Desert Justice

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.