The Sheikh’s Reward

by Lucy Gordon

  ‘I’m warning you-’

  ‘And I’m warning you that the man in charge of your Wall Street operation isn’t what he seems. He’s changed his name several times to hide his involvement in some very dubious operation-’

  ‘I have men whose job it is to discover this kind of information-’

  ‘Then fire them, because they’re letting you down. Take this.’

  She took out the notebook that had been returned to her. Ali regarded her grimly.

  ‘I never travel without it,’ she told him, tearing off a sheet on which were written some internet addresses and giving it to him.

  ‘Visit these sites,’ she said. ‘You’ll learn enough about him to alarm you. But you do it. Don’t delegate to someone else.’ She was too absorbed in what she was saying to realise that she’d fallen into her efficient ‘business’ voice. But Ali realised it, and he bristled.

  ‘Do you have any further orders for me?’ he asked frostily.

  ‘Don’t you dare come the heavy sheikh with me,’ she warned him. ‘If you do what I say, I’ve just saved you a fortune.’ She couldn’t resist adding, ‘Much more than my purchase price.’

  ‘I wish you’d stop talking as though I’d bought you like a commodity.’

  ‘It’s the impression you strove to give. I’m merely taking up where you left off.’

  Ali took the paper, meaning to toss it contemptuously away. But he didn’t, and at heart he knew he wasn’t going to.

  Fran was too wise to press her point any further, and they finished the meal in light, meaningless conversation.

  ‘It is late and you will be tired,’ he observed, leading her into the room where his great bed stood. His eyes met hers. ‘Nobody will disturb you.’

  She almost had a moment of regret as she saw him walk away into a small side room. The door opened just enough to reveal that this was an office. Then it closed, shutting her out.

  The bed was so large and so empty even when she lay down. It was a bed made for passion, where two people could forget the world in each other. And deep inside part of her wanted to do exactly that with this intriguing, fascinating and disturbing man. But it must not be. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

  She lay worrying at this dismaying thought, until she went to sleep.

  He woke her as the sun was rising. He looked tired, like a man who’d spent all night in front of a computer and on the telephone. He didn’t volunteer anything, but she thought she detected a new look of respect in his eyes.

  ‘Your bearers will be here in a moment,’ he said, ‘and they will return you to your quarters for the last time. Later today you will be escorted to your new apartments.’

  He took her hand to lead her to the litter.

  ‘Don’t think this is the end of the matter,’ he said. ‘Our battle has moved onto new ground, but it is far from over. You’re not as cold as you want me to think. Before I have finished, you will beg for my love.’

  ‘In your dreams,’ she said softly, and the bearers arrived before he could reply.

  All that day the palace was in a bustle. Everyone knew that the prince had taken his new concubine to his bed, and enjoyed a night of passion with her such as no man had known before. Rumour said that this western woman was possessed of exotic arts that had won his heart and soul, and no reward was too great for her.

  Nobody knew her true identity, but that was unimportant, as the prince’s favourite had no life beyond his pleasure. He had decreed that henceforth she would be known as the Lady Almas Faiza.

  Leena explained to Fran that Almas meant diamond, and Faiza meant victorious. Fran brooded over the intriguing word. Was Ali saying that she had scored a victory over him, or referring to the victory he was determined to have over her? But he had hinted also that they would find victory together, and, try as she might, Fran couldn’t escape a thrill of anticipation at the thought of that joint victory.

  With awe the servants prepared the lavish apartments that were kept for the favourite. The mosaics were washed, the floors polished, all the hangings were replaced, and the air was sweetly scented.

  Finally came the ceremony without which her status would not be official. A litter was brought to her door. It was unlike the other one, in that it had no curtains or roof, for in this one she must be seen.

  Gorgeously dressed and veiled, she seated herself and was raised high in the air on the shoulders of her bearers. Four maids positioned themselves in front and four behind. Two of them bore large bowls, piled with jewels. The favourite held out one graceful hand, and two snow-white doves fluttered out and settled on her arm. Rasheeda placed herself at the head of the procession and cried out something in Arabic, which Fran now knew meant, ‘She who has been honoured approaches.’ Then they were moving.

