Desert Justice Read online

  Regretting her harsh judgment of the princess, Simone sipped the juice thoughtfully. “Such a terrible experience would change anybody. She was actually quite nice when she forgot to be disapproving.” She explained about being shown the embroidery exhibition, and the sheikh’s offer to give her the rights to the design of her choice for her business.

  “You’ve made quite an impression on both of them,” Amal enthused. “Maybe Princess Norah has good reason to worry about you.”

  The meaning was clear and Simone felt heat travel up her neck and into her face. “I’m sure you’re wrong. Either way, it’s impossible. We’re from two different worlds.”

  Amal wasn’t ready to give up. “So was Markaz’s father, and Markaz himself. Both chose foreign wives.”

  “Yes, and look how that turned out.”

  “I met Natalie a few times,” Amal said thoughtfully. “Unlike you, she hated everything about Nazaari life, except Markaz, of course.”

  “How do you know I don’t hate it?” As far as Simone was concerned, the jury was still out.

  “You don’t, do you?”

  The young royal sounded so distressed that Simone was forced to shake her head. “No. Some things are difficult, like being confined to one part of the palace, and having to hide under concealing clothes.”

  “They’re for your protection, because of the circumstances bringing you here,” Amal reminded her. “Today I drove myself to the university, and attended my class unveiled.”

  “Yee ha,” Simone said dryly. Chiding herself for taking out her frustration on Amal, she said, “Sorry, I realize they’re big steps to you. But I’ve gone where I pleased and worn what I liked for most of my adult life.”

  “Has the freedom made you happy?”

  How to answer honestly? “I’m happy enough. I have a good life, plenty of friends and work that I love.”

  “What about a husband and children?”

  “In time. You’re hardly a poster child for marriage yourself.”

  “I will be as soon as I finish my degree.”

  This was news to Simone. “You’re engaged?”

  It was Amal’s turn to color. “I have an understanding with a man from my own province. Gibran is studying psychology and we plan to set up a practice together after we’re married.”

  Again a feeling very like jealousy assailed Simone. Amal glowed with happiness. So much for pitying the downtrodden women of Nazaar.

  “I hope it works out for you,” she said sincerely.

  “For you, too.” Collecting her books together, Amal rose. “I have an essay to write, so I’ll see you at dinner later.”

  “Before you go, can I ask you something? I want to talk to one of Markaz’s household guards. How do I go about contacting him?”

  Amal shifted her books more comfortably in her arms. “Why would you want to speak to another man, when you’ve caught Markaz’s eye?”

  Impossible to explain without saying too much about Yusef’s past. “I haven’t caught Markaz’s eye. He feels responsible for my safety. Besides, I only want to talk to this man. I think my parents knew him before they went to Australia.”

  Amal sat down again. “Tell me all you know of him.”

  There wasn’t much. But with her experience of palace life, Amal filled in the gaps. “If I have the right man, he’s Omar Zirhan who joined Markaz’s guard four months ago.”

  “Only four months?” Thinking she knew why he used another name, Simone wondered what he’d been doing before joining the palace guard.

  The question was quickly answered. “He was an unemployed security guard who saved the sheikh’s life by driving away a car filled with explosives seconds before Markaz arrived for an official engagement. Luckily for both men, the car didn’t explode. In gratitude, Markaz gave him a place in the household guard.”

  Simone’s eyes misted. Good news for her mother at last. “He’s a hero?”

  “A modest one who insists he did nothing extraordinary. If I’m right, he’s usually posted outside the hall of justice at this time.”

  Remembering the room she’d seen with Norah earlier, Simone became excited. “Can we see him now?”

  “It isn’t appropriate for a woman to approach a man and start a conversation.”

  “Then how—”

  Amal lifted a hand. “There are ways. Since I’m known to be committed to Gibran, I can take the guard a cold drink without setting tongues wagging. Having someone accompany me is seemly. You can talk to him while I prepare the drink.”

