SHEIKH'S SURPRISE BABY: A Sheikh Romance

by Knight, Kylie

  In the distance, the Royal Palace—a surprisingly modern building, given how much the tourism board loved to boast about Bahrain’s long history of trade in the area—rose from the sands, a seemingly solid block of white marble at a distance. As they got closer, they could begin to make out the intricately-carved shutters that were drawn over the windows, and the subtle gilding of certain flowers. Bashir’s tutors had once tried to impress upon him the pattern the gilding followed, but his head had never been one for numbers.

  It seemed to take forever to reach the front gate, though, and by the time the cab pulled over Bashir was more than ready to jump out. The cab driver had spent most of the ride reminiscing about how wonderful his children were, and Misha had surprised him by actually engaging the man in the conversation. It was a little strange, not to have to be the one to do all of the talking, for once, and as they got their bags Bahsir said, “I didn’t know you have a family.”

  “I don’t have a family,” Misha said. “It’s my sister’s family I was talking about.”

  “Oh. Do you want a family?”

  It seemed like a perfectly reasonable question, but Misha froze and gave him such a hard look that Bashir was actually a little frightened. He almost said, “I’m sorry,” but Misha said, “That time is past.”

  What did he mean? Misha wasn’t that old. But his bodyguard was approaching the main gate, where the guard instantly recognized him and Bashir, and moved to let them in. Not that there were many blond Russians who spoke Arabic on Bahrain.

  “Forgive me, my Prince,” the guard stammered, as Bashir walked through the gate. “If we’d heard you were coming—”

  “But you didn’t because I didn’t tell you,” Bashir said, dismissing the man’s professions of utmost regret and sorrow about having abandoned his duties and so on and so forth. He felt a little guilty about being so dismissive with the guard—it wasn’t the man’s fault that he’d been trained with all of the rules and regulations and decorum surrounding the job of guarding the royal house. At the same time, though, his time in London had made him impatient, with the overblown protocol and formalitiies.

  Misha slowed to allow him to pass—in London or Amsterdam, it was perfectly all right by the both of them if Misha led the way. Here, though, things could get considerably more tricky for them both if either of them failed to follow protocol.

  They entered the Royal Palace, into the main hall, a massive hall with panels of intricate, hand-carved tilework on the walls and floor. His father was waiting for him at the far end. Next to him stood a woman—and not just any woman, either. Her.

  Now he understood why his brothers and sisters wanted nothing to do with their father’s new marriage. Alya al-Shahaad was a rich businesswoman, a designer of some clothing line or other. She was pretty enough, with her blond accents and intense gold eyes, and fantastically rich, even by the standards of the wealthy oil barons of the Arab world. Money only gets you so far, Bashir recalled now, in the voice of his mother. What she never had to specify was what it couldn’t buy: happiness, class, grace, style.

  None of which this bitch has, Bashir thought, now, trying to contain his temper and keep from spitting curses at his father. She at least did not try to act as if she didn’t know what she was doing. Alya stayed back, while the king, Salaman bin Nassir, came forth to greet his son.

  Bashir hugged his father, and they exchanged the customary kisses—this much was automatic to him and he found that, despite having been away for so long, his body still remembered what to do. “My son,” the king said, smiling. “I am so happy that you are home. Now, I know what you’re going to say,” he said, before Bashir could launch into the thousand reasons why this wedding should not happen, “but I am still the sheik and it does not go against the laws of the country or Islam for a man to take another wife after his wife has passed.”

  “A wife, yes—a whore?”

  Some fifteen, maybe twenty years ago—when Bashir was still too young to know what an affair was—the king had had an affair with Alya. All he knew, though, was that his mother had cried for weeks, refused to eat, could hardly be moved from her room. At that time, he’d been having his own heartbreak—a girl he’d liked in school had moved away. He was old enough, by then, to realize that grown-ups sometimes lied, so to have his father lie to him about the affair wasn’t especially world-shattering. But to see Dr. Farsid hanging outside his mother’s rooms for weeks at a time—weeks when he wasn’t allowed in to see her, not even to give her a flower—was terrifying to his child’s mind, and somehow the affair with Alya became conflated with the near-loss of his mother. Even now, Bashir still felt a wave of sickness going through him when he thought of his father, bringing this woman into their house.

  “You’ll not speak like that to my wife,” the king said, sternly.

  “She’s not your wife yet.”

  “She’ll be my wife longer than you’ll be my son if you don’t stop this childish pouting,” the king said.

  Bashir wanted to protest: What are you thinking? Do you not remember what happened the last time you slept with this woman?

  “I know you love your mother, and so do I,” said the king, softly. “I was lucky for that. Not all arranged marriages are so seamless and easy. But Alya and I have been partners for far longer—”

  “Partners,” Bashir spat, scowling at the woman and his father, wondering what they could have possibly partnered in besides breaking his mother’s heart. “She didn’t deserve that,” he said.

