A Bed of Sand

by Laura Wright

  “It looks very good,” Asad told him. “My only concern is that you are living in America now.”

  Sakir snorted arrogantly. “I fly all over the world for my work. I have never had a complaint regarding my performance.”

  Asad nodded his head sagely. “I am sure that is true, but you must understand my caution.”

  “Of course.”

  “I would like time to think, yes? We will meet again in, say, a week?”

  “One week,” Sakir repeated, his lips a little thin.

  Rita mentally shook her head. The man wanted to think about things over the next week. This wasn’t good.

  Asad stood, shook Sakir’s hand, then bowed to Rita. “Once again, it was a pleasure, Your Highness.”

  Rita gave him her most brilliant smile, not that she expected that to change the man’s mind, but a warm gesture couldn’t hurt after Sakir’s coldness. “It was wonderful to meet you, too, Mr. Qahhar. Let’s hope it’s the first of many meetings.”

  The man returned her smile. “I must come to America soon. I like her people very much.”

  Rita didn’t know what hit her at that moment, but she couldn’t stop herself. After all she and Sakir had been through in the last several days, she wasn’t about to let him lose this deal and let all her heartache be for not. “Mr. Qahhar, America is wonderful,” she began, “but Emand is where true beauty lies. My husband and I plan on spending a good deal of time here.”

  Asad turned to Sakir, a look of fresh interest crossing his face. “Is that so? Why did you not say as much before?”

  Sakir felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. What the hell had made Rita say such a thing? He whirled to face her, but she was avoiding his gaze. Qahhar on the other hand, was not.

  “Well, this changes matters, Your Highness,” he said. “I will see you both in a week.”

  Sakir inclined his head. And with a low bow, Qahhar left the room.

  Sakir turned to Rita, his tone sharp. “What did you do?”

  “We were losing him.”

  “We were not.” Sakir snatched up his briefcase.

  “I don’t know what’s going on with you, if it’s about last night or this war with your brother, but you were totally off today and if I hadn’t said what I said, this deal would be in the toilet.”

  Sakir didn’t want to hear her explanations. True or false. He only wanted to bark. “‘Spending much time in Emand.’ I would not consider this, Rita, no matter how much I want the account.” He raised a fierce brow at her. “I will have to restate this when Qahhar and I meet again.”

  “You mean when we meet with him again,” she corrected.

  “I am not certain. Not after what you have done.”

  She lifted her chin, looking so proud, so determined and so beautiful in her dove-gray suit and flawless complexion. “Oh, I’ll be there, Sakir, you can bet your title on it.”

  Black rage threatened to drown him. He wanted to punch the wall, duel his brother, tell Qahhar to take his contracts and burn them—but most of all he wanted to haul this woman against him and make her body scream with pleasure. If he would allow himself, he would take her in Qahhar’s office this very moment.

  But he would not.

  He had spent the majority of last night on the couch, reminding himself that with her, around her, in her, he was no longer in control.

  “So, what’s next on the business agenda?” she asked him, her tone flat, all business.

  “I have work to finish back at the palace.”

  She nodded. “Do you need me?”

  Fire fisted around Sakir’s groin. Damn her. But looking into her impassive blue gaze, he saw that her query was not double-sided.

  “I think not.”

  Again Rita nodded stiffly, slipped her purse under her arm. “Shall we go, then?”

  Sakir walked with her out the door and into the halls of Emand Oil. Living life alone was what he had chosen long ago, and it had served him well. This life left no scars, no regrets.

  It was safe.

  The woman beside him threatened that strange sense of peace. She made him wonder what could be if he chose something different—a fact that made her even more dangerous than he had once thought.

  Gana stood beside Rita as she packed some clothes, shoes and personal effects in her overnight case. “This is not wise, Your Highness.”