  As soon as she saw him outside the justice hall Simone recognized the man as the guard she’d seen earlier. He looked pleased to see Amal. She made a habit of doing good deeds, Simone gathered as they carried a tray containing a sweating pitcher of juice, a glass and a piece of baklava to the guard’s post. “You’re a lifesaver,” he said as she placed the tray on a parapet. He didn’t even look at Simone hiding behind her veil.

  “Amal tells me you’re a hero,” she said in Arabic, keeping her eyes downcast.

  “Sima is my cousin,” Amal supplied over her shoulder as she poured the drink.

  His expression was sullen. “Don’t believe everything Amal tells you, Sima. She enjoys drama.”

  “But you did save the sheikh’s life,” Simone persisted.

  “So the story goes.”

  He wouldn’t budge. Instinct told Simone there was more here than a modest hero. She wished she could tell him who she was, but until she knew more about his circumstances, she had to do this Amal’s way. “Some friends in Australia were asking for news of you,” she said.

  His gaze darkened. “I don’t know anyone in Australia.”

  Odd. “What about Ali and Sara al Hasa?”

  He frowned and shook his head. “Never heard of them. What’s keeping that juice, Amal? A man could die of thirst at his post.”

  The young royal gave him the glass and he lifted it to his mouth. He drank deeply, the sleeve of his dishdasha sliding to his elbow.

  A tattoo of a snake encircled his right wrist.

  Excitement gripped Simone, but she checked it. Something was wrong. Why did he deny knowing her parents, his own family? Saving the sheikh’s life proved he no longer sided with the rebels, so what did he have to hide?

  Amal was too kindhearted, Markaz thought as he watched the scene from his office window. Behind him the rooms were in darkness, but he didn’t turn on a light, partly because Amal would be embarrassed that he’d seen her kind act, but also because he wanted to preserve his night vision.

  He’d ordered Omar Zirhan posted within sight of his office, not as he’d let people think, to reward him for heroism, but to keep an eye on him. Ever since the sheikh’s security people had learned that the only DNA found on the explosive in the van was Zirhan’s, he’d been under surveillance.

  Not much was known about him before his heroic deed, and that of itself was unusual. In Nazaar, family was everything. Zirhan was different. As far as the records showed, his line started and ended with himself. What details the sheikh’s people had uncovered were sparse. Zirhan was an orphan raised in Raisa at a school for homeless boys. He’d worked as a security guard at the largest souk in the city, but had been let go. He’d said it was because of personality clashes with his boss.

  Keen to see him rewarded, the people had petitioned the sheikh to hire him. Wanting answers, Markaz had played along. Only Fayed and Hamal and a handful of trusted staff knew about his suspicions.

  Fayed and Hamal thought Markaz was taking an unnecessary risk by hiring Zirhan. But how else could he find out what was going on? He’d ordered the man’s room bugged and his movements watched, but no results so far.

  Watching the scene outside the justice hall, he hated to think of Amal being involved. As fast as the thought arose, he dismissed it. He’d known her all his life, and she was as sweet as she appeared. She was well suited to her chosen social work, loving people and trusting them until proven wrong. Befriending a loner like
Zirhan was entirely in her character.

  What about the woman with her? Veiled and in shadow, she was hard to make out. Then she moved and he knew. Simone. She was also a stranger who’d come into his life through a good deed, albeit with a better pedigree than Zirhan. That didn’t mean Markaz should trust her.

  He saw her talking to the guard who responded dismissively. Simone was veiled, but by her posture, Markaz saw she was upset. Plotting? he wondered.

  She’d said she was looking for a relative, but the name she’d given Markaz wasn’t Omar Zirhan, and the guard didn’t behave like a long-lost relative now.

  Only when Markaz’s nails dug into his palms did he unclench his hands, realizing how much he wanted her to be innocent. Needed her to be on his side. Needed her a lot closer than that, if he was honest.

