Desert Justice

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The sheikh dropped into an armchair at right angles to her, crossing an ankle over one knee. Reaching over he pressed a control concealed in the arm of the chair.

Seconds later a maid glided in with champagne and canapés on a gold tray, set it on the glass-topped table between them, bowed to the sheikh then left as silently as she’d come.

When he handed her a drink, Simone’s fingers tightened around the stem of the glass. She was probably destroying his carefully orchestrated mood—or maybe wanted to—by asking, “Have you learned anything more about Natalie, Your Highness?”

He frowned into his drink. “I have given orders to be interrupted if there is any news. And tonight I am merely Markaz.”

He could never be merely anything. Even in dark pants and a monogrammed white shirt superbly tailored to fit his broad physique, he looked every inch a monarch. The open-necked shirt hinted at a smooth, muscular chest, and the pants were taut over his legs and hips. Without the traditional headdress, his hair was thick and slightly springy, cut just above his collar and looking as if it would curl naturally when wet.

A lightning image of him in the shower, the water streaming down his sleek olive flanks sent a jet of excitement arrowing through her. She gulped champagne to quench the fire as much as her thirst. Not a sight she would see in her lifetime.

She was woman enough to want. But realist enough to recognize when a desire was bad for her. She’d ended one relationship because the man became too controlling. Markaz was control on a stick.

Putting him into a Western setting didn’t help, as her father had proved. Despite thirty years of living in Australia, he’d never changed his belief that his word was law simply because he was male. Much as he’d loved his daughter, Simone knew she would have ranked second if her mother had borne a son. Common sense told her Markaz’s view would be even more rigid, because of who he was.

Since when did common sense ever win out over desire?

It was going to this time. She inclined her head. “Markaz then. How does a royal palace in Nazaar come to have such a Western-looking room?”

As he explained about Norah and his father, she regarded the decor with new eyes. “What an extravagant, romantic gesture. Was your mother delighted?”

“Of course. She still spends time here when she feels homesick.”

“Or when she wants to feel close to your father,” Simone said.

Pain flashed across his face, instantly masked. “Indeed. My family and the country are all poorer for his loss.”

And Markaz himself? He’d been in America when his father and brother were killed ten years before, never expecting to inherit the throne. She’d brushed up on Nazaar’s history on the Internet before leaving Australia. Now she wondered how Markaz had felt without father or older brother to guide him, knowing he could be the rebels’next target, yet continuing the reform process anyway.

He leaned back, the crystal flute held between two long fingers. “Tell me how you come to wear our clothing so well.”

“I’m flattered you think I do.”

He nodded. “It’s more fact than compliment. Right now you look more Nazaari than Australian.”

“Perhaps because of my blood,” she murmured.

Ah, now they were coming to it. The reason she looked so at home in the kingdom. “You have Nazaari ancestry?”

She took a sip of champagne. “My parents are from Nazaar. They moved to Australia before I was born.”

Glad that he’d resisted the temptation to read her file, Markaz let a mouthful of champagne slide down his throat then put the glass down. She was more intoxicating than any drink, and he wanted to give her his full attention. “Your people are from the desert?”

“My mother’s from Raisa. My father came from the desert. He died in a road accident a few months ago.”

“My condolences.”

The response sounded sincere. Of course, he’d suffered his share of loss and knew how she felt. “Thank you. They had a good life in Australia.”

“They never returned to their homeland?”

“By the time the borders were open, they had settled where they were. I think my father was afraid he’d find more change than he wanted to see.”

Markaz’s eyes turned cold. “They were against the reform process?”

“No.” She gave the single word all the emphasis she could. “The very opposite. It was because my father supported the old sheikh that they were forced to leave. He was warned that he and my mother would be killed if he continued to write in favor of the reforms. He would have taken his chances, but he loved my mother too much to risk her.” Simone took a deep breath. “His name was Ali al Hasa.”

Markaz looked astonished. “You’re the daughter of Ali al Hasa? I was only a child when he left, but I heard a great deal about him. My father considered him a friend.”

