Zahkim Sheikhs Series: The Complete Series

by Leslie North

  He stood in khaki pants and a white shirt next to an older woman who wore loose, pink silk trousers and a matching tunic. Her long, black hair hung down her back in a thick braid. Slim and tall, she looked quite young at a glance, but the gray at her temples and the lines around her eyes and neck gave away her age. The gold flashing from rows of thin bracelets on her wrist also gave away her status as a royal.

  Arif waved an impatient hand at the plant in front of him. "Gardenias are too pale. My wedding should have vibrant colors."

  Rolling her eyes, Christine started to turn away, but Arif caught sight of her and called out. She strolled over, hoping she could say hi and bye.

  Arif gestured to the older woman at his side. "Christine, this is my Aunt Bian. Aunt, this is Dr. Christine Harper, who has been researching for her father in the palace archives."

  A dark, assessing stare fixed on Christine. The air almost crackled with the older woman's disapproval. Lifting her chin, Christine met the older woman's challenging stare with one of her own. She was used to this kind of thing from other professors—she was, after all, the loony Dr. Kris Harper's daughter.

  At last the woman said, "Amrekiah." She spat out the word.

  Christine stiffened. "American, yes." She smiled and added in Arabic, “It’s nice to meet you.” Even if it wasn't, she would mind her manners. The disapproval radiating off the older woman had Christine slipping her hand into Arif's in defiance. She lifted her eyebrows, daring the woman to say something. She was not going to let this aunt cow her with Arabic and a few sour glances.

  One black eyebrow arched, and Bian turned to Arif. "You should have her astrological chart done before you think more on a wedding."

  Christine bit down on a laugh. Chart? Seriously?

  Eyes narrowing, Bian looked at Christine again. "Have you given thought to how your children will be raised?"

  Opening her mouth, Christine started to tell Bian she could mind her own business, but Arif stepped in, saying, "I would hope any child of mine would be brought up with love."

  It was a good answer, and Christine smiled up at him. But her stomach tightened at the thought of a little boy with Arif's eyes and a little girl just as strong and daring as him.

  Bian stiffened. That was obviously not the answer she wanted. She kept her stare on Christine. "You are wise to be slow to enter into a marriage. It is difficult for an outsider to become part of the royal family."

  "Aunt!" The word came out sharp.

  Christine didn't like this woman's bullying. She stepped closer to Arif. She didn't want to cause trouble, but she also didn't want to see this woman trying to push him around by going after her. She smiled up at Arif and batted her eyelashes—something she'd never done in her life.

  "I think perhaps we should discuss flowers for the wedding another day, Arif." Take that, you old cow.

  Bian's head lifted. The golden bangles on one wrist rattled as she lifted her hand and lowered it again. She sent a stink-eyed glance to Christine, gave Arif a sweet nod, and swept off, her shoes slapping against the garden path.

  "Well, that was unpleasant." Christine moved away from Arif, but he didn't let go of her hand. "Does she think you're planning to marry an infidel who will corrupt your moral fiber?"

  Arif gave a low laugh. "Bian married my mother's younger brother. My aunt comes from a traditional family outside the royal bloodline, and she has always been touchy about her status. She is actually…well, protective of me."

  A lump rose in Christine's throat. She thought of Arif as a boy who had lost his parents too young. No wonder his aunt was a little touchy when it came to him. She should have shown a little more patience with the woman.

  "I should…" She let the words fade and waved with the coffee cup in her other hand toward the archives. But she was reluctant to head back to more disappointment.

  Arif lifted her hand, kissed the back of it and tipped his head to one side. "Please don't run off just yet. Ah, I know, how would you like to see the oldest parts of the palace and the treasury?"

  She bit her lower lip. Most things she could ignore, but when that pleading look came into his eyes and his lips took on that small curve that hid the crescent scar near the corner of his mouth, she melted. "I guess the archives will wait an hour or two for me."

  The grin he offered her flipped her heart. Oh, she was in such trouble.

  Pulling her hand out of his with the excuse of needing to find someplace to leave her coffee cup, she walked over to a garden bench. She took a long breath to steady herself. She could do this—keep her calm and be rational.

  Arif led her on a tour of the palace—up stone stairs, down carpeted halls, pointing to portraits of past rulers and sheikhs, walking past guards in military uniforms who saluted him and scowled at her, and finally they walked through a door unlocked by one of those guards and into a windowless room with cream-colored walls and glass cases lined up as if it really was a museum.

  "These are the family jewels," Arif said, his voice casual, as if everyone must have a stash like this. "Those belonging to the crown reside in the government house in Al Resab in a vault."

  "Oh, so is the everyday wear?" Christine swallowed hard. She was staring at a fortune.

  Glittering gems dazzled in a rainbow of colors—smooth, oval star sapphires and cut diamonds on crowns, rubies encrusting sword hilts, heavy necklaces and brooches set in gold and silver that gleamed against black velvet in the display cases. She swept the room with a glance, but her breath caught in her chest when she saw the case in the middle of the opposite wall. Her stare fixed on one wide display case offering two books whose aged leather covers gleamed with ancient gold on the bindings and latches. She walked to the display case, mesmerized by the script etched into the covers.

