The Sheikh's Wayward Wife

The sultan half rose; the men exchanged a quick embrace.

“Sabah ala-kheir, my son.”

“Good morning, Father.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Please, sit down. Fill your plate. You must be hungry. You didn’t eat very much last night.”

Khalil looked up. The sultan’s expression was innocent. The comment was not. What his father meant was that he’d noticed Khalil had not stayed for the entire meal.

“Was the food not to your liking?”

Two could play at this game. “It was excellent, Father, but I was weary from my journey.”

Meaning, he had come a long distance on short notice and still had no idea why.

Father and son smiled at each other. They had not spent a lot of time together when Khalil was small—it was not the custom—but they had grown closer when Khalil reached adulthood.

“And how was that journey, my son?”

“It was fine. The skies were clear all the way.”

“And your new plane?”

“It is fine, too, Father,” Khalil said, trying to keep the edge from his voice.

“But what would truly be fine,” the sultan said, raising his bushy white eyebrows, “is discovering why I called you home.”

So much for word games. “Yes,” Khalil said bluntly, “that would be a good thing.”

Two servants hovered near a rolling cart covered with silver chafing dishes; another stood ready to pour coffee and tea. The sultan blotted his mouth with his napkin, tossed it on the table and rose to his feet.

“Walk with me, Khalil. Let me show you how beautiful my roses are this year.”

What was this? Was his father concerned about being overheard? Khalil pushed back his chair and fell in beside the older man. They set off on a path of crushed white and pink marble that wound through the palace’s fabled gardens.

When they were deep within its confines, surrounded by flowers and shrubs and far from anyone who might hear them, the sultan sat down on a wrought-iron bench. Khalil took the bench opposite his and waited.

“You were not happy that I requested your return,” the sultan said.

“I was in the midst of an important negotiation.”

His father nodded. “Still you came.”

“You are my father, and you are the leader of our people.”

The older man nodded again. “And you are my heir, Khalil. Since birth, you have known it is your duty to do what is best for your country.”

What was happening here? Khalil folded his arms. “That is a given, Father.”

There were a few seconds of silence. Then the sultan put his hands on his thighs and leaned forward.

“Last night, on the beach, you met a woman.”

Was nothing about his life here private? It was one of the things Khalil had always disliked. Everything he did was subject to scrutiny.

“And?”

“She is called Layla.”

Layla. A soft, feminine name. It suited her. The lushness of her body, the beauty of her face…but it was a direct contradiction to the fire of her temperament.

“Khalil?”

Khalil cleared his throat. “Sorry. I was… What about her?”

“She is to be married.”

“So her people told me.”

“It is an important union. Her father is Sheikh Omar al Assad.”

“Are you certain? Her people said—”

“I am quite certain, Khalil. And her betrothed is Butrus al Ali.”

Khalil blinked in surprise. “The renegade?”

“Not after this marriage takes place. Butrus will swear his allegiance to me, as will Omar, for brokering the union. An old and dangerous rift will be healed and our people in the north will finally have peace.”

Khalil nodded. A marriage would take place for reasons of state. It was an old custom, not just here but in many parts of the world, and though he knew Westerners would scoff if he said such arrangements still took place among them, too, it was true; the sons and daughters of wealthy, powerful families often married to secure alliances and create dynasties.

But the woman on the beach, the bride of Butrus? He had met the man years ago. Could he recall what he looked like?

His jaw tightened. Yes, he damned well could.

Overweight. Hell, that was too polite a term. Butrus al Ali was grossly obese. He had long, greasy hair; there’d been caked black dirt under his fingernails and a stench to his breath that made it impossible to stand close.

The woman on the beach—Layla—was to take such a pig as her bridegroom?

“Khalil?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Have you been listening to me?”