Tears of pleasure misted her eyes and she brushed them away. But not before he’d seen them. “Don’t be ashamed of your tears, Simone. They do both our fathers honor.”

She’d known her father had had friends at the palace, but until now had never fully understood how respected he’d been. How hard he must have found it to leave everything behind and start all over again.

“Sheikh Kemal provided Ali with an introduction to other expatriates living in Australia,” Markaz told her.

Until now she hadn’t known that the old sheikh himself had opened doors for her father. “That probably helped him to start his newsletter in Australia. I worked on it with him for a time, until I went into business for myself.”

“You must have a good command of our language.”

It took a moment to realize that Markaz had spoken to her in Arabic. “I speak the language less ably than most people in Nazaar speak English,” she answered in the same tongue. “I hope to improve my skills during my visit.”

“Then you shall have the opportunity,” he said, switching back to English. “I shall assign Amal as your teacher.”

“Surely she has more than enough to do? She told me she’s studying at university.”

“She will do as I command.”

“I don’t want you to pressure her on my account. It isn’t fair.”

She saw him blink at her bluntness, but it passed without comment. “Fairness is important to you?”

“Of course. Isn’t it why you’re putting your life on the line to pursue reforms?”

He tilted his glass to her. “You are indeed your father’s daughter.”

She inclined her head in response. “I take that as a compliment.”

“Then why do you not use the name, al Hasa?”

“Before I was born my father changed the family name to Hayes, to fit in or to protect us, I don’t know. He saw no need to discuss his thoughts with a daughter.”

Markaz’s keen gaze sharpened. “You are troubled by the natural order of things?”

Unconsciously she straightened her back. “There’s nothing natural about the superiority of one sex over another.”

His shoulders lifted eloquently. “Not natural, perhaps. But inevitable. Someone has to take the lead.”

“Take being the operative word,” she stated.

With care he chose a canapé and bit into it. She’d annoyed him, she saw from the tense set of his shoulders and jaw. So what? He wasn’t her sheikh and his traditions weren’t hers, except through her genes.

He was still the monarch and her host, she reminded herself. “I’m sorry for speaking out of turn, Your Highness,” she said in Arabic, fearing the words would stick in her throat in English.

His dismissive gesture might have been for her manner or her opinions. “No matter. As the reforms proceed, change is coming soon enough.”

Did his people regret or embrace the changes? Probably a little of both, she decided. What man would willingly share his authority with another, male or female, unless he had no choice? Even Markaz himself might find reform more attractive in theory than in practice.

She hadn’t missed his reaction when she came in, as if Fayed had served her up to the sheikh on a plate. That would have to stop if men and women became equal. The right of the ruler to dictate women’s behavior would be washed away under the new social order.

Female clothing would need to change, too. In Nazaari culture, the outfit she wore was designed to be concealing and revealing by turns. The flowing fabric made even the most clumsy wearer appear graceful, with the coins at wrists and ankles sending a musical message of availability.

In fairness, low-slung jeans and a T-shirt could send the same message, she told herself. A lot had to do with the attitude of the person wearing them. Realizing that she’d been leaning toward Markaz in a pose he might misread as female fascination, she moved farther away and crossed her arms in the universal body language of disinterest.

She’d been read like a book, she saw when the corners of his mouth lifted. He knew he interested her. Maybe the Nazaari people had it right all these centuries, she thought, irritated with herself. Segregating the sexes and veiling the women from men’s eyes made life a lot less complicated. “Is change so desirable then?” she asked.

“Would you rather accept limits to your freedom than deal with what is between us?” he answered her question with his own.

“Of course not.” Too late, she saw the trap. “I mean, there’s nothing…”

He moved so quickly that he was alongside her on the sofa before she could react. “We both know there is. The kind of connection between us is rare, and not to be denied.”

“Perhaps in your culture, Your Highness.”

“In any culture. I notice you use my title when you want to create a barrier between us.”

Whatever worked, she thought, all too afraid that nothing would. He wasn’t touching her or making any move to do so, but she felt his nearness in every fiber of her being. And wanted more, pity help her.