“Osman’s offered to do it for us. Do you have yours on you?”
Allan looked doubtfully at Osman. “Perhaps you could lend us a charger?”
“My staff will need time to locate the right ones. It will be easier if you allow my people to take care of them overnight.”
“Come on, Allan, we’ll have them back by morning.” She stroked his arm, trying to reassure him.
Osman cleared his throat, his eyes fixed on her hand, which seemed to sizzle under his gaze. She pulled it back.
Why did she feel uncomfortable stroking her own fiancé in front of this man? It must be all in her head because Osman’s expression remained quite pleasant and impassive. “I’ll go to my room right now and get my phone.”
“I’ll go, too.” Allan rose creakily to his feet from the low sofa.
Osman didn’t budge. “I’ll await your return.” He accepted another cup of coffee from a pretty female server. How did these people ever sleep with all the coffee they drank? She already wasn’t sure she’d get any shut-eye in such a strange and exotic place, with all her plans hanging on the goodwill of an important man who Allan seemed determined to offend.
As soon as they got into the hallway, she chastised him. “You do realize that without his good graces we won’t be able to get to the festival at all and months of hard work will go down the drain? Not to mention that we might have to pay back the money I raised.”
“You’ll never have to pay back the grant. They don’t work like that.”
“Well, I don’t intend to disappoint them. I plan to film this festival, and since you’re the director, I sincerely hope you’re still on board. With the fresh angle of having the country’s future king with us, we could take this project to a whole new level.”
Allan frowned. They walked briskly along the main hallway toward their rooms, where spider-webs of light from ornate lanterns flickered over the ceilings and walls. “You’re not suggesting we put him on camera.”
“Why not? He’s charismatic and engaging, and he speaks perfect English.”
“No.”
“What’s your objection?”
“He’s trying to take over our project. We don’t know anything about him, except that he lives in this pile”—he gestured to the high stone walls—“and he’s trying to get hold of our phones. We have no guarantee he’ll ever take us back to the Land Rover again. For all we know, he considers us hostages.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He went to Harvard Business School.”
“Along with most of the corporate sharks destroying our country and our world.”
“Oh come on, now is not a time to polish the chip on your shoulder. We’ve been presented with this intriguing opportunity, let’s jump on it.”
They’d reached her door. She tried the handle and it opened easily. There was no lock, so someone could wander in and rifle through her stuff at any time. Her phone sat on the dresser, untouched and lifeless as the dresser itself. She picked it up. “Come on, let’s get yours.”
“I have a bad feeling about this,” he growled.
“It’ll be fine.” She stroked his back through his shirt. “I have a very good feeling about it. Maybe we’ll even make something spectacular enough to be nominated for an Academy Award. I know you’ve had your Oscar speech written for a couple of years.”
“That was just a joke. I knew that film would never get nominated.” Allan had won several minor festivals two years earlier with a probing documentary into the lives of three strippers, each of whom had descended depressingly into drugs, prostitution or both. It had garnered high praise, and she knew Allan had been crushed when it didn’t get picked up for theatrical distribution.
She accompanied him to his room, which was a more masculine version of hers, with neutral-colored fabrics and carved wood furniture, where hers was all jewel colors and elaborate inlays. He hadn’t unpacked his bag. He pulled his phone out of a hidden inner pocket in his duffel bag. “What if he doesn’t give them back?”
“Then we’ll buy flip phones at the airport on the way back.”
He looked suitably appalled.
“I’m kidding! Of course he’s going to give them back. He’s just being nice. I don’t know why you assume he’s up to something. It’s the suspicious New Yorker in you.”
She slid her arms around his waist and tried to give him a hug, but he couldn’t relax enough to accept it. She was used to that. He didn’t like to be affectionate when he was stressed out. Luckily, that wasn’t too often.
“Don’t worry. I have a feeling that everything is going to work out perfectly. We’re going to get the most amazing footage to ever come out of this region, and we’ll be on our plane back to New York by Friday with enough stories to dine out on for a year.”
“I hope you’re right.” He squeezed her shoulder, and she smiled warmly at him as they headed back down the dimly lit main hallway. Allan had grown up in Manhattan in a large and smothering family who tried to control every aspect of his life growing up. The effects were oddly incongruous: He deliberately sought out people and situations that most would avoid—which made for interesting documentaries—and he had a hard time coping with situations not directly engineered by him. Sam liked to think she had a positive effect by encouraging him to step outside his comfort zone to face new creative challenges, and by simultaneously creating a haven for him in their shared home.
People often asked if she minded that he, being the director, got all the credit, and she could honestly reply that she didn’t. Bringing Allan’s creative visions to life was a reward all its own, and she’d learned a lot about people and life since they’d been together.
When they returned to the fountain, Osman was laughing loudly at what must have been a hilarious joke. His two brothers sat near him on low chairs, rocking with similar mirth, but the laughter died down to a chuckle as she and Allan appeared in the arched doorway.
She wished she could understand enough of the local dialect to know what they were saying. They all surveyed her and Allan with amusement, which gave her a nasty twinge of unease. Maybe Allan was right and she was being too trusting.
