by Diana Palmer
She smiled back at him. It was like a new beginning, this foreign place with a man who was already fascinating to her in every way. Her small hand reached for his under the cover of the aba. Without turning his head toward her, his long fingers curled into hers and pressed them tightly before letting them go. She remembered then that public shows of affection were unacceptable in this part of the world and she moved her hand back from his unobtrusively. He noticed, and his eyes twinkled approvingly.
Gretchen’s first sight of the palace was a revelation to Philippe, who watched her reaction with pleasure.
“The Palais Tatluk,” he murmured as it came into view, a towering, sprawling white stone structure with arched doorways and arched windows with black grillwork on both stories. There were no balconies, but then she remembered that in Arab households, the balconies always faced inward, not outward, so that the women were hidden to the eyes of the world. “The seat of power of my family.”
“It’s magnificent,” she said, lost for words.
“It was the only structure Brauer’s men didn’t destroy two years ago,” he said through his teeth, and for an instant, he looked so menacing and fierce that he seemed like a stranger. “Brauer intended using it as his headquarters when he and his mercenaries took over my country.”
“How did you escape?” she asked. “I mean, if you don’t mind telling me?”
“I slipped through the perimeter and joined a small caravan bound for Oman,” he murmured. “Then I managed passage with my pocket money to Martinique, where I…borrowed funds to launch a successful counterinvasion.”
“Against mercenaries?”
His head turned toward her, and the expression in his eyes was odd. “You know nothing of us. You may find that all your assumptions are far short of the mark. In all the Middle East, there are no mercenaries, no soldiers, equal to my sha-KOOSH.”
“Your what?”
He smiled. “My personal bodyguard. They are my sha-KOOSH—my hammer, you would say in English. They have no equal in combat, except perhaps the British SAS. The Special Air Services,” he enlightened her. “A unit of exceptionally gifted soldiers whose training methods are, shall we say, also exceptional.”
“Oh, I see. Like our Green Berets and navy SEALs,” she agreed. “You send them in against terrorists.”
“Send them in…” He seemed puzzled.
“I can’t get away from idioms,” she groaned.
He lifted an eyebrow and smiled at her. “I understand. The general sits at his desk and sends his men into battle, yes?”
“Well, not all of them,” she amended. “But no one expects the head of state to lead a charge.”
He averted his eyes before she could see the merriment in them. “Of course not.”
“You said your family had been in power here for generations.”
“So they have,” he replied. “Originally, it was part of the Turkish Ottoman Empire. Then when the French and British fought over us in the nineteenth century, foreign missionaries came in and began to convert us. We won our independence in 1930, when my grandfather defeated a detachment of the French Foreign Legion and drew together the remaining nomadic Bedouin tribes under one sheikh. My father succeeded him, but not until after he was won over to Christianity, which caused no small disturbance. He was forced to go to war to defend his position. My two half brothers were Muslim, and I was raised to honor both traditions. But some years ago, I, too, converted. This caused some dissention and my father thought it wise not to make an issue of religion. As you might understand already, there are many Muslim sects, some of which are more reactionary and militant than others. We coexist with them, and the Jews, with laws in place that protect no right more than that of freedom of worship.”
Her eyes admired him. “I think you must be a very good leader.”
He smiled at her. “I have a long way to go before I become such a man. But having a fierce little desert hen to protect might hasten my journey.”
She dropped her gaze shyly. “I’m not fierce.”
“You will be,” he replied quietly. “You have the heart of a falcon. It is only that you lack the self-confidence to realize your potential. I will make you believe in yourself. I will make you strong, as you will make me stronger.”
She glanced at him curiously. “I don’t understand.”
His eyes narrowed. “The experiences of your life have combined to strengthen you, but you’ve never really tested yourself, have you? Gretchen, most of the women of my experience—with one exception—would have run screaming for cover when the bullets started flying in Asilah. You stayed right by my side.”