  “And I shall have to answer for that,” the king said. “I give you my word, though—”

  “Your words mean little and still less to me,” Bashir said, taking his bag and stalking off. Misha followed. He still remembered where his rooms were—or at least, where they would be, if she hadn’t changed everything around by now. That was usually what new wives did, at least according to all of the old story books. And at this point, given how his father had tricked and misled him, there was probably more truth in the stories than there as in the entire palace.

  ***

  He dismissed Misha after they put their bags in his rooms—like his other siblings, he had his own small suite of rooms, and he asked one of the servants to make up a bed in his study for the bodyguard. “You can have the rest of our time in Bahrain off,” he said. He wanted to be alone, the better to contemplate his next moves before and after the wedding. There was no way he would have this stain on his name, and if it meant the end of a cushy trust-fund life, then so be it.

  For perhaps the first time in his entire life the Russian frowned, confused. “Are you sure, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes—I know, you signed a contract, but trust me, if anything gets past the miles of scorching desert, through the armed guards, and then through this rat hole of hallways and tunnels, I’ll be the first to let you know. So go—relax by our pool. Have a margarita. I know it’s a Muslim house, but someone here will know how to mix one.”

  After his bodyguard left, Bashir reminded himself that he had to look up how Misha was being paid—whether the money was coming out of his trust money or if his father had included the bodyguard’s salary in his list of expenditures. His trust fund had paid for his apartment in London and gave him a budget of about 2000 dinar a month for spending as he liked, but if he was going to make a clean break with his father, then he would have to pay Misha himself. He’d never been a target of an assassination attempt, but he’d been roughed up by football hooligans in the Tube simply for being a well-dressed man. He didn’t want to think what would have happened if they’d known he was a prince.

  There was, too, the risk that his father would decide to cut off his trust fund altogether, which wasn’t an immediate problem, but it would complicate matters immensely—he’d need to find a job. He was reasonably certain someone with a background like his—fluent in Arabic, French, and English, with a degree in international law—would be able to find something, but that would mean changing his visa, which would in tu
rn mean more fine print and legalese that he just didn’t want to deal with. But he could deal with it—he could break away from his father and his trust fund and even Misha if it came to that.

  But, he had to admit, life would be a lot easier if it didn’t.

  There was a knock at his door. He looked up and saw his youngest sister standing at the door. “Bashir,” she said, grinning.

  “Miriam,” he said.

  They hugged. “You never come back anymore,” she said, pouting. She was the prettiest of his sisters—so he’d always maintained—but she always said he had a fool’s idea of beauty. He didn’t know what she meant—she had large, bright eyes, and her lips had a natural deep redness to them, and she had a natural elegance in her choice of abayas.

  “I know, I’m a bad brother,” he said now.

  “It’s not fair—why do you get to live in London?” she asked, sitting on his bed.

  “I’m not married,” he said, grinning. “How is Omar and my nieces?”

  “Omar is Omar,” she sighed, rolling her eyes at the mention of her husband. He was a good match for her—his family (distant relatives of the King of Jordan) was very modern and they were carving out the equivalent of Silicon Valley in the Sinai. She wasn’t unhappy—her children certainly seemed to to drive them both happily crazy—but Bashir could tell that she wasn’t content.

  “I can’t believe he’s marrying her,” she exploded, suddenly, her voice brittle with an anger that she hadn’t dared speak of.

  “Is there anybody else at the wedding?” he asked. “Any of us, I mean,” he added, before she could remind him that it wouldn’t be a wedding in Bahrain with less than 500 people.

  She shook her head. “Malakar and Salamin refused to come. Lena and her husband are moving to Morocco next month and they’re in Manama for the next few days to get their visas and stuff taken care of. So it’s just you and me, little brother.”

  “We have more fun together anyway,” Bashir said, winking.

  She grinned. “Remember that one time,” she began, “with the jalebis—”

  “—and how sick Salamin got—”

  “And then Papa had to yell at us and Salamin threw up all over Papa’s brand new Italian shoes—”

  They cackled together for a while, remembering the sorts of mischief the five of them had gotten up to. But it was sad, too, because it seemed that for every memory they had of a servant running after them, yelling, they also had a memory of saying good-bye to their brothers and sisters, as one by one they got married and went off to fulfill their roles as ambassadors, board members of corporations, doctors, and university professors, in Miriam’s case.

  “Come on down for dinner,” Miriam said, getting up.

  “We could stay here for dinner,” he offered, gesturing to the little balcony outside his French windows. “I’m sure Muharra—” the oldest servant “—still has a folding table and chairs that I can take, and we can have the kitchen send our portions here—”

  “Bashir,” she said, sadly. “No.”

  “You cannnot seriously want to eat dinner with that bitch,” Bashir said in disbelief.

  “Father loves her,” she said. “He’ll be hurt if we don’t come.”

  “He should have thought of that before he brought her into our house.”

  Miriam sighed and shrugged. What can we do? “He’s an old man, Bashir,” she said. “He probably feels that this is his only chance to find true happiness. She’s beyond the age of having children, so it’s not like Malakar will lose anything by it—”

  “Wait, you mean he wasn’t happy with Mother?” Bashir asked, incredulous. His mother had spoken of his father as though he ws

  “He was happy,” Miriam said. “But—and this is only what I know—he and Alya go back far longer than he and our mother.”

