…
“Are you crying?”
Arif, his own eyes burning, gazed down into Aly’s liquid eyes and touched a tear from her cheek. Foreigners did not often cry at Aina al Warda, even when the great Suha herself sang.
She shrugged it off with a little laugh as the audience at last fell silent and seated themselves again. “Why not? Everyone else is.”
The waiter brought their order. Arif took out his wallet and pulled out one of Jafar Hamrahi’s business cards. He penned a quick note on the back of it. “Please pass that to our Bulbul,” he murmured in Arabic. “Tell her we would be honored to have her join us.”
“On my eyes,” said the waiter, and disappeared.
“That was wonderful,” Aly said, taking a spoonful of peach sherbet into that rosebud mouth in a move that knotted both heart and groin. Arif tilted his head in agreement, lifted his cup, and sipped the thick dark liquid.
“Is it traditional music?” she pursued.
“You can’t get more traditional than Bulbuleh Bagestan singing Aina al Warda.”
“That’s her name?” Aly took another mouthful and sighed with pleasure. She took too much delight in so small a stimulus, his animal brain pointed out. Her body must be starved for pleasure. He would enjoy teaching it what real pleasure was.
“It means Bagestan’s Nightingale,” he explained. “The great Suhaila was for years the voice of the anti-Ghasib resistance.”
“Oh, I remember. She sang a song that…” She broke off.
“Aina al Warda,” Arif supplied.
“That was the song?” she asked in delight. “Oh, no wonder.” She looked around at the people still shell-shocked by what they had just heard. “And she’s singing here? There’s room for so few people! Didn’t she used to draw crowds of thousands after the Silk Revolution?”
He was glad she understood. Not every foreigner would have. “And tens of thousands. Suha rarely sings in concert for a mass audience now, however. Such performances ask too much of her at her age. But she was in exile for so many years, unable to sing to her people, that she refuses to retire. So she sings in venues like this around the country. Usually without any advance notice, otherwise somewhere as small as this would be swamped.”
He looked up and smiled, because already at the gate to the courtyard there were people lined up and calling out, “Suha! Suha!”
“And how did you know she was here? Just your magic touch?”
Arif shook his head. “I happened to be talking with Princess Shakira this evening. When she found out where I was she told me Suha was singing here tonight.”
“Princess Shakira? Do you know her?” Aly immediately looked abashed. “Oh, of course you do. Sorry, just two worlds clashing, you know.”
Arif wasn’t surprised at her reaction. Princess Shakira was the darling of the western tabloid press, Bagestan’s favorite royal abroad.
“She is a cousin of sorts,” Arif began, but the sound of applause made him break off and look around. Suha was coming out again, and the audience were all getting to their feet. He stood and waited as Bagestan’s Nightingale smiled and nodded on her way to his table. Aly was standing too, her mouth open with delight and astonishment as Suha approached.
“Suha, may I present Aly Percy?” Arif said in Parvani and then English. “Ms. Percy is a scientist with the charity that is working to preserve the Johari turtle. Aly, everyone calls Bagestan’s Nightingale Suha. Suha speaks a little English.”
“It’s an honor to meet you, Suha,” she said.
“So. You come to save our heritage,” the great singer said, with help from Arif, when all the assembled had seated themselves again. “You must have a good heart, Miss Percy. I am myself of Johari blood, so I very much appreciate your…” she paused, “your sacrifice.”
“It’s no sacrifice.” Aly smiled self-deprecatingly. “The sea turtle is important to the environment as well as to Johari tradition. It’s one of the few natural predators of the jellyfish, for example.”
“My granddaughter also works for charity, did you know? Good hearts like yours are what keep the world from destruction.”
Aly did not know how to accept the praise, he could see that. And more was to come. “You are like her,” Suha said suddenly in English, with an approving smile. “Beauty like a…like a…a peri.”
He did not translate. There was no word in English. Fairy was too limited. Pixie, elf…a peri was all three, and more.
