“I appreciate your consideration of our needs,” Kofi drawled. “But since you’ve lived here for a long time, you know we do things at our own pace. Besides, the oil has been underground for millions of years. Even if it takes us years to start the extraction, a few more years won’t make a difference.”
“Are you saying I’m wasting my time, Mr. Karunzika?” Alistair asked, his voice sounding decidedly testier.
“Prince Karunzika,” Imani said.
Alistair glanced at her and straightened his shoulders. “Prince Karunzika.”
Kofi laughed internally. His cousin was a little spitfire.
“You’re not wasting your time. But I do have to warn you, we’re in no hurry to make a decision. We will take our time and evaluate every alternative, and any decision we make will be in the best interest of the Zamibian people, not a multibillion-dollar corporation. My advice to you, is to learn what you can about our country, and then give us a proposal that demonstrates we would be better off working with you instead of someone else, or drilling ourselves.”
“We’re willing to put in the work, but we’ve hit stumbling blocks the entire time I’ve been here,” Alistair said.
“Such as?”
“Well, I’d hoped we could deal directly with King Babatunde, but then this meeting was set up with you.” He almost sounded offended, as if he’d been brushed off.
“We could have assigned this to one of our ministers, yet you’re sitting here with a prince,” Kofi said evenly, letting him know he should be honored for the privilege.
Alistair shifted in his chair. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
“A project of this magnitude is normally handled directly by the king, but my father has asked me to take over the major commercial projects. Speaking to me is the same as speaking to him, and any contract I sign is binding on the kingdom. My advice to you is, do your research. The perfect place to start is with the woman sitting right next to you.”
A corner of Ambassador Stephens’s mouth drifted into a faint smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they do their homework. The next time we approach, we’ll be well prepared.”
“It’s been a pleasure talking to you.” Alistair pushed back his chair and got up.
Everyone around the table stood as well. “Have a good day,” Kofi said. Silently, he watched them leave. Then he, Imani, and Kemal took their seats. He picked up a piece of antelope biltong and bit into it. Chewing slowly, he mulled over the meeting.
“What are you thinking?” Imani asked.
“What do you think about the conversation?” Kofi countered.
One crossed leg bounced over the other. “I don’t know. They made valid points about the cost and the wait. We could use their technology and their knowledge because this is a new area for us.”
“Gold mining used to be a new area for us, but we’ve done quite well.”
When they discovered gold in the mountains, the king at the time made the decision to not let outsiders control the mines. He established partnerships but kept a majority stake, and in the decades since then Zamibians learned enough that they no longer needed an outside company. The monarchy employed well-trained men and women to supervise and manage the process. Thus, they kept most of the money in the country and avoided having their government officials bribed in exchange for preferential treatment.
Kemal spoke up. “That was a different time. We live in a world that moves at a faster pace nowadays.”
“Have you given up on green energy alternatives?” Imani asked.
“No, but they’re a work in progress,” Kofi said.
The Office of the Minister of Energy researched harnessing the power of wind and sun to provide energy. They’d achieved modest success in some of the rural areas.
“There is another alternative,” Imani said slowly. “Let me look into my contacts in Barrakesch. They’re our friends, and they have a lot of experience with oil drilling. Like us, they’ve set up state-owned companies instead of establishing a joint venture with a foreign corporation.”
Frowning, Kemal said, “Is working with them any better? Any partnership runs the risk of getting corrupted.”
“The difference is, they’ve been our ally for a long time. We might be able to make it work.” Imani looked expectantly at Kofi.
He stroked his jaw, contemplating the options. “Put out some feelers,” he told her. “See what the government is willing to do. I’ll also talk to Wasim,” he said, referring to one of his best friends and a prince of Barrakesch. “In the meantime, Kemal, have someone keep an eye on Davies and Ambassador Stephens. Especially her.”
“Why especially her?” Kemal asked.
“Because we expect the enemy to come from outside, when in reality he—or she—could be right here among us.”
17
Three days before the wedding, Dahlia wore the red Grecian-inspired dress to a formal reception hosted in her and Kofi’s honor by King Babatunde. She’d gone through quite a makeover. Eyebrows plucked and newly formed, lashes elongated, manicure and pedicure, a hair regimen that left her curly locks shiny and soft in an upward sweep, and her skin buffed so smooth it was now as soft as Noel’s. She was a new woman.
The purpose of the event was to introduce Dahlia to the nine council members, their wives, and other guests. A man with a loud bass voice announced the king into the Sun Room first, a room decorated in different shades of yellow and gold. Babatunde wore a crown lined with jewels and heavy robes edged in kente cloth. In lieu of his wooden staff, he held a jeweled scepter in one hand and leaned on a male attendant.
Promptly following his entrance, the speaker announced Kofi and Dahlia. They entered arm-in-arm and paused at the threshold as the guests applauded.
