скачать книгу бесплатно
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.”
Chapter 4
Waiting wasn’t something Markaz tolerated well. Accustomed to having his needs met at the snap of his fingers, he had little use for patience. But this evening he was actually enjoying waiting for Simone, anticipation building like a fire inside him.
Deliberately he’d avoided reading the file his chief of security had placed on his desk an hour before. Hamal had assured him that she wasn’t a threat to the royal family or the nation, so Markaz preferred to learn about Simone by delicious degrees as she chose to reveal herself to him.
Aware of her as a woman from the moment their eyes met, he was curious to see where the attraction led. The potency of the feeling surprised him. Not since his divorce from Natalie had he been so conflicted by a woman, drawn to her and knowing she wasn’t for him. When he married again, and it was when because the kingdom required an heir, the woman would be of his own kind, as wedded to Nazaar as to him. This could be no more than an enjoyable interlude, but ending here.
Dissatisfaction at the thought made him get up and pace, halting as Fayed escorted her in. His friend salaamed and backed out, but not before Markaz had caught the indulgent look on Fayed’s face. What was that supposed to mean? It wasn’t as if he brought women to Markaz all the time. Not even most of the time. Had he sensed the undercurrent playing between Markaz and Simone? Maybe he should find Fayed a new assignment, where he couldn’t read his boss’s mind.
Just as well, Fayed wasn’t doing it now. Markaz didn’t know who’d been inspired to dress her in galabia and sirwall, but she wore them to the manner born. Her movements, graceful in Western dress, were even more fluid as she approached him, the tiny gold coins sewn into the costume’s wrists and ankles tinkling like music. Talk about a recipe for seduction. He had a hard time keeping his mouth from dropping open.
Then he saw her looking around them. He’d deliberately ordered dinner served in the New York suite, named because the huge oak and sandblasted glass dining table, and leather-upholstered chairs all came from New York, along with the black waveform chaise, leather sofas and glass coffee tables that Markaz dodged as he paced around the living portion of the room.
The suite, actually two rooms linked by a wide archway, was larger than some New York apartments. In keeping with the American theme, the high ceilings were painted white and the walls covered in hand-painted, silk wallpaper in a subtle dragonfly design made of pearlized white sand. In place of the traditional Persian rugs, Aubusson carpets covered the marble floors. A wall mural of the Manhattan skyline by night created the impression of a view. The New York Times was flown in every day and placed in the suite.
After attending a United Nations conference, his father and mother had gone for a walk together. Seeing her looking nostalgically at the furniture displayed in the windows of the Domus Design Collection on Madison Avenue, he had ordered the entire ensemble delivered to Nazaar to surprise her. He’d purchased every item in the display down to the lighting, tableware and accessories, and had them shipped to Raisa.
Markaz’s open-necked white shirt and black pants were Brooks Brothers, also chosen to suit the surroundings. So why did Simone look so angry? “Were you hoping for a more traditional setting? I can arrange it.”
“Don’t you think you’ve arranged enough for one evening, Your Highness?” she asked. “Does it amuse you to see me in fancy dress while you wear ordinary clothes?”
Despite using his title, she sounded anything but deferential. He drew himself up. “How does your choice of dress involve me?”
“My choice? Didn’t you send these things to my room for me to wear tonight?”
He controlled his anger, just. “In my country, we value the presumption of innocence. Is it not the same in Australia?”
“Yes, but—”
“Hear me out. I chose this setting to make you feel at home, but I had no part in choosing your attire.” Not that he had a problem with it, either, but he kept this to himself. She was angry enough, thinking he had amused himself at her expense. “Perhaps Amal selected the clothes, hoping to please you.”
Some of the wind went out of her sails. “I’ll certainly ask her. My apologies if I’ve misjudged you, Your Highness. But I should change before we dine.”
Grudging her absence for even that length of time, he smiled to soften his objection. “I’d prefer you to stay as you are.”
“I feel out of place, as if I belong in a different century.”
As if she’d just walked out of the desert, one of the original inhabitants of his kingdom from many centuries before, he thought. Out loud he said, “You look breathtaking.”
The compliment made her shift restively. “This clothing is comfortable.”
“And undeniably becoming. Throughout our history, golden-haired beauties were treated as goddesses. Men went to war over them. Seeing you like this, it isn’t hard to understand why.”
He had the satisfaction of watching color rush into her cheeks. Not as tough as she pretended then. His anticipation notched higher.
Were there any more ways she could look idiotic in front of the sheikh, Simone asked herself. Not only did she look and feel out of place alongside his tailored—and modern—elegance, she’d accused the country’s ruler of setting her up.
The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed that he was right, and Amal had intended the clothes as a treat. The woman couldn’t have known that the sheikh planned a Western-style evening for his guest. Thank goodness she’d discarded the hejab at the last minute.
She had to admit the flowing galabia and pants made her feel delicate and feminine, although she would have preferred to see Markaz also in traditional dress. Because this way pointed up differences between them she’d rather overlook? Surely she wasn’t that foolish?
Seating herself on the sofa Markaz indicated, she felt the leather shape itself to her body while the galabia drifted in graceful folds around her. She might feel like a fish out of water, but everything in the suite was in excellent taste. What was the story behind it?
