Irresistible

by Andrew J. Peters

  Ibrahim’s eyes flashed. His hands tightened around his rifle. “If you run off, you’ll be a deserter and an enemy of the revolution.”

  Brendan stared helplessly at his companion. So much for brotherhood over warm ale and Joe Strummer’s howling vocals. Ibrahim had no investment in finding Cal. The college student was sworn to Bassam’s insurgency, and he would shoot Brendan right then and there if he declared he was leaving. For a crazy moment, Brendan imagined hiking up his rifle on the chance he would be quicker than the young militant. There was a radio and a landline telephone on the guard’s desk. If he got rid of Ibrahim, he could figure out a way to call the U.S. authorities or his grandfather. They would come to help him.

  The guard at his feet whimpered out a plea. Brendan looked down at him, and then he jumped away from a rifle blare. Bullets riddled the guard’s body, pinning him to the floor, drawing up wisps of smoke. Brendan shrank down to the floor in a corner of the guard’s station and covered his face.

  Gasping, he peeked out to the counter window. Ibrahim’s rifle was pointed at him.

  “Let’s go,” Ibrahim told him.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  CAL SAT IN the recessed salon of his luxurious suite, picking at an abundance of mezze laid out on silver platters on a low, ebony dining table, as he waited for King Abdullah to join him. If this adventure was to be made into a movie, it was turning out to be like Pretty Woman. Lord knew, he’d never been in a palace before.

  The enormous, white-domed estate had taken his breath away when the limousine had driven him through its gates. A man-made lake dominated the front of the grounds, kind of like pictures Cal had seen of the Taj Mahal. The main house had a two-story, arched window above its grand roofed porch, and it rivaled a museum in scale. Verdant palm trees surrounded it, and its grassy lawns looked like they went on into infinity. Cal glimpsed gardens that were bigger than a botanical park, and a golf course and horse stables. His rooms even looked out on a cricket field.

  Inside, everything was immaculate—ornate carpets, crystal chandeliers, gleaming, oiled wood furniture, and painted portraits in gilded frames. Cal had been ushered to his upstairs room by Irfan, a well-groomed valet in a fine, quilted jacket. The friendly manservant provided him with a plush bathrobe and took away his embarrassing jumpsuit. Cal’s “room” was, in fact, an apartment bigger than the house he’d grown up in. He didn’t plan on mentioning it to Brendan, but the furnishings made his fiancé‘s penthouse apartment seem austere in comparison. The best part was the bathroom, all done up in blue mosaic tiles, and with a glass-paneled, walk-in shower and its own fireplace. Cal had already soaked in the sunken bathtub that had whirlpool settings and a big-screen TV that raised up from the floor.

  His only complaint was the clothes that had been laid out for him by Irfan were an undersized outfit meant to be worn by a boy half his age. He’d barely managed to get the shorts up and around his butt, and they were obscenely snug in the crotch. The red-striped, jersey-style shirt, which bore a prep-school insignia, rode up his sides, exposing a lot of midriff. The only thing that fit was a pair of knee-high socks and cleats, which were unworn, fresh from the store. Cal had covered up in his robe and tried asking Irfan if he might try on something else. The suave attendant just raised his eyebrows and left the room, onto other important business apparently.

  For all its walk-in closets, fancy cabinets, and ornate chests, the suite had no other clothes Cal could find. It was absent a phone as well, which Cal really desperately needed to use to call Brendan and his mom and dad. When Irfan finally returned, he’d come to throw open the double doors for a squad of male domestics carting in a feast of food and drink. Irfan said His Majesty would be joining him directly.

  That really threw Cal for a loop. He’d be dining with the king? A man who had sentenced his own son to be whipped on his birthday for bad table manners, not to mention ordering the beheading of his manicurist earlier that day? Where was the estate’s stuffy British governess to give him a briefing on etiquette? Cal’s nerves overtook his concern about reaching Brendan and his family. He decided he’d better ask Irfan about using a phone later, after dinner. Meanwhile, he dispensed with his robe to make the best of the clothes that had been given to him since, really, how could he wear a bathrobe to dinner with a king?