“Don’t let us interrupt you,” she said with a smile.
“You aren’t.” Osman rose to his feet. He really was tall. Broad shoulders, too. She straightened her own shoulders and tried not to look or feel intimidated. “My brothers and I were just exclaiming over how happy we are to have visitors to share our festival with the rest of the world. I suspect Westerners can learn a lot from the people of Ubar.”
“About what?” Allan sat rather confidently down on the cushions opposite Zadir and Amahd. Sam’s chest swelled with pride.
“About family, love and community.” Osman beamed. “In America, you have the saying ‘it takes a village to raise a child.’ Here, we are fortunate enough to have an entire nation to help with every stage of life from birth to death.”
Sam sat down on the sofa again. “Allan’s from a big extended family of three generations of Italians, so he has some experience of what you’re talking about.” She smiled at him, only to see his expression turn stony. “I only had my parents, because they both moved to L.A. from the Midwest to pursue careers in Hollywood. I was an accident, and a lot of the time they were too busy to supervise me much. Still, I managed to make it to adulthood, and here I am.”
She wished she could stop babbling! It must be nerves. She wondered what time it was, but she’d grown so used to using her phone for everything that she hadn’t worn a watch in years. She hadn’t seen a single clock in the entire palace. Even a sundial would be useless now that it was night. She guessed it must be after nine o’clock.
An enigmatic smile spread across Osman’s mouth while she spoke. “My brothers and I have spent so much time abroad that we almost forgot the powerful role of family in creating happiness. Our father saw fit to insist in his will that we all return home to claim our birthright.”
“Couldn’t you have just said no?” Sam looked from
one brother to the next.
“Never.” Osman crossed his arms. “A sense of duty is in our DNA right along with eye and hair color.”
Sam admired the DNA that gave him such unusual and haunting eyes. “So you just picked up and came back here, leaving your lives behind?”
“More or less.” It was the first time she’d heard Amahd speak. The quietest and most serious of the three had a softer voice than the others, and even deeper if that were possible. “None of us had families or children. My business has capable people in charge.”
“I’ve always been rather a nomad, moving from place to place.” Zadir kicked his head back a little, surveying her through slate blue eyes that had probably charmed a lot of women in their time. “My business is buying and selling luxury real estate. I still have an apartment in New York and a house in Paris.”
“So none of you is married.” Sam found this interesting. “How come you haven’t participated in the traditional ceremony we’re about to witness?”
There was an awkward silence. Osman took a swig from his coffee, Zadir lifted a brow, and Amahd cracked his knuckles. She’d apparently hit on a sore spot.
“Are you planning to participate in the festival tomorrow?”
“No way,” muttered Zadir, his words almost covering the murmured “too busy” from his brother Amahd. “Besides, in our culture the oldest must marry first. It’s tradition.”
She turned her gaze to Osman. “And you?
He regarded her steadily for what felt like a full minute. His face was unreadable, deadly serious, and she began to wonder if she’d really offended him.
“Royals are anything but exempt from the traditions of the land. We are responsible for their perpetuation.”
“So you’re going to catch a bride when you’re at the festival with us tomorrow?”
He paused again, staring into her eyes. She couldn’t tell if he was doing it to intimidate the heck out of her—it was working—or if he was thinking about something else and was miles away in his mind. “Perhaps,” he said at last, letting the word roll over his tongue.
That would be quite something to catch on camera. “The future king claims his bride” would be a lovely tagline for the project. Once again, she was salivating at the prospect of the footage they’d capture tomorrow, as long as Allan could get over himself enough to shoot it. She snuck a glance at Allan and found him staring at the brothers with an almost hostile expression on his face.
She slid closer and put her arm around him. She wanted to reassure him that even though they were in an exotic palace with the three best-looking men she’d ever seen in her life, he was still the man she intended to spend the rest of her life with. Allan slid his arm around her, and she felt his chest rise. She enjoyed the sensation of him claiming her in front of these other men, even though there was something silly about letting this kind of machismo dictate her own behavior.
Osman knocked back his coffee and flung the cup down on a big brass tray. “We have an early start tomorrow, so perhaps we should all retire.” There was an edge to his voice. Or maybe she was being oversensitive. “I trust your rooms are satisfactory?”
“They’re quite wonderful, thank you. I feel privileged to enjoy your hospitality.” She squeezed Allan, hoping to coax some similarly flowery gratitude out of him.
“Very nice, thanks,” he managed.
They all rose to their feet, and she tried not to feel too awkward about the three brothers towering over her as she nodded to them and wished them a good night. She wanted to ask Allan to come to her room, but they were flanked by staff members so it felt awkward and she had to make do with a hissed, “Be ready by dawn, okay?”
Back in her room, she washed and climbed into bed, exhausted and overstimulated from all the excitement of the day. She was trying to meditate and deliberately relax all the muscles in her body, starting with her toes, when she heard a knock on the door.
She sat up. “Allan?”
“It’s Osman.”
5
What was she supposed to say? “Go away” sounded good, but not entirely appropriate since she was his guest.
