by Valerie Parv
Simone hadn’t seen him since their shared dinner two nights ago, so he wasn’t pining for her company, either. Fayed had arranged the police interview, and Amal had done everything else. Busy with his affairs of state, Markaz probably hadn’t given her a second thought.
By the time a platter of fresh fruit was brought, Simone had bitten her tongue so often she was surprised it was still attached. Out of politeness she picked at some grapes and figs, complimenting her hostess on the quality and variety of local and imported fruits, as she knew was expected of her. But when she started to rise, Norah stayed her with a gesture.
“Markaz tells me you are interested in Nazaari embroidery.”
Where was this leading? “I run a business on the Internet selling heirloom designs and supplies internationally.”
Norah nodded. “So I’m told. The palace has the largest collection of traditional embroidery in the country. Markaz thinks you should see some of the royal collection.”
Although excited at the prospect, Simone reined in her enthusiasm, reluctant to extend the uncomfortable encounter. Helping Markaz might have earned his mother’s gratitude, but not her friendship. Norah’s experience with Natalie had seen to that. So Simone said, “Thank you, but the thought is enough. I don’t want to take up your time.”
Norah’s bitterness surfaced again. “I have little else to take it up. We shall carry out my son’s wishes and inspect the collection.”
Somewhat less gracefully, Simone followed, arranging her abaya so it shadowed her face. This was her first chance to explore outside the women’s quarters in daylight, so she looked around with interest. Every arched window offered a view over the city of Raisa or the surrounding hills and valleys. Vaulted zigzag passages connected the different sections, with rooms opening off them. Engravings, woven hangings, weapons and murals decorated the walls. In the manner of a tour guide, Norah pointed out the apartments serving as offices and reception rooms for Markaz, his government ministers and the members of his court.
As Norah swept up to a large, richly decorated set of doors, a guard rushed to open them, and Simone followed her into a huge reception room taking up two levels. The lower area had a fine mosaic floor and walls covered with marble and inscriptions. One she managed to translate as “An hour of justice is worth a thousand months of prayer.”
This must be where Markaz held court, she thought, remembering her parents telling her that the sheikh was the first and last resort in matters of law. There were Western-style courts, too, and a conventional justice system. But by ancient tradition, the sheikh dispensed justice wherever he might be.
A large raised area set into a great bay window opposite the main doors added weight to her theory. Markaz would sit there to hear petitions from his people, apart from them, but not too far above them, in keeping with custom.
Norah led the way to a domed chamber off the main hall. “Much of the royal collection is stored in climate-controlled vaults. These exhibits are rotated on a regular basis to protect the delicate materials,” she explained as she handed Simone a glossy catalog printed in Arabic and English.
Stumbling into Aladdin’s cave wouldn’t have left Simone more spellbound. In front of her were examples of piecework she’d only read about and never thought to actually see. She could hardly believe her good fortune when Norah unlocked the nearest case and raised the glass cover. “I trust you know better than to handle the exhibits.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She was more than content to feast her eyes on the intricate needlework. Hard to believe how such tiny stitching had been done without a magnifying glass.
Only her respect for the fragility of the work kept Simone’s hands firmly at her sides as she leaned closer to inspect every detail. Some of the motifs were new to her. Were they still in use? The copyrights available?
Belatedly she realized she was ignoring her hostess, and straightened. “I’m sorry, I’m getting carried away.”
Norah turned from gazing out a window. “Take all the time you like. It’s rare to find a visitor who fully appreciates our decorative arts.”
She sounded almost human. “Are you interested in embroidery, Princess?”
“Only as it relates to Oriental history in general. I’m writing a book about Süleyman the Magnificent, the great leader of the Ottoman Empire.”
Simone nodded. Reigning in the early-to-mid-fifteen hundreds, he was not only a powerful military leader, but also a poet who encouraged his empire’s art and culture to flourish. “What inspired you to tackle such a substantial project?”
“Present-day Nazaari culture owes a lot to his influence.”
“Judging by the quality of this exhibition, you won’t lack for research materials.” And they would be only the tip of the iceberg, Simone thought on a flash of envy.
Norah suddenly seemed to realize she was thawing out, and drew her shoulders back. “Indeed. The palace has a magnificent library dating back to the thirteenth century. I can show you if you wish.”
“I’ve taken up more than enough of your time for now. I’m happy to return to the women’s quarters and study the catalog.”
Norah didn’t bother to mask her relief. “I’ll have someone show you the way.”
Simone could have found her own way, but sensed that Norah wouldn’t consider her duty done until her guest was safely back where she belonged. The thought frustrated her. How on earth was she to find out if her father’s half brother was among the palace guards if all her time was spent in the women’s quarters?
“Would you mind if I walk in the gardens before returning to my room?” she asked.
If she’d suggested taking off all her clothes in the middle of the reception hall, Norah wouldn’t have looked more taken aback. “Alone?”
“I don’t want to delay you, Princess. As an only child, I’m used to being by myself.”
“After what happened at Al-Qasr, it’s too risky.”