“Beauty!” Aly protested. A little puff of incredulous laughter. “Who, me? A face not even a father could love.”
“Who tells you this lie?” Suha said, in the words that were on Arif’s own tongue. She reached out to stroke the tear-stained cheek, just as his hand yearned to do, then slipped up to catch a lock of the peri’s hair and tuck it behind her ear, revealing the delicate bone structure and an elfin ear.
“Pericher o peripaykar,” Suha murmured in Parvani, and commanded, “Tell her what I say.”
“Fairy-faced and a fairy body,” he supplied inadequately; and when Suha continued, he translated, “True beauty is not found in manufactured breasts and swollen lips. Where is the female magic in such as that?”
“The female magic,” Aly repeated, and sat mesmerized, staring first at him, then at the older woman, a kind of psychic shock shadowing her grey eyes. Then she seemed to recover herself, lifted a self-conscious hand and ran her fingers through her hair, releasing the lock from behind her ear to hide her face again. The unconscious grace of the movement dragged at his blood. How could a woman be so blind to her own gifts? And why was she so unwilling to hear the truth?
…
They strolled back towards the harbor together. It was mostly deserted now, the sailors all bedded down for the night, and silence enveloped them as they wandered down the dock towards where Janahine was moored.
Beside him, Aly yawned. “Early start tomorrow.”
“Where there are so many people, is it still worth it to walk the beach?”
“Oh, yes. Of course I’ll put signs on the cages to alert people, and mount fences. It’s a long stretch of beach,” she said, looking around, “and you’re right. All sign of any nest activity will get trampled underfoot very quickly. Chances are any nests here are lost to us, unless some are laid tonight.”
“This is certainly the busiest island in the group.”
“Then we sail to the south coast, yes? Is that as busy as here?”
“No, it is more remote.” Arif hesitated. “There’s some weather blowing up in the south of the island, according to the last report. It’s a difficult sail anyway, along the south coast, the winds are always unpredictable. I think we have to wait it out here for a couple of days, Aly.”
“A couple of days?” Aly stopped in her tracks and turned to look up at him. Her grey eyes glinted like perfect opals in the moonlight, urgent and pleading. His body read its own meaning into the look and let him know it was willing to satisfy all her needs. “But that’s…Arif, I can’t afford that. Can’t we go to another island and then double back to do the south coast later? I can’t bear to sit here for two days doing nothing.”
He heaved out a breath to calm his blood. “Aly, I have no control over this. It depends on what the weather is doing in the morning. I’ll look at the charts. There may be a possibility to head west to Faatin Island.”
“Oh, I hope so. Oh, please, if it’s at all possible, let’s do that.”
His gut urged him to promise her whatever she asked. “It depends on the weather,” he said firmly.
They walked in silence for a few moments, listening to the creak and slap of halyards against masts, the lap of water against hulls.
“It is interesting that Suha compared you to her granddaughter,” Arif said. “I noticed the resemblance, too.”
Aly shrugged. “I don’t know who her granddaughter is.”
“Princess Shakira is her only living granddaughter.”
Her face went blank, her mouth fell op
en. “Suha was saying I was like Princess Shakira?”
“You didn’t realize it?”
“No.” Aly gave a half laugh. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve seen pictures of Princess Shakira. I’ve seen her on TV. She’s…she’s…”
She couldn’t even say the word. “Beautiful?” Arif supplied.
“Well, if she’s not, she’s got something that masquerades well.”
“You, too, Aly.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said again.
“You are, in fact, very like our Boy Princess. Both of you are small and elfin, both dedicated fighters, and yet still with an intensely feminine grace. That is what made me think of…”
They were at Janahine now, and Arif reached up to unhook the gangplank and lower it. Aly stepped onto the deck, then stood waiting for him. Most women were more eager to believe that they had territorial rights. Most women used their key to unlock the hatch while he saw to the gangplank.
“Think of what?”