  Right through the palace they travelled, through long corridors, broken by horseshoe arches, decorated with mosaics, inlaid with gold. Everywhere she looked there was gold, silver, mother-of-pearl. The ceilings were high and often lit by windows above, so that the atmosphere was pleasantly cool and light.

  Then it was time to go into the first courtyard, which, although enclosed, was almost as large as a garden, filled with flowers and small trees. Here were the children of the many palace officials, with their mothers and nurses. They all laughed and greeted her, and the children tossed sweets which landed on her satin cushions.

  At the far side of the courtyard they re-entered the palace. Men appeared bearing gifts, which the maids graciously accepted on her behalf. The gifts were of the finest and most costly, for everyone wanted to show their respect for Sheikh Ali by honouring his favourite.

  Fran’s eyes opened wide at the sight of a delicate sherbet set, made of gold and multicoloured glass, set on a gold tray. Behind this came a huge bowl of the finest porcelain, then a perfume bottle encrusted with rubies.

  The second courtyard was smaller, dominated by a large fountain in the centre. There was nobody here, but, looking up, Fran saw that all the windows were crowded with spectators.

  Then it was back into the palace, where more people came out to stare, and bow low as she passed.

  I don’t believe this is happening to me, she thought.

  At last they reached her own apartments, opposite the prince’s. Here Ali himself was waiting, and in the sight of them all he inclined his head to her. For such a woman even the ruler made a gesture of reverence. And only the woman on the litter and the man waiting to receive her knew the true irony of the situation.

  He handed her down from the litter, and she lowered her head to him very slightly. Her mind was full of a multitude of images, too many to understand at once, but she saw that she was facing a magnificent trio of floor-length windows, all in the shape of horseshoe arches.

  ‘Allow me to show you your personal garden,’ Ali said, leading her through the centre window.

  Outside was truly a place of wonder. Awed by its beauty, she accompanied Ali along the paths between the four fountains, exclaiming over the peacocks and gazelles that wandered freely. Courtiers remained at a respectful distance, speculating on what the prince was saying to his lady, and she to him, and why they both smiled.

  They would have been astonished to overhear the conversation.

  ‘You bowed to me,’ Ali murmured. ‘My round, I think.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ she replied. ‘You bowed to me first. I was just returning the courtesy.’

  ‘The prince does not bow to a woman.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you did.’

  Turning her head, she was just in time to catch him doing the same thing. Unmistakably his lips twitched. The next moment he was staring ahead again, the model of propriety.

  Among the spectators there was some interest as to how the lady would react to the prince’s gift of welcome. Instead of a rivière of diamonds, or something equally fabulous, he had chosen to give her a carpet. It was a very nice carpet, the best to be had. But it was a strange choice, and they wondered if the favourite would be disappoint
ed.

  Instead, they saw her give a trill of laughter, and throw her arms about the prince’s neck. His own laughter mingled with hers as he said, ‘I wondered if you would understand.’ That remark baffled the onlookers.

  Sitting alone in her apartments that evening-alone, that was, except for her personal attendants, her hair-dresser, her chief confectioner and her private chef- Fran regarded that carpet. It didn’t fly, but apart from that it was exactly like the one of her dreams.

  Her surroundings vanished and she was back again in Ali’s London house, telling him of her childhood dreams.

  ‘…a flying carpet was going to come through the window and carry me off…’

  She would never forget his reply. ‘I think that for you the carpet will come.’

  Neither of them could have foreseen this day, yet when the moment had come he’d known exactly what to give her. It strengthened her suspicion that Ali had secretly lured her here to fulfil her Arabian nights fantasy.

  She smiled at the thought, but then the smile faded. Her attraction to him was powerful, real, and no part of a fantasy. It was like a holiday, except that Ali had compelled her to take it, because that was how he did things. But afterwards?

