Hearts on Fire: Romance Multi-Author Box Set Anthology

by Violet Vaughn

  3

  “His Majesty Sheikh Osman Bin Nizwan Al Kilanjar.” Sam understood enough to make out that much. The loud clash they heard must have been the clanging of twelve swords, as two rows of six armed guards created a tunnel of blades for his majesty to walk through.

  Talk about pretentious!

  Sheikh Osman held his chin high as he swept under their raised weapons and through a pointed archway. Two stern young men motioned for them to follow. Her blood pressure hadn’t yet come down from the crash, and she’d have grabbed Allan’s hand for support except that he’d shoved them both down hard into the pockets of his rumpled khakis.

  She walked gingerly across the polished marble floor, wishing with all her might that she hadn’t dressed up in this ridiculous costume. Osman had probably just suggested it to make fun of her. The archway led into a banqueting hall with a long table lined with heavy carved chairs. Silver plate and ornate silver goblets were laid for about twenty people, and Sam’s eyes widened as she saw the plates piled high with fragrant food.

  Rice pilaf, spiced chicken, skewers laden with barbequed shrimp, piles of glistening orange segments, slippery mango and papaya slices and shiny dates. There were also piles of steaming flatbreads and jugs of mysterious liquids.

  Not a toasted tarantula in sight. Her stomach grumbled, and she glanced around hoping no one had heard it.

  “Samantha, I’m delighted to welcome you to my table.” Sheikh Osman swept toward her. He’d changed into a new robe with subtle silver embroidery around the collar, which made him look impressively regal. The intensity of his gaze was quite unsettling. She struggled to stay focused as it heated her skin.

  “It is very kind of you to feed us, after all the trouble you’ve been to already.”

  “There’s nothing I enjoy more than sharing the prosperity I’ve been blessed with. Come sit with me.” He gestured to the head of the table. She glanced at Allan, who looked rather stunned. When she looked back at Sheikh Osman she saw a trace of a frown in his brow. “Your friend shall join my brothers at the other end of the table. Amahd and Zadir, please make our new friend…Allan”—he looked a little amused as he said it—“feel quite at home here in Ubar.”

  His brothers were almost as tall as Osman. Zadir had the wolfish good looks of a typical playboy. Amahd was also disturbingly gorgeous, with a more serious expression.

  Poor Allan looked awfully small and disheveled in their midst. She wished she could go sit next to him to help him through the conversation. She couldn’t imagine that Zadir and Amahd knew all that much about the esoteric world of documentary production.

  But Osman cupped her elbow with one of his big hands. His fingers sent a ripple of sensation through her silky finery and almost made her gasp. And why not? It was odd for a strange man to touch her. She was glad the dress she wore was just loose enough to hide the embarrassing way her nipples tightened in response to him simply touching her arm.

  He probably knew the effect he had on women and was just toying with her. She wouldn’t allow it to throw her off course. She intended to be polite and cordial and do everything in her power to ease their passage out of here at the crack of dawn tomorrow.

  A servant pulled back her chair and slid it in while she sat. She smiled shyly at Osman, then cursed herself for it when one side of his mouth hitched suggestively in response. She busied herself spreading a napkin on her lap, trying to ignore the flare of warmth in her core. This was ridiculous. She wasn’t attracted to this ostentatious peacock. She much preferred a humble man with a sharp intellect to flashy good looks and an outsize ego.

  “Would you like some kefir? It’s made fresh every day from our own goats.” He lifted a delicate silver jug.

  “Then I can hardly say no.” Her taste buds grimaced at the prospect of drinking goats’ milk, but she didn’t smell anything acrid or sour as he poured it out. In fact, it was pale pink.

  “It’s laced with rose water and cardamom.” He lifted her silver goblet. “Try it.”

  She took the cup from him, careful not to have any accidental contact with his fingers, and raised it gingerly to her lips. The fluid slipped over her tongue like rich cream.

