She, Samantha Bechtel, might be his guest here overnight, but she had no intention of showing such humiliating deference. And she kept a sharp eye on their baggage as the men carried it along another hallway lined with doors under pointed arches.
This place was huge, and she was pretty sure she recognized it from her research. “Is this the fortress of Al Kaur?” She turned to Osman, defying him to ignore her question or give an enigmatic non-answer.
“It is. First erected around four thousand years ago to defend my ancestors from the marauding efforts of the neighboring Azrib tribe. Rebuilt and expanded many times since. For the last four hundred years or so it has been the seat of the ruling family of Ubar.”
She hadn’t yet revealed that she knew who he was. Perhaps it was better to pretend surprise. “So you’re royalty?”
“Indeed I am. “He looked infuriatingly smug.
As well he might if he was to be king.
Then again, who’d want to be king of this desolate stretch of rock-strewn desert?
He’d caught up and now his stride matched hers. Then he leaned in to whisper in her ear. “And perhaps one day you will be too.”
2
“I have met my wife.” Osman let his words sink in as he watched his brothers stunned faces. They sat on low cushions around the enormous traditional hookah the servants kept preparing despite his continued insistence that none of them smoked. Their father had smoked a bowl of something or other every day, and apparently he was expected to continue the tradition. The air was thick enough already. Incense smoldered in a brazier in one corner, and beeswax candles burned in several hanging lanterns, casting flickering light over the multicolored mosaics on the walls.
Zadir spoke first. “You’d marry an American?”
“Why not?” Osman had ushered Samantha to their finest guest chamber, where she was changing for dinner. He let his mind briefly stray to wonder what she was wearing right now. “I’ve spent most of my adult life in the U.S. Most of the women I’ve dated are American. Why would you find that strange?”
“That was when you lived in America.” His younger and more serious brother Amahd gestured with his hands. “It’s one thing to date a girl in the land of milk and honey, quite another to bring her back to this barren wilderness and ask her to live here.”
“I’d hardly call our ancestral homeland a barren wilderness.” They’d all grown too used to Western luxury. “Besides, we can maintain a residence or two abroad.”
“You can hardly be king and live somewhere else.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t be the first.”
Zadir ran a hand through his already tousled hair. “I think we’ve found the real reason our father decided to split the throne between the three of us. He wasn’t sure which—if any—of us he could count on to come back and stay.”
Osman frowned. He’d secretly dreaded his father’s death, not out of filial devotion but because of the responsibilities that came with his passing. As the oldest son he’d long been expected to ascend the ancient throne of Ubar in the tradition of his ancestors. It had been a slap in the face when he discovered that his father had rewritten the Monarchic Accord to divide their nation into three equal-sized principalities, promising one to each of his brothers as well.
He had half a mind to wash his hands of Ubar and its problems and head back to New York. Then something more primitive—stupidity, probably—tugged at his heart and made him determined to ascend the basalt throne of his ancestors.
“Our father may have had a heart of stone, but he was a very intelligent man. I think he knew that if he got the three of us here together we’d figure out a way to see this thing through.”
Amahd frowned. “Perhaps he intended for us to prevent each other from making rash mistakes like marrying a foreigner.”
Osman glared at his brother. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud. Besides, Ubarite tradition tells us that we will feel the call of destiny when we see our intended mate.”
Amahd shook his head. “You’ve barely met her.”
Zadir smiled. “It sounds like our brother has fallen victim to love at first sight. What’s her name again?”
“Samantha.” He tested the word on his tongue. He liked it. Substantial and a little hard to handle, just like its owner. Seducing her promised to be a fun challenge. “She’s making a documentary about the festival, so she must be interested in our culture.”
“That sounds promising enough to me.” Zadir raised his coffee cup.
“You’ve both lost your minds.” Amahd inhaled deeply. “Choosing a bride is a great responsibility, especially when we need to set an example for everyone in the country. There are many beautiful Ubarite women who’d love to be queen.”
