Mistress Of The Sheikh

“Excellency.” Abdul’s voice was barely a whisper. “Excellency, it is all my fault.”

The sheikh gave a harsh laugh. “Did you point a camera at me, Abdul?”

“No. No, of course—”

“Did you sell the photo to the highest bidder?” Nick swung around, his eyes hot. “Did you write a caption that makes it sound as if I’m a bad reincarnation of Rudolph Valentino?”

Abdul gave a nervous laugh. “Certainly not.”

“For all I know, it wasn’t even a reporter. It could have been someone I think of as a friend.” Nick shoved both hands through his black-as-midnight hair. “If I ever get my hands on one of the scum-sucking dung beetles who grow fat by invading the privacy of others—”

Abdul dropped to his knees on the silk carpet and knotted his hands imploringly beneath his chin. “It is my fault, nevertheless. I should not have permitted your eyes to see such an abomination. I should have hidden it from you.”

“Get up,” Nick said sharply.

“I should never have let you see it. Never!”

“Abdul,” Nick said more gently, “stand up.”

“Oh, my lord…”

Nick sighed, bent down and lifted the little man to his feet.

“You did the right thing. I needed to see this piece of filth before the party tonight. Someone is sure to spring it on me just to see my reaction.”

“No one would have the courage, sire.”

“Trust me, Abdul. Someone will.” A smile softened Nick’s hard mouth. “My sweet little sister, if no one else. We both know how she loves to tease.”

Abdul smiled, too. “Ah. Yes, yes, she does.”

“So, it’s a good thing you showed me the cover. I’d much rather be prepared.”

“That was my belief, sire. But perhaps I erred. Perhaps I should not—”

“What would you have done instead, hmm?” Nick grinned. “Bought up all the copies from all the newsstands in Manhattan?”

Abdul nodded vigorously. “Precisely. I should have purchased all the copies, burned them—”

“Abdul.” Nick put his arm around the man’s shoulders and walked him toward the door. “You took the proper action. And I am grateful.”

“You are?”

“Just imagine the headlines if I’d had this temper tantrum in public.” Nick lifted his hand and wrote an imaginary sentence in the air. “Savage Sheikh Shows Savage Side,” he said dramatically.

The little man gave him a thin smile.

“Now imagine what would happen if somebody manages to get a picture of me slicing into the cake at the party tonight.”

“The caterer will surely do the slicing, sire.”

Nick sighed. “Yes, I’m sure he will. The point is, anything is possible. Can you just see what the sleaze sheets would do with a picture of me with a knife in my hand?”

“In the old days,” Abdul said sternly, “you could have had their heads!”

The sheikh smiled. “These are not those days,” he said gently. “We are in the twenty-first century, remember?”

“You still have that power, Lord Rashid.”

“It is not a power I shall ever exercise, Abdul.”

“So you have said, Excellency.” The man paused at the door to Nick’s office. “But your father can tell you that the power to spare a man his life, or take it from him, is the best way of assuring that all who deal with you will do so with honor and respect.”

A quick, satisfying picture flashed through Nick’s mind. He imagined all the media people, and especially all the so-called friends who’d ever made money by selling him out, crowded into the long-unused dungeon beneath the palace back home, every last one of them pleading for mercy as the royal executioner sharpened his ax.

“It’s a sweet thought,” he admitted after a minute. “But that is no longer our way.”

“Perhaps it should be,” Abdul said, and sighed. “At any rate, my lord, there will be no unwanted guests lying in wait for you this evening.”

“No?”

“No. Only those with invitations will be admitted by your bodyguards. And I sent out the invitations myself.”

Nick nodded. “Two hundred and fifty of my nearest and dearest friends,” he said, and smiled wryly. “That’s fine.”

His secretary nodded. “Will that be all, Lord Rashid?”

“Yes, Abdul. Thank you.”

“You are welcome, sire.”

Nick watched as the old man bowed low and backed out of the room. Don’t, he wanted to tell him. You’re old enough to be my grandfather, but he knew what Abdul’s reply would be.

“It is the custom,” he would say.

And he was right.

Nick sighed, walked to his desk and sat down in the ornately carved chair behind it.

Everything was “the custom”. The way he was addressed. The way Quidarans, and even many Americans, bowed in his presence. He didn’t mind it so much from his countrymen; it made him uncomfortable, all that head-bobbing and curtseying, but he understood it. It was a sign of respect.

It was, he supposed, such a sign for some Americans, too.

But for others, he sensed, it was an acknowledgment that they saw him as a different species. Something exotic. An Arab, who dressed in flowing robes. A primitive creature, who lived in a tent.

An uncultured savage, who took his women when, where and how he wanted them.

He rose to his feet and walked across the room to the windows, his mouth set in a grim line, his eyes steely.