Sam climbed out of bed, heart hammering. She wore white cotton pajamas with tiny yellow dots on them, and she hoped they weren’t too translucent. “Uh, can I help you?”
“May I come in?”
She swallowed. “Sure.” Since the door didn’t have any kind of lock on it, so she supposed it was kind of him to ask nicely.
The door opened slowly to reveal Osman dressed in a long, pale shift of much thinner fabric than his daytime attire. The light from the hallway shone through it, throwing his physique into silhouette.
Goodness. He had a surprisingly muscular build for someone who wielded influence rather than a sword, though for all she knew he had plenty of experience with a sword as well. This region was once known for its furiously aggressive warriors.
“We must talk.” His smooth, deep voice did nothing to set her at ease.
“Oh. Why?” She attempted to sound businesslike.
“To plan for tomorrow. The festival begins shortly after sunrise, so if you want to capture the opening moments we should leave half an hour before dawn.”
She nodded. She’d have to let Allan know about the earlier departure. Though neither of them would know what time it was without their phones. “That sounds sensible. I’m fine with starting even earlier if you want to leave a margin for error.”
He studied her for a moment, seeming to take in her polka-dot pajamas without doing anything so crude or obvious as sliding his gaze over her body. She just felt like he was doing that as her skin heated and sizzled under the flimsy fabric. That taunting half-smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “There will be no error.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” A goofy smile was creeping across her mouth. What the heck? She tried her best to put a stop to it. Why did he still stand there staring at her? Once again, her nipples attempted to communicate with him and she hoped they weren’t visible, but she didn’t intend to look down and check.
“Will that be all?” she said brightly, like a servant taking her master’s orders. She really wished he’d leave. Something about his presence sent her all off-kilter. The room grew hotter by the second.
He took a step toward her and lifted her hand to his lips. She gasped as he kissed her fingers. All the tiny hairs on her hand and arm pricked up with awareness, and she tried hard not to let her knees buckle.
What was he playing at?
“I’m truly pleased to share our festival with you.” He lowered his head almost humbly. “I think you’ll find it’s the experience of a lifetime.”
He still held her hand, and her palm had started to sweat.
“I’ve been looking forward to it for a long time.” She almost stammered the words. Embarrassing! She’d acted cool in front of heads of state before, even the president of the United States himself, so why was she quivering like a nervous schoolgirl around this man?
She tugged gently on her hand, hoping to retrieve it. He held it for a split second, just long enough to make her eyes widen, then he softly let it go so it slid through his fingers. She lifted it and tucked an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear. Anything to distract her from the disturbing sensations coursing through her errant body.
He bowed slightly, which only drew attention to the way the light behind him accented his heavy muscling. “Good night, Samantha.”
“Good night,” she breathed.
When the door closed behind him, she sat down hard on the bed. She felt as if a gale-force wind had ripped through the bedroom and tossed her like a ragdoll. Worse yet, her body still hummed with rogue sensations and stray flashes of heat.
Which didn’t make any sense. Allan was much more her type, with his soft, blue gaze and his gentle, hesitant touches. In fact, she was going to visit him right now to get her mind off the overbearing Osman!
She waited until Osman had plenty of time to exit the
hallway, then she opened the door carefully and peered out. No one about. She crept down the hallway about twenty feet to Allan’s door, praying that no one would see her. She suspected that midnight visits between unmarried couples were frowned upon in this traditional culture.
Not that it seemed to slow Sheikh Osman’s roll, of course.
She didn’t knock. Instead, she tried the handle, which moved down smoothly, but when she tried to push the door open it didn’t budge. Could his room have a lock? She tried again, this time heaving her body weight against the door.
Still nothing. “Allan,” she whispered. “It’s me, Sam.”
“Coming.” She heard a heavy object being dragged across the floor. She tried not to chuckle as she realized Allan must have shoved a piece of furniture against the door.
He opened it wide enough for her to slip in, then closed it behind her.
“Do you really think this would stop anyone?” She gestured to an ornately carved blanket chest—or something of that nature—that had left pale scrape-marks on the time-worn stone tiles.
“Nope, but it would slow them down enough for me to jump out of bed and get ready.” His blue eyes flashed with defiance.
Sam decided not to mock him. She’d come here to show him—or was it herself?—how much she cared about him. “I miss you.”
“It’s only one night. What do you do when I’m traveling?”
“I hug your pillow.” She smiled. It was true. Although she’d been single most of her life and living with Allan less than eighteen months, she missed his warm body in their bed when he wasn’t there.
“That’s surprisingly sentimental of you.” He raised a sandy brow.
She shrugged. “You don’t think of me as romantic?”
“You’re usually too sensible to get sidetracked by anything as irrational as romance.”
“You’re probably right. Still, maybe we’ll both get swept up in the excitement of the festivities tomorrow and decide to join in!”
“Hardly.” He crossed his arms over the long-sleeved Ramones T-shirt he wore as pajamas. “We’ll be too busy recording it for posterity. Which is why we should get some sleep right now.”
Hearts on Fire: Romance Multi-Author Box Set Anthology Page 43