  It couldn't be—but it was.

  Diamonds and sapphires had been embedded into the leather and gold bindings, but the Arabic script on the covers held her spellbound. She turned to Arif.

  "They're here—my father really did need something like the gold of Troy, only it's the gold of Zahkim. These are the two histories that were referenced in the archives. This is what I've been searching for. I've got to take a look inside. I'm willing to bet these have never even been properly translated."

  Chapter Twelve

  Arif glanced from his Christine to the books. He wanted to give her anything, but he also knew these books to be priceless, and not just for the jewels on the covers. They were ancient, had been in the royal family for beyond memory, and it would be his head if anything happened to them. He rubbed the back of his neck.

  Christine kept pleading. "You know I know how to handle manuscripts. I swear I'll use gloves, just as I have in the archives. But I've got to see if they have what I need."

  Lips pressed tight, Arif glanced at the door and back to his Christine. She was asking almost more than he could grant. Only the royal family had access to this room. And disappointment lodged in his chest like a knot—these books, not him, were what she needed. Still, he could not bear to let her down. He gave a nod. "I can have a guard bring them to your room every morning. They must come back to the treasury every night."

  "Of course. Totally understandable." She glanced from him to the books and back again, her brown eyes sparkling.

  He took her hand—and shameless advantage of her gratitude. "In return, I have a request. There is to be an official banquet tonight. I would like you to attend as my special guest."

  She nodded, her stare fixed on the books. "Sure…sure." She glanced at him. "Could I have a couple of hours this afternoon with the books—just to make sure they're the ones referenced?"

  He gave a nod. She bounced on her toes, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed his cheek. "You really are a prince. You don't mind if I get started right away." Stepping away from him, she bent over the glass case. "This is going to be incredible."

  Arif let out a breath. It seemed he had found what most pleased his Christine—two old books. Why must
they also be the most valuable books in Zahkim?

  Christine had cleared the desk in her sitting room for a workspace. She kept her tablet nearby to help with translations. The first book, a work by Ibn-Khaldun, dated to the 1300s, but it referenced the other book, a seventh-century history written in Kufic calligraphy that had been rebound several hundred years later. There she came up with what she wanted. One scrap of a story of how nomads from the west settled around the Nile. That was it—that was the first mention that would show the world her dad wasn't just pulling ideas out of his butt. She was on the right track now. Even if this was the only reference, she'd found new source material no one else had ever brought to the modern world. This was amazing.

  A knock rattled her door, and she answered absently with, “Come in.” A maid entered, carrying something black and glittering with gold.

  "With Sheikh Arif's compliments," the maid said. She held up a traditional black robe beautifully embroidered with gold thread and studded with gold coins. Christine's eyes went wide. She stood, despite the lure of the research in front of her, and touched a finger to the robe, finding the fabric soft and light.

  She pulled her hand back. "That's real gold."

  "And the robes are woven of the finest goat's hair." The maid took the gown into the bedroom, spread it across the bed, and came back. "Sheikh Arif said you have boots already to match. Call if you need any help dressing for tonight."

  Christine groaned. She'd forgotten about tonight. She glanced down at her jeans and white button-down shirt. She looked rumpled. Her face didn't have a swipe of makeup. And that gown was too gorgeous to waste on her. She gave a thought to putting on her navy dress, but it still smelled of sex and Arif, and she couldn't do it.

  Heading to the bedroom door, she looked at the dress again. She'd never pull it off. That was more dress than she could handle.

  Another knock sounded on her door. She turned. If this was the maid, maybe she could send this dress back and ask for something a little more…subdued. She wanted to blend in to the background, not stand out.

  Instead of the maid, however, Bian swept in without waiting to be asked. She wore traditional robes in unrelieved black, a veil over her head, but she had left her face uncovered. Gold bangles glittered on her wrists. Kohl rimmed her eyes, making them seem huge and edged sharp as daggers.

  Bian shut the door behind her with a soft click and glanced at the books open on Christine's desk. Her nostrils flared.

  Looking back at Christine, she said, her voice soft and smooth, "You should leave. You do nothing but cause Arif to do what he should not. A marriage between you and Arif would be cursed and barren."

  Crossing her arms, Christine's face heated. "Really? And you know this how? You cast a chart? Threw some bones? How does anything between Arif and me have anything to do with you? I get he's your nephew, but he's also his own man."

  Bian's mouth thinned. She took a step forward and glanced into the bedroom. Her eyes widened. "Family is my business."

  "Well, then, I guess you really should have been there when Tess married Tarek…oh, let me guess. You didn't approve of that, either, so you stayed away to let them know that." Pushing her hair back, Christine tried to hang onto her temper. Bian was only looking after her nephew, but she wasn't being subtle about it. Christine took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out slowly. "I get it—you care about him. But you don't have to be unpleasant, and I'm not looking to become part of any royal family."

  Bian's mouth curved up, and the smugness in her expression grated on Christine's nerves. The woman looked just like every professor who'd dissed her father's theories. She gave back just as fake a smile.

  "Of course, I am wearing the dress Arif gave me to the banquet tonight. Now, if you don't mind, I need to change."