  She wasn’t the kind of woman who could be sent on her way with a few glamorous memories and gifts. If she loved, it would be for real, and not as part of a holiday fantasy.

  Whatever she felt about Ali, and he felt about her, they wouldn’t discover it in this place.

  There was a small flutter near the door, and she turned to find Leena standing there. ‘Prince Yasir begs your permission to approach.’

  He was as meek as a schoolboy, but his eyes danced.

  ‘I come to offer you my tribute,’ he said. ‘If, in your justified anger, you reject it, I shall be so ashamed that I shall ride into the desert and never be seen again.’

  ‘Don’t talk foolishness,’ she laughed.

  ‘Say that you forgive me for my unforgivable behaviour yesterday,’ he begged outrageously.

  ‘I shouldn’t.’

  ‘I know. But do it anyway. See what I have brought you.’

  His gift was a lavishly jewelled sash, which oddly jarred her. It was too much. But this was a country of too much, she reflected, and perhaps this was his way of atoning. She smiled and praised the sash, and when he displayed considerable relief she felt that she had been right.

  He accepted her invitation to tea and they were soon chatting like old friends.

  ‘I expect Ali told you our family history,’ Yasir said ruefully. ‘Of course I have the greatest respect for him as our country’s ruler, but I can’t resist the temptation to tweak his nose now and then. He knows it doesn’t mean anything, and I hope that you do too.’

  ‘I’d like to believe it meant nothing,’ she said, ‘but when I saw you fighting, and your look when he struck you-’

  He laughed merrily. ‘We’ve been scrapping since we were boys. Sometimes we fight, sometimes we race. Ali has some wonderful horses, but mine are better.’

  ‘Arab steeds!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve heard of them. They’re said to be the finest horses in the world.’

  ‘You should get Ali to show you his beauties. Can you ride?’

  ‘Sort of. I learned on a farm when I was a child. But the pony was a bit slow.’

  ‘Tell Ali you want to ride his best mares. If he’s too mean to agree I’ll let you ride one of mine.’

  He gave her a cheery wave and departed, leaving her thoughtful. Leena reminded her that she hadn’t finished ordering the evening meal, and it was important to serve what pleased His Highness. Luckily the chef knew what would please His Highness far better than Fran did, and she was able to leave the matter to him.

  Ali arrived in thoughtful mood that evening. He enjoyed the meal, and thanked her courteously for paying so much attention to his requirements, but she could tell that there was something on his mind, and she thought she knew what it was.

  ‘Yasir came to see me today,’ she said. ‘He wanted to apologise and bring me a gift-that jewelled sash over there.’

  Ali examined it and grunted. ‘Do you like this?’

  ‘Not really. I think it’s overdone, but I didn’t like to hurt his feelings by saying so.’

  ‘It’s like Yasir to go a little further than he needs, but I’m glad he is showing you the proper respect at last.’

  ‘Have you made your peace with him?’

  ‘You mean has he made his peace with me?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘He’s apologised, and I’ve told him to behave himself in future. He asked my permission to visit you and I gave it, feeling certain you were now safe from his advances.’

  ‘He didn’t come within three feet of me,’ she assured him.

  ‘It would have surprised me if he had. He’s fond of harking back to the past, reminding me that his father was the elder brother. I reminded him that in those days he could have been beheaded for what he did. In view of his contrition, you have my permission to receive him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said ironically. ‘You’re very poor company tonight. Yasir was far more entertaining.’

  ‘May I ask why?’ Ali enquired coolly.

  ‘He told me of his horses. He said I should ask you to let me ride one of your best mares, and if you’re too mean I can ride his.’

  ‘There will be no need for that. My animals are at your disposal. We can travel to Wadi Sita whenever you wish.’

  ‘Wadi Sita?’ she echoed, trying to sound indifferent.