  “Relax, Gana,” Rita said, her face set with determination, her body rigid with purpose. “I’ve hired two guides for this journey. A husband-and-wife team, no less. I’ll be safe and sound and—” she gave a flash of brittle laughter “—maybe I’ll get a little perspective in the process.”

  Clearly not able to appreciate the beauty of a “little perspective,” when a woman was frustrated by her husband, Gana clasped her hands together and sighed. “The sheikh will not approve.”

  Rita grabbed her bag and headed for the door. “Right now, I couldn’t give a damn what the sheikh thinks. I need some alone time.”

  Without further discussion, Rita left the room. But duty still called Gana, and she would not be so easily lost. She followed Rita down the hall and stairs, out the front door of the palace and into the bright morning sunshine.

  “Your Highness,” she called. “Rita?”

  This made Rita stop and turn around. “What is it, Gana?”

  “What is this alone time?” she asked, a little breathlessly from her dash to keep up.

  Rita gave a wave to the older man and woman in the Jeep at the far end of the driveway, the couple that knew her as just a visitor, not as a princess, and then said to the sweet little maid, “It’s what every woman who’s been dumped by a man must take to regain her sanity.” She gave her a rueful smile. “Bye, Gana.”

  “What shall I tell His Royal Highness?” Gana called after her.

  With her hand on the door of the Jeep, Rita paused. Then, with a grin, she called back, “Tell him I’ll see him in a few days.”

  The words felt good. As did the open-air Jeep. She was off, headed for the adventure of a lifetime. She’d been wasting time, energy and tears in this place. No more, she thought as they hit the beginnings of the desert.

  Caramel-colored sand carpeted the Jeep’s way and the hotel-like sounds of the palace gave way to peaceful nothingness, barring the wind and lazy hum of the motor.

  All those lovely oases in the desert—the ones she’d read about on the plane ride over—would be part of her experience over the next several days.

  And Sakir—well, he didn’t need her around, did he? Not until the next meeting with Qahhar, at any rate. And even at that, he’d acted as though she could be miles away and it wouldn’t matter.

  Well, he was about to get his wish.

  Rita sat back, closed her eyes and smiled. A little adventure, no, a lot of adventure, was just what she needed and deserved.

  Rita woke with a start. She knew she must have dozed off for a while because the sun was overhead in the sky, and the peaceful sounds of wind and motor had been replaced by a loud whirring sound of a plane.

  “We have to stop, Your Highness,” her female guide said as her husband brought the Jeep to a sand-skipping halt.

  “Why?” Rita asked, still a little lost in sleep.

  “Sheikh Al-Nayhal comes.”

  “What?”

  Her heart in her throat, Rita glanced out the window. She saw no other vehicles, no horse and no rider. Above her, the loud whir of the airplane intensified. She looked up. It wasn’t an airplane in the sky. A white helicopter fairly floated above them—and it was descending.

  Rita watched openmouthed as the enormous machine came to land directly in front of them. The inside of the Jeep felt like a wind tunnel as the blades of the copter still swung. Two seconds later, the door opened and Sakir jumped out.

  He wore a dangerous frown as he approached. “Have you gone insane?” he shouted through her window, the noise of motor and wind almost deafening.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Rita
shouted back.

  “You have run away from the palace, Rita. This is not done.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, Sakir.”

  His jaw went rigid.

  “And by the way, you’re the one who’s always running away.” She didn’t stop, couldn’t—even when he gritted his teeth. “Today, it’s my turn.”

  “You will go no further.”

  “I am not your prisoner, Sakir.”

  He swung the car door wide. “You are my wife.”

  She snorted. “Do you really want to go there?”

  In the front seat, her two guides were desperately trying to fade into their leather bucket seats.

  “I need a break, Sakir,” Rita began, her tone serious. “Part of this whole…adventure was seeing and exploring, and I plan on doing both.”

  He turned away, looking as though he was trying to gather patience or cursing or something equally mannish. “You will continue to fight me on this?” he asked.

  “Hard to handle, remember.” She cocked her chin. “I did warn you.”