  “It doesn’t taste like goat’s milk at all.”

  “We have the finest goats in the world, bred for centuries to produce the sweetest, purest milk.”

  “It’s delicious.” She took another sip, glad she could actually tell the truth. And it was rather sweet of him to be proud of his goats.

  Sheikh Osman had insanely long, thick lashes, like a Hollywood starlet. They contrasted amusingly with the dark shadow of stubble that made his cheekbones jut out.

  She really needed to stop staring at him like this.

  Sam cleared her throat. “That business with the swords nearly made me jump out of my skin.”

  He chuckled. “Old tradition. Some of these guards have been with my father for more than fifty years, and their lives revolve around such small rituals. It would be almost cruel to make them put their swords away.”

  “I read that your father died four months ago. When do you take his place as ruler?”

  His expression was unreadable. “My father’s will contained a number of conditions that must be fulfilled before I can take the throne.”

  “You have to get married.” She helped herself to some crispy-skinned chicken pieces.

  He stared at her. “How did you know that?”

  “I read it in People magazine. They didn’t go into much detail, though. Do you stick with one wife here, or are there usually several?” She couldn’t resist teasing him, even though she knew the answer already.

  His brow lowered. “Only one. We may be a traditional culture, but we are not primitive or barbaric.”

  “I’m sure there are people who consider having several wives to be very civilized. Possibly even the wives themselves, who might be glad to share the duties involved in keeping a powerful man happy.”

  “Duties?” He ignored the plate of grilled shrimp hovering just to his left. Apparently, her questions were getting under his skin.

  She raised a brow.

  “I assure you that no wife of mine will have the opportunity to grow weary of my company in the bedroom.” Osman helped himself to shrimp and rice, then put down his utensils. He looked into her eyes, unblinking, until she felt her breath grow shorter. “I shall make it my business to please her so that she craves my company as much as I crave hers.”

  “Oh.” It was all she could manage. She might have a forkful of food hovering out there somewhere near her mouth, but she’d lost all focus on anything except Osman’s intense gaze. “I’m sure she’ll be very happy.” Her voice came out oddly raspy. Her mind was tumbling with distracting visions of Sheikh Osman pleasuring…her.

  Which would certainly never happen.

  She tried to convince herself that she pitied his future wife, who would find that pretending to be delirious with pleasure in the sheikh’s arms was part of her rather demanding job. If she was completely honest, Sam had to admit that she didn’t really see what all the fuss what about when it came to sex. It was pleasurable, sure, in the same way that drinking hot cocoa on a chilly day was nice, but she didn’t want to drink hot cocoa for hours on end, day after day, either. Just once a week or so was fine.

  “Have you ever been married?”

  His question surprised her. “Not to a man. I’ve been married to my job a few times.”

  “Making films?”

  “It’s one of those careers that take over your life. There’s a lot of travel, and when we’re shooting the days can be so long that there’s barely time to sleep.”

  “Does it pay well?” He sipped a goblet of some pale-green liquid he’d just poured. He had very sensual lips for a man. Not that she liked that sort of thing.

  “Not at all.” She smiled. “As you can tell, I’m pretty nuts.”

  He raised a brow. “But you love what you do.”

  “Absolutely. Each project
is a big adventure filled with challenges to overcome. I thrive on adversity, I guess, because I just go out looking for more trouble after each project wraps.”

  He smiled. “The kind of trouble that finds you stranded at nightfall in a dangerous stretch of mountainous desert.”

  “Exactly. It’s not very dangerous, though, is it? I thought most of the conflicts in this region were resolved with the 1987 peace treaty.”

  He sighed. “Lately trouble has been brewing again. Terrorism to all appearances, but we’re not sure who’s responsible.”

  “I didn’t read about it when I did my research.”

  “So far we’ve managed to keep it out of the international press. They’ve been small incidents, and mercifully no one has been killed.