She sounded as if she cared. “There are guards every dozen feet. I’ll stay within the inner courtyard where they can see me.” And more importantly, where she could see them.
“Well, if you’re sure.”
“I am. Thank you for lunch and for showing me the exhibition.”
“Both were my son’s idea.” But she sounded gratified, and Simone got the sense of a caring woman beneath the haughty facade. Given time she could probably break through to that woman, she thought. Not that she’d be at the palace for long enough.
All the more reason to use the time well, she thought as her hostess adjusted her abaya and showed Simone the way to the main courtyard. She made sure her headdress shaded most of her face before stepping outside.
It had been a long day and it wasn’t over yet, Markaz reflected as he stepped out of his office onto the mosaic-floored veranda running the length of this pavilion. Dealing with the police who’d made no more progress with their investigations had taken up half the morning. Then there was that nonsense with young Bibi smuggling her boyfriend into her room. Boyfriend? They were both little more than children. He hoped that having the police pretend to arrest young Abdl had taught them a lesson.
Markaz had nothing against young love. But Bibi’s family had entrusted him with her care. Having to tell them she’d gotten herself into trouble would be a poor way to repay their trust.
Lying about taking the boy to her room had fueled Markaz’s anger. When he was five his beloved grandfather had been terminally ill and the adults had tried to shield him with lies. Learning the truth too late to say goodbye, he’d been devastated. He’d hated deception ever since, as Natalie had found to her cost.
Thinking of the desperate way Bibi had kissed Abdl before they were separated, Markaz felt something else twist inside him. Jealousy? he wondered, but dismissed the thought as soon as it arose. He’d never been that innocent in his whole life. And certainly never so much in love that nothing else mattered.
Was that his problem? For as long as he could recall hi
s life had been ruled by duty. Marrying Natalie had been his only digression from the prescribed path, and look how that had turned out? He’d never forgiven her for not telling him about her undercover work, wondering to the end whether she’d really loved him or had married him out of duty.
He could hardly fault her for that, he thought. Much as he valued truth, he also understood duty better than most people. And now she was dead, he was surprised to find himself grieving for her. Not for a love that had withered long ago, but because no one deserved such a cruel end. The arrangements to return her body to America were already being made, and he planned to fly there to attend her funeral. Now he decided to plant an olive tree in the grounds of Al-Qasr as a memorial, recognizing that her last act had been to serve the country she’d never learned to love.
From the veranda he stepped into a vast courtyard once used for gatherings such as dancing and contests. Now it was deserted, with only the sound of the fountain playing at its center and faint music emanating from within the palace. He pulled in a deep breath. Peaceful moments like these were rare, and it wouldn’t be long before Fayed came to summon him to his next appointment.
As he stepped out into the sunlight, he barely noticed his guards detach themselves from the shadows and follow at a discreet distance. Their presence was as natural to him as the breeze stirring the sand in the courtyard, and no more remarkable. The absence of the guards would have been more noticeable.
Then he saw her.
How he knew the veiled figure was Simone, he wasn’t sure. Something about the way she walked in the unaccustomed garments, or the bold angle of her head, so different from the women of his country. But he knew.
Odd that he should have been thinking about love when she appeared. Ever since he kissed her—or more accurately, she kissed him—she’d haunted his thoughts.
For the last two nights he’d lain awake, preoccupied by the feel of her in his arms, the softness and the core of strength. A mouth all sweetness as she took and gave equally. The compulsion to taste her again had left him tossing and turning.
“Ahlan,” she greeted him in Arabic, startling him. He hadn’t heard her come closer. Too deafened by his own thoughts. Evidently she didn’t know it was customary to wait until addressed by the sheikh, before speaking.
Deciding to overlook the transgression, he returned the greeting, “Ahlan beek. Walk with me.”
She inclined her head, her expression hidden beneath the abaya. “As you wish, Your Highness.”
“It was Markaz the other evening.”
She glanced at the guards. “We were alone then.”
He shrugged. “We are alone now.” As alone as he managed to be most of the time.
She fell into step beside him. “Have the police made any progress?”
The scent of jasmine drifted to him, taking him back to his dream. He didn’t want to talk about murder and mayhem. What he wanted to discuss didn’t bear thinking about. “No,” he said shortly.
“You seem angry with me. Why, when I’ve done all you asked?”
Even kissed him. Her veil should have saved him from such thoughts, but being able to see only her expressive eyes made her mouth seem like a secret pleasure, more tantalizing for being a hint behind a layer of gauze.
His anger was at himself for having no more restraint than young Abdl. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
Her gesture indicated the guards posted at intervals around the courtyard. “I’m well guarded.”
“Possibly by the traitor in the palace.”
“Then the risks are the same anywhere within the walls.”
He made an impatient sound. “You have an answer for everything.”
Not quite everything, Simone thought. What was the answer to the sudden fast beating of her heart as soon as she saw him enter the courtyard? To the heat boiling through her? Blaming the layers of clothing didn’t help. She’d felt comfortable until he appeared.
She would be comfortable again, she vowed silently. She had to be. “Thank you for asking Princess Norah to show me the embroidery,” she said, deliberately aiming for neutral ground.
