Older Woman, Younger Sheikh

by Teresa Morgan

  In short, she had to act like the whore she'd never wanted to be.

  Not even a visit to her Jeddah's apartment could get rid of the vague doom Amin’s invitation exuded. When she looked at the envelope, a horror-movie sense of unease prickled at her. Her name, written in blocky characters, might have been an ancient curse unleashed by reading it. One coming for her soul.

  Don't be dumb. It's just an invitation.

  She couldn't get it off her mind as she rode in the shared van whose route went nearest Jeddah's place. Nalut didn't have a formal bus system, but independent contractors who got licenses. Officially, they were supposed to keep to the established routes. In reality, they went off their paths all the time to pick up fares, and to drop people where they needed to go. The system worked surprisingly well. Big Western-style buses wouldn't have been able to maneuver through the medieval streets.

  When she opened the door a crack and recognized Rania, Jeddah's beautiful smile blossomed on her face.

  "My heart, Rania," Jeddah said, hugging her at the same time she hustled her inside. "My precious girl."

  Her Jeddah, her father's mother, was a squat, wrinkled woman in her seventies whose hands were in constant motion. Today, she wore loose pink striped trousers with a cheerful purple and green flowered top. Her hair bore no traces of the white that it had to be, but glowed scarlet with henna dye.

  To Rania, no one was more lovely, or better dressed, than Jeddah. Mostly because Jeddah didn't give a flying crap about what anyone thought of her.

  Jeddah would have worn yellow to anyone's funeral.

  Rania's grandmother captured her hands, held them in fingers that rarely stopped moving. "You are free. Finally. It is over."

  What could she say? That Ghassan still controlled her life, even though he was dead? Jeddah had looked forward to this day even more than she had.

  She couldn't break Jeddah's heart.

  "I am free," she lied.

  Without another word, Jeddah bustled off to make tea. Rania followed her into the kitchen.

  Jeddah started jostling through her cluttered cupboards. Rania didn’t bother telling her that the teapot already sat on the counter.

  "Rania, dear, can you help me find my teapot?"

  Her stomach dropped. Being helped made Jeddah feel old. At least, it always had before.

  Rania jumped to her feet and stared into a cupboard in fake concentration. "Are you feeling well, Jeddah?"

  Her grandmother rolled her eyes at herself. "My head is so muzzy lately. I have an appointment with Dr. Bulfati on Thursday."

  "I planned to take you to lunch on Thursday. I guess I might as well come with you to your appointment." It wasn't exactly a lie. The plans had just been recent. Like, five seconds ago recent.

  "You are so good to an old lady." Jeddah's smile illuminated the cluttered, homey room again.

  "Ah! Here’s the teapot," Rania said, putting on fake surprise. "Right on the counter all along."

  "Imagine that," exclaimed Jeddah.

  While the tea brewed they sat on Jeddah's tiny wrought-iron balcony, looking onto the cobbled street with its constant flow of humanity. Jeddah's apartment sat above a kosheri restaurant and the smell of frying onions and spicy tomato sauce wafted up, mixed with petrol fumes. Street vendors hawked knock-off Blu-rays and action figures, a few of them even trying to get Jeddah's attention.

  Hers was the only open balcony on the block. Wooden slats covered the rest of the balconies, ancient glass panes permitting the inhabitants to look out onto the street below. Once, these balconies would have been the only way for the cloistered women inside to see the life they were denied, just a few feet away.

  She didn't pretend she'd ever been as shackled as those women, but without any cash, her options weren't much better.

  "The tyrant has died, little one. Please tell me the reason for the wrinkles between your eyes. I suppose it would be natural to mourn him, just a little."

  "Nope, not even a little."

  Jeddah reached out and stroked a hand down Rania's cheek. The fingers were thin, the bones beneath hard and strong. "Then what?"

  Rania knew her smile was forced. "Ghassan might be dead, but what I was to him isn't going away anytime soon. For the rest of my life, I'll always be Ghassan's whore."

