by Holly Rayner
Zelda counted her lucky stars that she’d thought to cash the check now that her ability to get away from Murindhi counted on having money—she would have felt badly about taking the Sheikh’s money to make her escape.
She had struck off for what she hoped was the city, but from her vantage point, she couldn’t see any sign of it.
Oh God. What if I was totally wrong about the direction to go in?
She shook the question out of her mind; if she was wrong, she would just have to keep going until she got somewhere. Murindhi wasn’t a big country; it was, she recalled, about the size of Singapore. It wasn’t possible for her to keep walking and not eventually find some kind of town or village, was it? If nothing else, she had to at least hit a border if she walked for long enough, and then she could get her bearings, and pay for a ticket somewhere.
Except, Zelda remembered, the reason she’d entered into her agreement with Zayed was that she didn’t have the proper documentation.
“Cross that bridge when you come to it,” she told herself, taking a moment to pause and stretch a little before she continued walking.
Her mouth was starting to feel dry; her sweat was evaporating, and that only reminded Zelda of the fact that she had nothing to replace it with. She told herself again and again that she’d get through it, that she would find the main city, or at least a place with people, and figure out what to do with herself from there.
A few minutes later, Zelda paused again to look around her, and realized that she could no longer see even the vaguest shape of the Sheikh’s palace behind her, nor could she discern any sign of the city she’d spend so much of the past week visiting.
This is bad, she thought, her heart beating a little faster in her chest, but she had lost so much moisture already that it couldn’t manage more than a trembling quaver.
Zelda swallowed against the dry, gritty feeling in her throat, mentally kicking herself for not thinking of some way to get water to bring with her.
“Keep walking,” she croaked to herself, before deciding that talking out loud was a bad idea—she’d just irritate her throat even more. She coughed and pulled the collar of her shirt up over her mouth, half-remembering some advice she’d read once about conserving moisture that way.
It helped that the heat of the day was dying rapidly as the sun finished setting in the west. The arid land between Zayed’s home and her destination was not just cooling, it was almost cold as darkness enveloped it.
She mentally chastised herself again, this time for not thinking to find some kind of light source before she fled the palace. Water, flashlight, some kind of jacket…
Zelda discarded the idea no sooner had she thought of it—she had deliberately not taken anything that Zayed had paid for, telling herself that at least she would have some kind of moral or ethical standing that way. Water, she could have justified, but stealing a flashlight, or a jacket, or anything else would have just put her further in the wrong.
As she trudged forward, she wondered how Zayed was handling the engagement party, in light of her absence. Her feet felt so heavy; her face felt as if someone had taken a scouring pad to it, the skin across her cheeks and nose uncomfortably tight from the dry air. Her temples throbbed with a sensation she hadn’t felt since the last time she’d gotten a hangover: a dehydration headache.
She crouched on the ground, closing her eyes for a moment in the darkness. The only reason she hadn’t stopped altogether was that the moon provided just enough light for her to see the ground at her feet; she knew she should have made it to some kind of city by now, and her feet attested to the fact that she’d walked for miles. She tried to cry, but she was so parched that all she could manage were a few dry, almost coughing sobs.
“This is what I get for trying to do the right thing,” she croaked to the darkness around her, forgetting her resolution not to speak out loud.
She wrapped her arms around her knees, wondering how it was possible for someone to simultaneously be freezing cold and so dehydrated that she couldn’t cry. She buried her face against her legs, feeling hopeless. Even if she could somehow figure out where the city was, she was so dizzy, so exhausted, that it would be impossible for her to finish the trek.
With a burst of clarity, Zelda realized that there was a very real chance that she would die right where she had stopped; that she would become more and more dehydrated until— She wasn’t exactly sure how death by thirst happened, but she was certain that it was unpleasant.
Zelda groaned, coughed and decided once more to be quiet; she shivered and at the same time felt too warm. She wanted desperately to cry but her eyes felt as dry as the sand dusting her arms.
The worst part of it is that I’m going to die without my parents having even a single clue of where I am or what happened to me, she thought miserably. I just wish I could tell them I’m sorry.
Her head was pounding; it got worse by the moment, until she could feel her pulse at her temples, throbbing in a steady lub-lub-lub that brought nothing but pain with it.
Through the veil of her eyelids, the moon’s light had gotten brighter and brighter. A low, droning sound filled her ears and Zelda thought irritably that if she was going to die, she would vastly prefer it to be somewhere quiet. What had happened to the desert stillness?
“Zelda! Zelda!”
Zelda moaned and pulled her face away from her knees, opening her eyes a crack only to wince away from the bright light that filled them. A dark figure advanced towards her and for a terrified instant, she thought that it might be the specter of death itself—only it had a familiar shape.
“Zelda. Zelda, are you awake?”
The figure, backlit, crouched over her and then Zelda felt blessed when cold water started splashing over her face, against her lips.
“Here, drink.”
Zelda obeyed mindlessly, grabbing at the container instinctively when it seemed like it would go away.
“Shh, you need to drink more slowly, or you’ll only throw it up.”