  He shut the back door, then walked around to the driver’s side and said something to her guides in Arabic. Rita’s guides nodded and then quickly got out of the car.

  “Hey,” Rita began.

  Without a word to Rita, Sakir shouted something to the helicopter pilot. The man also nodded and then beckoned the tour guides toward the chopper. Rita watched in frustrated anger as the husband and wife climbed into the white machine and closed the door. In seconds, the helicopter was off the ground and flying away.

  Sakir walked back around to her door, opened it and said in all politeness, “Please sit in the front with me.”

  Rita blinked, didn’t move. “What the hell did you just do?”

  “I will answer you as soon as you change seats.”

  Rita practically growled as she did as he commanded—slamming doors, dropping into her seat, crossing her arms over her chest.

  When Sakir was in the driver’s seat, his hand clutching the gearshift, he said, “If you are determined to do this, I will be your tour guide.”

  “I’ve already had that kind of adventure,” she said, her tone flat. “And you know what?”

  He glanced over at her. “What?”

  “It wasn’t nearly as fulfilling as I’d hoped.”

  His eyes flashed green fire and he gunned the engine. “What you had, Rita Al-Nayhal, was a taste—just a taste.” Then he shoved the gearshift into first and took off.

  Eleven

  Desert turned slowly into mountain, just as an hour’s worth of stubborn silence inside the Jeep turned to frustration. Finally, Rita gave in and spoke. “I believe this is kidnapping.”

  Sakir glanced over at her, gave her a derisive smirk. “You make a joke, yes?”

  “Hardly.” She straightened her spine. “I was going along fine, minding my own business, having a nice little adventure, and then you show up—helicopter in tow—and sweep me away.”

  “Sweep you off your feet, you mean.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean.”

  “Rita,” he said with that patient tone she knew so well. It was the same tone he reserved for impatient clients. “It is a dangerous endeavor what you have tried to do.”

  “Why?”

  “You must understand something. You are royalty now. My wife could be a target to many—”

  She snorted. “Your wife.”

  “That is correct,” he said firmly.

  Her gaze moved over him. His long, hard body was decked out in a simple pair of tan pants and a white linen shirt. His handsome face was so stubborn; his eyes, gorgeous and intense.

  Sigh.

  His wife. If that were only true. If only he could stop acting like such an idiot and let that be true. But it wasn’t and he wouldn’t, so she was no wife—just a business partner. A business partner who was growing tired of all the games being played between them.

  She shifted her gaze to the window and the view of the rugged mountains. “So, where are we going?”

  “Lake Shami,” he said, thrusting the car into second gear as they drove up a steep hillside. “Then we will travel just above it to the palm tree forest.”

  Rita snapped to attention, forgetting their troubles for a moment to concentrate on something far more intriguing. “Palm tree forest? That wasn’t on the tourist maps. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “No, you would not. The forest is a very special place, revered and cared for by my people…” He paused, his jaw tightening. Then he released a weighty sigh.

  “What’s wrong?” Rita asked.

  “It is nothing.”

  Rita replayed the last thing he’d said, then smiled sadly. The “nothing” he didn’t want to talk about was obvious to her. “You don’t have to be embarrassed for calling them ‘your people.’”

  “I do not feel embarrassment,” he said quickly.

  He was so stubborn, so proud. “I’m just saying that for you to feel warmth and show you care for the people of Emand is normal.”

  “Look ahead, Rita.”

  Confusion hit her. “What?”

  Sakir pointed. “Lake Shami is just over that rise—”

  Rita shifted in her seat to face him. “Why is it so hard for men to communicate their feelings?”

  “Why must women force these feelings from a man?” he countered.

  She shook her head. “You’re answering a question with a question.”

  “My point is thus,” he said with deep sincerity. “Why can a woman not be patient?”