  Muttering under her breath, Bian swept out, her bracelets jangling. Christine stomped into the bathroom to shower, put on scent, and line her eyes with kohl, and Bian could just lump it when Christine showed up looking like she belonged here.

  Once dressed, she almost chickened out. But the memory of Bian's expression—looking like she was all that and more while Christine was something the cat wouldn't even bother dragging in—drove her to stiffen her back. She gave one last, longing look to the books. The guards would be here any minute to sweep them back to the treasury, and she'd barely gotten started with them. But she'd have tomorrow.

  She headed out, leaving the jeweled books for the guard to pick up.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Arif stared at Christine as she strode into the room, her steps long despite her small size. She looked as if she belonged in the clothes of his people. His heart had not lied—she was the only one for him. But he still did not know if she felt the same. The days the astrologer Nadira had forecast as auspicious for marriage were approaching and would soon be gone for the year. That meant he must do his best to convince his Christine to move the ring to her left hand, and then he would ask her for the last time to marry him, and she would say yes.

  He headed to meet her, took her hand, and led her into the room.

  A new ambassador from Dijobuli had arrived, and a few local dignitaries would want to meet his Christine. What he really wanted was to sweep her away on Mahbouba's back and carry her off to a desert fortress where he could have her all to himself. Even more, however, he wanted his Christine to shine.

  And she did.

  She had lined her eyes with kohl, and her dark brown eyes dominated her oval face. Her pale skin glowed, and he hoped that could only be due to her being happy. She smiled and greeted the guests with Arabic or English, as was appropriate. She earned approving nods, and so what if Aunt Bian glowered? She, too, would eventually see that Christine was meant to be by his side.

  Sweeping his Christine off to gather a plate of food from the buffet table, Arif leaned close to ask, "Enjoying yourself?"

  She smiled up at him. "More than at any academic function I've ever been to. I never thought I'd be rubbing shoulders with sheikhs and diplomats."

  He shook his head. "They are just people. The ambassador you met, the one from Dijobuli, the country to the east of us, he is here to try and make a match for his sheikh's daughter, so he is disappointed to see you by my side. And the king over there, the fat one, he pines still for my Aunt Bian, who has refused his offer to marry five times."

  Christine's hand shook, and she almost dropped her plate. Arif caught the china and righted it for her. "What’s the matter?"

  "Nothing…just, well, I could almost imagine what it might be like to stay here. Except…you know, I should have called my dad tonight."

  Arif took the plate from her. He swept her out of the peacock throne room and into the gardens. Pulling out his mobile, he offered it to her. "Call him. Now."

  Her eyes widened, but she took the phone and punched in a number. A few moments later, she was chattering to her father about the books she had seen today. Arif smiled. What he wouldn't give to be able to do the same—to spend a few minutes with a father whose voice he barely remembered and a mother whose perfume had once smelled of old roses. He was pleased he could do this for his Christine.

  She rang off and handed back the phone. "Dad actually sounded excited."

  Smiling, Arif took back his mobile and tucked it away. "And you?"

  She shook her head. "We keep talking about me, but I want to hear what you want for a change—other than you want to be married."

  He gave a small laugh but took her hand and walked into the garden. "What do I want? What does any man want? A family—happy children. My country to do well. Zahkim has oil, but too often the money goes to the rich, and not those who work keep working their hands to the bone. We've had troubles between those who want modernize and those who don't. But there's great potential in our young people. I want—need—someone beside me who could help to lead Zahkim into a better world." He glanced at her, searched her face for answers. "I want someone who loves me for myself—but who als
o loves Zahkim. Is that too much to ask?"

  "I don't know." Glancing over her shoulder, she gestured to the party. "We should probably get back."

  He smiled and touched a finger to her face. "I have made my appearance, and you have made yours. Come with me instead, will you, habibi?" For once he held out his hand to her instead of taking her hand. His heart thumped hard in his chest. He held his breath. Would she choose him tonight?

  With a small smile, she put her smaller hand into his.

  She was going to let herself be happy in the here and now. She promised herself that. For the first time in her life, she felt beautiful. The soft robes swirled around her legs, and the coins jingled as she moved. She grinned as she and Arif slipped away like teenagers sneaking out after curfew. He ran up the stairs to his rooms with her, and she giggled like she was a kid about to be caught.

  Once the door shut behind them, he took her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss took her breath away. He didn't demand, didn't push—this kiss was coaxing and tender, a soft press of his mouth over hers. He moved his lips to her cheek, to her neck, to the spot just behind her ear that sent a tingle down her spine.

  Her robes—and his—slipped off. Wasn't that the blessing of traditional garb? Easy on and easier off. Sweeping her up in his arms, he carried her to his bed, then put her down as if she were made of glass. He stretched out next to her. "What do you want, habibi? Tell me."

  "World peace? The Finlay Medal for my work—I saw my dad win it when I was ten. He published his thesis and became the boy wonder of academia for a time, and then became the old man everyone laughs at."

  He put a finger over her lips. "No—not him. You. At this instant, what do you want?"

  She put her arms around his neck. "You to make love to me."

  "Ah, that I can do."