Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | Desert Justice

Desert Justice
Valerie Parv


Businesswoman Simone Hayes traveled to the exotic land of Nazaar to search for family. But instead of having the idyllic vacation she'd hoped for, she witnessed a murder that had far-reaching political implications. To escape with her life, Simone needed the protection of Nazaar's most powerful man…the sheik.Accustomed to wielding his authority, Sheik Markaz al Nazaari had traits that clashed against Simone's Western independence. But while Simone and Markaz came from two different worlds, they shared one common passion: each other. And with an attraction this intense, would boundaries or borders keep them apart?









“Can’t you simply take no for an answer?” Simone snapped.


He lifted their joined hands. “Not when you tremble like this.”

Her hand wasn’t the only part of her quaking with pleasure. She was glad Markaz didn’t know the full extent of his effect on her. “Read my lips. I don’t want—”

Before she could complete the sentence, his mouth crushed hers. As he deepened the kiss, the last of her resistance vanished. He felt the change when she stopped trying to free her hand and curled her fingers tighter around his.

He lifted his head, his eyes flaming. “You were going to tell me something.”

She shook her head, her expression dazed. “I was, but it’s gone now.”

He trailed kisses along the line of her jaw, her shivers of pleasure echoing his own tremors as she arched against him. “Good. For now I want you to think only of me.”

The gaze she directed at him was troubled. “And later?”

“There is no later, only now.”


Dear Reader,

When I was a little girl, my family moved to Australia from England. My adopted country had different customs, accents, a different social structure and a landscape alien to anything I’d known, vast and untamed, the earth red where I’d only known green. Much as I loved (and still do) this wonderful frontier country, adapting was a challenge. Now I wouldn’t live anywhere else, and have explored Australia from coast to coast with my husband, a former crocodile hunter, making fascinating discoveries at every turn.

This may explain why my heroines often find themselves in unusual settings or situations where they also have to sink or swim. Invariably, they swim, with a gorgeous man right alongside. In this book, I wanted to create a desert warrior worthy of a headstrong, capable Aussie heroine. His kingdom also had to be something special to equal her homeland. I hope you find both as enticing as she does.

Best,

Valerie




Desert Justice

Valerie Parv





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




VALERIE PARV


With twenty million copies of her books sold, including three Waldenbooks bestsellers, it’s no wonder Valerie Parv is known as Australia’s queen of romance and is the recognized media spokesperson for all things romantic. Valerie is married to her own romantic hero, Paul, a former crocodile hunter in Australia’s tropical north.

These days he’s a cartoonist and the two live in the country’s capital city of Canberra, where both are volunteer zoo guides, sharing their love of animals with visitors from all over the world. Valerie continues to write her page-turning novels because they affirm her belief in love and happy endings. As she says, “Love gives you wings, romance helps you fly.” Keep up with Valerie’s latest releases at www.silromanceauthors.com (http://www.silromanceauthors.com).


To Drew, with thanks for his generosity, and to my agent, Linda Tate, for her patience and belief in this story.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue




Chapter 1


From his hiding place among the ruins of the ancient castle known as Al-Qasr, the business-suited man studied the foreign tourist through powerful binoculars. He was almost disappointed to find that she wasn’t the one he’d come to kill.

As she spoke boldly to a male guard, the watcher’s lip curled in distaste. When he ruled Nazaar, such wanton behavior would be punished. Female beauty like hers would be hidden from men’s eyes, saving them from the sinful lust he felt stirring in his loins.

Should he kill this woman, too, as an example to all temptresses? He touched the vial of poison in his pocket. There was enough for her as well as his intended target. Why not start as he meant to go on?



Simone Hayes felt her heartbeat quicken as she saw the motorcade arrive at Al-Qasr. As she’d hoped, the fleet of Rolls Royce cars pulled up close to where a silk cordon separated the tourists from the royal party. Unlike the expectant crowd around her, she wasn’t waiting for a glimpse of His Royal Highness Sheikh Markaz bin Kemal al Nazaari, hereditary monarch of Nazaar.

Nevertheless, her gaze was attracted by a pennant bearing the royal coat of arms fluttering from the lead car. Then the sheikh himself emerged from the vehicle. Unlike most of his entourage, Markaz al Nazaari had no beard to reduce the impact of a strong, unyielding profile that would have looked at home on a Roman coin. His upright bearing and assured movements suggested an enviable ease with who and what he was. Simone didn’t need to be any closer to feel the air of absolute authority he projected.

Applause followed him as he was welcomed by the director of the Al-Qasr, an ancient fortress complex in the desert, now a popular tourist attraction. In contrast to the intense light, everything about the sheikh looked dark, from the glimpse of night-dark hair and brows visible under his traditional headdress, to his burnished olive skin. She couldn’t see his eyes as he approached the receiving line, but she would bet they were dark, too. He looked about as relaxed as a trap waiting to be sprung, she thought with uncharacteristic fancy.

Out of professional interest, she itched to get a better look at the mishlah he wore over his white dishdasha. The mishlah, a transparent black surcoat with exquisitely embroidered gold edges, was only worn by royals, sheikhs and potentates. On his head was the haik, a long stream of white cloth held in place by an i’qal, a black band threaded with gold.

Taller than the men around him with the exception of a giant who stayed glued to his boss’s side, the sheikh looked exactly how Simone had imagined a prince of the desert should look.

She had to make an effort to switch her attention to the guards and attendants surrounding the sheikh. Could her father’s half brother be among them, as her inquiries had led her to hope?

Unfortunately, every one of the sheikh’s party wore impeccable—and identical—white dishdashas, the traditional neck-to-ankle male garment in Nazaar. Only their roving eyes and the tiny black earpieces linked to wires disappearing inside their clothing distinguished them from the other Nazaari men she’d seen when she explored the ancient site earlier.

The man she sought had a distinctive tattoo of a coiled snake around his right wrist, but the sleeves of their dishdashas fell over the men’s hands. How was she supposed to get a look at their wrists?

She hadn’t expected to be so distracted by the sheikh that he and several members of his party were inside the main building by the time she snapped out of her reverie. Now what was she going to do? She’d already been told that no visitors were allowed inside while the sheikh inspected some recently completed restoration work on the famous tourist attraction. She would have to try again to spot her half uncle when the royal party emerged from the main building.

The inspection would last exactly forty-five minutes, she’d been told by an attendant, then the sheikh would be entertained to lunch under an elaborate marquee erected between the rose-colored buildings.

Around her the crowd was dispersing, heading for the air-conditioned café or into the other monuments that were still open to the public. Simone had explored some of them before it became too hot.

Although she had Nazaari blood and the Australian climate should have prepared her, she found the baking heat of the desert more of a challenge than she’d anticipated. She decided to freshen up at the restroom alongside the café, then have a cold drink before resuming her study of the sheikh’s party. This time she would try to keep her mind on her mission, she promised herself.

The most pressing was to find her father’s half brother who’d stayed in Nazaar when her parents had fled to Australia after her father’s life was threatened for writing editorials supporting Markaz’s father, Kemal. Ali al Hasa had agreed with the old sheikh’s efforts to drag Nazaar into the twentieth century, but Kemal had been assassinated for his efforts, along with his older son, forcing Markaz to return from living in America and take over the reins.

Her other purpose was to source new designs and materials for her thriving, Internet-based heirloom embroidery business. Her mother, a skilled seamstress, had stimulated Simone’s fascination with Middle Eastern crafts. She’d allowed herself a week to track down Yusef, and another to focus on her business, but the first week was almost up and this was as far as she’d come.

Simone stopped long enough to remove her sun visor and fan herself with it, for all the good it did. Before leaving Australia she’d had her heavy curtain of pale gold hair cut to chin length. Now the strands curled damply in the heat. Her father had teased her mother about their only daughter’s golden coloring. Fortunately her features left her parentage in no doubt. Her nose and chin were as well defined as her father’s, while her long lashes and full lips were inherited from Sara. She also had Ali’s energy and commitment, demonstrated in the success of her business.

In Australia he’d changed their family name from al Hasa to Hayes, settling at Port Lincoln on the fringe of Australia’s great desert, the Nullarbor Plain, the landscape most like his homeland. There Ali had started an Arabic newsletter for expatriates. Simone had worked with him for a few years, polishing her language skills, although they still left a lot to be desired in her opinion. When he’d taken the newsletter online, she’d decided it was time to do her own thing, also using the Internet. Ali had been her strongest supporter.