“Did you think I could run away and leave you to face the danger alone?” she asked, aghast.
His chest swelled. His body tautened. His eyes began to smolder in his lean, taut face as he looked at her. “Did you know,” he said huskily, “that the falcon mates for life?”
Her lips parted as the heat built in her body from the unblinking scrutiny of those black eyes. She felt her breasts swelling, peaking, and she caught her breath at the intensity of desire that consumed her.
His gaze fell to the shapeless aba, where the small peaks were just barely discernable under the thick fabric. His face hardened even more as pleasure shot through him. He hated his impotence. He groaned and dragged his eyes away to the passing landscape outside the speeding car.
“One day,” she said very softly, so that she couldn’t be overheard by the bodyguards in another compartment of the car, “you’re going to be very glad that Maggie couldn’t come to work for you. I promise you, I’m going to do everything in my power to make you happy.”
He seemed almost to flinch. “How, by marrying half a man?” he choked.
“You’re more man than anyone I’ve ever known, Philippe Sabon,” she said huskily. “I’d rather have only kisses with you than a full relationship with any other man in the world.”
He turned back to her slowly, frowning, his eyes wary and strange. He looked at her with pure longing. “I feel that way, with you,” he whispered.
Her eyes lit up. What he could see of her face was suddenly radiant.
“I could love you,” he said harshly.
“I know. I could love you, too,” she whispered back.
His whole body tensed, as if he were about to throw convention and formality to the four winds. But just as he moved all but imperceptibly toward her, the car swerved and when he looked out the window, they were going around the long paved driveway that led through legions of straight palm trees to the front entrance of the palace.
As if his sudden weakness irritated him, Philippe left the car as soon as the chauffeur opened the door, leaving Gretchen to follow, with the huge ponytailed guard still at her side. He looked totally Arab, but there was something in his face that reminded her whimsically of the late singer, Elvis Presley. She wondered what Philippe would say if she called his burly bodyguard a nickname. In the days to come, perhaps she’d find out!
The interior of the palace was as captivating and beautiful as the exterior. The floor tiles were done in a dozen shades of blue. There were graceful arches everywhere and expensive carpets on the floors. There was a staircase that Gretchen fell in love with the instant she saw it beyond the enormous crystal chandelier sparkling in the foyer. She turned around slowly, mesmerized by her surroundings, so intent on looking that she backed right into something warm and solid and suddenly turned to find herself at the mercy of black eyes that made her feel hunted.
A spate of rapid Arabic came from Philippe to the slight, formally dressed man in the dark suit who was glaring at Gretchen.
“This is Ahmed,” Philippe introduced him. “He is my uncle, the brother of my father. Ahmed, this is my fiancée,” he said. “Gretchen Brannon from Jacobsville, Texas.”
For an instant, pure hatred flashed in the older man’s eyes. “Fiancée? An infidel? An…American?” he made the word sound obscene.
Gretchen drew herself u
p and started to speak, but Philippe moved in front of her before she could. There was another rapid-fire burst of Arabic and the older man’s eyelids flinched. He bowed quickly, murmuring something, and moved away. The bodyguards followed, except for Gretchen’s “Elvis.”
“I told you it would be difficult,” Philippe told Gretchen gently. “But you must not involve yourself in verbal altercations with him. He is Muslim. It would cause grave offense. You understand?”
She drew in her breath quickly. “I understand. Really.”
His eyes softened. “I would not mind for my own sake. It is for your safety that I worry. He is powerful and he has allies at court. Save for myself, and my father, he is the only other claimant to the robes of state. He would like to be sheikh.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I won’t give him any reason to use me against you.”
His eyes twinkled. “As if he could.” He moved forward, his expression lightening. “I can’t talk to you like this.” He reached down and whipped off the aba, mussing her hair in the process. He tossed the garment to “Elvis” and indicated that Gretchen should join him as he walked down the long hall. “Now for the next hurdle,” he mused to himself.
