Claimed by the Desert Sheikh. Оливия Гейтс
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outfit from day to night wasn’t just the beading on the tank top, but the fact that her trousers were actually slit from ankle to thigh. While she was standing still, they looked perfectly conservative, but when she moved she flashed a whole lot of leg.
High heeled sandals made her even taller, although she was still several inches shorter than Qadir.
He put his hands on her shoulders. “You have nothing to be nervous about. You are beautiful, smart, funny and charming. The only problem we’re going to have with the king is that he is going to want you for himself.”
That made her smile. “I think you’re safe.”
For a second she thought he was going to kiss her again. There was something in his posture and the look in his eye. But then he took her hand and pulled her along toward the stairs.
Disappointment chased away the last of her nerves. She wouldn’t have minded a little premusical kissing. Honestly, the way Qadir made her body go up in flames, she wouldn’t mind a little anything with him. Something interesting to think about later.
They climbed the stairs and walked to the right. A guard stepped aside, allowing them to step into what Maggie assumed was a private box. She’d never been in one before.
There were several people standing around, drinking champagne and nibbling on appetizers. She had a sudden craving for those little hot dogs wrapped in pastry.
But before she could check out the food, the crowd parted and she found herself in front of King Mukhtar.
“Father,” Qadir said, “I would like you to meet my date for the evening. Miss Maggie Collins. She’s from America. Colorado.”
Maggie tightened her grip on Qadir’s fingers as she smiled at the king. “Your Highness, this is a great honor for me.”
The king frowned. “Have we met?”
One of the guards came forward. “Your Highness, the photographers are here. Shall I let them in?”
The king nodded. Everyone shifted position as several men with cameras entered the booth and began snapping pictures. Maggie found herself blinded. Just when she thought she couldn’t stand it anymore, the king waved his hand and the men instantly stopped.
“There’s power,” she murmured to Qadir. “It really is good to be the king.”
“So I hear.”
He gave her a glass of champagne. She took a sip.
“What am I supposed to say when he asks me what I do?”
“Tell him the truth,” Qadir said.
Easy for him, she thought. He wasn’t a car mechanic. “He’s going to give me that look. The one that says I’m weird and that I should have gone for something more traditionally female.”
“He’s the king. He doesn’t do looks.”
“He’ll have the look. Trust me.”
Someone called Qadir away. Maggie eased into a corner and did her best to be invisible. She picked up a cracker with she wasn’t sure what on top and had just taken a bite when the king walked over.
“This is your first time at our theater?” he asked.
She chewed quickly then swallowed. “Um, yes. Sir. The building is stunning. I was admiring it when we came in. There’s something unique about the architecture.” Or was there? She swallowed again but not because of any food. “At least it seemed that way to me.”
“Early fifteenth century,” the king told her. “One of my ancestors built this small palace for a favorite mistress. He promised to build her something as beautiful as herself. When it was completed she claimed that no woman could live up to such beauty. But she accepted the palace anyway.”
Maggie grinned. “You have to respect a woman who enjoys real estate.”
As soon as the words were out, she wanted to stuff them back in her mouth. There were probably a thousand different ways for someone to interpret that comment and most of them were bad.
But before she could think about throwing herself off the nearby balcony, Mukhtar laughed. “An excellent observation, my dear. Very funny.”
She exhaled in relief. Time for a safer topic. “I’m looking forward to the performance tonight. I’ve heard most of the music from the show, but I’ve never seen it in person.” She thought about mentioning she’d seen the performance on PBS, but maybe he wouldn’t know what that was and she wasn’t sure he would find the explanation interesting.
“You are in for an experience,” the king said. “The music is compelling and touches one’s soul.”
Maggie didn’t know what to say to that. Fortunately the lights flickered. Qadir returned to her side and guided her to their seats.
“I did okay,” she whispered. “I didn’t say anything stupid to the king.”
Instead of answering, Qadir motioned to her right. She turned and saw Mukhtar sitting next to her.
She smiled tightly, then leaned to her left.
“You are so going to be punished for this later.”
Qadir, of course, only laughed.
The orchestra began playing. At first Maggie was so aware of the king seated close, she couldn’t relax. But eventually the story pulled her in. She found herself caught up in the events playing out on the spartan stage. When Javert killed himself, she felt tears in her eyes.
She did her best to blink them back, only to feel something soft pressing against her hand.
She looked down and saw a white handkerchief, then sniffed and looked at the man handing it to her.
“He was a good man facing an impossible choice,” Qadir murmured. “His soul could only handle so much before it ripped in two.”
She nodded without speaking, then wiped away her tears. He put his arm around her and pulled her close. She relaxed with his embrace, and felt safe for the first time in what seemed like forever.
Chapter Seven
Qadir stood by the office in the garage. It was his nature to take charge, to direct. Rather than give in to that need, he’d physically stepped back to let Maggie have control of the moment.
Gone was the sophisticated beauty from the previous night. Today she was all business, in coveralls and a T-shirt, her hair pulled back, her face scrubbed clean. She focused on nothing but the equipment and the men she directed as the engine was slowly lifted from the body of the Rolls.
Qadir knew he should be paying attention to the action. The engine was the heart of the car and if something happened to it then true restoration wasn’t possible. Yet he couldn’t seem to stop watching Maggie as she moved around the car, double-checking that everything was secure and then nodding for the men to resume.
There was something in the way she moved, he decided. Or maybe it was knowing that she could be both this competent leader and yet feminine enough to cry because a character in a play died.
Her tears had startled him. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen a woman cry for reasons other than manipulation. Later, as the musical had continued, Maggie had struggled for control, telling him or perhaps herself that she was fine.
“Swing it around,” Maggie called out. “Slowly. We don’t have any other plans for the day. That’s it. Great job. Just like that.”
He watched as the engine was lowered to the supports that would allow Maggie to work her magic on the aging beauty. When the engine was in place, Maggie breathed a sigh of relief and applauded her team.
“Excellent work,” she told the men. “Thank you so much for your patience and attention to detail.”
Qadir