  She knew the name well. Wadi Sita was the legendary oasis that no journalist had ever penetrated. Here Ali indulged himself in exotic orgies of pleasure, safely hidden from the world’s prying eyes. And now he had invited her there. But he would withdraw the invitation if he knew her eagerness, so she kept all trace of it out of her voice.

  ‘Sita is the Arabic word for six,’ he explained. ‘Wadi means a valley, usually a pleasant valley with trees and water. We have six such places in the Kamar desert, but Wadi Sita is my favourite. I shall mount you on Safiya. She is my best mare, white as milk, light and strong, but gentle.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful. When can we leave?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’ He rose. ‘I’ll give orders immediately. In fact, I won’t be back tonight at all. I have urgent matters to attend to.’

  His eyes met hers, and he nodded slightly.

  ‘I heeded your warning. I checked, as you said.’

  ‘And you discovered that your men were letting you down.’

  Ali’s lips twisted in bitterness. ‘Worse. They were engaged in an active conspiracy to steal from me. They are being brought here now to be questioned about the money they’ve taken-how much, and where it’s hidden. That will occupy me for the next few hours.’

  ‘Suppose they won’t talk?’

  His eyes were as bleak as a steel wall. ‘They will,’ he said simply, and Fran knew a fleeting moment of pity for those who had dared to cross Ali Ben Saleem.

  He paused, and she could tell that the next words cost him an effort. ‘I am in your debt for revealing their dishonesty.’

  Fran smiled, but was too tactful to say anything.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ali said jerkily, and went away.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  T HEY left for Wadi Sita late the following afternoon, when the sun was already sinking. A helicopter took them direct from the roof of the palace to a landing pad in the oasis itself.

  Fran spent the journey glued to the window, watching for her first glimpse of the famous oasis. At last Wadi Sita came in sight. Far below she could make out the glitter of water, palm trees and beautiful gardens. Surrounding this was what seemed to be a small town, with a few buildings and many tents.

  ‘When in the desert I like to live simply,’ Ali explained. ‘So we live in tents.’

  Because the oasis was so small they were met not by a car, but by Ali’s favourite stallion, and also a dainty white mare for Fran, so beautiful
that she cried out with delight.

  ‘She is called Safiya, which means patient,’ Ali told her.

  Safiya lived up to her name. She had large, beautiful eyes, was silken-mouthed and moved with a soft, gliding step. Fran immediately felt safe on her back.

  It was still very warm, but the sun was no longer at furnace heat, and a pleasant breeze sprang up. Fran glanced at Ali, enjoying the sight of him on his black horse. He rode proudly, with his head up, his white burnouse fluttering in the breeze, and the sunset gleaming off the gold cords that held it in place.

  He glanced in her direction, and she quickly looked away, dismayed to have been caught looking at him. She had an uneasy notion that she’d been smiling at the magnificent picture he presented, which might mislead him into thinking that she was weakening.

  Looking around, she noticed a high building, larger than the others, where every window was covered with bars. They were elegant and ornate, and the last of the sun turned the brass to gold, making them beautiful. But still, this was obviously some kind of prison.

  ‘You’ve noticed my harem,’ Ali said casually. ‘I keep a special one out here for the sake of convenience. My raiders travel far and wide kidnapping women who are kept locked up there, awaiting my pleasure.’

  ‘What?’ Then Fran noticed that he was grinning. ‘You-!’

  ‘I couldn’t resist it. You’re so ready to believe every tall tale about me.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be any tall tales if you came clean.’

  ‘Why should I? I’m not accountable to the world for what I do in my own country.’

  ‘Of all the arrogant-!’

  He laughed aloud. ‘You goose, that’s the Water Extraction Company. The water here is rich in minerals and sulphur, and has unique properties for curing many ailments.

  ‘The company works on finding new cures. But we have to look out for industrial spies. Several major drug companies have tried to steal our discoveries, so that they can patent them before we can do so ourselves. Then they could charge extortionate prices, whereas I only want a reasonable profit for my country. So the bars are part of the security arrangements.’