  “I know that,” Bahir grumbled. “But he has family—”

  “And we need to let him know that we love him,” she said, smiling sadly. “You don’t think he knows what she represents to us? But the heart loves who and how it will,” she said, shrugging. “So come down for dinner. You don’t have to say anything,” she added. “You can be surly if you want.”

  He agreed, but it wasn’t until she left that he realized that he didn’t really have any idea how to be surly. He could refuse to speak, of course—but that would only work until someone said something hopelessly backwards. And given that this was Bahrain, and his uncle was here for the wedding as well, backwards ideas were guaranteed.

  ***

  A small wedding.

  It was so strange, seeing the great hall filled with people, that 250 people were counted as a “small wedding”. It was an odd mix of modern technology and tradition—the food was traditional although it was catered, the music was traditional music but piped by a DJ who laid an odd disco beat down. Most of the Bahranis were in the traditional Arabic robes, but Bashir had chosen to wear his suit instead. There were also some Westerners there, too—a cadre of French archaeologists who were apparently friends of Alya, and a Dutch contingent from Royal Shell, which Bashir recalled had been in negotiations for drilling rights off the shore.

  Bashir sat back and watched the dancing. As the youngest prince, he would have ordinarily left as soon as the ceremony was over, but he was the only prince here today, so his father was keeping him at the table with stern looks and fierce scowls if he dared so much as shift in his chair. Miriam was smiling at him from across the table, waggling her eyebrows—she’d also been admonished to behave herself, but there was no question in Bashir’s mind that she had something planned.

  Any chance of ruining the wedding had been dashed the night before when his father had nixed the idea of him giving a toast. The king had couched it in the most diplomatic of words, saying, “Of course it would be lovely to have a toast given by my own son, but I couldn’t possibly impose such a duty upon you with such short notice.” Bashir watched as his father circled around the tables with Alya, watching the reactions of the wedding guests. As far as he could tell, most of them approved of the wedding, but that just meant that nobody had blathered about the history of the King and Alya. Time to change that, Bashir thought sullenly. He’d slipped some vodka into his glass—and now he stood up, not sure about what he wanted to say, only that he was sure he couldn’t call the new queen a whore. Miriam gave him a secret smile—

  —just as the DJ started up. He shot the man a displeased scowl, but the man was wearing sunglasses and headphones—standard gear for a DJ, true. But a deliberate way to keep him from being able to give a scathing toast? He had to admit his father was more cunning than he took him for.

  Still, now that he was standing, he couldn’t very well just keep standing there like an idiot. He tugged at his sleeves and headed out the side exits—just a guy going to the toilet. The corridors between the great hall and the toilet were full of people coming and going.

  He went upstairs. He had his own bathroom in his suite, and it was more private than the bathrooms that were designated for the guests. The palace was a private residence, but it’d been built with public functions in mind, and Bashir had always found it a bit odd that thee bathrooms downstairs had three stalls apiece.

  He was washing his hands when he heard the door to his suite open. “Hello?” he called.

  “Prince Bashir,” came Misha’s voice. He came out of the bathroom to see Misha standing in front of the door to the suite, at the ready as he always was.

  “Didn’t I tell you to take our time here off?” Bashir asked.

  “Your father asked me to resume duty for the duration of the wedding.”

  Great. “Well, you can tell the old goat to suck it,” Bashir grumbled.

  “I’ll pass the message along,” said Misha, nodding his head, but otherwise not moving.

  “Well, go on,” Bashir said impatiently, as he took his jacket off and hung it up. “You’re allowed to go—you’re dismissed—”

  “A thousand pardons, Prince, but I
was ordered to make sure you got back to the festivities.”

  “I’m not a child,” Bashir protested. “I know my way to the damn hall.”

  “Those are my orders,” Misha said.

  “Well, you’re my bodyguard, and my orders are to go back to the great hall, have yourself a cocktail, and just relax already. My dad just wants to keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t screw up his wedding.”

  Misha hesitated, but in the end he backed out of the room and closed the door after himself. Bashir sighed and took off his tie. It was now that point in the festivities where people were loosening up, and he wanted to be able to stretch his legs and dance.

  He went downstairs through the back staircase, though: he was feeling subversive and annoyed that his father would send Misha to do something like that. He was always planning on going back to the festivities—he couldn’t abandon his sister to three additional hours of boredom—but the one thing he couldn’t stand was being summoned like a peon.

  I’m his son, too, he thought, fuming. Last in line, true—but still a prince. My father never respected me. He thinks I’m just a kid.

  “Hey you, there!”

  He was passing the kitchen, where the caterer had set up the trays and trays of food that needed to be served. She was waving him in—at first he thought that there was something wrong with the food and that she wanted him to tell the guests that there wouldn’t be any fruit, but then she thrust a tray in his hands, and shooed him away again, saying, “Remember, smile.”