Mistress Of The Sheikh. Sandra Marton
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I represent an ancient and honorable and highly cultured people.”
“Excellency, please. You’re getting yourself upset. And, as you just said, there is no point in—”
“The fool who wrote this should be drawn and quartered.”
Abdul nodded, his head bobbing up and down like a balloon on a string. “Yes, my lord.”
“Better still, staked out, naked, in the heat of the desert sun, smeared with honey so as to draw the full attention of the fire ants.”
Abdul bowed low as he backed toward the door. “I shall see to it at once.”
“Abdul.” Nick took a deep breath.
“My Lord?”
“You are to do nothing.”
“Nothing? But, Excellency—”
“Trust me,” the sheikh said with a faint smile. “The part of me that is American warns me that my fellow countrymen are probably squeamish about drawing and quartering.”
“In that case, I shall ask for a retraction.”
“You are not to call the magazine at all.”
“No?”
“No. It would serve no purpose except to bring further unwanted attention to myself, and to Quidar.”
Abdul inclined his head. “As you command, Lord Rashid.”
Nick reached out, turned the copy of Gossip toward him, handling it as gingerly as he would a poisonous spider.
“Phone the florist. Have him send six dozen red roses to Miss Burgess.”
“Yes, sire.”
“I want the flowers delivered immediately.”
“Of course.”
“Along with a card. Say…” Nick frowned. “Say that she has my apologies that we made the cover of a national magazine.”
“Oh, I’m sure Miss Burgess is most unhappy to find her photo on that cover,” Abdul said smoothly, so smoothly that Nick looked at him. The little man flushed. “It is most unfortunate that either of you should have been placed in such a position, my lord. I am glad you are taking this so calmly.”
“I am calm, aren’t I?” Nick said. “Very calm. I have counted twice to ten, once in Quidaran and once in English, and—and…” His gaze fell to the cover again. “Very calm,” he murmured, and then he grabbed the magazine from the desk and flung it against the wall. “Lying sons of camel traders,” he roared, and kicked the thing across the room the second it slid to the floor. “Oh, what I’d like to do to the bastards who invade my life and print such lies.”
“Excellency.” Abdul’s voice was barely a whisper. “Excellency, it is all my fault.”
The sheikh gave a harsh laugh. “Did you point a camera at me, Abdul?”
“No. No, of course—”
“Did you sell the photo to the highest bidder?” Nick swung around, his eyes hot. “Did you write a caption that makes it sound as if I’m a bad reincarnation of Rudolph Valentino?”
Abdul gave a nervous laugh. “Certainly not.”
“For all I know, it wasn’t even a reporter. It could have been someone I think of as a friend.” Nick shoved both hands through his black-as-midnight hair. “If I ever get my hands on one of the scum-sucking dung beetles who grow fat by invading the privacy of others—”
Abdul dropped to his knees on the silk carpet and knotted his hands imploringly beneath his chin. “It is my fault, nevertheless. I should not have permitted your eyes to see such an abomination. I should have hidden it from you.”
“Get up,” Nick said sharply.
“I should never have let you see it. Never!”
“Abdul,” Nick said more gently, “stand up.”
“Oh, my lord…”
Nick sighed, bent down and lifted the little man to his feet.
“You did the right thing. I needed to see this piece of filth before the party tonight. Someone is sure to spring it on me just to see my reaction.”
“No one would have the courage, sire.”
“Trust me, Abdul. Someone will.” A smile softened Nick’s hard mouth. “My sweet little sister, if no one else. We both know how she loves to tease.”
Abdul smiled, too. “Ah. Yes, yes, she does.”
“So, it’s a good thing you showed me the cover. I’d much rather be prepared.”
“That was my belief, sire. But perhaps I erred. Perhaps I should not—”
“What would you have done instead, hmm?” Nick grinned. “Bought up all the copies from all the newsstands in Manhattan?”
Abdul nodded vigorously. “Precisely. I should have purchased all the copies, burned them—”
“Abdul.” Nick put his arm around the man’s shoulders and walked him toward the door. “You took the proper action. And I am grateful.”
“You are?”
“Just imagine the headlines if I’d had this temper tantrum in public.” Nick lifted his hand and wrote an imaginary sentence in the air. “Savage Sheikh Shows Savage Side,” he said dramatically.
The little man gave him a thin smile.
“Now imagine what would happen if somebody manages to get a picture of me slicing into the cake at the party tonight.”
“The caterer will surely do the slicing, sire.”
Nick sighed. “Yes, I’m sure he will. The point is, anything is possible. Can you just see what the sleaze sheets would do with a picture of me with a knife in my hand?”
“In the old days,” Abdul said sternly, “you could have had their heads!”
The sheikh smiled. “These are not those days,” he said gently. “We are in the twenty-first century, remember?”
“You still have that power, Lord Rashid.”
“It is not a power I shall ever exercise, Abdul.”
“So you have said, Excellency.” The man paused at the door to Nick’s office. “But your father can tell you that the power to spare a man his life, or take it from him, is the best way of assuring that all who deal with you will do so with honor and respect.”
A quick, satisfying picture flashed through Nick’s mind. He imagined all the media people, and especially all the so-called friends who’d ever made money by selling him out, crowded into the long-unused dungeon beneath the palace back home, every last one of them pleading for mercy as the royal executioner sharpened his ax.
“It’s a sweet thought,” he admitted after a minute. “But that is no longer our way.”
“Perhaps it should be,” Abdul said, and sighed. “At any rate, my lord, there will be no unwanted guests lying in wait for you this evening.”
“No?”
“No. Only those with invitations will be admitted by your bodyguards. And I sent out the invitations myself.”
Nick nodded. “Two hundred and fifty of my nearest and dearest friends,” he said, and smiled wryly. “That’s fine.”
His secretary nodded. “Will that be all, Lord Rashid?”
“Yes, Abdul. Thank you.”
“You are welcome, sire.”
Nick watched as the old man