by Marie Tuhart
Opening her eyes, she saw several police vehicles maneuver around them. “What’s going on?”
“The authorities will take care of the paparazzi. They know the rules about following anyone.” He gave her a smile in the rearview mirror, his brown eyes twinkling. “Now, we can proceed unhampered to the palace.”
Catherine let out a breath as she realized the Arabic she’d heard was the driver calling the authorities. His quick thinking eased the knot in her stomach.
The taxi turned, leaving behind the police and the paparazzi. After several more turns, her breath caught in her throat at the sight in front of her.
The palace, looking like something straight out of the Arabian Nights, loomed in the background. A large golden gate stood closed, as if protecting the palace and its inhabitants from the world. And in a way, it did. Her fingers itched to sketch the scene before her, but she’d have time later.
The driver pulled up and rolled down his window. A guard in a deep red and gold uniform stepped out of a small guard station. A quick conversation took place in Arabic. Catherine regretted she hadn’t had more time to learn the language before she left home. But she caught the words “guest” and “woman” before the gate opened.
Surprise gripped her. She had expected to at least identify herself, but it seemed as if the guards knew her driver. Then she remembered the man at the airport called him by name.
Was that unusual? Probably not. Bashir was a small country, and its capital wasn’t huge, so it might not be uncommon to know a taxi driver by name. She shrugged off her thoughts as the vehicle moved forward.
Transported to a time of old, the palace was a mixture of Cinderella’s castle and Buckingham Palace all rolled into one, with subtle hints of desert culture included.
It was painted white, the perfect artist’s backdrop for the colorful Moroccan shutters, some of them open and some closed, protecting the windows.
The staircase leading up to the palace entrance gleamed as if recently polished. Columns with various scroll designs and colors rose majestically, creating an open feeling without looking out of place.
So intent was she on her observations, Catherine was startled when Samir opened her door and held a hand out to her.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome. If you’ll go up the stairs, I will bring your luggage. I’m sure the king and queen are anxious to meet you.” He glanced toward the palace.
Standing on the landing, in the shade, were a man and a woman. Catherine smoothed down her skirt, praying it wasn’t too wrinkled from her travels. She had hoped to freshen up before meeting her hosts, but how could she have known she’d be waylaid at the airport by a handsome stranger without time to duck into the ladies’ room?
With a smile, she held her head high and walked up the steps. Heat rose from the ground with each step she took. It was going to take her a while to get used to the heat. London had been dreary and raining when she left.
“Miss Taylor,” said the queen, holding out her hand. “I’m so glad you arrived.”
Catherine was startled to hear a British accent. “Thank you, ma’am.” She took the queen’s hand and curtseyed. The queen’s blond hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and she wore a caftan of white with red and gold stripes running through it. Catherine hadn’t been aware the queen was British.
“None of that,” laughed the queen. “Call me Anna. We’re very informal people in our home.”
With a nod, Catherine glanced at the man standing next to the queen. He wore dark pants with a white shirt, and his black hair was streaked with gray. “Sir,” she said with a slight bow.
The man laughed, full and rich. “I’m Jamal. As my wife said, we’re very informal, Miss Taylor.” He frowned as he looked over her shoulder.
The queen’s gaze widened. “Please, come inside out of this heat. Jamal will see to your luggage.”
“Oh, but … ”
“It will be my pleasure,” the king said. “Especially since none of my sons are here at the moment. Plus, I’d like a word with Samir.”
Catherine glanced over her shoulder to see Samir standing at the bottom of the stairs with her suitcase and carry-on bag at his feet. “I’m sure the driver will bring in the luggage, sir. And I still need to pay him.” She started to turn away, but the queen captured her arm.
“Nonsense, my dear. Jamal will take care of the driver and your luggage.”
“I most certainly will.” The king’s tone was stern, and Catherine couldn’t help but watch over her shoulder as the queen escorted her to the entrance of the palace. The king and Samir were having a very animated discussion before her view was cut off.
She was tempted to intervene. She didn’t want Samir to get into trouble just because the stranger at the airport had put her into his taxi, but the sudden coolness of the entryway made it easier for her to breathe. Then she lost her breath all together as she took in the entryway.
The high ceilings created an open feeling, but the colorful motifs captivated her attention. A variety of designs and patterns covered the walls. Each one was unique in color and style, and they painted a tableau of an alluring desert encampment. The artist in her wanted to study each and every one of them.
Anna led Catherine down a long corridor, past several doors and sets of guards, to a cozy room, decorated in neutral brown and beige colors. Sofas were scattered around the room, along with side tables. The main window took up one wall, ceiling to floor, allowing natural light to flood the room, yet the sheers and natural hedge outside allowed for privacy as well.
“Please have a seat,” Anna said, gesturing to one of the sofas. “I think juice is in order, rather than tea.” The queen looked at her for confirmation.
“Juice is fine.” Catherine sat down on the sofa, feeling a bit out of place. While the space was welcoming, she was aware that most of her flat back home could fit into this room.