Sadness yawned inside her for her father, brought back no doubt by being surrounded by men who reminded her so much of him. After everything Ali and Sara had gone through making a new life for themselves and their daughter, the ultimate cruelty had been having his life ended by a hit-and-run driver. By his side as she usually was, Sara had suffered a broken leg and bruising, but had recovered.

While Sara’s physical injuries had healed, her mind had been slower to recover. She had plunged into a clinical depression that nothing so far had been able to relieve. Thinking of her in the nursing home in Port Lincoln, Simone felt another wave of sadness sweep over her. She hadn’t wanted to leave her mother in her present condition, but Sara was in good hands and had begged Simone to find out what had happened to the young relative they’d left behind in Nazaar. Yusef al Hasa would be almost fifty now, no longer the young hothead her mother remembered. At twenty-eight, Simone herself was older than Yusef had been when her parents left Nazaar. They’d wanted him to come with them, but he’d joined the rebels opposing the reform process.

How had he made the leap from rebel to sheikh’s guard, Simone wondered. Had he finally been convinced that Markaz’s father was right in wanting to give his people more freedom, especially the women? Or had Yusef simply grown weary of fighting a losing battle?

Nazaar was still far from being a free country, but from her parents Simone knew things had improved greatly in the last thirty years. Women were no longer considered the property of men, and could drive cars and pursue careers, although from what Simone had seen, more than a few men still regarded their wives as possessions. About half the women she’d seen still wore traditional abayas, long black hooded cloaks over their clothes. A very few wore burkas, fabric masks that left only their eyes visible to the world.

The sheikh still ruled, but members of his advisory council were elected by the people every four years. Since Nazaar opened its borders to tourists ten years before, her parents had talked of returning for a visit, but had never gotten around to it. Simone suspected they had preferred to keep their memories intact.

Lost in thought, she was almost bowled over by a woman pushing past her into the ladies’ room. “You’re excused,” she muttered in mild annoyance as she followed the woman into the cool interior. A swinging door leading to the cubicles explained the woman’s haste.

Like the rest of the site, the restroom was spotless and gleaming, the rose-colored marble walls in keeping with the historic locale. Wide velvet-covered couches with elaborate curling ends lined the walls and a counter held a brass drinking water fountain and disposable cups. Simone made a beeline for it, slaking her thirst with a sigh of pleasure.

At a basin, she splashed water onto her face and wrists and the back of her neck, glad to have the room to herself for a few seconds. Behind her, a rush of water preceded the other woman’s return. Only then, Simone noticed the woman was chalk-white and gripping the edge of the door for support.

Her previous irritation at the woman turned to concern. “Are you all right?”

The woman shook her head, then said in American-accented English, “The heat is affecting me.”

“Maybe you should sit down.” Simone said, wondering if she should find someone to help. The woman looked really ill.

The woman lurched to one of the couches and dropped onto it, resting her head back against the marble wall. Without asking, Simone filled another cup with water and offered it to her.

Her reward was a shaky smile. “Thanks.” She drank quickly, but when she lowered her hand, the cup slid out of her grasp.

Simone picked it up. She had the nagging feeling she’d seen the woman somewhere before. But where and when? Her speech was American, and she had the put-together look of a professional woman. She wore tailored navy pants and a long-sleeved white shirt with the kind of easy elegance Simone envied. The woman would have been attractive but for her waxy skin and the way her short-cropped dark hair was sticking to her face.

Annoyed at feeling helpless, Simone looked around. Fine time for the attendant to be on a break. “Shall I find a doctor for you?”

“No, thanks. I just need to get back to my car.”

Suddenly she bent forward, clutching her stomach. She didn’t moan, but her tightly compressed lips suggested she wanted to. Alarmed, Simone said, “You’re in no condition to drive. I’ll find someone who works here to help you.”

“No.” The command rang with unexpected authority as the woman straightened. “Please don’t,” she added in an obvious effort to soften the command.

Stayed at the entrance, Simone turned back. “You could have food poisoning, or some kind of bug. You need a doctor.”

The woman smiled wanly. “I’ll see someone as soon as I get back to my hotel. My car is in the closest parking lot.” She levered herself to her feet, but tottered when she took a few steps.

Simone was at her side instantly. “At least let me help you as far as the parking lot.”

As they stepped out into the heat the woman’s breath caught but she steadied herself. Simone steered her to the blue rental car she indicated, noting that it took the woman three tries to get the doors unlocked with the remote. How on earth did she expect to drive anywhere? “Look, there’s a first-aid center near the restroom. Why don’t I—”

The woman placed a clammy hand on her arm. “Please don’t. There’s too much at stake.” Too much of what? Sounding as if the effort cost her, she said, “I’m not…I can’t…explain any more. But I need you to give something to Markaz.” She fumbled in her bag.

Was the woman delirious? “He’s surrounded by guards. I couldn’t even get close,” Simone protested.

“You must, please. His life is at stake.”

What had Simone gotten herself into? She hadn’t been able to get close enough to the sheikh’s party to look for her half uncle. Now she was supposed to take a message to the sheikh from a woman who was either ill or delusional, possibly both.

“You need a doctor,” she tried again, adding in desperation, “Why don’t I drive you back to your hotel?” Arriving in a cab, Simone had no car of her own to worry about.

The woman clenched her teeth, but not before Simone had seen them chattering. “I’m not crazy. Tell Markaz you met Natalie. Give him…oh, God, he’s coming.” She wrenched a ring off the third finger of her right hand and closed Simone’s fingers around it, then gave her a shove that almost knocked her off her feet. “He mustn’t see you with me. Go.”

Regaining her balance, Simone looked in the direction of Natalie’s wild-eyed gaze. The only other person nearby was a stocky, dark-haired man in a business suit and reflective sunglasses, weaving his way between the cars. He stopped and spoke to a woman seated in another car. Nothing in his actions seemed to justify Natalie’s panic.

Simone debated taking Natalie’s keys away from her, but was daunted by the strength she’d felt in that shove. If the woman was demented by the heat or illness, she might become even more violent. Simone reached a sudden decision. “I’m getting help whether you want it or not.” She didn’t wait for more arguments, as she set off across the parking lot in the direction of a first-aid center she’d passed earlier.

She was almost there when she heard a distant cry and swung around. The man in the business suit was standing over Natalie.

Simone froze. Was the man Natalie’s husband, taking care of her at last? But she’d sounded terrified when she’d said, “He’s coming.” Then the man pushed Natalie into the car and slammed the door.

Before Simone had the thought fully hatched, she was racing toward the car. The man looked up. Seeing her, he sprinted around the car and wrenched open the driver’s door and threw himself inside. Seconds later the engine roared into life.

The car was moving by the time she reached it. Futilely she hammered on the window as it slid past her. Natalie was slumped in the seat, but opened her eyes at the sound. Was it Simone’s imagination or did she mouth the word Markaz before the car picked up speed?

Jumping clear seconds before being run down, Simone could only watch as they sped off, her sense of despair growing. She should have done more to help. But what?

Becoming aware of metal biting into her palm, Simone unclenched her fist and looked at the ring the woman had pressed on her. The gold was incised with symbols, among them a beaver holding a piece of wood. On the shank was a design of two men and a lamp. Nothing that explained what Simone had just witnessed.

Unless the ring meant something to the sheikh.

Outside the main building, a flurry of activity told her he was emerging. The crowd was several people deep, but desperation enabled her to push her way to the front and grab the arm of the nearest guard. “You must help me. A woman’s been abducted in the parking lot.”

“Report this to Al-Qasr’s own security,” the guard responded in guttural English. “I cannot leave my post.”

“I don’t want you to leave your post.” You muscle-bound moron, she barely resisted adding. “You must tell the sheikh that Natalie needs help urgently. She sent him this.”

The guard looked at the ring as if it could bite. “Gifts should be sent to the palace.”

“It isn’t a gift, it’s a message. The sheikh knows the woman who sent it. She needs his help.”

The man’s determination wavered, but only for a second, before his jaw hardened and he gestured Simone back. “Take this to local security.”

A scattering of applause greeted the appearance of Sheikh Markaz, once again shadowed by his giant bodyguard. What would happen if she threw the ring to the sheikh and called out, “catch”? A vision of being tackled by the giant, her bones breaking under the impact, stopped her.