  When the king arrived, Cal stood, wiped off his hands, and froze in place, not knowing what to say to the ruler of a sovereign nation who had miraculously exonerated him from stowing away on his navy ship and breaking into his shipment of wine. The king smiled at him warmly and graciously, and he seated himself across the table on a matching velvet-upholstered divan. For a man who made his subjects cower and beg their god for mercy, he was much more easygoing than Cal had expected. Stupidly, Cal thanked him for his hospitality a half dozen times, and the king insisted he was the one who owed Cal thanks and an apology for being mistreated by his navy. That was awfully generous and helped put Cal at ease. The king was dressed down in a night-blue, silken robe. A white keffiyeh framed his mustached and goateed face. He was distinguished and a little flashy with all of his gold and gem-laid rings. He insisted Cal go ahead and eat even though he seemed disinterested in the food himself.

  Cal finished off his third stuffed grape leaf. The king lifted a platter of oval-shaped meatballs from the table and pushed it toward Cal.

  “You must try the kibbeh. It is the very best in the Middle East.”

  “Oh. I don’t know if I have room for it,” Cal said, realizing he was being quite literal based on his clothes nearly bursting at their seams. He’d tried just about everything at the table, and the spread was big enough for the defense lineup of a college football team. Still, he opted not to refuse His Majesty and picked out one of the fried brown meatballs and took a great big bite of it.

  “It’s delicious,” he mumbled through chews. Cal wiped his mouth with his cloth napkin. He grinned at the king bashfully. “I’m sorry. My manners must seem terrible. My mom always used to tell me not to speak with my mouth full, but it never caught on. If you ever had dinner with my family, you’d probably think we were all cavemen.”

  The king tutted. “Nonsense. It is a great compliment to show one’s host you are enjoying his meal.”

  “That’s what I always thought,” Cal said. “I heard, in some cultures, it’s even considered a compliment to burp and fart.” He caught himself getting loopy. “Not that I intend to do that. I’m just grateful to be treated to all of this, Your Majesty. That’s what I should call you, isn’t it? I feel like a total doofus having to ask.”

  The king shook his head. “We are friends. You may call me Abdullah.”

  Cal’s eyes grew wide. He’d never been on a first name basis with a man of Abdullah’s stature. The guy had posters of himself emblazoned all over the city, and he employed more people to take care of his home than a Las Vegas casino hotel.

  “Well, you can call me Cal,” he offered companionably. “Everybody does. Except my grandparents. And my dentist. Though I think Dr. Rosenstern only calls me Callisthenes because he thinks it makes him sound cultured. I’m pretty sure I’m the only Greek patient in his practice. In Upstate New York, we barely count as Caucasians.”

  Abdullah took a quiet account of Cal while he finished off his kibbeh. “There are many famous Greeks,” he said.

  “Not on my dad’s side of the family.”

  “Alexander the Great. Plato. Aristotle. Sophocles.”

  “You should talk to my Uncle Theo. He’d keep you busy all night with a list of every famous Greek who ever lived.”

  “This is a very celebrated and honorable culture.”

  “I like to think so.” Cal added, “I majored in classical studies.”

  Abdullah’s eyes brightened. “You are a college student?”

  Cal nodded. “I graduated with my bachelor’s from Syracuse University. I’m going back for my masters’ degree.”

  “This must make your family proud.”

  Cal shr
ugged. “I think they’d actually be happier if I learned a trade like my older brothers. They don’t really understand what I’m doing with my life. To be honest with you, Abdullah, most of the time, I don’t understand what I’m doing with my life. I mean, if we’re being honest—there’s not a lot you can do with a classical studies degree.”

  Abdullah took up defending him again. “Nothing is more important than education. We must understand our history, and the origins of philosophy and the arts and sciences.” He sat up a bit straighter. “I studied all the world cultures when I was a student. From antiquity and from around the globe.”

  “Really? That’s, like, amazing. I guess you’d have to. I mean, it probably helps, doesn’t it? Being an international leader.”

  His companion waved his hand. “I did it for the sake of knowledge. This is what keeps us vital. Every man should have a traditional education. How else does he understand his place in the world?”