Within minutes a tray of juice with cookies was brought in by a servant. Catherine picked up her glass and sipped. The coolness of the liquid as it slipped down her dry throat gave instant relief.
“Jamal and I are so excited you have arrived.” The queen smiled. “There was some, how can I put this, discussion with your manager about your coming to Bashir.”
Catherine set her glass down, not realizing Bill had expressed any concerns about the trip. “I’m sorry if I’ve caused you an inconvenience. It’s rare that Bill agrees to any job without my input, Your Majesty. I had to rearrange some things in order to come to your lovely country.”
She hoped she sounded sincere, because she was. Her objection to the job had more to do with personal reasons rather than professional. This was a high-profile job, and her run-in with the paparazzi reminded her of times she’d rather forget.
“No inconvenience on our part. I’m happy you were able to accommodate us. Now, tell me how you’d like to work while you’re here.”
Catherine wasn’t sure how one could be informal with royalty, but there were some things she needed to know. “First, I hope my clothing is okay. My manager didn’t give me a lot of information on the clothing requirements.”
Anna smiled. “No worries, my dear. We are mainly a Christian country. There are some Muslims. For generations, both religions have worked side by side. You’ll see both Western dress and Arab dress while you’re here.”
Catherine breathed a sigh of relief. Over the next half hour she explained to Anna how she’d like to view the room where the mural would go, and if possible, talk with the children who would be occupying the room.
Bill, her manager, had told her the king and queen had seen her work when it had been featured in a magazine and wanted her to paint the mural. She’d only agreed to the job when she’d been told the mural was for critically ill children at the new hospital. Otherwise, she would have made her manager turn down the high-profile job.
“That sounds doable. May I ask why you want to talk with the children?”
&n
bsp; “To get their ideas. This isn’t like painting a mural in the lobby of an office or for a city building. The children will be in this room for weeks or sometimes even months. Getting their input on what they’d like to see is invaluable.”
Catherine paused. “I will need someone to translate while I’m here. I’m afraid I was only able to learn a little bit of Arabic before I left home.”
“That won’t be an issue. English is a common second language here. All the children are taught it.”
“That’s a relief. I was worried about how I would communicate with them.”
“I can see now why you’re so sought after. Not only do you have incredible talent, but you’re also very compassionate and willing to listen.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” She gave a little smile when the queen raised her eyebrows. “Anna,” she amended.
The queen gave a dainty laugh. “You’re going to be very good for my family. I take it you had a good flight?”
“Yes, it was very smooth. I just had … ” Catherine trailed off, not sure how much she should share with the queen. Before she could speak, a yawn escaped. “Oh, please excuse me.” Another yawn escaped. Lord, how gauche could she be?
“No apologies. Traveling can be tiring.” The queen stood. “I’ll show you to your room. I’m sure Jamal has already taken care of your luggage.”
Catherine followed Anna up a set of stairs and past another set of guards. “I should explain,” the queen said, gesturing to the guards. “I’ll give you the grand tour later, but there are basically three levels. The basement houses security; the first level has our offices, official function rooms, and some family rooms; then this floor, which houses all our private rooms.” The queen led Catherine down the hall. “The guards keep unwanted visitors from our private floor.”
Anna paused at a door, then flung it open. “This is your room. I hope you will be comfortable here.” She gestured for Catherine to enter.
“Oh, my,” Catherine said as she moved into the room. It was huge. The balcony doors were open, and the warm, fresh air teased her senses.
On one side of the room there was a small bar area, complete with a coffeepot and sink. A small oak dining table with chairs occupied the space in front of the bar. Several sofas were spread around the room, each plush and inviting with an array of throw pillows. A full-size cherrywood desk and leather chair in the corner rounded out the furniture in the room.
“This could be considered a living room; the bedroom is beyond that door.” The bracelets on the queen’s wrists jingled when she waved her hand in the direction of the bedroom. “The bathroom is to the right. I instructed a maid to unpack your belongings.” Anna smiled. “I’ll leave you now to rest. I’ll send a maid up an hour before dinner to allow you time to freshen up.”
“Thank you.” Catherine tried to wrap her mind around what was happening. She wasn’t used to such luxury. It was a far cry from her earlier starving-artist days.
Anna paused by the door. “I’m hoping over dinner you can explain how Samir came to drive you home.” Then she scooted out the door and closed it behind her.
Catherine pondered the queen’s question until she walked into the bedroom. The four-poster canopy-top bed drove all thoughts from her mind. Draped in what looked like gauzy silk fabric of multiple colors, it dominated one full wall and was a bed out of a dream.
She yawned. Sleep, then she’d contemplate why the queen asked her about Samir. She shook her head. What a small country if royalty knows every taxi driver’s name.
Several hours later, Catherine pulled back the heavy bedroom curtains, letting in the bright sunlight. She’d forgotten to ask the queen what time dinner was and a maid had yet to arrive. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was barely past six, yet the sun was still very bright.
Without thought, she found her bag and pulled out her sketchpad, and sitting with crossed legs on the mattress, she began sketching—her first impression of the palace, the city, and lastly of the stranger at the airport.