But she wasn’t defeated yet. She reached over the cordon and tugged at the guard’s sleeve. “You must give this to His Highness. A woman’s life is at stake.”

The guard roared a response in Arabic. “Persist and you will find yourself under arrest,” he said in English.

Having already considered the possibility, she felt chilled, but her determination notched higher. “The woman told me the sheikh’s life is in danger, as well.”

That got the guard’s attention, she saw, but his barked command also had his colleagues lifting their weapons. The ring glinted in the sunlight as she raised her hands instinctively. “I’m not the threat, but Natalie knows who is. You must find her.”

The ruckus she was causing was getting her noticed, she saw, feeling color surge into her face. Suddenly a sensation as if she was caught in the beam of a powerful light dragged her gaze past the guard and she found herself looking into the eyes of Sheikh Markaz himself.

His face appeared to be carved from the same living stone as the monuments around them. His eyes were as dark as the rest of his features, she noticed immediately. Not so much black as the green of a deep ocean cavern. The cavern impression was echoed in the hollows and hard planes of his cheeks, and a faintly cleft jaw that looked like stubbornness personified.

A flare of blatantly masculine interest suddenly lit his gaze, catching her unawares. She hadn’t reached her present age without attracting her share of male notice, and she was definitely attracting it now, she realized in amazement. Worse, it wasn’t one-sided. Her pulse was double-timing and all he’d done was look her way.

The extraordinary sensation of communion between them was over in an instant, then the sheikh’s attention was claimed by the giant. But she was left feeling thunderstruck. What on earth had just happened?

What had happened was he was moving on flanked by his goons, and she was still clutching the ring, she thought, cursing herself for her lapse. He was the richest and most powerful man in the country. That high-voltage look was probably part of his normal arsenal, hardly personal.

The royal party was heading for the luncheon laid on after the inspection, she noted. Access would be strictly controlled, but there must be some way she could get the ring to him, even if she had to slip it onto a tray of drinks being carried into the marquee.

Catching a movement out of the corner of her eye, she froze. A man in a business suit was making a beeline for her through the crowd.



As Markaz bin Kemal al Nazaari came down the steps of Al-Qasr’s main monument, he lifted his hand in the not-quite wave that acknowledged the crowd’s good wishes, but conserved his energy. The cheers gratified him. Not everyone in Nazaar felt kindly toward his government. The rebels were in a minority, but a troublesome one. And sometimes dangerous. Already today, he’d been informed of a bomb threat that had closed Raisa International Airport.

A commotion in the crowd had him bracing himself. Was the airport incident a diversion for an attempt on his life here? But his bodyguard Fayed remained relaxed as he leaned closer. “It seems you’ve caught the eye of a pretty tourist, Markaz,” he murmured for the sheikh’s ears alone.

Markaz felt his mouth curve. He and Fayed had grown up together, as close as brothers, and Markaz trusted the big man with his life. He sought out the source of the fuss, then felt something inside him catch. “I could do worse.”

“Indeed you could, my friend. She’s beautiful.”

Beautiful was too mundane a description, Markaz thought. Engaged in an altercation with a guard, the woman’s eyes flashed blue-green like the oasis at the sheikh’s desert lodge. Under a tinted sun visor, her short golden hair feathered around her animated face, her strong features and golden coloring also speaking of the desert. Who was she and where was she from, this exotic melding of east and west?

By tourist standards she was modestly dressed in an embroidered white peasant blouse gathered decorously at the neck and with long sleeves. The diaphanous fabric hinted at small, high breasts and a neat waist. He couldn’t see her legs beneath a flowing wine-colored skirt, but if they were as shapely as the rest of her…

Suddenly she looked straight into his eyes, fantasy made flesh. He felt the effect all the way to his groin, and his breath strangled. But she was more than sexy. She had fire. She reminded him of an Arab thoroughbred. Probably untamable, but an adventure to attempt.

Fayed chuckled. “This must be love. She’s come prepared with a ring.”

The flash of gold in her palm made Markaz blink. His people often tried to press gifts and flowers upon their sheikh, although not usually the tourists, and a ring was a novelty. A flick of his fingers brought Fayed’s head closer. “Find out what she wants.”

If he’d surprised his friend, Fayed was too disciplined to show it. “As you wish. Do you want her brought to you?”

Markaz’s power extended that far, but he shook his head. “Not in the way you’re thinking, my salacious friend. She looks troubled. Perhaps I can help.”

“And if it is love?”

“Then tell her diplomatically that my country has first claim on my heart.”

Fayed frowned. “No country can satisfy all of a man’s desires.”

This woman could. Markaz dismissed the thought as fast as it arose. Not so easily dismissed was the aching conviction that Fayed was right.




Chapter 2


Driven by a feeling of urgency she didn’t stop to question, Simone shoved the ring into her skirt pocket and plunged into the heart of the crowd, keeping her head down. The man looking for her was the same one who’d forced the American woman into her car, she was certain. Now he was after Simone.

Only when the crowd around her thinned out did Simone realize her pursuer had steered her away from the security of the throng toward a narrow alleyway. Footsteps pounding ever closer left her little choice but to head down the alley and hope it took her back to a more populous part of the ruins.

The buildings threw strange shadows and the unreadable inscriptions over the doors of the ancient houses made navigation challenging. She had no idea where the alley led and she couldn’t risk stopping to ask for directions.

The man was gaining on her as she ducked under an archway and across a courtyard into yet another alleyway on the opposite side. She was among the tombs now, she recognized from her earlier explorations. According to the guidebook, the houses had belonged to priests, embalmers and other workers in the funerary trade when most of Al-Qasr had functioned as a gigantic mausoleum for a long-dead civilization. No one had been buried here for millennia.

Hoping she wouldn’t be the exception, she plunged through a passage so narrow she could easily touch both sides. Then she emerged into an unrestored part of Al-Qasr, where fallen stones were piled haphazardly, although glimpses of intricate carving could still be seen. A notice in several languages warned her that this area was not open to visitors and was unsafe. Tell her something she didn’t know.

Chest heaving with exertion, she stopped long enough to see there was no refuge in sight. She needed to reach a more crowded area. And to spend a lot more time in the gym after she got home to Australia. If she got home.

Her parents had outwitted their enemies so the family could live without fear in another country. Simone wasn’t letting their sacrifice count for nothing by dying in Nazaar at the hands of some lowlife. She had no idea who her pursuer was or what he wanted, although it seemed likely he wanted to find out what Natalie had told her. Did the ring carry a message? Should Simone hide it or throw it away?

No time to do either. She saw the business-suited man appear in the unrestored area so she charged on, jamming her elbow against her side to relieve a stitch. Hearing the sounds of commerce somewhere to her right, she shot down yet another alleyway only to find herself facing a towering wall of sandstone.

A fissure like the eye of a needle opened to the left and she forced her way through it, hoping Business Suit was too bulky to follow. Popping out of the fissure, she looked wildly to right and left. Which way now? Then a hand grasped the back of her shirt and her feet dangled in air as she was lifted off the ground.

She fought back using moves she’d only practiced in her martial arts classes. It wasn’t supposed to matter that her captor was twice her size. It wasn’t Business Suit she saw, blinking to clear the sweat from her eyes. This attacker was bearded and wore a white dishdasha. An accomplice? Had she been herded into a trap?

Not waiting for an introduction, she brought her knee up to impact where it could do the most damage. The big man grunted in pain and doubled over, but he didn’t let go. One of the dinosaur types who took a while for messages to travel from their lumbering bodies to their tiny brains, she thought, aiming for his eyes with her stiffened fingers. He straightened and held her at arm’s length so her punches landed in air.

Muttering something in Arabic that didn’t sound repeatable, he flipped her around and slammed her against a wall, driving the air out of her body. Before she could regroup, her arms were yanked high up behind her back and her wrists cuffed in one beefy hand.

“Now will you be still?” he demanded in accented English.

“Go to hell,” she snarled, struggling.

“Whatever Sheikh Markaz saw in you, I hope it’s worth it,” the big man said, the statement sounding like a curse.

Confused, Simone stopped fighting. “You’re with the sheikh?”

“I am Fayed, his personal bodyguard. He sent me to find out what need was so pressing you’d risk arrest to reach him.”

She was still eating sandstone, and he hadn’t released his punishing grip on her arms. She’d been too busy resisting to recognize the giant who’d been glued to the sheikh’s side. “Let me go and I might tell you.”