  Cal wasn’t sure what to say to that. He had a feeling if the conversation turned philosophical, he’d be quickly outwitted and disappoint Abdullah. Cal’s interest in classical studies was more on the archeology and art history side, so if the king wanted to have a conversation about the work of Phidias, he had a lot to say. But who, outside of classical studies majors, wanted to talk about ancient Greek sculptors?

  He noticed the king’s glance passing over his outfit and his lap. Cal would have crossed his legs for modesty, but he was afraid he’d rip the seams of his shorts. They were straining even more after having put away so much food.

  “Did you play American football?” Abdullah said.

  “Gosh no. I’m totally uncoordinated.”

  “Soccer?”

  “Nope.”

  “Track and field?”

  Cal shook his head.

  “Tennis?”

  Now Cal’s face was really burning. “I’m telling you— I have absolutely zero athletic ability. For my two semesters of mandatory PE, I chose ping-pong and bowling. My older brother Demetri used to give me his lunch money to pretend to be sick so I didn’t have to play on our little league baseball team.”

  Abdullah snorted in disbelief. “You are very fit.” He fixed in on Cal decisively. “Tomorrow, I will teach you cricket.”

  Cal glanced around. “This sure would be the place to learn. I saw you have a field right on the grounds.” He grasped his gold-rimmed goblet and took a sip of the Samosan wine. “That’s really nice of you, Abdullah. But tomorrow, I have to be getting back to my husband and my family.” Cal felt like a jerk. He knew that Middle Easterners, like Europeans, took great pride in their hospitality, and they thought Americans were too uptight. But Abdullah had to understand people were worried about him. He’d been gone now for over a week.

  Abdullah snapped his fingers to direct their male attendant to refresh Cal’s goblet of wine. The young servant did so, and then the king waved him from the room. Cal sank a little in his seat. He was certain he was about to be on the receiving end of a sharp lesson on etiquette. The king stood and walked around the table to Cal’s divan, looking at him for a gesture of invitation. Cal opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He managed to gather the sense to scoot over to make room. They were alone in the recessed salon, in the flickering light of a single hanging lantern.

  A billow of oud and musk surrounded Cal as the king seated himself. “I must make my apologies, Cal. You must miss your family terribly.”

  “I do,” Cal said. “I mean, I can’t thank you enough for putting me up like this. But everyone back in Hydra, they probably think I’m dead. If they knew I was lounging around in a palace while they were worrying, they’d kill me themselves.”

  Abdullah leaned in close with a grave look on his face. “A young man like you must have many people who care for him.”

  Cal was nearly wearing the man’s robe. He leaned away from his companion, trying not to be rude about it. “You know Greeks. Big families,” he said, hoping to lighten the mood.

  “Naturally, they must be assured you are safe and sound.”

  Cal nodded nervously. “They’d really appreciate it.”

  “I will call them in the morning. I will explain to them that I insist you stay here as my guest. It will be a great pleasure to show you the wonders of Maritime Kindah.”

  Cal’s stomach knotted up. He didn’t dare to look, but he had the distinct impression the king was sniffing him.

  “Do you believe in destiny, Cal?”

  “Oh. Well, I guess I believe in destiny with a little ‘d.’ There has to be a balance, don’t you think? Destiny and free will, I mean.”

  “I like your face.”

  “You do? Well—”

  “I like your legs.”

  “Ha!”

  “Would you mind if I called you Basil?”

  “Oh. Well, that would be a first. I guess if you really want to. Gosh, it’s hot in here. Maybe I’ll just get up and crack open the balcony door a little.”

  Abdullah’s hand closed firmly on Cal’s arm. “Don’t.”

  Cal sat back down.

  “I enjoy your company so much,” Abdullah said. “Let’s not ruin the moment. I can feel the sultry heat from your body. If you would like to take off your shirt, I wouldn’t mind.”

  “‘The moment’? Right. I’m just fine keeping the shirt on. I’m used to hand-me-down clothes. I’ll admit it— I was a little skeptical about the shirt at first, but I’m actually starting to like it. Does it belong to one of your sons?”

  “Basil, would you do me the favor of speaking to me in a British accent?”

