Desert Justice

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.