“I want your word you will not attack me again or try to run away.”

“I’ll behave,” she said resignedly. A painful jerk on her arms told her this wasn’t good enough. “All right, I promise.”

The pressure on her abused shoulders eased as he released her. She grimaced and rubbed her upper arms with her crossed hands. “Did the sheikh tell you to rough me up?”

The massive man frowned. “He gave no such order. I only did so because you attacked me first.”

Her gaze acknowledged their relative sizes. “Your boss might find that hard to believe.”

“As do I,” Fayed said in his rumbling basso profundo voice. His pained expression and the careful way he moved made her think she’d damaged more than his pride.

Remembering her pursuer, she looked around nervously.

Fayed caught the look. “What is it?”

“There’s a man following me. I think he wants this.”

She fished in her pocket and pulled out the ring. Fayed’s eyes widened at the sight. “Where did you get that?”

“From a woman called Natalie. She asked me to give it to the sheikh.” Fayed reached for the ring, but Simone closed her fingers around it. “Uh-uh. If I give it to you now, you might abandon me to Business Suit.”

“Business Suit?”

“The man following me. He must have seen Natalie give me the ring.”

“Who are you?”

She had a feeling he didn’t want her life story. “Simone Hayes, from Australia.”

Fayed took her arm. “Come with me, Simone Hayes.”

“I’d rather take you to where I last saw Natalie.”

“My orders are to learn what you require. I am not leaving the sheikh alone any longer to go on a wild-goose chase on your behalf.”

“Even if the wild-goose chase is what I require?”

“We’ll let Sheikh Markaz be the judge.”

In the meantime, anything could be happening to Natalie. Held fast in the giant’s grip, Simone could only hope that she’d distracted Business Suit long enough to let the other woman get away.

Not sure if she should feel reassured to be in the company of a man built like a tank, or worried that he might be escorting her deeper into trouble, she had little choice but to trot at his side, taking two steps to every one of his.

They were almost back at the main monument where a group of officials, the sheikh an imposing figure in their midst, clustered beside the royal marquee. She must have been running in circles. “Do you know what the ring means?” she asked, gulping air.

Fayed wasn’t even breathing hard. “Sheikh Markaz will tell you what he wishes you to know.”

Remembering the electrifying look the sheikh had given her when their eyes met for the merest moment, she balked. He was the ruler of the whole country. She didn’t want to meet him looking as if she’d been dragged through a hedge. Not because of any feminine need to dazzle him, but because she didn’t want to give him a bad impression of Australian womanhood. Or so she told herself. “At least give me a few seconds to make myself presentable.”

“You will not cause any more trouble.” It wasn’t a question.

“Considering that my options comprise going with you, or dealing with Natalie’s attacker, I don’t have much choice.”

“Good.”

Crazy though it seemed, she was warming to this mountain of a man. His voice might sound like the earth itself opening up, and he had strange ideas of how to treat a lady, but his devotion to the sheikh was encouraging. Fayed would keep her safe for as long as his boss wished it.

The bodyguard steered her into a shaded area between two columns, but didn’t take his eyes off her as she brushed sand off her clothing and tucked her blouse back into her skirt. The sun visor was lost among the ruins, but she carried her shoulder bag slung across her body, so her purse had survived the ordeal.

Retrieving a comb and compact, she did what she could to tidy her hair, and blotted her streaming face. “Right, let’s meet His Highness,” she said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.

Fayed appropriated her arm again. “You will not make any untoward moves, and you will speak only when the sheikh speaks to you.”

She could imagine the outcome if she made any move Fayed interpreted as threatening to his boss. “Count on it.”

The moment’s respite had allowed her to catch her breath so she wasn’t panting too obviously when Fayed led her to where the sheikh was holding court. She’d hate him to think she was breathing heavily on his account.

Fayed carved his way through the group until he reached the sheikh’s side where he made a salaam, the graceful hand gesture encompassing head and heart accompanied by a bow from the neck. “Your Highness, this is Simone Hayes, from Australia. I think you will be interested in what she has to say.”

He bent and whispered a few words in the sheikh’s ear, too low for Simone to hear. It was enough to bring a look of anger to the sheikh’s face, and he snapped out what sounded like an instruction in return. She saw Fayed nod then approach a pair of the sheikh’s soldiers and speak to them in turn.



The moment Fayed brought Simone Hayes to Markaz, he had the renewed sense of electricity arcing between them, as if she were more than an overexcited tourist who’d disrupted his inspection. He told himself he’d had a long morning dealing with his normal duties, the bomb threat at the airport, and now this visit. He was tired. He should have left Simone to the guards instead of sending Fayed after her.

But he owed the man his life a couple of times over, and trusted his judgment. What Fayed had already told the sheikh had shaken him. If his friend believed Simone’s story was worth hearing, then it was.

“Excuse us for a few moments,” he said now to the director of Al-Qasr, who’d been telling him more about the restoration work. The man regarded her curiously, but salaamed and moved away to join another group, leaving the sheikh and Simone in a small island of clear space.

Markaz was aware of Fayed returning to his side. “Would you get Miss Hayes a drink?” the sheikh asked him. “Coffee or something cold?”

Simone brushed a hand across her brow. “Cold, thank you.”

Fayed gestured to a passing waiter, who presented a tray of ice-frosted glasses to her with alacrity. The young woman accepted some sparkling water and drank half of it right away. Markaz felt a flash of envy for the straw between her parted lips. Such beautiful lips, sensuously full and rosy without any sign of artificial enhancement.

In an effort to stop staring at her mouth, he drained the bitter coffee in his thimble-sized cup, passing his hand over it to stop the waiter refilling it. He’d already drunk two cups out of politeness.

The woman lifted her head and smiled at him, her sea-foam eyes brilliant. “Thank you, Your Highness, I was thirsty,” she said, earning a frown from Fayed.

Sometimes his bodyguard was more of a stickler for protocol than Markaz himself, he thought. “Even at this time of year, the heat can be challenging if you’re not accustomed to it.”

She nodded. “Coming from Australia I should be, but I hadn’t planned on being chased all over Al-Qasr.”

The sheikh’s surprised look went to his bodyguard. His orders hadn’t extended to hounding her. “By Fayed?”

“No, by another man. Fayed rescued me from him.”

The gingerly way his friend was moving suggested there was more to the story, but now wasn’t the time to go into details. He would get them from Fayed later. “Who was chasing you?”

She cast a nervous glance around as if her pursuer might still be in the vicinity. “The man I saw abducting Natalie.”

At hearing his ex-wife’s name from this woman’s lips, slivers of ice pierced Markaz. Fayed had already told him she had been seen here, and he had dispatched men to investigate at Markaz’s request. Suddenly the ring Simone had tried to pass to him over the barricades assumed a more sinister importance. Could it contain the information he’d been told Natalie would deliver to him at Al-Qasr?

He masked his concern. “What is your involvement with Natalie?”

“She was feeling ill so I helped her back to the parking lot. As I was leaving her, I saw a man force her into the car. I tried to help, but he got away. I decided to approach you.”

He felt his gaze harden. “How did you know to come to me?”

“Natalie said your life was in danger, and gave me this for you.” Shifting the glass to her left hand, she fumbled in the pocket of her skirt.

But the sheikh closed his hand over hers. “Not here. Join us for lunch inside the marquee.”



Simone’s hand was still in her pocket, but the sheikh’s touch seemed to burn through the light fabric of her skirt. She was imagining it, just as she’d imagined his gaze fixated on her mouth, she assured herself.

She took her hand out of her pocket and pressed the palm against her thigh. “I’m hardly dressed for this company.”

He took her hand and lifted it close to his mouth, his lips whispering over the back of it. “You would be an ornament to any occasion just as you are.”

In a flash she worked out what he was doing. Sheikh Markhaz was reputed to have a roving eye. He certainly didn’t remain with any one woman for long. He was creating the impression that Simone had attracted his interest, so no one would be surprised if he kept her at his side.

Knowing his attention was an act didn’t stop her pulse from racing. It was all she could do not to rub the back of her hand where his courtly kiss had scorched her like a flame. “As Your Highness wishes.”

“My name is Markaz,” he murmured.

