Desert Justice Page 5
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?
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.
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.
She wanted him to pull her into his arms and kiss her, taking the initiative for them both. The very idea made her mind spin and her blood race as she imagined how that would feel. The low sounds he would make as he claimed her mouth, and the urgent way she would press against him. The dizzying dance of tongue to tongue and skin to skin as he slid his hands over her throat and shoulders.
Only as her back started to arch did reality come crashing back. Arousal warred with anger for letting her mind run away with her. None of that was going to happen. Except that her body thrummed as fiercely as if it just had.
He let his dark gaze linger on her mouth for unsettling seconds. “Of that, you may be in no doubt. Now let us eat.”
Accepting his hand to help her up, she thought his promise had come too easily. He must be very sure she would eventually give in to him, she thought, not at all sure herself that he wasn’t right.
The food was a welcome distraction and for once she was glad to give her full attention to the meal without the distraction of small talk. The Western menu wouldn’t have been out of place in any five-star restaurant back home. The first course was a whole fish poached in wine and herbs, followed by Kobe beef with lobster and truffles then a zabaglione so light it dissolved in her mouth.
Only when coffee was served did he resume their conversation. By then she felt steadier. She’d had the sense to drink ice water with the meal, to stop her imagination running away with her again. If she pleaded tiredness and got out of here soon, the tactic might even work.
But Markaz had other ideas. He called for liqueurs to be served with the coffee. The pale gold liquid known as Ayn Zakat—“spring of charity”—had been her father’s favorite drink, and her throat tightened at the memory.
Markaz watched her hold the glass to the light, admiring the fine particles of real gold suspended in the liquid. “Do you know the legend of Ayn Zakat?”
She nodded. “According to my father, the drink bubbled up out of a barren plain, sustaining the Nazaari people after Alexander the Great’s army drove them from their homes into the desert in ancient times. No proof of the spring has ever been found.”
“You don’t believe such myths?”
“Let’s say, I prefer a touch more reality.”
“Will you follow your father’s example and tell your children our legends?”