“Soon the helicopter will bring you a gift from Princess Shakira. I hope you will be able to accept it in the generous spirit in which it is given.”
“A gift from—but why? She doesn’t know me from Adam.”
“Eve,” he corrected, with a look, as he unlocked and opened the hatch. “She does, now. I have told her about you. She knows you are dedicated and true. She knows that you work to save the heritage of Joharistan and its people. She is close to the Johari cause—she has Johari blood and her brother is an adopted Johari prince. And so she sends you a gift.”
Something lighted her eyes then, he wasn’t sure what. “What is it? Is it a donation to Turtle Watch?”
“Do you think of nothing but turtles?” he asked impatiently.
“What else could she be sending me?” But before he could answer her, she had gone down the steps. “Good night,” she called up. A moment later he heard her cabin door close.
Chapter Thirteen
In his cabin Arif stripped off and showered, then tossed aside the pajama bottoms that Jamila always laid on the turned down sheets, propped up his pillows, and lay down with the Turtle Watch application files. He couldn’t escape the possibility that someone on his own team might be responsible for more than just incompetence. What justification had been used for cutting the amount of the project’s funding so drastically?
Of course there were always far too many applications for limited environmental funds, but he would have expected his staff to be aware of the importance he himself placed on the survival of the Johari turtle. It was surprising that no one had brought the application to his personal attention long before the point at which he approved the funding decision.
Do not attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity.
Most screw-ups can be explained by stupidity, he reminded himself, and whoever said that ignorance causes more grief in the world than malice does was undoubtedly right—but there was nevertheless a great deal of malice doing damage in the world. Trojan Percy was one of many. An extreme, of course, but in many ways, in many fields, malice in its various guises accounted for plenty of grief in the world.
But not right under my own nose, if I can help it.
Something thumped, and he heard a muffled curse. Arif frowned in surprise, and listened. Only the creak of the rigging in the wind. Another thump. He shoved the file of papers off his stomach and swung his feet to the floor, simultaneously reaching into the drawer of his bedside table for his gun. Two seconds later he flung open the door of his cabin.
Aly, wrapped in a bath towel, was standing in the main cabin, her hand on the lamp that came on in the moment that he opened his door. She froze and stared at him, her mouth open, her eyes going dark.
That was when Arif realized that he was buck naked. Why the fact should give him an erection he had no idea, but he had the presence of mind at least to step back inside his cabin and close the door. He plucked his bathrobe from a hook, wrapped himself in it, tied the belt, and stuffed the handgun into the pocket, all in five seconds, before opening the door again.
Aly was halfway back to her own cabin, but as her door was immediately opposite his, this only meant that she was much closer to him than before. Her face was pale and she was trembling with nerves.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded. “What has happened?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
He gripped her upper arm. Her skin was cool and smooth under his fingers. “Don’t lie to me. What is it? Who is here?”
“Nobody! For God’s sake, it’s nothing. I can’t find my nightshirt, that’s all.” She shrugged out of his hold and tucked the towel more securely across her breasts. “I was wondering where Jamila put it, but I don’t know if she and Farhad are back on board. Sorry if I woke you.”
“I was reading. Didn’t Jamila do laundry today?”
“Yes, but that was all clean and folded on my bed. I didn’t put my nightshirt in, anyway. But now I’ve looked everywhere and it’s just not to be found.”
Arif frowned at a vague thought. “What color is it?”
“Blue. Well, kind of blue. It’s a man’s Oxford cotton shirt, but faded. I just can’t—”
Arif turned. On the other side of his bed, set on the turned-down sheet, lay a neatly folded blue shirt. “I think I’ve solved the mystery,” he said, gesturing.
Aly’s nervous gaze followed his hand, and she let out a little gasp of laughter. “There it is. But why did she think it was yours?”