  Cal whinnied a nervous laugh. “I think I’m starting to understand the kind of moment you’re driving for. I don’t think you really want to hear me do a British accent, Abdullah. I haven’t tried that since I was in sixth grade. I had a part in my elementary school’s production of A Christmas Carol, and the music teacher, Mr. Benson, took away my lines because I couldn’t get my tongue tips right.”

  Abdullah’s hand gently closed on Cal’s thigh. “Try, Basil. Please.”

  Cal croaked out a weak attempt. “Awms four tha pour, Govenah? Wood ye like to play a game ov Quidditch? Pleez sir, kin I half so’ more?”

  His companion gazed at him, wounded. “Do not mock me, Basil. To be so near to you, I feel as though my heart is bleeding.”

  “Wow. That’s intense. I’m actually having a bit of indigestion. Y’know, so many spices I’m not used to.” Cal squirmed out from under Abdullah’s hand. “I’ll just make a quick trip to the bathroom.”

  Abdullah looked up at him. “What can I do to make you stay?”

  Cal inferred he meant more than delaying him from using the bathroom. He looked upon the man. “It’s not you, Abdullah. It’s me. I’m not ‘Basil.’” He glanced down at his outfit. “That’s what all of this is about, isn’t it? You’re trying to make me into some London schoolboy, and I’m sure you have your reasons for it. Really sincere and private reasons you don’t even have to share with me. But Abdullah, I’m not that boy. I’m twenty-four years old. I’m getting married. To the guy of my dreams.”

  Abdullah stood. “I will speak to your fiancé. I will pay him to release you.”

  That raised Cal’s hackles. “It doesn’t work like that. “

  “I will pay him one million U.S. dollars.”

  “You can’t just buy people. At least not in America.” He ventured a firm look at Abdullah. “It’s actually insulting.”

  Abdullah stepped closer. “Of course. You are worth more than that. I will pay your fiancé two million dollars.”

  “Listen, Abdullah. I think it would be best for both of us if we called it a night.”

  A glare sprang from the Arabian king’s face. “You would dismiss me from your room?”

  Cal backed out of the salon and into the front hall of the suite. “Maybe that came out harsh. But yes, that’s exactly what I mean. I’m afraid that’s the way it’s got to be.”

  Abdullah followed h
im out of the salon. “No man has ever spoken to me that way.”

  Cal held his ground. “I’m sorry, Abdullah, but I can see where this is leading. I’ve tried to be polite. I don’t mean to be ungrateful. You’re looking at a man pushed to his breaking point. I’ve been kidnapped by mobsters. I’ve been lost at sea in a lifeboat. I’ve had to fight off pervy guys like you all week, and I hope you don’t take that the wrong way. Do you know what I’d do for a pair of pants that fit and a little peace and quiet?”

  Abdullah looked stricken. For a blink. Then he trotted toward Cal, newly inspired. “You arouse me with your brash ways. Your youthful impertinence.”

  Cal held his hands in front of himself as though tempering a charging bull. “Back off, Sultan. I may look dainty, but for your information, I took out a Romanian Mob-Daddy twice your size.”

  The king persisted, rounding Cal while he held him back. “Give me a chance, Cal. I can be a very generous lover. And discreet. Your fiancé doesn’t have to know about anything.”

  Cal shook his head.

  “A kiss?” Abdullah suggested. “What’s a kiss?”

  “Not happening.”

  Abdullah retreated. Cal kept a sharp eye on him. Beneath the sleeve of his robe, the king was doing something with his watch.

  “I see you will not allow me to take you gently,” Abdullah said. “I’m afraid you leave me no choice. I will have to use other methods to persuade you.”

  The door to the hall flew open. Two hulking bodyguards swaggered into the room. The king must have called them from a device on his watch.

  Cal backed slowly away from the thugs. Holy Jesus. He was going to get the crap beaten out of him. One of the goons had a gag and a length of rope for tying him up.

  “Take him,” the king commanded.

  Just as the bodyguards lurched toward Cal, a distant boom rumbled through the house, and the lights flickered on and off. Everybody froze. It sounded like they were under attack.

  A staticky voice came over the bodyguards’ earbuds. The king drifted over to them to see what was the matter.