Beloved Sheikh. ALEXANDRA SELLERS
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ruby, sapphire, turquoise. Every inch of walls, floor and ceiling was hung and draped with carpets, tapestries, or beautifully dyed cloth, and the furniture—of walnut, mahogany and other unknown, fabulously grained woods—had such a deep polish it seemed as if it would shine “even if no fire touched it ”
All the light came from naked flame, or flame under delicately painted or cut crystal globes that sent light shimmering around the room like a thousand flung diamonds. And all around them were handsome men in exotic dress introducing themselves as the Cup Companions of the prince. The team felt as if they had stepped back centuries in time, straight into the pages of the Arabian Nights.
One of the Companions had visited the dig earlier in the afternoon, and had been introduced to every member of the team by Gordon, and now they were all greeted by name. For several minutes they made conversation.
Then the heavy sound of a helicopter was heard close by. There was an expectant pause, during which the team found it impossible to chat normally. All of them were surreptitiously watching the entrance. Suddenly a group of men erupted into the room, talking and laughing, and bringing a vital and very appealing energy with them. As one man, the Companions in the room turned and bowed.
The new arrivals were all just as exotically and colourfully dressed as the Companions, and the brilliance of the prince himself was breathtakingly unmistakable.
His long, high-necked jacket was cream silk and seemed to be studded with pinpoints of green light from elbow to wrist and around the collar. His flowing Eastern trousers were deep green. Diagonally across his breast he wore a cloth-of-gold sash, and a double rope of absolutely magnificent pearls at least a yard long was looped and draped over his chest, and fixed at one shoulder with a ruby the size of an egg. He had a lustrous black moustache and thick, waving black hair, which, like the heads of all his Companions, was bare. His fingers were clustered with a king’s ransom in gold and stones.
He put up one arrogant hand in a gesture that in any other man would look, Zara thought, ridiculously theatrical, but in him seemed perfectly natural and engaging. Smiling broadly, he recited something in Arabic, and then said in English, “It is very kind of you all to come to my poor table. May so propitious an occasion be blessed.”
The efforts of the team to think of some suitable response would have made Zara laugh if she hadn’t been similarly dumbstruck herself.
Prince Rafi recognized Gordon in the throng and strode to his side to greet the director, where Arif joined him. The prince chatted briefly to Gordon and then Arif introduced Maeve, then followed the prince slowly through the room, introducing him to each member of the team. The prince tilted his head solicitously to each and shook their hands, exchanging a few words before moving on.
He made his way around the room and at last appeared at Zara’s side. Now she was aware of two things not quite so obvious from a distance—a heady yet elusive scent of sandalwood or myrrh or something similar, and the powerful physical aura of the man. He was not tall, but he exuded power.
“Miss Zara Blake, Your Highness,” said Arif, and a well-shaped, graceful hand was extended to her. Aware that she was blushing, Zara flicked her eyes to his face as she put her hand into his. “Miss Blake, His Serene Highness Sayed Hajji Rafi Jehangir ibn Daud ibn Hassan al Quraishi.”
The name rolled off his tongue like poetry.
“Miss Blake, it is a very great pleasure,” said the prince in a tiger’s fur voice, with such emphasis she almost believed him.
“How do you do, Your Highness,” Zara murmured, finding that, whatever her democratic principles, her head seemed to bow of its own accord. Dimly she supposed that was the definition of true royalty—when you couldn’t help bowing.
“I hope your stay in my country will be long and fruitful,” he said.
Zara looked up again, but found that she could not meet his dark eyes for long. She blushed even more warmly, though she had hardly blushed in her life. “Your Highness is very kind,” she murmured.
She expected him to move on then—he had only exchanged a few words with each of the others—but to her surprise he asked, “Your name is Zara?” He pronounced it with a little explosion of air on the first vowel. Zahra.
“Yes.”
“This is a very beautiful name. In my language it means both flower and splendour, beauty.” Without saying it, he managed to imply that she was well named.
“Ah . . . oh.”
“Are your parents perhaps Arabic speakers?”
“No . . . my father’s background is French and my mother—” she shrugged and tried to smile “—just plain Canadian. Sort of mixed.”
Zara was amazed to find herself so stumbling and confused. It was not at all like her, and she was furious with herself. He was a prince only by the luck of birth, and his compliments were no more significant than anyone else’s! There was no reason to start blushing like a fifteen-yearold. A glance around the room showed her that the others had noticed his interest. Passionately she wished he would move on to the next team member.
He did not. She looked at him again in time to intercept the tiniest flick of his long black lashes to Arif ur-Rashid.
The Companion nodded, raised his mellifluous voice slightly for attention, and said, “Here in Barakat, ladies and gentlemen, we do not follow the Western custom of preliminary drinks and hors d’oeuvres while standing. You are invited now to sit at the prince’s table.”
The wall behind Zara suddenly opened, and only then did she notice the big wooden arch she had been standing in front of, revealed as a doorway as servants lifted the heavy draperies that had closed it.
Prince Rafi lifted his arm. “Allow me to escort you, Zara.”
At the sound of her name on his lips, Zara stiffened a little. Okay, this had gone far enough, and it was going to stop right here, before she found herself ensconced in the harem.
“Thank you, Rafi,” she said coolly, and put her hand on his arm.
He smiled into her eyes and drooped his eyelids with pleasure, tilting his head in acknowledgement. Zara gasped a little. She was a fool to play games in so different a culture. She had no idea what message she had just sent him. For all she knew she had already said yes to a postprandial romp.
And, she recollected somewhat belatedly, she had more than herself to think of. The whole future of the dig was under this man’s sole sway. He could wave one graceful, masculine hand and the desert would be clear of them tomorrow.
The archaeological team filed after them through the arched doorway and into the dining room, where they stopped amazed, cries of astonishment soft on their lips, and feeling just a little, Zara thought, like barbarians seeing civilisation for the first time. Among them, the Companions moved with polished grace, inviting them individually to sit.
Prince Rafi led her all the length of the room while Zara gazed in unaffected delight at the spectacle before them. Dozens—hundreds!—of multicoloured silk and tapestry cushions lay massed around the long, low rectangular table that stood about six mches off the ground. It shone with cut crystal and painted porcelain, silver and old gold. Down the centre of the table and all around the walls could be seen the flicker of numerous flames under the most artistically painted glass globes. Against one wall there was a large fountain—she couldn’t believe it, but it was a real marble fountain, and the sound of the softly splashing water was better than music. All along the opposite wall, panels had been rolled up to allow the gentle night breeze to cool them, and the moon and the stars and the desert to form part of the decor. Zara had never seen anything to equal it in her life.
“It’s very beautiful,” she said quietly, and Prince Rafi smiled.
“I am very happy to please you, Zara.” He led her to the farther end of the table. The smell of cooking food rose deliciously on the air.
Prince Rafi stopped and guided her to a place. He stood beside her, and