  At that, Rita paused. She’d never heard him say such a thing. He’d barked, bitten, commanded, but never asked something with vulnerability attached. And she found that the anger in her heart melted a touch.

  She took a deep breath. He made a valid point. Had she been pushing him? Not just about releasing his desire for her, but about his feelings regarding Emand, his life here, his relationship with Zayad and his grief over his younger brother?

  Perhaps, she thought. Maybe it would be easier and less stressful for everyone if she just let things happen or not happen, let Sakir make a move, or not, let Sakir confide in her…or not.

  “Patience, huh?” She shrugged. “Okay.”

  Sakir glanced over at her, his brow lifted. “Okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “As simple as that?”

  She broke out into a broad smile. “Yes. Now, tell me more about these palm trees.”

  “See them for yourself.” Sakir gestured out the front window.

  There it was. Beyond the thick pane of glass. Utter magnificence. Rita could barely breathe as she stared at the sight in front of her. Hundreds of massive, waxy-leafed palm trees grew out of a glorious hillside like an earthy chessboard. And just beyond sat a beautiful and highly inviting lake in the shape of an eight.

  “Look there,” Sakir said, pointing to a rock wall above the right side of the lake where rain seemed to trickle down.

  “Waterfalls?” she asked, excited.

  “Yes. One of many.”

  Reverent silence took them both as they drove down the hillside, between the ancient palms to a vacant stretch of land where Sakir parked the car.

  Rita got out of the Jeep first, stretching as hot, wet air enveloped her. She walked a few feet to a small clearing and then looked up. Palm tree leaves framed a patch of blue sky. “This is amazing.”

  “You know,” Sakir said, coming to stand beside her, “you would not have seen it with the guides.”

  “I know.”

  “You thank me for coming to get you?”

  She laughed. “Let’s not get crazy here.”

  He laughed with her, his eyes crinkling. “Would you care to see the lake? Perhaps take a bit of lunch at the water’s edge.”

  “Lunch?”

  He held up a leather satchel.

  “But how?”

  He grinned wickedly. “I am a man of surprises.”

  Even in the supreme heat, a sh
iver of awareness moved through Rita. “Is that so?”

  “Yes.” He reached out and gently took her hand. “Are you ready?”

  She smiled, nodded. “Lead on.”

  “Ah… So, I am a suitable tour guide, then?”

  “Not bad.” Her grin widened. “We’ll have to see how the day goes.”

  “That sounds fair,” Sakir said. He led her down a makeshift path of sand and rock and palm tree branches to the edge of the lake, and just adjacent to one of the lovely waterfalls. There, he delved into the satchel that she assumed was her tour guide’s and came out with a blue and red carpet. He rolled the lovely rug out on a patch of sand, several feet from where the water lapped elegantly at the rocks.

  “A carpet…” she began, playing along. “What else have you got in there?”

  He raised a brow at her, then proceeded to take out several pieces of flatbread, some delicious-smelling meat and what looked like a cucumber salad.

  “Dried lamb,” he said, presenting her with his wares just a little bit dramatically. “Olive salad with cucumber and tomato, bread and some cold wine. A meal fit for a princess, I think.”

  Rita beamed. She couldn’t help it. “It’s perfect,” she said. The whole thing, she mused. The meal, the view, the man—oh, and the possibilities.

  No.

  She couldn’t go there. Wouldn’t go there. Whatever happened, if it happened at all, it would come from Sakir and with absolutely no pressure for her.

  Under the shade of a massive palm tree, they ate their lamb, bread and salad, drank their sweet, cold wine, then promptly relaxed back on the soft carpet and enjoyed the view.

  “I love the water,” she said, sipping her wine. “Comes from being a Pisces I guess.”

  “What is this Pisces?”

  “It’s an astrological sign for those born in March and the symbol is a fish.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I see now. I am August first. What does this make me?”

  Rita started laughing.

  “What?”

  “You’re a Leo, Sakir.”

  He raised his brow, clearly not understanding.