“Tell me about it.” Osman raised a brow. “I’m tired of gold diggers throwing themselves at me. If anything, Samantha has done the opposite so far. In fact she’s been rather rude.”
“Maybe she’s rude because she knows you’re a king. Americans hate monarchs.”
“Yes.” He’d enjoyed the stunned look in her eyes when he’d suggested that she might join the ruling family.
She hadn’t bothered to reply. No doubt she assumed he was joking. Maybe he was teasing her at that moment, but already the prospect of pursuing her had seeded itself in his heart.
Since the news about his father’s death four months ago had made the rounds, women were practically climbing up to the palace windows on ladders trying to get an audience with him. It was not likely these crown-seeking ladies were the kind of partner and soul mate he craved yet seemed unable to find.
“I think she’s cute.” Zadir, a connoisseur of women himself, grinned. “I saw her arrive.”
“What about that guy she’s with?” Amahd was always more cautious. Trying to figure out the angles before jumping in.
“What about him?” Osman stretched his arms and shoulders. “She works with him. If anything, his presence here will give her the confidence to relax in our midst.”
“He’s her boyfriend.” Amahd poured himself a tiny cup of coffee from the tall brass urn.
“No, he isn’t.” Osman frowned. “A woman like Samantha would never be interested in such a… wimp.”
Zadir chuckled. “Whether she is or not, they’re together. I saw her kiss him when they went into their rooms.”
“What?” Indignation flashed through him. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost think it was jealousy. But since he’d barely even met her, that was impossible. “If they’re a couple, why didn’t they ask to stay together?”
“Perhaps they’re aware that unmarried couples shouldn’t cohabitate in our culture,” said Amahd. “And she just doesn’t want any trouble.”
Osman stood and paced across the dimly lit space. Samantha and that feeble excuse for a man? On the other hand, American women did have some strange criteria for choosing their mates. Someone had told him that they considered a sense of humor to be the most important characteristic in a man.
A sense of humor? That wouldn’t get you too far in the heat of battle.
Or in bed.
“If I need to liberate Samantha from an unfortunate union with the wrong man, then so be it. Fortune smiles on the bold.”
Samantha’s wrinkle-proof, easy-care travel attire looked rather frumpy in the full-length mirror, with its hand-tooled silver frame. At least her long, dark hair was clean and shiny after a hot shower. Osman had led her to an ornate chamber draped in rich fabrics. It had electric light, which she was beginning to wonder about as they walked through the ancient stone palace, and a luxurious bathroom with every amenity.
Definitely a palace.
And Osman Al Kilanjar was heir to the throne. She didn’t have too much respect for inherited wealth and power. Still, she had to be nice enough to him that he’d help them find a mechanic in the morning and hopefully drive them back to their car. If he didn’t slit their throats, of course.
She smoothed a not-supposed-to-be-ther
e wrinkle out of her khaki skirt and tugged at the shapeless patterned tunic the catalog had described as a “blouse.” She looked like a nun, which was probably a good thing when she thought about how the tall, commanding sheikh had kissed her hand.
The effect was alarming and made her feel uncomfortable in his presence.
She hoped Allan was holding up okay. He liked to think of himself as intrepid and unflappable, but once again, she had to take charge and make things happen. Of course, that was why she’d become a producer, but every now and then it would be nice if someone else could shoulder the load. And apparently neither of them had the nerve to suggest sharing a room.
A knock on the door made her jump.
“Who is it?” Maybe it was Allan coming to check on her.
“It’s Osman.” Of course it was. His bold voice boomed through the heavy door.
“I’m almost ready.”
“Impossible.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You can’t be ready when I have your evening attire in my hands.”
“I don’t need anything.” She took a disapproving glance at her drab ensemble. “I’ve changed for dinner.”
“Every woman must dress for the festival. Surely you don’t want to flaunt local traditions while you’re here?”