Zelda mumbled something like a denial, and opened her eyes again to argue her case. She saw Zayed’s face, looking down at her, full of concern.
“I’ve got you, Zelda. You’re going to be okay.”
Zelda nodded, accepting it as the gospel truth without even quite understanding the words.
The Sheikh brought the bottle to her lips again and she drank down a little more water before the last of her energy left her and she slumped against Zayed’s strong, warm body, slipping gently into unconsciousness.
Chapter 12
Zelda came back to consciousness bit by bit; she became aware of the fact that her headache was gone, that her skin no longer felt drawn and tight on her face and hands.
She realized that she wasn’t on the ground; instead, soft blankets covered her and a cushioned surface cradled her underneath. She felt clean, dry—but not uncomfortably so—and better rested than she could remember ever being in her life. Her heart beat steadily without pounding in her ears, and lastly she became aware of the fact that she was incredibly hungry.
She opened her eyes and the first thing she saw was Zayed, seated a few feet away from her, watching her intently. A broader glance around her told Zelda that she was in her bedroom at the Sheikh’s mansion, and that at some point since she had passed out, she’d been brought back, bathed, and cared for. None of the servants seemed to be present.
“Hi,” she said sheepishly, pushing herself up by her elbows.
“Careful,” Zayed said, reaching out to help her pull herself up into a seated position. “Your arm might be a little sore; the doctor said you needed IV fluids.”
Zelda looked down and saw the pristine white square of gauze taped to the crook of her elbow. “I feel pretty great,” she said, smiling shyly. “A little concerned at being much cleaner than I remember.”
“Hadya insisted that since we haven’t yet been married, she should be the one to clean you up,” Zayed admitted, looking amused.
&nbs
p; “Well at least that’s one less thing I have to be mortified about,” Zelda grinned. She shook her head, thinking of how incredibly foolish her escape attempt had been—all the things she hadn’t thought of, including the fact that she had no real idea of how to get to the city from Zayed’s compound.
“He said you would probably be hungry when you woke up,” the Sheikh told her, “but that since you’d been through such an ordeal, you should eat fairly lightly at first.”
The words disappointed Zelda, but she kept her face neutral as Zayed stood and walked to the door, opening it to reveal a rolling cart with a tray on top. He wheeled it into the room and positioned it next to her bed before lifting the lid on the tray to reveal a dish of what looked like rice pudding, a selection of fresh fruit, and some of the flatbreads that Zelda had particularly liked in her breakfasts during her first week as the Sheikh’s guest and bride-to-be.
“That looks amazing,” she said, her stomach almost cramping with hunger.
“Here, let me set you up,” Zayed said.
He produced another tray with legs on it and settled it over her lap, and Zelda shifted in bed until she was able to reach it properly. Zayed served her, pouring fragrant tea into a beautiful cup, adding a little honey to it, making sure everything was where she could get to it on the bed tray.
Zelda felt almost embarrassed; Zayed had never shown this level of concern, this amount of kindness to her. She’d never seen him show it to anyone, though she reminded herself that she’d only seen him in action for a few weeks.
She had to admit that the gentler, caring side of the Sheikh, unexpected as it was, appealed to her much more than the generous entertainer or the charming businessman had.
She began to eat, taking careful bites and chewing as slowly as she could manage. The rice pudding was sweetened with honey and spices—cardamom, cinnamon, and ginger, Zelda noted—and rich with creamy milk, the grains of rice soft without being mushy. The fruit was perfectly ripe, probably from the greenhouse on the property.
As she ate, Zayed watched her—not obtrusive, merely interested—waiting for her to need him or to ask for something.
“It’s kind of weird sitting here in silence,” Zelda noted eventually; as grateful as she was for the Sheikh’s presence, she felt almost rude, eating in front of him.
“Did you want to talk about something?”
Zelda glanced at the man she had fled just the night before, the man who’d saved her, and she bowed her head, feeling her cheeks heat up. “I wanted to thank you for rescuing me,” she told him. “And…” she put her spoon down for a moment, taking a sip of tea to clear her mouth. “I wanted to apologize for running off on you like that.”
Zayed dismissed the need for an apology with a wave. “I shouldn’t have been surprised,” he said. “I’m just glad that I was able to get to you in time. You wandered quite a way away from anywhere civilized.”
Zelda chuckled ruefully, shaking her head and picking up her spoon once more. “Just how far did I get? I thought I was going in the direction of the city.”
“You were about five miles away from the house,” Zayed told her. “You somehow managed to go northwest, so you were actually going farther and farther away from the city.” His hazel eyes glinted briefly with amusement. “Do you want some more to eat?” He gestured to her tray and Zelda realized she’d already finished all of the food.
“I probably shouldn’t,” she said reluctantly. Her mouth wanted more, but her stomach was already sending signals that it would be a mistake.
Zayed took the tray away, but left the tea within reach, and Zelda sipped at it meditatively, watching as he wheeled the cart back out of the room before returning to her bedside.