“Afwan.” You’re welcome. “Did you choose a design to use in your business?”
“I can do that?”
“Didn’t my mother tell you? I couldn’t think of a better reward.”
“And I couldn’t ask for one.” Excitement vibrated in her voice. He wanted her to have the right to reproduce one of the unique designs as a gift. For her service to Nazaar, not to him, she reminded herself. It wasn’t personal. Norah must have forgotten to tell her. “I’ll need time to decide, but it’s a wonderful gift. Shukran. Thank you. Although I did little to deserve it.”
“Not little at all. Without you, Natalie’s body could have lain in the desert for days. We’d never have known what had happened to her.”
Across the courtyard she saw Fayed approaching with two other men in palace uniform. Instantly Markaz’s guards fell into formation with them. Seeing them, Markaz tensed visibly. Duty, she guessed. Did the demands on him never stop?
She wondered at her urge to tell them to go away and leave the sheikh alone. With her, came the unwanted postscript. Just as well her expression was veiled, hiding the desperation accompanying the thought. He made her want far more than was good for her. Or even possible to have.
Fayed salaamed and reminded the sheikh of an imminent appointment, while the attendants waited stiffly. The men paid her no attention, but this time she was glad. Her focus was riveted by one man in particular. Dark-eyed, thin and bearded, he was a double of the other guards except for one sloping shoulder slightly higher than the other and a look that reminded her of her father. He and his half brother had shared the same mother, so a family resemblance was likely.
Yusef al Hasa? It was all she could do not to blurt out the name in case he went by a different one now. But even allowing for the passage of time, her mother’s description fit. Unable to see his wrist under his dishdasha, Simone couldn’t check for a tattoo of a coiled snake, but she sensed she’d found him. If it was Yusef, how would he react when she revealed who she was?
With grave formality Markaz took his leave, his mind clearly already on his official duties. She didn’t demur when he assigned one of the guards to escort her back to her quarters, only regretting that the chosen man wasn’t Yusef.
Chapter 7
When Simone returned to the women’s quarters, Amal was away at her studies, but had left a message with Bibi that she would be back in two hours. This gave Simone plenty of time to think about how to approach Yusef.
The task wasn’t as simple as it looked. In Australia she would have asked her escort to tell her the other man’s name, then picked up a house phone and called him. Here the rules were stricter. A woman contacting a man she didn’t know could easily be taken the wrong way.
How did people live under so many rules without going crazy? The sooner the sheikh brought in the rest of his reforms, the better. Not that she’d be around to see them, she reminded herself. He was as keen to see the last of her as she was to leave.
She didn’t like thinking ego was her problem, but had to face facts. She’d wanted him to react as strongly to her as she’d done at seeing him step out into the courtyard. Such a nerve-jolting, stomach-clenching sensation had no business being one-sided.
The flowing sirwall pants hampered her attempt to pace around the living room of her suite. What if the response was one-sided? She’d live. A Western woman with a life of her own didn’t turn to mush over a man, even one as prepossessing as Sheikh Markaz.
No, an independent woman dismissed him from her mind and focused on what was important: arranging a meeting with Yusef, and taking care of her own business. With nothing to be done about her half uncle right now, that left her business affairs.
Hunting out the universal remote, she pressed buttons until a panel slid back revealing a computer screen set into a wall. Settling herself comfortably on a velvet
chaise longue with a wireless keyboard across her lap, she worked through the connections and logged on to her Web site. For the next hour she answered e-mails and processed orders. They would be handled in Australia by Drew Wyatt, Simone’s business partner. Markaz would probably be scandalized that her associate was a man, but Simone had known Drew since college and he was like a brother to her. He could make a computer sit up and beg, and he had made the Web site more professional and eye-catching.
E-mailing him some notes on what actions needed taking, Simone let her hands still on the keyboard. Hard to believe she was effectively running a business in Australia from a harem in Nazaar, but that’s what she was doing.
Finally closing the connection and putting the keyboard to one side, she picked up the glossy catalog Princess Norah had given her and immediately started imagining how each of the designs would look on her Web site. What an attraction they’d be. Something no other heirloom embroidery site could offer. Markaz had said she could have the right to the design of her choice as her reward. Choosing which one to feature was the challenge.
She was engrossed in the catalog when Amal tripped into the suite, her arms full of books and her pretty face flushed. “You’re looking at my class’s star pupil,” she announced.
“Congratulations.” Feeling a rush of warmth for the other woman, Simone got up and hugged her.
“What have you been up to?” Amal asked when they’d exhausted the news of her high grades, and a servant had brought them glasses of chilled fruit juice.
When Simone told her about lunching with Princess Norah, she made a face. “Was she as hard to get along with as usual?”
“Then the problem isn’t just me?”
Amal shook her head. “Markaz has only to glance at a woman to earn Norah’s displeasure. I think she fears losing him the way she lost her husband and son. She wasn’t so prickly before the assassinations,” Amal added. “When it happened she was away at the family’s desert retreat, and blames herself for not being at Sheikh Kemal’s side.”