  Jeddah hissed at the harsh word.

  The world saw her as a professional mistress. She'd played that role all her adult life and she would have to play it again until age caught up and no man wanted her. She had another ten years, max. Ten years to get enough money to live on for the rest of her life.

  "The world is wide, my dear. You have your EU passport. Go somewhere no one has ever heard of Sheikh Ghassan."

  She blinked. No. Way. She would never leave Jeddah. Not now, not when she could finally visit whenever she pleased.

  She opened her mouth to refuse, but Jeddah pointed a bent finger at her before she had the chance. "Stop it. Think of yourself now, and no one else."

  Just then, the tea kettle whistled. She jumped up and told Jeddah to sit.

  To Rania's surprise, her grandmother took the order. She must be sicker than she let on. Another reason for Rania to stay. And yet she did have the right to live in the EU if she wanted. She had Italian citizenship, since she'd been born during the year her father had been deployed to Al Nawaz Industries' Roman office.

  But Jeddah was wrong about one thing. She didn't have her passport. Ghassan had always kept the document, suspecting that she might make a break for it.

  Maybe Amin would give it to her if she asked him.

  She carried the tray out to the balcony, warmed by the thought.

  "I'm going to stay here with you," she informed Jeddah, as she poured.

  Her grandmother pounded a fist, making the table jump. "I am an old woman. You are not. I will leave this world soon. It is not too late for you to have the life you wanted for yourself, and that I wanted for you."

  "Jeddah—"

  "You are at a crossroads. Stay here and you will be buried alive by these fools who think that a woman is only what is between her legs. You deserve better. You have always deserved better." Jeddah's face turned crimson.

  "Jeddah," Rania said, managing only a whisper. "I want to be with you, the only family I have who cares for me."

  "That fool brother of yours. Don't get me started on him." At least the blood had begun to settle from Jeddah's cheeks as she took a sip of hot tea. "It is your choice, but I ask you not to do this. Rania, do not make me carry the guilt of you turning aside your happiness."

  "But Jeddah." She spiked her tea with milk and watched the swirling patterns that appeared. "How can I be happy without you?"

  Jeddah's scowl was as ready as her smile. But if Rania could stare down MacIntyre, she could take an old lady, no matter how scowly. "You will have to. I will pass on soon. Go and make yourself the beautiful life that was taken from you before it is too late. You will visit me from time to time, and I will welcome you to heaven when you arrive."

  Jeddah? Die? She nearly laughed. "You will outlive me, you old coot."

  Jeddah's door rattled on its hinges, sending a spike up Rania's spine. Was someone trying to break in?

  The door opened to reveal a man five years younger than her, but with a paunch padding his stomach, as if there were a middle-aged man inside there, working his way out. His jowly neck spilled over the crisp collar of a dress shirt. A tie that matched his navy blue suit jacket had been loosened so that the knot hung around his neck like a noose.

  Her little brother.

  "I have been meaning to change that lock," Jeddah said, her tone dry as the dust in Nalut's streets.

  "Jeddah, I brought you—" Her brother stopped the second he saw her, the grocery bag he hefted frozen in midair.

  She stood. "Hello, Farid."

  He narrowed his eyes at her. "You are here. I have said you are not to come here."

  She sucked back the sigh that threatened. Instead of releasing it, she
crossed her arms over her chest and jutted out a hip. "And I have said I am an adult and will do what I want. If Jeddah wants me here, you can respect her decision. We got that out of the way now?"

  Farid's lip curled, as if he'd licked a lizard.

  Why did it have to be this way? She wanted to have a good relationship with the few family members she had left. But Ghassan had poisoned whatever he'd touched.

  And he'd touched her. Everywhere. Every part of her life bore his dirty handprints.

  Maybe it always would.

  "Farid," she said, in a softer tone. "How is Noor? And the twins? Did they get the iPads I sent?"

  "Gifts from whores go in the garbage," her brother told her. As he had no doubt told his girls.

  "Such a pleasure to talk to you, Farid," she said, gathering her purse. "As usual."

