by Maisey Yates
“Exiled to the desert for fifteen years under a cloud. The uncle ruled, the people fell into despair, the country to near ruin. And who was to blame? The boy, of course. A boy who somehow survived those years alone and is now a man. A man who must now assume the throne. You see what is stacked against me?”
“I understand,” she said, shifting, the stone floor cold beneath her bare feet. She suddenly became very conscious that she was wearing a robe with nothing beneath it. “But let me tell you a story about a girl and...and...no, let me just say, I disappeared some six or seven days ago from a desert tour I wasn’t supposed to be on. My friends are probably frantic. My fiancé is probably...concerned.” Devastated might be a stretch. Tariq was a very even-tempered man. “My father...” She nearly choked then. “My father will be destroyed. I am all that he has...you have to understand.”
Even as she said it, she hoped it was true. Strange that she was wishing for her father to be distressed, but...but she was always so afraid that his life was easier without her. It had been for her mother. No child to take care of. No one to break her lovely things.
“And you have to understand this. Inquiries are being made about you. Discreet ones, but it is happening. Kazeem received a phone call with a very clear threat. That the future Sheikha of Shakar was missing, and should she be found on Al Sabahan soil my reign will hold a record for brevity.”
“Oh,” she said, feeling dazed.
“I am all this country has,” he said, his voice hard, echoing in the room. “If there is to be a future for my people, I must remain on the throne. There is no room for negotiation.”
“So, what if I try to leave?”
“You will be detained. But I seriously doubt you will try to leave.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a sensible woman. A woman who wouldn’t want blood on her hands.” He looked at her, his eyes taking on a strange, distant quality. “Take it from a man who knows, habibti. Whether you spill it with your own hand or not, blood won’t come clean.”
She believed him. Believed it was true. Believed that he knew what it meant to have blood on his hands. Not for one second would she doubt it.
Could she do it? Could she risk it?
The entire thing made her uneasy, but she hardly had a choice. She could try and run, she could try to find her way back on her own, try to call Tariq, who would storm the castle and...and...oh dear.
She looked at Zafar. Did she really trust this man? That he would release her? That he would do what he said?
She did. Because she’d been alone with him in the desert overnight, and he’d slept with his arm curled around her waist to keep her from shivering. Because when she’d needed touch, no matter whether he understood it or felt it or not, he had provided it. He hadn’t taken advantage of her, had never once touched her inappropriately or in a way that would harm her.
In short, he treated her exactly like a man in his position should treat her, provided he was telling the truth.
“I require an exit strategy, Sheikh,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“When will you release me? Regardless of what is happening. There has to be a set end date. A sell-by.”
“I’m not certain I can give you that.”
“I require it,” she said. “No more than thirty days.”
“It shall be done.” His agreement, the heavy tone in his voice, did nothing to ease her concerns. Thirty days. Thirty days in this palace, a captive of this man. But with that thought the oddest burst of lightness came through. More of this solitude. These moments of utter indulgence that weren’t for anyone but her.
“I am not holding you prisoner,” he said.
“Oh really. So, I’m free to go?” The lightness faded, because the fact remained, she was, essentially, Zafar’s prisoner.
“No,” he said, crossing broad arms over his chest. “Under no circumstances.”
“Then how am I not a prisoner?”
“Have I tossed you in the dungeon? Is that bread and water on your table there? No. I gave you a bed. Fruit.”
“So, I’m a well-fed prisoner with a down pillow.”
“If you like. The difference between this and prisoner is in many ways the same as the difference between...purchased and ransomed. Whatever makes you feel better.”
“A nap, I think.”
“Excellent. A nap. And then you will join me for dinner.”
“What? Why?”
“Because, habibti, I can hardly have you staying here at the palace looking like a prisoner, now can I?”
“Why not? Goes with the fearsome desert-man thing you’re rocking.”
“A compliment?”
“Not really. Why not?” She reiterated her earlier question.
“Because, it simply won’t do. A little investigation on your part and you could find out a lot of very terrible things about me. Most of them very true. And the last thing I need is any suspicion that I am keeping an American woman here against her will.”
“Harem rumors shall abound.”
He arched a dark brow. “Indeed.”
“So what do you want them to think? Because, all things considered, later, I will be recognized, so I can’t be here as...well...a girlfriend.”
He laughed, a strange, rusty sound. Clearly not an expression of emotion he’d used in a while. “I do not have girlfriends, Analise.”
“Ana,” she said. “No one calls me Analise.”
“Ana,” he amended, “I have lovers, if you can even call them that. Bed partners. Mistresses. Women who satisfy me physically as I satisfy them.” His words, dark, rough and uncivilized, like the man himself, should have appalled her. Just as the man himself should have appalled her. But he didn’t. And they didn’t. Instead they brought to mind lush scenes of him, more golden-brown skin on display than was decent, his arms wrapped around a woman. A rather pale woman with blond hair. She blinked rapidly and tried to dispel the image.