If Fayed had disapproved of her speaking to Markaz unbidden, at this he looked thunderstruck. Men and women mixed more freely in Nazaar than in many Arabian countries, but behavior was still conservative by Western standards. The sheikh could have called her Miss Simone without raising eyebrows, but inviting her to use his first name so quickly was a scandalous intimacy.

Was it? She’d been so sure he was putting on an act that she hadn’t let herself think what would happen if there was more to it. He was certainly the most attractive man she’d met in a long time. And she’d broken up with Nick a couple of months before leaving Australia, so there was no man in her life, either.

Stop this, she instructed herself before the fantasy could get any more out of hand. The sheikh had invited her to an official lunch, presumably so she could tell him what she’d seen away from public view. It was hardly an invitation to join his harem.

“I’d feel happier if you’d send someone to look for Natalie,” she said, feeling guilty for indulging in stupid daydreams while the other woman was in danger.

The sheikh looked grim. “It is already being done. As soon as Fayed told me she was here, I dispatched men to investigate. As of yet she has not been located.”

Now Simone understood the significance of his discussion with Fayed. “Her car was parked directly across from the entrance to the north parking lot. She was driving a dark blue coupe with rental plates. I didn’t get the number.”

Markaz’s gesture brought Fayed closer. Their Arabic was too soft for her to translate, although she hoped he was giving Fayed the extra information. The big man once more melted into the crowd.

“If Natalie is in the area, Fayed will find her,” Markaz said.

“You didn’t ask me what she looks like.”

“We already know. The item she gave you could only have come from my ex-wife.”

Suddenly Simone knew why Natalie had seemed familiar. She was the woman he’d married in America, and divorced soon after becoming sheikh. Photos of them together had been on the Web sites Simone had researched for her trip, but Natalie had changed enough in ten years to stop Simone from recognizing her.

She barely had time to absorb this information before Markaz led her into the marquee where long, low tables were covered by dazzling white cloths and more delicacies than Simone had seen in a department store food hall.

At the head of the official table, Markaz’s chair had a higher back than the others, gilded and padded in wine-colored brocade. At his insistence she seated herself at his right, aware of causing a flurry of rearrangements. Although the Al-Qasr staff tried to be unobtrusive about accommodating her, Simone’s presence had undoubtedly caused a stir.

Enormous platters of crepelike bread, mounds of glistening rice and fragrant lamb, smoked chicken, stuffed grape leaves, marrow and squash and salads were served. Simone heard almost no conversation not related to the magnificence of the feast, but she didn’t find this unusual. To the end of his days her father had never become comfortable with the Western habit of conversing over a meal. He’d preferred small talk to take place over coffee and tea before and after a meal.

“You are hardly eating,” Markaz observed. “If you don’t wish to offend our hosts, you should taste a little of everything.”

Natalie’s ring was burning a hole in her pocket, but she followed the sheikh’s lead and paid attention to the feast. Knowing that Fayed was searching for Natalie had eased Simone’s mind enough so she could absorb her surroundings. Unfortunately the royal guards hadn’t accompanied the guests into the marquee and would most likely be eating elsewhere. So she couldn’t use the opportunity to look for Yusef al Hasa.

However bizarre the circumstances, she was a guest of Sheikh Markaz bin Kemal al Nazaari, she reminded herself, picturing her mother’s response when she heard. Would it be enough to pierce Sara’s depression? Simone hoped so, because unless she located Yusef among the sheikh’s escort after the meal, she doubted she’d get a chance like this again.

Moving lightly for such a big man, Fayed appeared at his boss’s shoulder. Simone didn’t need to hear what was said to know the news wasn’t encouraging. Fayed’s expression was grim. He didn’t like disappointing the sheikh, she concluded. She doubted it was because Markaz was a demanding boss. He would be tough but fair, she assessed, having noted his courteous treatment of those assigned to serve him.

How had he come to marry an American, she wondered. Not that his personal life was any of her business. She was naturally curious. And why did his ex-wife want him to watch his back? The antiroyal forces in Nazaar were far less of a problem than in her parents’ time, or Simone would never have chosen to visit. Were they on the rise again as Markaz steered the country closer to full democracy?

He leaned toward her. “A short time ago the guards at the entrance to Al-Qasr observed a dark blue rental car speeding away with a man at the wheel and a woman apparently asleep in the passenger seat.”

Simone’s tension notched higher. “Natalie and Business Suit.”

He inclined his head. “Evidently.”

She pulled out the ring and pressed it into his hand beneath the table. “She wanted me to give you this.”

Recognition came swiftly. “It’s our class ring from Harvard. To alumni, the beaver is known as the brass rat.” He showed her a matching ring on his right hand.

Her disappointment showed. “Then the ring isn’t a message?”

He hesitated long enough to suggest that there was more to the ring than he was prepared to share with her. After being chased through the ruins with the item in her possession, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“The design is modified to reflect each class’s spirit and experiences. By sending our class ring, Natalie made sure her identity is in no doubt,” he said.

“Business Suit appeared before she could tell me any more, other than that your life is in danger.”

“As yours may well be now.”

Her startled gaze lifted to his. “But Fayed said the man left.”

“His people will want to know how much Natalie told you, and what you have shared with me. You should not return to your hotel tonight.”

This was more than she’d bargained for. “My bags are there and my passport’s in the hotel safe. Could you arrange their return, if I check in to another hotel?”

He looked amused and she had to remind herself of who and what he was. In Nazaar, he could do anything he wished. “One hotel is as risky as another.”

“Then where—”

He didn’t wait for her to finish. “Ideally I would have you placed on a flight home to Australia for your safety. But the airport is closed due to a bomb scare. Flights won’t be back to normal until tomorrow.”

She lifted her head. “In any case, I can’t leave yet. I have…business appointments,” she finished, knowing the explanation sounded lame. Instinct told her not to mention Yusef to the sheikh. He might not be so kindly disposed toward her if he knew she hoped to contact a former rebel. And she hadn’t come all this way to be packed off home without achieving her goal.

“No business appointment is worth your life.”

“You’re not leaving,” she pointed out, adding belatedly, “Your Highness.”

His wry smile acknowledged the title. “In my position, danger is a part of life. However, the influence of the rebels is waning. They are the ones fighting for their lives now.”

“Desperate people have been known to do desperate things.”

“True, and you have attracted their attention.”

She spread her hands wide. “What can I do?”

“Return with my party to the palace at Raisa where you will be under royal protection until it is safe for you to leave the country.”

Excitement bubbled through her, warring with 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 notion is a crock.”

“Then you are a romantic fool.”

She shifted sideways, the buttery-soft leather tilting her closer to him. “You’re the boss, Your Highness.”

Without asking, he topped up her champagne glass. “If I thought you meant that, I’d be disappointed.”

She lifted the glass and studied the bubbling liquid, then lowered it slowly. “Then with respect, Your Highness, you’re dead wrong. I may be a romantic, but I don’t think I’m a fool.”

“No,” he said after a pause, “I don’t think so, either.”

“Thank you.”

His low laugh rippled through her like a caress. “Didn’t you expect me to concede the point?”

She dragged her free hand through her hair. “After this crazy day, I don’t know what I expect anymore. This morning I was an ordinary visitor. Now I’m the target of a criminal, forced to hide out in a royal palace.”

His gesture took in their luxurious surroundings. “Is it such a troubling prospect?”

“If I said yes, I would be a fool. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience.” Afraid the champagne was starting to affect her, she put her unfinished glass down on the bar. “I only wish I were here under less harrowing circumstances.”

“The police are already at work tracking down Natalie’s car. Her assailant will not be a threat to you for long,” he assured her.

Their bodies were so close. Another couple of inches and she’d be touching him. She held herself rigid, aware of the champagne working to undermine her self-control. “I was thinking of the threat to you.”

His gaze skimmed over her face. “You aren’t a fool, Simone Hayes. But you are a dreamer.”

He made it sound like a flaw. “Because I don’t want to see you hurt?”

Her concern had touched him, she saw as his gaze softened. “I didn’t mean it as a criticism. Dreams are the first steps to making the world better. But you should be dreaming on your own account, not on mine.”

“Can’t I do both?”

The car rounded a curve, sliding her farther into his personal space. The contact was momentary before she pulled back, but the effect lingered. He fascinated her for all the wrong reasons. Concern for his safety only went so far.

