Desert Justice. Valerie Parv
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an awareness of danger. She told herself she was excited because her chances of finding Yusef among the royal guard had greatly improved. Not because she would be spending more time around Markaz. “I appreciate the offer,” she said.
Again that maddening half smile played around his sensuous mouth, as if she were a child he was indulging. “You may consider it an offer if you wish.”
As long as she did as he commanded, she read between the lines, her hackles rising. She disliked being ordered around. But if the rebels had Natalie, Simone didn’t plan on being their next victim. There was only one possible response. “Thank you. I accept your offer.”
Chapter 3
Markaz kept her at his side as they made their way back to the waiting fleet of cars. If the situation hadn’t been so nerve-racking, she would have enjoyed the ripples her appearance with the sheikh caused among the onlookers.
There were advantages to being under royal protection, she decided. Not only did she feel less vulnerable having Markaz’s guards around her, she felt like a celebrity. Unlike back home, there’d be no tabloid headlines speculating about the sheikh’s mystery woman tomorrow. Nazaar might be edging toward democracy, but the media still treated the royal family with deference.
She had expected to ride in one of the following cars with members of the sheikh’s entourage, but Markaz indicated she was to ride with him in the vehicle flying the royal standard. As they approached, a driver opened the door for them and Markaz gestured for her to get in. She hesitated. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Are you worried about your image or mine?” he asked dryly. Before she could answer, he added, “It’s a little late to trouble yourself about either one. The gossip mills will already be working overtime.”
So Nazaar had its version of the tabloids, she thought. Remembering the whispers following her when she’d been the only child with refugee parents in her class at school, she kept her head high. What people chose to say about her was their business. She knew why she was with Markaz, and if being with him kept her safe and got her closer to her goal of finding Yusef, she could handle the gossip. It wasn’t as if he really had a romantic interest in her.
All the same she was aware of how close together they were once the driver closed the car door. There was room enough for her to stretch her legs out, but Markaz seemed to shrink the space alarmingly. While they were standing, Simone hadn’t noticed a big difference in their heights, but in the car he seemed so broad and solid that she automatically tucked herself into a corner to give him more space.
Fayed squeezed into the front seat beside the driver, and pressed a button, closing a tinted glass screen to give the passengers privacy. In the enclosed space, her senses were stirred by the faint scent of cinnamon and citrus from the sheikh’s cologne. Normally she preferred men who smelled cleanly of soap and talc, but there was something disturbingly sensual about whatever Markaz was wearing.
She wasn’t usually attracted to men in skirts, either, she thought. But the traditional robes looked so perfect on him that she couldn’t imagine him wearing anything else. Up close, the gold embroidery on his mishlah was even more intricate than it had looked from a distance.
The motorcade was gathering speed out of Al-Qasr when he said, “Will you know me again next time you see me?”
She would know him anywhere, came the unbidden thought. He dominated the space in the car as much by force of personality as physical size. Since she could hardly say so, she said, “I didn’t mean to stare, but I’m interested in traditional embroidery, and you’re wearing a wonderful example.”
“You find my clothes riveting?” His tone was all wounded male pride.
The alternative was to admit how riveting she found him, and she didn’t feel any such thing. “My business specializes in heirloom embroidery designs. Nazaar designs are not yet famous, but they should be,” she explained.
“Let me guess. You have a mission to bring our traditional crafts to the attention of the Western world?”
His sarcasm wasn’t lost on her. “Not so much a mission as a passion.”
“Old women have a passion for embroidery. You can’t be more than twenty-five.”
“Twenty-eight,” she corrected, pleased that he thought her younger. “Embroidery is popular with people of all ages. My Internet business even has a few men as customers.”
Looking unconvinced, the sheikh opened a compartment to reveal a well-stocked bar. “Champagne?”
She had never drunk champagne in a moving car before. And she found she didn’t like having him think of her as stuffy, so she nodded. “I’d love some.”
The famous label on the bottle he opened made her blink. But what else would one drink in the back of a Rolls Royce? she thought as he poured two glasses and raised his to her. “Santé.”
She returned the toast. “To Your Highness’s health.”
His dark eyes met hers over the rim of the glass. “I trust we’ll both enjoy good health for a long time to come.”
Reminded of why she was in his company, Simone’s mood darkened and Markaz frowned in response. “I don’t mean to blacken your mood.”
“Business Suit blackened it when he abducted Natalie, then came after me this morning,” she said. “For a few minutes, I allowed myself to forget.”
“Then I must find a way to make you forget again. When you spoke of your passion for embroidery, you looked even more vibrant and beautiful.”
She managed a slight smile. She wasn’t beautiful, but a little flattery never hurt. “How do you stand being under threat as part of your everyday existence?”
He shrugged. “Everyone is under some kind of threat, whether it’s from illness, misfortune or the passage of time. Being royal simply makes one more conscious of life’s hazards.”
She sipped champagne. “I hadn’t thought about it like that. But you can’t equate getting sick or old with the threat of assassination.”
A flicking gesture of his fingers dismissed her argument, but her smile was teasing as he said, “I am the sheikh. I can do anything I choose.”
Not sure why, she felt driven to be contrary. “Your power must have some limits. Surely you can’t command the weather, or make someone fall in love with you?” Now why had she chosen that example?
He didn’t seem fazed. “Are you sure?”
“About the weather?”
Leaning forward, he fingered pads on a control panel. Instantly, the air around her became much cooler. “What is air-conditioning but controlling the weather? As to your second example?”
Despite the chill air sliding over her skin, she felt overheated suddenly. The champagne must be having an effect. “Yes?”
“I would not want to make someone fall in love with me. Love is overrated as a means of choosing a life partner.”
Was he speaking as a man who’d been once bitten? “I wouldn’t know.”
He toyed with the stem of his glass. “You can’t tell me that someone as attractive as you has never been in love?”
Two compliments in one conversation. She’d have to be careful she didn’t start believing him. She paid attention to the walnut grove they were driving through. In contrast to the soaring sandstone hills locking in Al-Qasr, the surrounding region was green and fertile, dotted with villages where time appeared to have stood still. She turned back to the sheikh. “I thought I was in love until recently. It didn’t work out.”
He smiled in satisfaction. “See? You bear out my thesis that love is overrated.”
“Just because one relationship goes sour doesn’t mean the whole