  “What happened?”

  “Three months ago an oil well out near our western border was set alight. We’ve had men working day and night trying to put it out. Millions of barrels of oil have been wasted and the pollution is hard to contain.”

  “You’re sure it’s arson?”

  He nodded. “There was a phone call to our security office declaring responsibility, but not claiming it for any particular group.”

  “That’s odd. Usually terrorists are dying to draw attention to their cause.”

  He shrugged. “And then last month an explosion almost totally destroyed a small temple just outside the city wall. It was one of the oldest structures in Ubar. No one was hurt because it hasn’t been used in years, but it’s a loss to those who want to preserve our history.”

  “Could it be a radical group who wants a break with the past?”

  “I suspect it’s more likely to be a traditional group that wants to prevent the changes we hope to bring.” He ate thoughtfully for a moment. “But the events don’t seem to have any coherent message. My brother Zadir was in a plane that crashed under suspicious circumstances, and last week five shots were fired at my brother Amahd when he was out riding in the desert. Fortunately, they missed, but now we all feel we have to watch our backs for the first time in our lives. I had to fight off my own security detail just to go visit an old friend alone today.”

  “It sounds like an investigation into these events might make an even more interesting documentary than the festival.”

  “Not if I can help it.” He sipped his drink. “My security staff is on alert.”

  “How do you monitor activity at a festival, where there are hundreds of people milling about?”

  He inhaled deeply. “You don’t. I’ll admit our intelligence needs some work. Even if we were inclined to invade people’s privacy by monitoring emails and phone calls, many of the houses here consider electricity to be a fad not worth bothering with.” A smile tugged at his mouth.

  His lips were quite something. She’d bet he was a pretty spectacular kisser. Which was hardly relevant. “It must be challenging being the person who has to decide which comes first, people’s right to privacy or the need to maintain public safety.”

  “It’s certainly a different kind of challenge from running the robotics company I’ve been building for the last seven years.”

  “I’m picturing R2D2 and C3PO.”

  He chuckled. “Instead, picture machinery assembling high-tech equipment. We make a few consumer goods, but they’re not our big sellers. My brother Zadir thought it would be fun to send a vacuum cleaner robot I developed out into the marketplace in Nabattur. People decided it was possessed by an evil spirit and beat it to death with broomsticks.”

  She laughed aloud. “Poor little robot.”

  “It was misunderstood, ” he said with a wistful smile. “My father was comfortable with the old ways and made few efforts to bring technology and change to Ubar.”

  “I’m guessing you feel differently.” She bit into an unfamiliar fruit, and its sweetness splashed across her tongue.

  “It’s a dilemma. Most people here have lived the same way for centuries, taking donkeys to the market instead of cars, talking to each other over coffee instead of texting. Who am I to say the new ways are better? Although we have some key reforms planned, when it comes to smaller things I prefer to allow people to pick and choose.” He shrugged. “But I’m making high-speed Internet access a top priority because I’ve forgotten how to live without it.”

  She leaned, feeling relaxed with him. He was easy to talk to as well as gorgeous. “I know what you mean. I feel lost without my phone right now. It’s rather pathetic how dependent we’ve become on all these devices.”

  Something urged her to turn around, and she looked right across the table into Allan’s plaintive face. She realized she was smiling broadly and beamed it at him. Then she lifted her cup of goat’s milk as if to toast him. His expression remained wary.

  Could he be upset that she was enjoying her conversation with their host? Surely he knew she had to be polite. Allan couldn’t be jealous. He was too smart for that.

  “If you give me your phones I’ll have them charged for you. I’m sure we have the appropriate charging devices somewhere.”

  “Oh.” She wasn’t sure she trusted this man enough to hand over her phone. Who knew what he could do with all information on it? Though even her most private texts and emails were hardly classified. “That would be very kind of you.”

  “In the morning, I’ll give you a tour of the palace while my men retrieve your vehicle.”