She was still pondering the problem when the motorcade approached the massive wrought-iron gates guarding the entrance to the Raisa Palace. She had already seen the complex from her hotel. Indeed it was hard to miss. Situated on a massive rocky spur overlooking the city, the palace had the stark simplicity of a fortress and dominated the road linking Raisa to Al-Qasr and the desert beyond. Terraced gardens surrounded the palace, while more gardens planted with cypress groves decorated the park within the gates and around the buildings. She had read about the palace, but never expected to be a guest here. “It’s hard to believe this is a private home.”

“It also serves as the administrative heart of the kingdom,” he explained. “We are passing Dar el Baranie, the exterior lodging. Next is Dar el Wousta, the middle lodging. My true home is Dar el Harem, the private quarters.”

Here Markaz’s motorcade glided to a halt under an elegant arcade. The facade of this building was adorned with delicate sculptures and wonderful carved marble and alcoves. As the driver opened the door for them and staff hurried to assist them, she felt as if she were stepping into the pages of a fairy tale.



Markaz’s pleasure in his home was magnified by seeing it through Simone’s eyes. Having grown up in the palace, he was largely immune to the effect, but he enjoyed watching others gain their first glimpse of royal life. Simone’s evident appreciation was especially satisfying.

Seldom had anyone shown as much selfless concern for him as she’d done today. She’d risked her life to bring him the ring, without knowing that it contained codes to the operation of a new defensive weapon developed between his country and America for Nazaar’s future security. His visit to Al-Qasr had been devised so Natalie could deliver the codes. Only concern for both women’s safety had stopped him from telling Simone of the great service she’d done his country. He decided to find a special way to show her his gratitude.

Only a generation ago, the sheikh would have thanked her by taking her to his bed. Just as well she was preoccupied, he thought as an almost painful pleasure bloomed through him. He shifted to ease the sudden pressure in his loins, wondering how she’d react if she knew. Probably violently, and his eyes gleamed at the thought of intercepting her hand on the way to his cheek and crushing her fingers to his lips. She’d be no easy conquest, this curious mix of desert daughter and self-assured Western woman.

Who was Simone Hayes? He looked forward to finding out. Not the practical details his security people would provide for him within hours, but the essence of her that was less easily uncovered. A closer look had affirmed his suspicion that Arab ancestry had sculpted her distinctive features and kissed her flawless skin with gold. But where and how, and was the connection recent or generations ago? And where did her heart belong?

Back in his father’s time, the law had allowed the sheikh of sheikhs to possess any woman catching his eye. Not that Kemal bin Aziz al Nazaari had ever indulged the privilege, Markaz thought, with the inescapable sense of loss accompanying memories of his father. Kemal had joked about taking more wives, knowing full well that there was only room for one woman in his heart.

Norah Robinson had been an American nurse working for a royal cousin, when Kemal went to stay with them. After his arm was slashed to the bone while training a new falcon, Norah had tended his injury and captured his heart. Ten years ago a rebel bomb had killed Kemal and their older son, Esan. Norah had carried on magnificently, but Markaz knew his mother still grieved the loss every day.

His parents’ example was the reason Markaz had married Natalie so quickly. Wanting what they’d had, he’d assumed it automatically followed physical desire. Even choosing an American wife had been an unconscious wish to replicate his father’s happiness. Nowadays Markaz knew better. But by his oath, Simone made him wish the dream had not died with the ending of his marriage.

He watched her until the driver opened the car door, then got out slowly, reluctant to leave their shared cocoon. Usually surrounded by servants and advisors, he treasured his moments of solitude, yet traveling with Simone was better than being alone. It was all he could do not to step back into the car and order the driver to keep going.



At the entrance to Dar el Harem, she’d been greeted by an army of servants. Markaz had assigned a young relative called Amal to look after her, and Simone was pleased with his choice.

In her late twenties, Amal was tall and reed-slim, with hair like black silk reaching to her waist. The unconscious elegance of her movements suggested a dancer’s training, unless all members of the royal family moved with such grace.

Simone’s professional interest was piqued by the woman’s outfit of a long galabia over a pair of loose, flowing trousers known as the sirwall. A closer look at the exquisite beadwork on the galabia would have to wait until she’d settled in, Simone thought.

“I always thought a harem was a place of seclusion for women,” Simone commented as Amal showed her around the women’s quarters. Like most people Simone had encountered in Nazaar, Amal’s English was excellent, far better than Simone’s Arabic. At this rate she’d have little chance to work on her language skills, but resolved to make the effort.

“The word harem describes the living quarters of the sheikh and his family,” Amal explained in her soft, musical voice. “Because we women have our own quarters, don’t imagine that we’re locked away. Some of us wear the abaya—the long cloak—over our clothes in public because we like creating an air of mystique. But we are educated, have careers and personal freedom much like your own. I live in the harem while studying for a degree in social work at Raisa University. These quarters are a sanctuary, not a prison.”

“I never thought they were,” Simone demurred, although she had been thinking along those lines. Hardly surprising, given the massive doors separating the women’s quarters from the rest of the palace, and the guards at the entrance.

Although she studied the guards unobtrusively, none of them fit her mother’s description of her father’s half brother. Not unexpected, given that the sheikh’s staff must number in the hundreds. Finding Yusef was unlikely to be that quick or easy.

She returned her attention to her guide. “Should I address you as Princess, Your Highness, or what?”

Amal smiled. “As a member of the al Nazaari family, technically I am addressed as Princess, but I rarely use a title. I’d like you to call me Amal.”

“And I’m Simone,” she agreed, feeling as if she’d made a friend in the palace.

“Before he left Al-Qasr, Sheikh Markaz ordered your things brought from your hotel. They have been placed in your room,” Amal said.

The room was a gracious blend of East and West, with priceless carpets scattered over the marble floors. The ceilings were finely carved and colored, and arched doorways opened onto a terrace hung with ferns. The canopied bed could have accommodated several people, Simone thought. Her bags looked lost beside it. They were already unpacked, she found when she checked. The staff hadn’t wasted any time carrying out the sheikh’s orders.

Amal opened another door to reveal a marble-floored reception room and beyond that, a domed bathroom. In the center, framed by columns, was a bathtub as large as a child’s wading pool. Simone immediately put a dip at the top of her to do list.

But first she needed to do something else. “Is there a telephone I can use to call my mother in Australia?”

Amal looked surprised at the question. “Of course.” Returning to the bedroom, she opened an ornate cabinet to reveal an electronic console and took out a remote control. “I’ll translate the settings for you.”

“My Arabic isn’t as good as your English, but I can read this.” Simone laughed. “Knowing how it works is a different matter.”

Leaning across her, Amal tapped keys with a long, rose-tipped nail. “This operates the audiovisual system, this the climate controls and these buttons are for the telecommunications system. If you give your mother the number on the handset, she can call you directly or leave voice mail for you. The line is scrambled for security. If you require anything else, call me on the internal system. After you make your phone call to Australia, you’ll have time to rest and freshen up before you dine with the sheikh tonight.”

This was news to Simone. “I didn’t know I’d been invited.” How did she feel about spending time with him on his own ground?

Evidently there wasn’t a choice. “His Highness will send for you at eight.”

Figuring out the high-tech phone system was less of a challenge than talking to her mother. Sara’s depression had worsened, her mother’s nurse who liked being called simply Mrs. H informed Simone. Sara was under sedation and would be told of her daughter’s call when she awoke.

“Should I come home early?” Simone asked.

Down the line, Mrs. H’s tone gentled. “At this point, it wouldn’t help. We’re doing all we can for her. There’s nothing more you can do.”

Except find her half uncle, Simone thought. No point raising her mother’s hopes until she had definite news. Or worrying her by letting her know about Simone’s present situation. “Give her my love,” she said before hanging up.

She tried to suppress her fear. Mrs. H was a capable professional who was giving her mother the best of care. Worrying wasn’t going to change matters. Simone would be better off concentrating on her objective. Right now Markaz was the key.

What did one wear to dine with a sheikh? Her clothes had been chosen for business and sightseeing, but she’d brought a long, slinky black dress with a matching chiffon wrap just in case.

First the tub beckoned. Who could resist such luxury? As water gushed from a swan-shaped gold fountain, she threw in handfuls of scented bath crystals in the shape of rose petals she found in a tall glass jar behind one of the columns. Then she shed her clothes and stepped in. Bliss.

Some time later, feeling refreshed, she swathed herself in a towel the size of a tablecloth, wound another around her freshly washed hair and padded barefoot back to the bedroom. And stopped in surprise.