Zafar continued. “I do not have girlfriends. That brings to mind flowers and chocolates. Trips to the cinema. I haven’t been to a cinema in...ever. And I have not even seen a movie in at least fifteen years.”
A movie theater was a much-less-challenging image. “That’s...that doesn’t seem possible.”
Zafar was a magnified, twisted version of her in some ways. Never taking the time to do normal things because he was so burdened with purpose.
But really, never going to a movie theater? Not seeing a movie in fifteen years? He wouldn’t get half of her jokes. But then, she wondered if Tariq watched movies. They’d never talked about that. They’d talked about weighty things like duty and honor and oil.
But not movies. And she actually liked movies.
“I was a bit consumed with daily survival and making sure the Bedouin tribes weren’t completely marginalized, but yes, perhaps I should have made more time for taking in films.”
“Oh...like you’ve never had any downtime. You do have mistresses,” she said, feeling her face get hot. Because those same images were back. And the woman in the vision was a lot clearer this time. And oh my. There was no way she should be entertaining that thought. She was too practical to have vivid sexual fantasies.
“Yes, indeed, but I find sex much more interesting than watching television.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she really wished she hadn’t let it, but she hadn’t known it was going to drop open until it did. She closed it slowly. “Well, all right. There’s something I’d like to do in bed right about now. Have a nap. So...goodbye.”
He inclined his head. “Until dinner. A dress will be sent.”
“Good, I was worried. I would hate to look less than my best for you.”
He laughed again, that same uneasy, clearly not oft-used sound.
“That would be a tragic occurrence.”
“Yeah. I know, right? Now out.”
“You give an awful lot of orders for a...”
She crossed her arms. “Yes, that’s a question...what am I?”
He regarded her closely, his dark eyes searching. “Well, you do have a lot of opinions on how I ought to do things. And you are certainly trained in the art of being royal...when you aren’t letting your tongue run away with you.”
“You can see my royalty training coming through?” she asked, only half joking.
“Yes. It is in the way you stand, the way you sit. Your composure, even in a difficult situation. And considering I have just had a meeting with an ambassador that has gone very poorly...”
“Have you?”
“I might have threatened to erase him from the earth.”
“Oh, dear,” she said.
“And he may have threatened to go to the press.”
“Indeed.”
“Yes, indeed. So it will come as no surprise to anyone that I am in need of a bit of help. Especially since I am due to make a showing in public very soon.”
She eyed him critically. “Oh.”
“And I gather you’re starting to see the problem. And I think you can help me.”
She swallowed. She didn’t like the sound of this. A slow smile spread across his face, and that made her even more nervous.
“Ms. Christensen, I believe you are here to teach me to be civilized.”
* * *
Ana had to wonder what the hell he was talking about while she put on her dress, and still while she wandered down the hall.
The palace was on bare-bones staff and eerily quiet. Not like the times she’d stayed at Tariq’s palace in Shakar.
There, the palace was constant motion and sound—people moving everywhere, administrative staff, cleaning staff, serving staff, tours often being given in portions of the palace. There was always activity.
Things seemed dead here. Frozen in time. It reminded her of a fairy-tale castle, where all the inhabitants were sleeping. Or maybe turned into furniture and small appliances by a wicked enchantress.
Or maybe just that a new leader had been installed who had no subjects loyal to him beyond the broad expanse of the desert.
That was more likely.
She walked through the empty corridors and she had a sudden thought. A phone. What if she could find a phone?
She hurried through the hall, looking in opened rooms and in nooks. And there, she found one. An old-fashioned, gilded, rotary phone sitting on a pedestal. Just waiting. She walked over to the table and stood in front of it, her palms sweaty.
She could call Tariq. She knew his personal number by heart. Not because she’d used it so much, but because she’d felt a woman ought to know her fiancé’s phone number.
She stood there and imagined what she would say. And what his response would be. What if he mobilized the helicopters? And ground troops. And they swarmed the castle. And everything Zafar was working toward would be utterly destroyed because she’d had to take action.
And worse—a small voice inside of her had to say it—what if he did nothing? What if he waited? What if he too just sat back and did the thing that was most politically expedient?
That thought made her ill. And as much as she’d like to forget she’d ever had it, it was impossible to do. It was insidious, a small worm of doubt that had been burrowing its way into her for days and days now.
What if he didn’t care? Sure, threats had been made. Contact established with Zafar on the matter, but this was all so political in nature. What if, when she was now more inconvenient than convenient, Tariq wouldn’t really want her at all?
She backed away from the phone, her heart pounding hard. Later. She knew where the phone was now, and if she needed to make a call, she could do it later.
She wandered down a corridor, trying to ignore the sick feeling in her stomach, trying to stop her hands from shaking. She wandered until she heard movement. The kitchen. She could hear dishes and water. Voices. Finally things felt a little less haunted. And from there, she found the dining room. A serving girl was there, pouring a glass of something for Zafar, who was sitting on the floor on pillows in a semi-reclined position, a low table in front of him.
