Desert Justice

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?