  He was so charming and personable that she wanted to smile and say yes. But what if he brought their Land Rover back here and didn’t fix it? “I think it would be better if we just met a tow truck out there. It’s important that we don’t miss the opening day of the festival.”

  She couldn’t think of any good reason why he’d want to keep them here any longer than he had to, but she’d learned on her travels that people’s motivations could be hard to fathom.

  “Perhaps I can drive you to the festival? I’d be happy to give you a tour of Nabattur and point out the highlights. Not being familiar with our culture, you might miss things that I can easily show you.”

  “Wow, are you serious?” Her misgivings shrank back, and enthusiasm boomed through her. It wasn’t like she was filming political events and had to be careful not to become biased. It was a festival of romance, and seeing it through the eyes of the local crown prince was sure to give the documentary an authentic sparkle she couldn’t have dreamed up if she’d tried.

  “Of course I’m serious. I’m always serious.” The humor in his eyes suggested otherwise. But she was willing to take a chance, as long as he really would get them to the festival. Once they got to Nabattur they wouldn’t need a car. The ancient walled city was less than half a mile across. “Tomorrow’s the day the men choose their mates.”

  She’d seen grainy sixteen-millimeter film footage from the 1960s of the ceremony. Each man rushed up to a woman and flung a garland over her neck. In the film all the women looked delighted, even as they sometimes pretended to try to pull it off or throw it back. “How come the men choose the women? Why not the other way around?”

  “Some would tell you that’s exactly what happens. The women flirt with the men, and encourage their pursuit. Then the men must court them and win their affections, all within the three days of the festival. On the third day, they marry.”

  The festival was a courtship in miniature. Or maybe courtship was a strong word. In many ways it mimicked the abduction scenarios that probably counted as courtship for much of human history. On the first day the man claims his mate, on the second day he serenades her in song and dance, and on the third day all the couples are wed in a spectacular group ceremony in the center of town.

  “Do the marriages started this way actually last? I can see how people get caught up in the moment and swept away on a tide of romance and mass hysteria, but what happens when they wake up six months later and wonder what they were thinking?”

  Sheikh Osman tilted his chin. “There is no divorce in Ubar. It’s forbidden by law.”

  She raised a brow.
“Is that why you’ve never married?”

  A mischievous grin snuck across his mouth. “Quite possibly.”

  4

  After dinner they moved outside to a lovely sitting area near a fountain in the garden. The trickling sound of water and the dancing reflection of the torches on the walls created a soothing atmosphere. Sam found herself seated next to Osman again, on a low sofa scattered with embroidered cushions, but this time Allan refused to be coaxed aside and insisted on sitting right on the other side of her.

  She placed a reassuring hand on his knee. “Allan, Sheikh Osman has offered to take us to the festival tomorrow. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “You can call me Osman.” His deep voice filled the space between them before Allan had a chance to reply.

  “I’d rather go there in our car.” Allan ignored their host and spoke directly to her. “That way we’ll be able to come and go as we please.”

  Sam felt a twinge of embarrassment at his rudeness. She had to admit she was looking forward to seeing the ancient city through its future ruler’s eyes.

  Eyes that rested on her right now with a disconcerting effect. Why did her blood pressure seem to rise every time he even glanced at her?

  Maybe it would be better if she and Allan drove themselves.

  “Cars don’t fit down the narrow streets of Nabattur,” said Osman with a sly smile. “So they’re only useful for getting there in the first place. And I think you’ll find you’re able to catch more of the nuances of the festival with a guide who knows and understands the traditions behind it.”

  “I agree, Allan. I haven’t heard from the translator who was supposed to meet us there. He might have called my phone but it’s dead. Now we’ve missed our appointment with him we might never find him. I don’t even know enough of the language to ask the right questions of participants, let alone understand them.”

  Allan shoved a hand through his hair, “We need to get our phones charged.”