His shoes were off, no regard given to posture or manners. He had, in fact, started eating without her. He was using his hands, as was the custom, and yet somehow it just looked...shocking when he did it. Wholly sensual. He was eating too fast, like a man who had been without food for too long.
She thought of the jerky in his saddlebags. He had at least been without good food for too long.
He scooped a bit of rice in his hand and ate it, then licked his fingers. She felt a sharp, hard tug low in her stomach, one she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t felt. No matter how much she wished she could.
Dear heaven, if a fine was charged for looking completely disreputable, he would be forced to sell the castle to pay his debt. He just looked...dangerous and wicked, and for some reason none of it was unappealing. None of it at all. His poor table manners, the fact he was eating without her, should have offended and blotted out all the...the dark magnetism she was feeling.
But it wasn’t. Why oh why wasn’t it?
“Ana,” he said, smiling, for the benefit of the serving girl she imagined, because she’d never seen him smile before. He still looked both wicked and dangerous. “Please come in and sit down.”
She obliged, positioning herself across from him on a long, cream-colored cushion.
“Dalia, I will need privacy with Ms. Smith for the meal. We have terms to discuss. A business arrangement.”
Dalia inclined her head and set the pitcher on the table. “I’ll leave this for you, Sheikh. I wouldn’t want you to be thirsty.” She gave him a look that could only be described as adoring.
“Thank you.” He took a long gulp of his drink and waved her away. She went quickly, her head bent down.
“Firstly,” Ana said, when they were alone in the cavernous room, “Smith? Ms. Smith?”
“Ana Smith, much less damning than calling you by Analise Christensen, don’t you think? No doubt your name will be appearing in the media, if it hasn’t already. Though, I have heard nothing so I would venture to say your sheikh is conducting a covert search for you. Even more dangerous in many ways, because I have no way of knowing where he’s looking.”
“You mean he hasn’t mobilized the military and the press and the...Coast Guard?”
“Not that I have seen, no.”
“Oh.” She knew there was probably a reason, and it wasn’t that he didn’t care, just that it was strategy. Like the strategy Zafar was employing. Greater good and all. She was just one girl. She wasn’t worth uprooting national security over or anything. And stuff.
“You will be kept here at the palace. Public events would be too risky. Really, any showing in public would be. You will be known as Ana or Ms. Smith, as previously stated, and you are here to teach me...manners.”
She looked at him, half-civilized and seemingly unconcerned with it. “Manners?”
“That is oversimplifying, perhaps, but that is one thing you will help me with. I am a man too long out of society, and now I must come in as a king people can stand with. They will not stand with a barbarian.”
“But your serving girl...Dalia, she seemed to be a fan.”
“Dalia is from one of the desert tribes. Her family owes me a debt of gratitude, and she came to serve in the palace until I could secure loyal staff.”
“She likes you,” she said.
“She’s young. She’ll get over it.”
“You aren’t interested?”
“Sweet young virgins are fine for some, but not for me. I don’t have any interest in se
ducing women and breaking hearts. It’s not how I am.”
Sweet young virgins.
Well, indeed.
“Good. I feel better knowing she’s safe.” And knowing I’m safe.
Like she’d ever really had anything to be worried about. He wasn’t a going to force himself on her, that much was obvious.
Yeah, but the seducing was worrisome....
No. Nope. No. She wasn’t worried about him seducing her. That implied that she was seducible, and she was not. She so was not. But she was a sweet, kind of young...relatively. Virgin—yeah, she was that for sure—so he wasn’t going to be interested. But even if he was it wouldn’t matter.
Good grief, Ana, you have lost your fool mind.
He was holding her against her will, kind of, and making her play the part of Miss Manners. She had no reason to feel fluttery about him, and yet she did. Because it was easy to remember what it had felt like to fall asleep with his arm around her. How the weight of it had been warm, his body solid and comforting behind her.
How she hadn’t disliked it at all, but had actually wanted to stay there in his embrace. And when she’d woken and he was standing above her, rather than lying with her, she’d been confused. She’d missed his presence.
Because she’d been half-asleep and confused, but still. It was inexcusable.
Feelings like that were a betrayal. A betrayal of the man who had...probably mobilized special forces...quietly...to find her.
In the cold light of day, she feared Zafar. His power over her, the fact that she didn’t have the control. She didn’t miss having him sleep next to her. So there.
“What is it you expect me to do? Aside from telling you not to threaten dignitaries with bodily harm” she said. “Teach you which fork you eat your salad with?”
“Maybe,” he said, and for the first time she developed a hint of something genuine beneath his hard tone. “Maybe you could teach me how to have meaningful diplomatic interaction. Or at least teach me how to avoid scaring people. Something I failed at today, although, I think he very likely deserved it.”
“Wait...are you...serious? You mean you really want me to give you royal lessons?”