He led the way through another archway, down another hall, and suddenly they were in what looked like a tropical paradise. The tiled room was huge. Fountains sang from every corner. There were palm trees and tropical vegetation and, everywhere, orchids. Hundreds of orchids.
“Oh, glory,” Gretchen exclaimed. “Oh, how beautiful. How beautiful!” She went close to a yellowish-green bloom with speckles on it and leaned forward to breathe in its exquisite fragrance. Her fingertips caressed it lightly.
“Do not touch them!” came a harsh, furious voice from behind them.
She stumbled in her haste to move away from the orchid and barely saved herself from a hard fall. The old man staring at them was wearing a white thobe and a matching skullcap, called a taiga. He looked formidable for a gardener, and he was heavyset and big. He wore a beard and mustache, both white like his thick hair.
“They’re exquisite,” Gretchen said, pushing back her disheveled hair. “I’m sorry, but I love flowers. I can’t bear not to touch them. I have an orchid of my own—just a phalanopsis, a little inexpensive one—and I pamper it, too.”
“Only one?” the old man mused.
She flushed. “Yes, well, I don’t have a proper place to keep them. And I couldn’t afford many of them even if I did,” she added with complete honesty.
His eyes narrowed. “You are unveiled in front of men who are not your husband,” he replied. “And you wear garments that offend my eyes and those of my brother and my male household.”
Philippe moved forward. He spoke to the old man sharply, although with great respect.
The old man gaped at him. “You would marry that?” he exclaimed, indicating Gretchen. “An American? An infidel from the very pit of hell?!”
Gretchen gasped. He had a lot of gall for a servant.
“A skinny infidel, at that,” he added, with a disapproving stare.
“How dare you!” she exclaimed before Philippe could intervene, and her green eyes flashed furiously. “I go to church, I’ll have you know, and I’d lay a man out with a horsewhip before I’d let him touch me without a wedding ring on my finger!”
The old man’s eyebrows lifted. He pursed his lips and cocked his head to stare at her outraged, flushed face. “FIL-fil,” he murmured dryly, and suddenly burst out laughing.
Philippe chuckled and exchanged a brief couple of sentences with the old man.
The older man grimaced, but he was silent. Philippe bowed and his older counterpart waved his hand dismissively and, with a last glare in Gretchen’s direction, turned away and went back to his orchids with a magnificent air of indifference to them both.
Philippe motioned for Gretchen to go with him.
“My goodness, what a bigot,” Gretchen said angrily. “And he called me a name, too. What did he call me?”
“Never mind,” he murmured with a chuckle. “I told you he would try to intimidate you. Had you let him get away with it, you would be halfway back to Texas by now, forcibly escorted to the airport by his entire personal bodyguard.”
“Your gardener has that sort of power?” she exclaimed.
“Not my gardener, Gretchen. My father.”
Her lips pursed. “Ooops!” she murmured self-consciously.
“Don’t worry, he’ll adjust to you,” he said. He turned to the ponytailed bodyguard who’d been waiting in the corridor with them, and shot a command at him. The bodyguard bowed and walked away.
“Where’s he going?” Gretchen asked.
“So you miss him already, hmm?” Philippe asked with a grin. “I have assigned him to protect you with his life. He will never leave you, except while you sleep. Even then, he will sleep at your door.”
“You’re taking my safety very seriously,” she said, impressed and a little curious.
He stopped and turned to her. “I think that Brauer has a spy among my household,” he said bluntly. “I also think he had a part in the border attack today. I can’t afford to relax my guard, especially now. You must never leave your quarters without Hassan.”
“You mean ‘Elvis.”’
His eyebrows lifted. “A nickname, yes? Have you spoken to him?” he asked suddenly.
The question puzzled her. “I don’t speak Arabic yet.”
“Ah. I see. A lucky guess, perhaps.”
“Now you’re being enigmatic,” she accused.