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next day, Rania followed MacIntyre down the palace halls she’d walked so many times, flashbacks hitting her hard. Each burst of emotion stronger than the last, no matter how she fought to keep her eyes on the goal of talking to Amin about her financial situation. Excitement at entering the palace the first time, thrilling to shining colors displayed in perfect geometric tile mosaics from floor to ceiling. Plummeting terror when her father first held her seventeen-year-old hands and asked her to sacrifice herself so that the family could have a better life, to be the heroine who saved them all. A tiny spark of hope at seeing a pair of curious, nearly black eyes peeking at her from around a corner. The nauseating smells of her first dinner alone with Ghassan. Her skin revolting as his preying eyes crept over her body.

  Shake it off, she told herself. Ghassan is dead and buried. Amin is not Ghassan.

  But all of this, being led down massive, intimidating corridors to meet the sheikh… Chilled fingers stroked the base of her spine. How had she managed the strength to do this when she was seventeen?

  "A shekel for your thoughts." MacIntyre’s husky voice derailed that thought train, grazie Dios.

  "Just wondering how many other parties I’ve suffered—I mean attended here,” she offered, a breezy smile in her tone.

  She could do one more, couldn’t she? Just one more, and after she selfishly hit up Amin for help with her financial situation, she wouldn’t have to worry about being invited to a party here ever again.

  MacIntyre’s chuckle dipped even lower than his voice. "Going somewhere, Miss Rania?"

  Without thinking, she’d turned down the hallway toward the formal dining room. MacIntyre had continued straight down the corridor.

  "Maybe you don't know the palace as well as I do," she teased the big man. "The dining room is this way. I know the place can be confusing. You'll get the hang of it, don't worry."

  His eyes lit. "Maybe you don't know Amin as well as I do. You're having dinner in the sheikh's private chambers."

  A warning tingle prickled her skin, making her pull her light green pashmina scarf over her exposed shoulders. "Private chambers?"

  She'd been there a thousand times. In the last three years, to hold Ghassan’s hand while he struggled to breathe. Before that, she'd been summoned to the sheikh’s private apartment for only one reason.

  She shook off the impending sense of doom. Amin wasn't Ghassan. His invitation didn’t have the same meaning. She’d get the chance to speak to him in private. That was great, wasn’t it?

  "What was I thinking?" That Ghassan only summoned me to his private chambers for sex, actually. "Please, lead on."

  MacIntyre narrowed one eye at her. Then he shrugged and turned back to the main hall.

  When they arrived at the door to the sheikh's chambers, MacIntyre knocked—pounded—a warning, then opened the door to let her in.

  Amin rose from the chair where he'd been lounging, setting a tablet computer on a nearby table as he did.

  He'd become a striking man.

  Not beautiful. Not even handsome. But somehow stunning. She might be older than him, but she wasn’t immune. You'd have to be dead to be immune.

  The skinny boy was gone, replaced by a commanding, self-assured man.

  His eyes captured what they saw in their depths, as if everything in his sight was a debt owed to him by natural right. Barbed cheekbones tilted from his temples toward his hawkish nose. The sharp divot in his top lip seemed to be on the cusp of a sneer.

  Strength exuded from him. Not like MacIntyre's muscled bulk, but a tenacious determination.

  She tried to picture the right woman to be on his arm, and failed. She’d be just as tenacious, just as strong, or else Amin would overwhelm her and she'd disappear into his shadow.

  He shared only one trait with his guardian. A complete lack of softness, she thought, with a pang. Ghassan had never shown weakness until his disease had taken away all his strength, leaving him helpless.

  She turned to thank MacIntyre, and found that he'd already disappeared. She smiled. He hadn't given the impression that he would be good at the servants' trick of silence, of melting away when not needed. Which might be the point. How much of his clomping and noise was real and how much did he play on other people's expectations?

  MacIntyre might be far more useful than just as a glorified bodyguard. He'd make a devastating spy. Especially if he didn’t have as much trouble with Arabic as he pretended.