On the bed, someone had laid out a fabulous peacock-blue jeweled and embroidered galabia and matching sirwall for her. She fingered the fine fabric in delight. Pure silk. The gold-and-silver embroidery and beadwork was finer than anything she’d seen before and she turned it over in her hands, marveling. Wearing this, a woman had to feel like a princess.

Forgetting the nap she’d intended to take, she dug in her cosmetics bag for eye shadow and eyeliner and spent an absorbing half hour experimenting with a look that would do justice to the fabulous clothes.

By the time she was satisfied, she could barely keep her eyes open, and blamed the heat and the stress of the morning at Al-Qasr. She removed her experimental makeup, carefully lifted the gorgeous outfit off the bed and draped it over a chair, then wrapped a robe around herself and stretched out full length. Within minutes she was deeply asleep.



Someone was in her hotel room. Heart pounding, she jerked to full wakefulness and sat up to the realization that this wasn’t a hotel. And the intruder was a maid who looked as startled as Simone.

“My apologies for disturbing you,” she said softly in Arabic. “I brought tea for you.”

“What time is it?” Simone asked in the same language.

Almost six in the evening, she was told. She had slept for over two hours. Swinging herself out of bed, she said, “Then it’s a good thing you woke me. I’d have slept the clock around otherwise.”

On the terrace, the maid had set out hot mint tea, fresh figs, plums, apricots and dates, the shredded pastry stuffed with white cheese called kanefeh and tiny pots of creamy bread pudding. Assured that this was more than adequate, the maid left her to her tea.

At this rate she would need more than visits to the gym to balance the indulgences when she returned to Australia. Disciplining herself to touch only the tea and a couple of succulent fruits, she turned her back resolutely on the tray and rested her arms on the parapet, taking in the view of the city.

Her former accommodation was a pink speck far below. Along the winding road above it she saw a group of the sheikh’s guards hiking uphill, evidently on a training exercise. After her journey to Al-Qasr, she knew the road was steep, but they scaled it effortlessly. The sheikh’s opponents must be mad, thinking they could defeat such a disciplined force.

Yet they had killed Markaz’s father and older brother, came the unwelcome thought. According to her reading, the old sheikh and his son had been flying home from a state visit when their plane had been destroyed by a rebel bomb.

If he’d stayed in Nazaar, her father could have been on board. As the editor of the Nazaari Times, he’d often traveled with the old sheikh to report on royal activities. He hadn’t fared much better with a hit-and-run driver in Australia, but at least he’d had the better part of thirty years of living first.

Shaking off the sad thoughts, Simone returned to the bedroom, her spirits reviving as she put on the lovely clothes. With her makeup complete and the chiffon wrap improvised into a hejab, the scarf used by Nazaari women to cover their hair, she was ready when the sheikh’s emissary came for her.

Fayed salaamed, looking approvingly at her appearance. “The sheikh is waiting for you, Miss Simone.”

“Just Simone, please.”

“Perhaps in Australia, but not here,” he rumbled.

“But you call the sheikh Markaz. I heard you.”

The giant frowned. “We grew up together and are brothers in all but name.”

And with men it was different anyway. How on earth did men like Fayed cope with the reforms Markaz was gradually introducing? Did the rebels resist so fiercely to avoid losing their power over their womenfolk? Suddenly the modest clothing she’d put on so eagerly seemed more limiting than charming.

In a rush of defiance, she pulled off her hejab and let it float onto the bed, then fluffed out her hair, earning a curious look from Fayed. But he made no comment when she said, “I’m ready. Wouldn’t want to keep the sheikh waiting.”




Chapter 4


Waiting wasn’t something Markaz tolerated well. Accustomed to having his needs met at the snap of his fingers, he had little use for patience. But this evening he was actually enjoying waiting for Simone, anticipation building like a fire inside him.

Deliberately he’d avoided reading the file his chief of security had placed on his desk an hour before. Hamal had assured him that she wasn’t a threat to the royal family or the nation, so Markaz preferred to learn about Simone by delicious degrees as she chose to reveal herself to him.

Aware of her as a woman from the moment their eyes met, he was curious to see where the attraction led. The potency of the feeling surprised him. Not since his divorce from Natalie had he been so conflicted by a woman, drawn to her and knowing she wasn’t for him. When he married again, and it was when because the kingdom required an heir, the woman would be of his own kind, as wedded to Nazaar as to him. This could be no more than an enjoyable interlude, but ending here.

Dissatisfaction at the thought made him get up and pace, halting as Fayed escorted her in. His friend salaamed and backed out, but not before Markaz had caught the indulgent look on Fayed’s face. What was that supposed to mean? It wasn’t as if he brought women to Markaz all the time. Not even most of the time. Had he sensed the undercurrent playing between Markaz and Simone? Maybe he should find Fayed a new assignment, where he couldn’t read his boss’s mind.

Just as well, Fayed wasn’t doing it now. Markaz didn’t know who’d been inspired to dress her in galabia and sirwall, but she wore them to the manner born. Her movements, graceful in Western dress, were even more fluid as she approached him, the tiny gold coins sewn into the costume’s wrists and ankles tinkling like music. Talk about a recipe for seduction. He had a hard time keeping his mouth from dropping open.

Then he saw her looking around them. He’d deliberately ordered dinner served in the New York suite, named because the huge oak and sandblasted glass dining table, and leather-upholstered chairs all came from New York, along with the black waveform chaise, leather sofas and glass coffee tables that Markaz dodged as he paced around the living portion of the room.

The suite, actually two rooms linked by a wide archway, was larger than some New York apartments. In keeping with the American theme, the high ceilings were painted white and the walls covered in hand-painted, silk wallpaper in a subtle dragonfly design made of pearlized white sand. In place of the traditional Persian rugs, Aubusson carpets covered the marble floors. A wall mural of the Manhattan skyline by night created the impression of a view. The New York Times was flown in every day and placed in the suite.

After attending a United Nations conference, his father and mother had gone for a walk together. Seeing her looking nostalgically at the furniture displayed in the windows of the Domus Design Collection on Madison Avenue, he had ordered the entire ensemble delivered to Nazaar to surprise her. He’d purchased every item in the display down to the lighting, tableware and accessories, and had them shipped to Raisa.

Markaz’s open-necked white shirt and black pants were Brooks Brothers, also chosen to suit the surroundings. So why did Simone look so angry? “Were you hoping for a more traditional setting? I can arrange it.”

“Don’t you think you’ve arranged enough for one evening, Your Highness?” she asked. “Does it amuse you to see me in fancy dress while you wear ordinary clothes?”

Despite using his title, she sounded anything but deferential. He drew himself up. “How does your choice of dress involve me?”

“My choice? Didn’t you send these things to my room for me to wear tonight?”

He controlled his anger, just. “In my country, we value the presumption of innocence. Is it not the same in Australia?”

“Yes, but—”

“Hear me out. I chose this setting to make you feel at home, but I had no part in choosing your attire.” Not that he had a problem with it, either, but he kept this to himself. She was angry enough, thinking he had amused himself at her expense. “Perhaps Amal selected the clothes, hoping to please you.”

Some of the wind went out of her sails. “I’ll certainly ask her. My apologies if I’ve misjudged you, Your Highness. But I should change before we dine.”

Grudging her absence for even that length of time, he smiled to soften his objection. “I’d prefer you to stay as you are.”

“I feel out of place, as if I belong in a different century.”

As if she’d just walked out of the desert, one of the original inhabitants of his kingdom from many centuries before, he thought. Out loud he said, “You look breathtaking.”

The compliment made her shift restively. “This clothing is comfortable.”

“And undeniably becoming. Throughout our history, golden-haired beauties were treated as goddesses. Men went to war over them. Seeing you like this, it isn’t hard to understand why.”

He had the satisfaction of watching color rush into her cheeks. Not as tough as she pretended then. His anticipation notched higher.



Were there any more ways she could look idiotic in front of the sheikh, Simone asked herself. Not only did she look and feel out of place alongside his tailored—and modern—elegance, she’d accused the country’s ruler of setting her up.

The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed that he was right, and Amal had intended the clothes as a treat. The woman couldn’t have known that the sheikh planned a Western-style evening for his guest. Thank goodness she’d discarded the hejab at the last minute.