She frowned at the drawing. It wasn’t enough. While it looked like him, something was lacking. Tossing her sketchpad down, she padded over to the window.
The garden below called out to her, with its winding pathways and exotic plants. How did they keep it so lush in the desert climate? The greenery energized her soul. A little exercise wouldn’t hurt. After slipping on her shoes and grabbing her sketchpad and pens, she left her room.
At the end of the hallway, she asked the guard how she could get to the garden. With a polite smile, he escorted her down another set of stairs. At her inquiry, he told her dinner would be at eight. He opened a door and explained she could use it to come back into the palace and to her room.
When she stepped outside, the scent of jasmine filled her senses and her muscles instantly relaxed. The quiet snick of the door closing spurred her into action. She took the first path until she found a nice grassy area beneath a palm tree. She sat and opened her sketchpad.
Her fingers flew over the pages as she captured the scenes flittering through her mind. She lost all track of time until a husky male voice said, “Hello, beautiful.”
Her head snapped up to see the stranger from the airport.
3
Malik strolled through the palace, grateful no one was around. He needed some time alone, some time to digest what the prime minster had told him. Quietly, he made his way over the highly polished floors to the door that led to the gardens.
Once outside, he took a deep breath, inhaling the aromas of rose, jasmine, and frankincense. The sweet fragrances relieved some of his stress. The garden was his refuge when he needed to think or to get away from everyone. The peace and quiet were exactly what he needed before he had to face his family and their guest over dinner.
Malik blew out a breath. The prime minister was very encouraging of what Malik and his father hoped to accomplish, and while the prime minister was a little more progressive, he wasn’t sure about upsetting his people. That news hadn’t been what Malik had hoped for. They needed to bring their countries into the current century rather than living in the past; if they didn’t, they were going to be left behind. They were getting better with exporting the food they grew, and wool, but there was always more they could do.
It was a wonder he’d been able to get through the meeting at all since that kiss with a certain female at the airport had distracted him. Her dark red hair had flowed over her shoulders, her skin had been as smooth as a rose petal, and those blue eyes … they reminded him of the water at the oasis by his desert encampment. Calm and cool. And her lips … full, soft, and very kissable.
A different type of tension filled him, but this time it was pleasurable. He hadn’t reacted to a woman like that in years, and he couldn’t say why he’d reacted that way to her. He didn’t regret kissing her, he only regretted that the paparazzi had followed her and that he wouldn’t be able to explore his attraction to her.
He needed to check with Samir about where he’d dropped her off, so he could at least send her a proper thank-you gift. He thought about maybe taking her the gift himself but nixed the idea. He didn’t need a female complication right now, although it could be fun. Especially with a sexy British redhead.
He shook his head as he ambled down the path that led to the gazebo in the middle of the garden, when a flash of red glinting in the sunlight caught his eye. Stopping, he searched for the source.
It couldn’t be. But unless his eyes were playing tricks on him, the woman from the airport was sitting under the big palm tree. Why had Samir brought her here? Had the paparazzi been that difficult? They shouldn’t have been, not with his country’s laws, but still guilt ate at him. He’d used her to take the press off his back, possibly making her life more difficult. It wasn’t nice of him to do that to her, but what choice had he had at the time? His meeting with the prime minister of Shara was of the utmost importance, and it needed to be kept under wraps.
The woman’s head was bent
as she rapidly moved her hand over some sort of book. Her head moved up then back down again, and again, but her hand never hesitated. Was she sketching? His curiosity was aroused, along with other parts of his body. Maybe he would explore his attraction to her after all, show her his world.
Quietly, he moved toward her. He didn’t want to startle her, but he hoped to see what she was drawing. The closer he got, the more his body reacted. Sensual heat filled him until he thought he’d burn up from the inside. He longed to repeat their kiss, except this time in private.
“Hello, beautiful,” he said.
Her head came up and turned sharply in his direction. Her eyes widened when she saw him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, pulling the sketchbook to her chest.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.” He slipped closer. “What are you drawing?” He craned his neck but couldn’t see anything.
“Nothing.” She closed the book with a snap, but her cheeks turned pink, making him even more curious about what she’d been drawing.
Then a memory nudged his brain. “You’re the artist commissioned to do the mural at the hospital.” He shook his head, trying to reconcile her with the woman at the airport.
“Yes.” Her chin came up, and he couldn’t help but grin. She was defensive about her work for some reason. No worries; he thought it was great. But part of him wanted to haul her into his arms and kiss her again. Instead, he followed a saner choice and sat down on the grass across from her.
She wiggled an inch or two away, then her gaze met his. She was wary of him, but he caught a hint of curiosity in her gaze.
“I’m Catherine Taylor.” She held a hand out to him.
“Malik.” He grasped her hand, lowered his head, and caressed her knuckles with his lips. A slight shiver moved through her body and transferred to him. So she was affected by him. Good. He squeezed her fingers.
“Well, Malik, with no last name,” she said, and tugged her hand away, “what brings you to the palace?”