  Getting soft? he asked himself. How he hated the mistrust the rebels sowed in his kingdom. They must be rooted out once and for all, even if it meant heads had to roll. The thought of Simone meeting such an end made him feel ill, but he knew he’d give the order himself if it brought peace to his country.

  His own feelings were irrelevant.

  That didn’t mean he could deny their existence, and frustration seethed through him. Simone affected him in ways no woman had done since his marriage. The short time he’d known her didn’t seem to matter. The connection had been instant and powerful. It was working on him still. Clouding his judgment? Yes, if he wasn’t careful.

  Spinning on his heel, he returned to his office, turned on the lights and pulled his laptop toward him. He was staring at a legal document without really seeing it when Fayed came in. “Working late, Markaz?”

  “Brooding.”

  Fayed eased himself into a chair that creaked under his massive frame. “Anything I can do to help?”

  Markaz closed the laptop. “Having you to talk to helps. If Omar Zirhan is a traitor, why doesn’t he act? What’s he waiting for?”

  “Perhaps for you to move the household to Karama.” The desert city had been the royal family’s winter home for generations.

  The censure in Fayed’s tone wearied Markaz. “We’ve gone over this before. The people expect me to conduct the majlis, the sheikh’s court, at Karama at this time every year. I will not be kept away by nameless threats. What can Zirhan do there that he can’t do here?”

  “Only the rebels know their intentions. All I know is that the desert lodge is less well protected than the palace.”

  “Then you’re convinced he’s one of them?”

  Fayed frowned. “What other explanation is there?”

  “It could be as the man said, he was in the right place at the right time.”

  “That is one aspect we agree on.”

  Leaving only the reason in dispute. Markaz stood up and flattened his palms against his desk. “The household will move to Karama as usual.”

  Fayed climbed to his feet, the effort belying the speed he could employ when needed. “As Your Highness wishes. What will you do about the Australian woman?”

  Markaz rolled his neck to one side then the other. “She’ll accompany us.” He’d shocked his old friend, he saw. “If there is a conspiracy, I prefer to know who we’re dealing with. If she and Zirhan are in league, we have them both where we can watch them. If we neutralize them, they could be replaced by others we may not identify in time.”

  Fayed inclined his head in acceptance of the sheikh’s logic. “With your permission, I’ll brief Hamal.”

  Markaz smiled. “Do that. And don’t worry, I haven’t lost my head over Simone.” If he was stretching the truth, he was glad Fayed didn’t call him on it.

  Simone prowled around the terrace of her suite, the abaya swirling around her legs. By night the view of the palace grounds and the sparkling city beyond looked romantic, but she was in no mood to appreciate it. “He is Yusef al Hasa, I’d swear to it.”

  “Then why does he call himself Omar Zirhan?”

  Simone paused, weighing the risk against her conviction that she could trust Amal. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  She explained about Yusef’s relationship to her mother, and her own belief that he had changed his name to hide his rebel past and start a new life. “Why would he save the sheikh’s life unless he has changed?” she concluded.

  Amal nodded. “You have a good point, but I have a question, too. If he has left his past behind for good reason, why do you insist that he acknowledge your relationship?”

  “My mother’s state of health won’t improve until she knows that the family member she left behind is safe and well.”

  “Isn’t it enough to tell her that you’ve seen him, and can assure her all is well?”

  The hem of Simone’s abaya caught on a chair and she tugged it free. “I can’t be sure he’s really Yusef al Hasa until I hear it from him.”

  “Even if Omar Zirhan isn’t your father’s half brother after all?”

  She’d already considered that. “If he isn’t, I’ll keep looking.”

  Amal looked down. “That may be difficult. The royal household moves to Karama at the end of this week so Markaz can preside over the winter majlis, the sheikh’s court.”

  Simone began to pace again. She hadn’t anticipated this. “He’ll probably send me back to Australia before you leave. That doesn’t give me much time to work on Yusef or Omar. The only way he’ll admit his real identity is if I tell him mine.”

  “You mustn’t for your own safety in case Natalie’s killer is still looking for you.”