“A private joke, nothing more. Call him what you like, then. In my country when people marry, the bride is given a dowry by her husband.”
“I don’t want money from you,” she said firmly.
His eyes twinkled. “Very well then. I will give you Hassan. He is yours.”
“He doesn’t look like white gold to me, but maybe he has hidden talents,” she murmured dryly. Her eyes sparkled. “Since he belongs to me, if you divorce me, can I carry him home and keep him?”
He laughed out loud. “That need will not arise. Divorce will be out of the question, you understand?”
“Yes.” She searched his eyes. “But we’re not being married in a church, are we?”
His smile faded. “Not yet, no. The ceremony will be a very simple one, a tribal one, with a minimum of witnesses and no formal festivities. Marriage in a grand cathedral—and we have such a place here—would be binding for life.” His eyes were sad and bitter. “If there were a possibility of children, it would require a state wedding. But that is impossible.”
“Who will inherit this when you die?” she asked with equal sadness.
“Did I not tell you? Brianne’s little boy will become sheikh at my death,” he said simply. “A beautiful child, with the dark eyes and hair of his father,” added with cold distaste. “And, of course, his father will oppose this, as he opposes anything that might necessitate meetings between his wife and myself. He is a violently jealous and possessive man.”
And this Brianne meant something important to Philippe still, if he was willing to give his kingdom to her child. She wondered how his uncle would react to this news, not to mention his father.
He sighed irritably at the thought of Pierce Hutton. “God knows what she sees in such a man,” he muttered.
“What’s her husband like?” she asked curiously.
“Rich.”
She laughed. “Besides that?”
“He owns an international construction corporation. He builds oil platforms, among other things.” He glanced at her. “A brave man, although I find him distasteful. He and Brianne and I barely escaped Qawi with our lives during Brauer’s attack. It was Hutton who loaned me the money for the counterrevolution here.” His eyes glittered. “A fact of which he never tires reminding me.”
It sounded as though there was still a rivalry between the two men. Gretchen was curious about the unknown Brianne. She must be a raving beauty to have two such men vying fo
r her. It was natural that her husband should love her, but Gretchen was intensely jealous of Philippe’s pointed references to her.
“Will I see you again today?” she asked abruptly.
“Perhaps,” he said, gesturing to the pretty young woman in an embroidered beige gellabia that fell gracefully to her ankles and a neat beige patterned hijab who came back with “Elvis.” “Here is Leila to take you to your quarters. I have had my paternal grandmother’s rooms made ready for you. I think you will like them. She was Turkish. Her late husband was French.”
“Is she still alive?”
He shook his head. “She died twenty years ago. I remember her love for orchids. She passed it on to my father.”
“At least he likes something,” she said wistfully.
“Yes. His beloved orchids,” Philippe said with a mocking smile. “And very little else, except his country. Never mind. You will have little enough to do with him. Go with…Hassan,” he said, grinning, and she knew he’d been about to use her nickname for the man. He said something to “Elvis” that made him smile and then followed the remark with an obvious command in Arabic. The bodyguard nodded curtly and bowed.
He turned and spoke to the pretty dark-eyed young woman, who smiled and caught Gretchen firmly by the hand.
“You will come with me, please, Lady FIL-fil,” she said respectfully.
Philippe gave a loud laugh. “Now you, too, have a nickname, mademoiselle,” he teased. “You can thank my father for it.”
“What does it mean?” she asked apprehensively.
His black eyes twinkled. “It means pepper. And I assure you, it was not of a mild species my father was thinking when he used the term!”
Chapter Nine
Leila took Gretchen into the luxurious confines of the white and gold quarters in the women’s section of the palace. The Texas woman stood and stared at it with disbelief. It was like something out of a luxury magazine, she thought, with lavish tile on the floors and even the walls, with a bathroom the size of her house back in Jacobsville, complete with huge bathing pool and skylight. The pool was surrounded by the same tile that graced the floors, and potted palms and flowering plants all but concealed it.