“Relax,” Kofi said from the side of his mouth, while managing to keep a smile on his face. He chose not to wear a crown to the formal event, opting instead to demonstrate his sovereignty with the head of a golden lion pinned to the lapel of his tuxedo.
Dahlia had tightened her hold on his arm, completely unaware she was doing it. She took a breath and relaxed her grip.
“You’re marrying into the royal family. These people are anxious to meet and impress you. You don’t have to impress them.”
The words went a long way toward calming her nerves, and when he escorted her forward, her pulse rate slowed to a more normal rhythm, and the smile on her face became more natural.
They separated from each other as the night wore on, as some of the visitors were anxious to speak to Kofi privately about various matters. She overheard one of the council members talking to him about the need for funding a new library, and a chief from the Mbutu tribe asked if a member of the royal family would attend the ritual ceremony of new lion warriors.
Dahlia circulated among the guests, and with each introduction her confidence increased. The social secretary prepared her well, giving a rundown of each guest and one two pertinent facts she could ask about their children, pastimes, or spouses. And, lucky for her, no one laughed at her attempts to speak a few words of greeting in Mbutu and French. The two hours she spent with each instructor had paid off.
Parched after hours of talking and smiling almost nonstop, Dahlia separated from the wife of one of the elders and searched the room for a server.
A good-looking man of Middle Eastern descent stepped into her line of sight. “Miss Sommers, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I am Prince Wasim ibn Khalid al-Hassan of Barrakesch, and a good friend of Prince Kofi.” He wore the traditional flowing robes and headdress of the men from that region of the world.
“Nice to meet you, Prince Wasim.”
“Wasim, please.”
“Wasim,” Dahlia agreed. She extended her hand, and with a graceful bow, he lightly kissed the back of her fingers. With his good looks and the sparkle in his eyes, this man could be quite a charmer.
“It’s nice to finally meet you after hearing so much about you. You’re more stunning than I was told,” Wasi
m said.
Definitely a charmer.
“Oh dear, please tell me you’re not flirting with my cousin’s fiancée.” Imani, lovely in a strapless dress, sidled up to Wasim’s side and gazed up at him with a pout.
Keeping his attention on Dahlia, he asked, “Did you hear that? Like a mosquito or a buzzing fly.” He swatted in the general vicinity of his ear.
“Ha, ha. Isn’t he funny?” Imani asked, while keeping her gaze on Wasim. “And look, he’s playing the role of Middle Eastern sheik tonight. While everyone else is in Western dress, he’s wearing a ghuthrain and dishdasha.” She tugged on the sleeve of his robe.
“Wearing the clothes of my culture is not playing a role, habibti. No more than you’re playing a role wearing your colorful print.” His gaze swept her exposed shoulders as he tugged on her dress.
Imani sighed dramatically. “It’s called Ankara print. How long have you known Kofi, and me for that matter, and you still don’t know that? Maybe it’s time for us to sever our ties with Barrakesch.”
“You would never do that. You owe us from the time we saved your asses by giving you guns. If not for us, you would have fallen under British rule. You’re welcome.” His smile was overly sweet.
“We bought those guns, thank you very much. By the way, I’m sure you appreciate the massive discounts we give you on all the gold and agricultural products we export to your country. You’re welcome.”
Dahlia gently cleared her throat. She was pretty sure they’d forgotten she was standing there.
Color tinged Wasim’s cheeks.
“Sorry, we got carried away.” Imani shifted from one foot to the other and cast her gaze lower in embarrassment.
“That’s okay. I’ll leave you two alone and circulate a bit.”
Dahlia excused herself from the two friends and encountered Kofi, who had just broken away from speaking to one of the elders and approached her. “Drink?” he asked.
She couldn’t help but remember the last time he’d offered her a drink with the exact same question, under vastly different circumstances. “Yes, please.”
He flagged down a server and handed her a glass of champagne.
“I saw you talking to Wasim. Please tell me he wasn’t flirting with you.”
“Not much. Imani put a stop to it,” Dahlia said.
“Lucky for him, or I might have to tear his heart out.” Kofi sipped from his glass.
“That’s rather harsh,” Dahlia said, although she received a little thrill.
“Why do you think they call me the conquering lion?” With so much heat in his eyes, he looked as if he wanted to conquer her, right there on the marble floor.
Warmth crawled up Dahlia’s neck, and she diverted her eyes to Babatunde, seated across the room and talking with one of the council members.
“I developed some photos today.”
“Photos of what?”
“Before-and-after pictures of my office, pictures of the roses in the greenhouses. My favorites are of Noel, of course, but there’s one of the workers harvesting the strawberries, singing while they work. It’s a great shot.”
“I’m glad to see you’re making good use of the room. Maybe we can make you the official palace photographer.” Amusement colored his voice.
“I wouldn’t want to put anyone out of a job,” she bantered back, edging a little closer. She couldn’t help wanting to be nearer. His good mood invited closer contact.