Local tradition. Hmm. She did like the idea of experiencing the culture for herself. She squinted at her frumpy, beige-clad reflection. Then she walked to the door and gingerly opened it.
Osman beamed. He was a full head taller than her, which was just annoying. She was five-foot-seven, for crying out loud! He must be nearly six-five, which was far too tall to be useful. Looking him properly in the face for the first time, she noticed his eyes weren’t dark brown like she’d assumed. They were an interesting olive-green color, brighter than a generic hazel.
She glanced down at the pile of colorful fabric in his hand. At least it was unlikely to be revealing. Women in this part of the world were generally covered from head-to-toe. Curiosity pricked her as he lifted a garment with one large hand. A bright-pink dress with a lot of gold disks sown along the hem and cuffs.
“That’s really not my style.”
Osman’s eyes rested on hers for a moment. Then they drifted lower, to her lips and chin, to her neck, raking over her body and heating the skin beneath her practical khakis and shirt. “I can see that. Is this some kind of camouflage?”
“It doesn’t show dirt.” She brushed at an imaginary speck.
“It doesn’t show you, either.” He thrust the pink dress forward, and she grabbed it as he dropped it. Then he lifted some matching pink pants with more gold discs around the cuffs. “You’ll feel more at home in this, here in Ubar, dressed the way women have adorned themselves for centuries.”
“I’m not sure it will go with my coloring.” The token protest felt essential somehow. Besides, she hadn’t worn that garish shade of bright pink since she left nursery school.
“It will bring out the natural roses in your cheeks.” He said it with deadly seriousness that made her want to laugh.
Part of her wanted to try on the colorful silks. The fabric felt unbelievably luxurious. Part of her wanted to defy him. His arrogant gaze, taking in her whole body as if she were simply a mannequin, had left her rattled. “I’m quite comfortable as I am.”
“Suit yourself.” He said it quite pleasantly, then closed the door and left.
Sam was left staring at the door, holding the pink dress and leggings that he’d managed to foist on her. She’d expected some high-handed insistence, so for him to simply disappear left her poised for a battle that had been canceled.
Maybe she should try them on. Just for the experience. If this was what women wore for the festival, it was research anyway. Right?
She’d dressed, surprised to find that the ensemble was rather fitted and showed off her curves. There was a veil of sorts—pearl gray with gold beading—and she remembered from images she’d seen in her research that it draped over her hair and was secured with a gold ring, similar to a headband, which she found nestled within it. She’d just finished outlining her eyes in dark pencil, to get the full effect, when there was another knock on the door.
She decided to ignore it.
“Sam?” It was Allan.
“Come in, babe. It’s open. You’re not going to believe what I’m wearing.” The mirror now reflected back the image of an Ubarite princess. Or at least an elegant commoner. The eyeliner was a winning touch. With the tan complexion of her mother’s French ancestry, she looked surprisingly Middle Eastern.
The door opened slowly, to reveal Allan still in the same rumpled t-shirt and jeans he’d had on earlier. He stopped and stared.
She smiled. “Whaddya’ think?”
His pale blue eyes narrowed. “Did he make you wear this?”
“Make me?” She laughed, but only to hide a growing sense of unease. “Or course not. Why would you think he could make me do anything?”
Allan rubbed his arm. “I don’t know. He seems like the type to make women do things.”
“Women aren’t as malleable as you apparently believe, Allan. He simply offered them to me, so I could experience the culture, and I decided to try them on.” She attempted a confident smile. “Maybe we’ll get better footage if we can blend in easily with the locals. Perhaps you should dress up, too?”
“Going native is not my scene.” He cast a dubious glance over her colorful finery. “They brought me an outfit, but I sent them away with it. If you start letting these people push you around, you have no idea what they’ll try next.”