It struck her that there were many men in the world who would have left her to her own devices after she’d stood them up for such a crucial event. Even after rescuing her from the desert, Zayed could simply have taken her to a hospital and left her there to sort out her immigration problems as soon as she was no longer in danger of dying. Instead, he had rescued her, seen to her care, and shown her such kindness that she was almost ashamed of the fact that she’d thought to run in the first place.
The Sheikh settled himself in his chair, and Zelda wondered if he’d been in that station ever since he’d brought her back to the house.
Zelda looked at Zayed, trying to discern something of the truth about him. “You’re not really the cool, calm, collected businessman you pretend to be, are you?”
“There’s something I want to know, Zelda,” the Sheikh said, dodging the question. “Why are you always running away?”
“Like last night, you mean?”
He shrugged. “Last night, certainly, but also when you stowed away on my yacht, when you ran away from college and when you ran away from culinary school. I’m curious why that is.”
Zelda found herself surprised at the question; she’d never thought about dropping out of university or culinary school as being a form of running away, but Zayed was right.
“I guess I just feel...trapped, a lot,” she admitted. “I’m not really sure why.”
“If you didn’t want to go through with it, you could have just told me,” Zayed said. “I would not hold it against you, and certainly I wouldn’t have held your status over your head.” He reached out and took her hand in his gently. “When I realized that you had tried to leave on your own—on foot, no less—I was terrified for you. Even people who live in this area avoid walking the desert on their own at night.”
“I didn’t think it would be right; I was confused,” Zelda confessed. “I couldn’t think of any other way to get away, and I felt guilty about abandoning you.”
Zayed shook his head and reached with his free hand into his pocket. He withdrew a thin, paper folder splashed with an airline logo. “If you really don’t want to go through with it,” he told her, “then please, please accept this. Don’t go out into the desert again. I can even have Yasin drive you to the airport.”
The Sheikh handed the ticket to Zelda, and she opened up the protective folder to reveal that it was a direct flight, first class, from Murindhi to Miami. Looking at it more closely, Zelda realized that it wasn’t a ticket for a particular flight, but a prepaid voucher, good for whenever she might want to fly out.
“I don’t want you to feel like you have to take your life in your hands in order to do what you think is right,” Zayed added.
Zelda considered: with her passport, the ticket, and the preliminary paperwork she’d done as part of the process of getting engaged to Zayed, she should—hopefully—be able to leave the country with no problems. She could go back to the States the same day, and be home to tell her parents what a crazy few weeks she’d had. But the kindness of the gesture, and Zayed’s insistence that he would rather her be safe and happy than fulfill her side of the bargain with him, rebuked her.
She didn’t want to be tied to Murindhi indefinitely, but she knew that she’d made a deal with the Sheikh. He had fulfilled his side of things, clearing up her immigration status enough that she could leave the country without risking being imprisoned for entering illegally. She owed it to him to hold up her end of the deal.
“How about this,” she began, looking from the ticket to Zayed. “I’ll go through with the wedding—it seems silly not to, at this point.” She smiled slightly. “That way, we’ve both held up our end of the deal. Then, once the wedding is over, and everything is finalized with your deal, we part ways. I go back to the US, and you go back to your life here.”
Zayed held her gaze for a long moment and Zelda wondered if she had ruined any good faith between them with her escape attempt; if he had simply decided to give up on her for being so ungrateful as to try and flee such a cushy situation.
“It’s a deal,” he said, extracting his hand from hers only to offer it to her again to shake.
Zelda smiled, shook his hand, and put the voucher aside. “We should probably get moving,” she pointed out. “Are w
e still doing the engagement party, or did I ruin that?”
The Sheikh laughed. “It actually did you a favor in society here,” he told her. “I painted it as you being shy, since you don’t know enough of the language to keep up, and of course you’re so very modest.”
Zelda snickered. “I guess that’s good at least,” she said, shaking her head. “I’d hate to think that I’d humiliated you.”
Zayed smiled slightly. “Mostly I was worried. Hadya came to check on you, with the stylist and her employees, and didn’t find you.” He made a face. “At first I was concerned that you might have been kidnapped or something, but then, of course, I would think that someone would leave a note, or call me, if they were going to ransom you.”
Zelda’s heart fell at the worry that she had caused him. She had thought—tentatively—that the Sheikh was capable of connecting and caring about others, but she hadn’t for a moment believed that she could have qualified for that distinction.
“I guess I didn’t really think it through,” Zelda said self-consciously. “I just felt like it was wrong of me at the time.” She pressed her lips together; no matter how much affection and kindness Zayed had showed her, there were certain aspects of her decision that she still wasn’t comfortable talking about with him.
“Well I’m glad you’ve changed your mind, somewhat at least,” Zayed said. He looked her over briefly. “I should let you rest; the doctor said that your body would probably take some time to fully recover from the ordeal.”
Zelda’s lips twisted into a dry smile. “I feel okay now,” she said. “Just a little weak. I think I want a bath.” Her cheeks warmed at the fact that she’d worried that Zayed had seen her naked.
“I’ll go and meet with some associates while you rest, then,” Zayed said. “I don’t want you to feel crowded, but I was worried for you.”
Zelda patted his hand, shifting slightly in the bed. “I’m sorry I made you worry,” she told him.