  "Rania." Amin buttoned his jacket with an almost regal gesture. "It is good to see you."

  Nice words; his face didn't match. He took in her dress with a lazy gaze. She’d picked it out believing she was headed out to a party. She’d opted for a subdued silver-gray instead of a shock of color (lemon yellow had sprung to mind), and the silky material covered her from her collarbone to her calves, but the clingy fabric did its clinging job, outlining her generous breasts and curvy hips. Did he think she was overdressed?

  Or, she realized with horror, maybe he had lost himself in mourning for Ghassan. He could have invited her here to reminisce and grieve. To salute Ghassan's life.

  If so, she'd have to give an Oscar-worthy performance or risk offending him.

  His bland expression didn't give a clue.

  "Amin." She crossed the floor to him. When he made no gesture to embrace her or shake hands, she gave his forearm a gentle squeeze. "Amin, I'm very happy to see you, too. I’m only sorry that it took the death of your guardian to make bring us together."

  There. She'd expressed the feelings of regret and Ghassan's death in the same breath. If she was lucky, he'd connect the two and get the impression she felt something other than joy at Ghassan's passing.

  He looked down at her hand on his sleeve. His expression didn't twitch, didn't change.

  She slipped the hand away. Message received. No touching.

  "Amin," she said, moving on. "I expected other people tonight."

  The statement seemed to shake something off of him, sending him into action. He pulled out a cell phone and began to text.

  "I have let the kitchen know we are ready for dinner." He hit send and tucked the phone back into his breast pocket. "We transact business after. For now, let us enjoy ourselves."

  "Business?" Did he know she needed him to find out about her apartment?

  "Dinner should be here presently," came the non-answer.

  He wasn't wrong. The door glided open and the palace servants glided in as if they'd been greased. His phone rang then, and he answered it, turning away from her to speak in rapid-fire English.

  She recognized some of the servants, nodded subtle greetings to a few of the friends she'd made over the years. They didn't acknowledge her in return, cautious about their new master.

  In less than a minute, they had brought in a table, chairs, place settings, and the meal. And slipped away.

  "Will you miss my guardian?" growled a voice by her ear.

  She whirled, startled by the too-close words. Amin stood right behind her, his cell phone gone, those hostage-taking eyes searching her face for the truth.

  Dammit, had everyone in the palace taken stealth lesso
ns? Had they brought in a ninja or something?

  He'll know if you lie, a voice inside her warned.

  Not knowing the answer he wanted to hear, she avoided his eyes. "I'm hungry," she announced, and sat at the table without his invitation.

  He caught her wrist in his grip. Not tight. But inescapable. "Will you miss Ghassan?"

  Let us enjoy ourselves, he’d said. Mannagia, like that was happening.

  She lowered her eyes to the empty plate in front of her and fought to express the swirl of feelings inside her without letting him know what they actually were.

  "He was my lover for seventeen years." Lover. No word had ever been more inappropriate. There'd been no love between them on either side. "I didn't always feel this way, but he was special to me. His loss leaves a hole in my world."

  Special. Special by being the villain of her life. By taking away everything she’d ever wanted. And the "hole"? Easily filled by actually getting to live a life instead of having to wait on him.

  Amin dropped her wrist. "At least you are honest."

  Her throat tightened. Amin had once had the biggest heart in the world. Where was the little boy who had wanted to rescue her? The one she would have given her life to save from Ghassan's influence. He’d been replaced by this cruel and demanding man.

  The boy she would give her life to get back.

  Amin sat down to his food. But the herby smell of the salmon in its green-flecked sauce did nothing for her. She couldn't even lift her fork to pretend to move it around.

  The loss of who Amin had once been hit her harder than Ghassan's death. She'd done what she could to save him. One of the few victories of her life. It hadn't been enough.

  "Seventeen years is a long time." Amin forked fish into his mouth.

  "Time enough for everything to change," she managed, the words coming out sunnier than she felt. Right now, everything was sunnier than she felt.