“No one’s pushing me around, Allan.” She wiped off some of the eyeliner with a fingertip. Maybe she didn’t need to look quite so full of Eastern promise. “Isn’t it kind of cool that we’re staying overnight in a real sheikh’s palace?” She gestured around at the carved stone archways, the luxurious hangings.
“I don’t know. This Osman character seems like trouble.”
“Nonsense. He’s a little arrogant, but nothing we can’t handle. Think of it as an interesting exercise in cultural immersion.” She squeezed his arm. “Come on, Allan. This is a big adventure.” She took his hands. “This is almost our honeymoon. Let’s enjoy it!”
He inhaled deeply and seemed to grow taller. Good. She’d managed to inflate his confidence. She needed to bring alive the romance of the situation. She leaned toward him and puckered her lips. He gazed abstractedly into the air behind her.
She drew back. “What’s on your mind?”
“I should call Roth to go over our plan for the edits of the Arts Council thing.”
“I’m sure he can handle it by himself.” She smiled reassuringly and leaned in further.
“What are you doing?”
A twinge of disappointment flicked inside her. “I was hoping to kiss you.”
He frowned. “Oh.” He leaned in, and their lips met in an unconvincing way. He draped his arms around her and sighed. “I’m sorry I’m not being more romantic. I’ve just got a lot on my mind with the upcoming release and those awards I’m up for. We have a tight turnaround on this project and this delay has me rattled.”
She squeezed him. “Me, too. The festival only lasts three days, so we have to stay focused. Besides, I don’t love you because you’re romantic. I love you because you’re brilliant. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met.”
“It’s nice to be appreciated.”
“Together we can accomplish anything.” She stroked his messy hair. “We were lucky to be rescued, and we need to focus on getting out of here as early as possible tomorrow morning so we can get our car fixed.”
It was a relief to simply stand here with their arms around each other. They were a team, and they could face anything together. Even Osman Al Kilanjar kissing her hand. She wasn’t sure if Allan had noticed that, but she decided not to mention it. Why should she anyway? It was inconsequential. “Are you ready to go experience a traditional local meal?”
“I suppose so. I took a Pepto-Bismol ten minutes ago so it’s probably kicking in.” He grinned. She kissed him again, just a quickie on the lips. She didn’t feel the amazing chemistry she’d read about in Cosmo with Allan, but their relationship was based on mutual respect and companionship. That was the stuff of long-lasting partnerships. Her own parents, both actors, had a tempestuous on-again-off-again marriage that had created an atmosphere of constant upheaval during her childhood and made reliability seem far more appealing than steamy passion.
“Let’s go, sweetie.”
“I can’t believe you’re willing to go down there dressed like that.” Allan surveyed her from head-to-toe. He was polite enough not to look at her in a way that made her skin sizzle under her clothes.
“It’s fun. Almost like a costume party.” She shrugged. She didn’t tell him she felt elegant and exotic in her silk ensemble. She’d have fun telling her friends about this and about the green-eyed sheikh with his grand palace. In a week or two, this would all feel like a dream.
Or a nightmare. She hoped she wouldn’t have to explain to the Kaplan Fund people that she’d spent all the money they gave her for the project but didn’t have any footage to show for it.
“What if they serve us locusts baked in honey?” Allan raised a brow.
“Eat them with a smile.” He almost seemed like his old self now.
“Filleted snake?”
“I might need hot sauce for that.” She shoved him with her elbow as they headed for the door. “What about fricassee of scorpion?”
“Sounds crunchy.” Allan winked.
She walked out the door with a smile on her face. They would get through this together. Tonight’s unexpected detour was a bump in the road of life. Just one of many that they’d face and conquer together.
Sam closed the bedroom door behind them, making a mental effort to remember where it was. Third door along from the big arch with the blue inlays.
She was about to wind her arm through Allan’s, to show him how warmly she felt toward him, when a loud crash boomed through the palace and made them both jump.
Hearts on Fire: Romance Multi-Author Box Set Anthology Page 41