The bath towel was big and she was small, so it covered her well, leaving her shoulders and arms, ankles and feet bare. But still there was more erotic impact in it than if she had been wearing a sundress giving equivalent cover. More than most women produced with lace and silk and lascivious eyes. But this was not the moment to remember his dream. Arif turned, picked up the shirt, and returned to hand it to her.
“I think she assumed that you were sharing my cabin.” What he could not say was that he considered this a very good idea.
“Why should she think that?”
He looked at her and didn’t want to tell her that it was because most of the women who sailed with him did share his cabin. Aly wasn’t at all like those confident, sophisticated women. If he told her, she might never come to his bed, and his body was insisting that she must. “I don’t know. She must have made your bed this morning, so she knows where you slept last night.”
“She doesn’t make my bed, actually. I do. But I don’t see what…”
“Ah,” said Arif. “It is now explained. Jamila has assumed that you are not sleeping in your own cabin. Simple.”
Aly bit her lip. “Well, never mind. I’ve got it now, thanks. Sorry to have disturbed you.” She was turning to her own door, and then he watched the little peri frown draw her eyebrows together as the memory surfaced. She turned back to him in open-mouthed surprise.
“Were you carrying a gun?” she asked.
…
It said something for her state of mind that this had only been noticed as an afterthought. Between a naked man and a gun…
Something kicked up behind his eyes and Aly blushed for her own stupidity. Why had she said anything, why hadn’t she just let him go? Did he think that was an invitation? Is that a gun in your pocket or… She was sure he did, and that the light in his eyes was mockery. Of course he would laugh at her. She hadn’t meant anything by it. She had just had one of those flashbacks and belatedly seen the gun in his hand, and like a fool hadn’t been able to censor her surprise. But she couldn’t even try and tell him that—because it meant she’d been staring at his naked groin and not noticed the gun. He would think she was sex-starved. He would think…
But he said only, “I was.”
“Why?”
“In order to protect you, of course.” He grimaced and amended that. “Protect the boat.”
Her blood was roaring so that she hardly heard the emendation. “Protect me. Here in Ausa? Is this port dangerous?”
Petty criminals might try to board a yacht in port, but serious piracy generally happens on the high seas. And few people think a gun an effective answer to either threat: it escalates the danger.
Arif hesitated a long time, during which her heart began to trip.
“Tell me. Please, Arif.”
He said reluctantly, “For you, anywhere may be dangerous.”
Her heart kicked so hard she nearly fell over. “Please tell me what this is all about.”
He paused again. “Do you want to hear it tonight? This is not a good time. It will be easier to hear in the morning.”
Chills were coursing over her skin now, her stomach going into a knot, like a snake wrestling a troublesome prey. The expression in those blue eyes was nothing she could begin to read. Aly bit her lip to try to contain her trembling.
“If you think you need to protect me from some specific threat with a gun, I want to know what that threat is.”
“All right.” Arif nodded once. “Let’s sit down. What will you have to drink?”
“Water,” her mouth moved in a half smile. “Back in a mo.”
In her cabin she dropped her towel, flung on her nightshirt, slipped a pair of shorts on underneath, and was back in the softly lighted room as Arif was pulling a tray of ice cubes, a bottle of San Pel, and a bowl of lemon slices out of the drinks fridge. He opened another little door, pulled out a glass and a brandy snifter, then a bottle that glowed amber under the lights, and set everything onto the coffee table.
Aly tucked one bare foot under her butt and sank onto the sofa, gazing at him as he opened the hatch wide overhead to let a welcome breeze blow in. He looked so serious that her heart started kicking up again. But Arif said nothing until he had put ice into her glass, opened the mineral water with a snap and a hiss and set it in front of her, poured himself a small cognac.
He picked up his snifter and sat down kiddy-corner to her on the sofa.
“You think I’m personally in danger?” she prompted.
“I think you might be.” He looked at her with that same calm, unreadable gaze.
“What…what makes you think so? I’ve seen nothing to—what have you seen?”
Her Royal Protector (a Johari Crown Novel) (Entangled Indulgence) Page 12