  The parapet blocked Simone’s pacing and she swung around. “I have to take the risk. If Yusef knows we’re related, he won’t hurt me. I’ll wait until Markaz is ready to send me away.” This thought brought its own portion of distress, but she thrust it aside. “I’ll confront Yusef when it’s too late for him to do anything about it. All I want is for him to acknowledge his relationship to my family. I’m also going to take a photo of him for her, with or without his consent. Is that asking so much?”

  Amal clasped her hands together. “I suppose not. Be careful, please.”

  Simone had no wish to court additional danger, so she nodded. “I will.”

  She should have guessed that the sheikh would have his own agenda. Next morning while she and Amal were eating breakfast, Simone received a summons to his office.

  She’d been in the courtyard outside, but not in his inner sanctum. Office was too slight a word to describe the grandeur of the room. Priceless Persian carpets softened acres of marble floor, while stone columns soared to a vaulted ceiling, dividing the ballroom-sized room into working and conference areas.

  A surprise was an imposing baronial fireplace bordered by timber bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes arranged slightly unevenly, which suggested they were not only for show. In front of the fireplace a pair of sofas upholstered in dark green leather were separated by a bronze-based table with a stone top. Fayed led her to this area while the sheikh completed some paperwork at a desk the size of a double bed.

  Not a useful comparison, considering her blood had started to pump harder as soon as she approached him. In an open-necked white shirt with the sleeves rolled back over tanned forearms, he even sat regally. His dark hair gleamed in a ray of sunlight from the window. Recalling how springy his hair felt, she curled her fingers into her palms to keep herself steady.

  He acknowledged her arrival with a nod, and kept working as Fayed showed her to the conference area, salaamed and left. From where she sat, the sheikh’s shoulders looked tense and his face was set in a scowl. Either the papers holding his attention were depressing him, or she was.

  She couldn’t believe he regretted kissing her the night she arrived. Not when the sparks had been so powerful and undeniably mutual.

  Her breathing tangled as Markaz joined her, taking a seat on the opposite sofa and resting his hands on his knees. “Did Amal tell you that the court moves to Karama at the end of the week?” he asked without any of the usual polite exchanges.
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  There could be only one reason. He was glad to be rid of her. Her throat started to ache. “Yes. I assume it means you’re sending me back to Australia.”

  His stern visage didn’t lighten. “I thought about it.”

  The hope rekindled. “And?”

  How would she respond if Markaz said he was keeping her under surveillance after watching her make contact with a suspected rebel? He resisted the temptation to ask. The truth would come out soon enough. Looking so doe-eyed and apparently confused by his aloofness, she made him want to abandon caution and sweep her into his arms. Desire flamed through him like a lit torch. Her abaya was loose around her shoulders. Her unveiled mouth taunted him, all remembered pleasure and future promise. If she was involved with the rebels, she was one hell of a secret weapon.

  The thought sobered him enough to keep him on his side of the low table. But not to douse the flames. He’d have to do that the hard way through force of will, until he learned the truth about her and Zirhan.

  “I decided you’re safer under royal protection,” he said, breaking the long silence.

  “I’m going with you to Karama? Into the desert?”

  He couldn’t believe her delight was faked, and hoped that it wasn’t because he’d handed her the opportunity to harm him or his government. He’d soon learn the truth about that as well.

  In the meantime, he would keep her at arm’s length. Although from the way she affected him, he suspected it wouldn’t be nearly far enough.

  Chapter 8

  Simone didn’t mind traveling with the royal women, one faceless veiled figure among many, as long as she got to see the country beyond Raisa. So far she’d only visited Al-Qasr, but this time they were traveling to Nazaar’s second largest city of Karama, two hundred miles away. Her father’s birthplace and the home of her ancestors.

  Now as Simone watched the savanna country roll by dotted with villages and herds of camels, she wondered how her father had felt as a teenager, leaving behind everything he knew to try his luck in the capital. Simone hoped he would be proud of her for retracing his steps, taking his memory back with her.