your phone call to Australia, you’ll have time to rest and freshen up before you dine with the sheikh tonight.”

This was news to Simone. “I didn’t know I’d been invited.” How did she feel about spending time with him on his own ground?

Evidently there wasn’t a choice. “His Highness will send for you at eight.”

Figuring out the high-tech phone system was less of a challenge than talking to her mother. Sara’s depression had worsened, her mother’s nurse who liked being called simply Mrs. H informed Simone. Sara was under sedation and would be told of her daughter’s call when she awoke.

“Should I come home early?” Simone asked.

Down the line, Mrs. H’s tone gentled. “At this point, it wouldn’t help. We’re doing all we can for her. There’s nothing more you can do.”

Except find her half uncle, Simone thought. No point raising her mother’s hopes until she had definite news. Or worrying her by letting her know about Simone’s present situation. “Give her my love,” she said before hanging up.

She tried to suppress her fear. Mrs. H was a capable professional who was giving her mother the best of care. Worrying wasn’t going to change matters. Simone would be better off concentrating on her objective. Right now Markaz was the key.

What did one wear to dine with a sheikh? Her clothes had been chosen for business and sightseeing, but she’d brought a long, slinky black dress with a matching chiffon wrap just in case.

First the tub beckoned. Who could resist such luxury? As water gushed from a swan-shaped gold fountain, she threw in handfuls of scented bath crystals in the shape of rose petals she found in a tall glass jar behind one of the columns. Then she shed her clothes and stepped in. Bliss.

Some time later, feeling refreshed, she swathed herself in a towel the size of a tablecloth, wound another around her freshly washed hair and padded barefoot back to the bedroom. And stopped in surprise.

On the bed, someone had laid out a fabulous peacock-blue jeweled and embroidered galabia and matching sirwall for her. She fingered the fine fabric in delight. Pure silk. The gold-and-silver embroidery and beadwork was finer than anything she’d seen before and she turned it over in her hands, marveling. Wearing this, a woman had to feel like a princess.

Forgetting the nap she’d intended to take, she dug in her cosmetics bag for eye shadow and eyeliner and spent an absorbing half hour experimenting with a look that would do justice to the fabulous clothes.

By the time she was satisfied, she could barely keep her eyes open, and blamed the heat and the stress of the morning at Al-Qasr. She removed her experimental makeup, carefully lifted the gorgeous outfit off the bed and draped it over a chair, then wrapped a robe around herself and stretched out full length. Within minutes she was deeply asleep.

Someone was in her hotel room. Heart pounding, she jerked to full wakefulness and sat up to the realization that this wasn’t a hotel. And the intruder was a maid who looked as startled as Simone.

“My apologies for disturbing you,” she said softly in Arabic. “I brought tea for you.”

“What time is it?” Simone asked in the same language.

Almost six in the evening, she was told. She had slept for over two hours. Swinging herself out of bed, she said, “Then it’s a good thing you woke me. I’d have slept the clock around otherwise.”

On the terrace, the maid had set out hot mint tea, fresh figs, plums, apricots and dates, the shredded pastry stuffed with white cheese called kanefeh and tiny pots of creamy bread pudding. Assured that this was more than adequate, the maid left her to her tea.

At this rate she would need more than visits to the gym to balance the indulgences when she returned to Australia. Disciplining herself to touch only the tea and a couple of succulent fruits, she turned her back resolutely on the tray and rested her arms on the parapet, taking in the view of the city.

Her former accommodation was a pink speck far below. Along the winding road above it she saw a group of the sheikh’s guards hiking uphill, evidently on a training exercise. After her journey to Al-Qasr, she knew the road was steep, but they scaled it effortlessly. The sheikh’s opponents must be mad, thinking they could defeat such a disciplined force.

Yet they had killed Markaz’s father and older brother, came the unwelcome thought. According to her reading, the old sheikh and his son had been flying home from a state visit when their plane had been destroyed by a rebel bomb.

If he’d stayed in Nazaar, her father could have been on board. As the editor of the Nazaari Times, he’d often traveled with the old sheikh to report on royal activities. He hadn’t fared much better with a hit-and-run driver in Australia, but at least he’d had the better part of thirty years of living first.

Shaking off the sad thoughts, Simone returned to the bedroom, her spirits reviving as she put on the lovely clothes. With her makeup complete and the chiffon wrap improvised into a hejab, the scarf used by Nazaari women to cover their hair, she was ready when the sheikh’s emissary came for her.

Fayed salaamed, looking approvingly at her appearance. “The sheikh is waiting for you, Miss Simone.”

“Just Simone, please.”

“Perhaps in Australia, but not here,” he rumbled.

“But you call the sheikh Markaz. I heard you.”

The giant frowned. “We grew up together and are brothers in all but name.”

And with men it was different anyway. How on earth did men like Fayed cope with the reforms Markaz was gradually introducing? Did the rebels resist so fiercely to avoid losing their power over their womenfolk? Suddenly the modest clothing she’d put on so eagerly seemed more limiting than charming.

In a rush of defiance, she pulled off her hejab and let it float onto the bed, then fluffed out her hair, earning a curious look from Fayed. But he made no comment when she said, “I’m ready. Wouldn’t want to keep the sheikh waiting.”