She had to admit the flowing galabia and pants made her feel delicate and feminine, although she would have preferred to see Markaz also in traditional dress. Because this way pointed up differences between them she’d rather overlook? Surely she wasn’t that foolish?

Seating herself on the sofa Markaz indicated, she felt the leather shape itself to her body while the galabia drifted in graceful folds around her. She might feel like a fish out of water, but everything in the suite was in excellent taste. What was the story behind it?

The sheikh dropped into an armchair at right angles to her, crossing an ankle over one knee. Reaching over he pressed a control concealed in the arm of the chair.

Seconds later a maid glided in with champagne and canapés on a gold tray, set it on the glass-topped table between them, bowed to the sheikh then left as silently as she’d come.

When he handed her a drink, Simone’s fingers tightened around the stem of the glass. She was probably destroying his carefully orchestrated mood—or maybe wanted to—by asking, “Have you learned anything more about Natalie, Your Highness?”

He frowned into his drink. “I have given orders to be interrupted if there is any news. And tonight I am merely Markaz.”

He could never be merely anything. Even in dark pants and a monogrammed white shirt superbly tailored to fit his broad physique, he looked every inch a monarch. The open-necked shirt hinted at a smooth, muscular chest, and the pants were taut over his legs and hips. Without the traditional headdress, his hair was thick and slightly springy, cut just above his collar and looking as if it would curl naturally when wet.

A lightning image of him in the shower, the water streaming down his sleek olive flanks sent a jet of excitement arrowing through her. She gulped champagne to quench the fire as much as her thirst. Not a sight she would see in her lifetime.

She was woman enough to want. But realist enough to recognize when a desire was bad for her. She’d ended one relationship because the man became too controlling. Markaz was control on a stick.

Putting him into a Western setting didn’t help, as her father had proved. Despite thirty years of living in Australia, he’d never changed his belief that his word was law simply because he was male. Much as he’d loved his daughter, Simone knew she would have ranked second if her mother had borne a son. Common sense told her Markaz’s view would be even more rigid, because of who he was.

Since when did common sense ever win out over desire?

It was going to this time. She inclined her head. “Markaz then. How does a royal palace in Nazaar come to have such a Western-looking room?”

As he explained about Norah and his father, she regarded the decor with new eyes. “What an extravagant, romantic gesture. Was your mother delighted?”

“Of course. She still spends time here when she feels homesick.”

“Or when she wants to feel close to your father,” Simone said.

Pain flashed across his face, instantly masked. “Indeed. My family and the country are all poorer for his loss.”

And Markaz himself? He’d been in America when his father and brother were killed ten years before, never expecting to inherit the throne. She’d brushed up on Nazaar’s history on the Internet before leaving Australia. Now she wondered how Markaz had felt without father or older brother to guide him, knowing he could be the rebels’next target, yet continuing the reform process anyway.

He leaned back, the crystal flute held between two long fingers. “Tell me how you come to wear our clothing so well.”

“I’m flattered you think I do.”

He nodded. “It’s more fact than compliment. Right now you look more Nazaari than Australian.”

“Perhaps because of my blood,” she murmured.

Ah, now they were coming to it. The reason she looked so at home in the kingdom. “You have Nazaari ancestry?”

She took a sip of champagne. “My parents are from Nazaar. They moved to Australia before I was born.”

Glad that he’d resisted the temptation to read her file, Markaz let a mouthful of champagne slide down his throat then put the glass down. She was more intoxicating than any drink, and he wanted to give her his full attention. “Your people are from the desert?”

“My mother’s from Raisa. My father came from the desert. He died in a road accident a few months ago.”

“My condolences.”

The response sounded sincere. Of course, he’d suffered his share of loss and knew how she felt. “Thank you. They had a good life in Australia.”

“They never returned to their homeland?”

“By the time the borders were open, they had settled where they were. I think my father was afraid he’d find more change than he wanted to see.”

Markaz’s eyes turned cold. “They were against the reform process?”

“No.” She gave the single word all the emphasis she could. “The very opposite. It was because my father supported the old sheikh that they were forced to leave. He was warned that he and my mother would be killed if he continued to write in favor of the reforms. He would have taken his chances, but he loved my mother too much to risk her.” Simone took a deep breath. “His name was Ali al Hasa.”

Markaz looked astonished. “You’re the daughter of Ali al Hasa? I was only a child when he left, but I heard a great deal about him. My father considered him a friend.”

Tears of pleasure misted her eyes and she brushed them away. But not before he’d seen them. “Don’t be ashamed of your tears, Simone. They do both our fathers honor.”

She’d known her father had had friends at the palace, but until now had never fully understood how respected he’d been. How hard he must have found it to leave everything behind and start all over again.

“Sheikh Kemal provided Ali with an introduction to other expatriates living in Australia,” Markaz told her.

Until now she hadn’t known that the old sheikh himself had opened doors for her father. “That probably helped him to start his newsletter in Australia. I worked on it with him for a time, until I went into business for myself.”

“You must have a good command of our language.”

It took a moment to realize that Markaz had spoken to her in Arabic. “I speak the language less ably than most people in Nazaar speak English,” she answered in the same tongue. “I hope to improve my skills during my visit.”

“Then you shall have the opportunity,” he said, switching back to English. “I shall assign Amal as your teacher.”

“Surely she has more than enough to do? She told me she’s studying at university.”

“She will do as I command.”

“I don’t want you to pressure her on my account. It isn’t fair.”

She saw him blink at her bluntness, but it passed without comment. “Fairness is important to you?”

“Of course. Isn’t it why you’re putting your life on the line to pursue reforms?”

He tilted his glass to her. “You are indeed your father’s daughter.”

She inclined her head in response. “I take that as a compliment.”

“Then why do you not use the name, al Hasa?”

“Before I was born my father changed the family name to Hayes, to fit in or to protect us, I don’t know. He saw no need to discuss his thoughts with a daughter.”

Markaz’s keen gaze sharpened. “You are troubled by the natural order of things?”

Unconsciously she straightened her back. “There’s nothing natural about the superiority of one sex over another.”

His shoulders lifted eloquently. “Not natural, perhaps. But inevitable. Someone has to take the lead.”

“Take being the operative word,” she stated.

With care he chose a canapé and bit into it. She’d annoyed him, she saw from the tense set of his shoulders and jaw. So what? He wasn’t her sheikh and his traditions weren’t hers, except through her genes.

He was still the monarch and her host, she reminded herself. “I’m sorry for speaking out of turn, Your Highness,” she said in Arabic, fearing the words would stick in her throat in English.

His dismissive gesture might have been for her manner or her opinions. “No matter. As the reforms proceed, change is coming soon enough.”

Did his people regret or embrace the changes? Probably a little of both, she decided. What man would willingly share his authority with another, male or female, unless he had no choice? Even Markaz himself might find reform more attractive in theory than in practice.

She hadn’t missed his reaction when she came in, as if Fayed had served her up to the sheikh on a plate. That would have to stop if men and women became equal. The right of the ruler to dictate women’s behavior would be washed away under the new social order.

Female clothing would need to change, too. In Nazaari culture, the outfit she wore was designed to be concealing and revealing by turns. The flowing fabric made even the most clumsy wearer appear graceful, with the coins at wrists and ankles sending a musical message of availability.

In fairness, low-slung jeans and a T-shirt could send the same message, she told herself. A lot had to do with the attitude of the person wearing them. Realizing that she’d been leaning toward Markaz in a pose he might misread as female fascination, she moved farther away and crossed her arms in the universal body language of disinterest.

She’d been read like a book, she saw when the corners of his mouth lifted. He knew he interested her. Maybe the Nazaari people had it right all these centuries, she thought, irritated with herself. Segregating the sexes and veiling the women from men’s eyes made life a lot less complicated. “Is change so desirable then?” she asked.

“Would you rather accept limits to your freedom than deal with what is between us?” he answered her question with his own.

“Of course not.” Too late, she saw the trap. “I mean, there’s nothing…”

He moved so quickly that he was alongside her on the sofa before she could react. “We both know there is. The kind of connection between us is rare, and not to be denied.”

“Perhaps in your culture, Your Highness.”

“In any culture. I notice you use my title when you want to create a barrier between us.”

Whatever worked, she thought, all too afraid that nothing would. He wasn’t touching her or making any move to do so, but she felt his nearness in every fiber of her being. And wanted more, pity help her.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/valerie-parv/desert-justice/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.