“True. You’ll have plenty to do once we’re married, including more of these types of events, where we meet with the council members and listen to their concerns.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Why are all the council members male?”
He didn’t answer right away, his gaze encompassing the room. “Old traditions die hard.”
“Including the one where only male heirs can take the throne. What if Noel had been a girl? Would you have fought so hard to have her come to Zamibia?”
He turned his head to look at her. “I would want any child who is of my blood to live under my roof and my protection at all times, male or female.”
Satisfied with his answer, Dahlia fell quiet.
Kofi placed a hand at the base of her spine, and the warm touch almost made her purr. “Come, there are more people for you to meet.”
Dahlia peeped in on Noel, fast asleep with two body pillows on either side of him. He lay sprawled on the bed, his purple wiggle worm peeping out from under his torso, the eyes begging to be rescued from the weight of her son. Aofa slept in a separate bed nearby, and Dahlia could hear her gentle snores from the doorway.
She quietly closed the door and faced Kofi, who’d been looking over her shoulder. They walked down the hall and stopped outside her room.
“I won’t see you again before the wedding. I have to take a short trip, and the day before the ceremony, we can’t see each other. It’s bad luck.”
She acknowledged his words with a nod. Both her assistant and the social secretary explained that part of tradition to her. They’d also explained that the night of the wedding, tradition dictated that the new bride wait for her husband to come to her room and seduce her, initiating her into the art of making love.
Dahlia twisted the diamond ring on her finger.
“You did good tonight.”
“I did?” She looked up at him, quietly anxious for his approval.
“Well, except when you referred to Chief Ode’s wife as Amai instead of Ama.”
Dahlia winced and covered her face. “I can’t believe I called her by the wrong name, but my social secretary must have given me the wrong information.”
“Are you blaming the help, a woman who’s lived in this country all her life and knows every member of the council?”
Dahlia laughed. “Do you think Ama was upset?”
“No. It’s an easy mistake to make, and I’ll smooth things over by sending them more cows or building another well in their town.”
“Really?”
“No.” He chuckled.
“Kofi!” Dahlia shoved him and encountered his hard chest under the tuxedo. Her eyes lingered where she’d touched, and she breathed in through suddenly parched lips.
“Have a good night,” Kofi said. He didn’t move.
Dahlia nodded because she couldn’t utter a word right then. She thought Kofi might come closer, but instead shook his head slightly, as if he’d talked himself out of some act, and backed away.
“Good night,” he said again.
“Good night,” Dahlia whispered, watching him walk away.
She entered her bedroom and leaned back against the door. She closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her chest, right over her racing heart.
Disappointment burned through her. She’d wanted him to kiss her or return her touch.
So much had changed between them since her arrival. First he gave her the dark room, then he helped her relax into her role as partner and future princess. She couldn’t get enough of seeing him interact with Noel, play-wrestling, feeding him, and teaching him words in Mbutu. He was so patient and gentle with their son, sometimes she found herself staring at them.
Noel was enjoying himself immensely, as if he’d always lived in The Grand Palace. He loved spending time with the animals on the property, but his favorite spot was the stables, where he fed carrots to the horses. He roamed the grounds at will, chatting up the gardeners and “helping” the workers who took care of the fruits and vegetables. No one treated him like a nuisance. He was their prince and future king.
Dahlia sighed, gnawing her bottom lip. Only a few more days and she’d be married. Could it be...she was actually looking forward to it?
18
Dahlia examined her appearance in the gilded oval mirror in her dressing room.
“You look fabulous,” Angela said, sitting on a cushioned stool. She’d flown in on Thursday. Her presence had brought a calming effect, as well as put Dahlia in an extra good
mood.
“It’s hard to look bad in all of this.” Dahlia twisted to examine the side view.
The loose-fitting white gown was made entirely of silk and trimmed in gold. It settled on her body in an elegant drape that brushed the floor. The short sleeves and round neckline allowed an inordinate amount of gold to be on display—in her ears, strewn around her neck, and covering her wrists and upper arms. Even her hair, twisted into thick ropes and pulled back from her face, was intertwined with threads of gold throughout.
“You’re getting married.” Angela rose from the chair and walked over to Dahlia. Taking her hand, she said, “What’s going through your mind right now?”
She met her friend’s eyes head on. “Make the best of this situation. Besides, how bad could being a princess be, when you have dozens of people at your beck and call?”
“Well, from what you said, you and Kofi are in a better place, right?” In addition to eating and drinking too much, she and Angela spent the past couple of days catching up.
“We’re okay with each other.”
“Honey, it’s me. Are you only okay or better than okay? What’s really going on?”
Dahlia smoothed a hand down a long twist. “I sense he’s holding back. Or being patient. As if...I don’t know. I think he’s waiting for a sign from me.” Not exactly the arrogant, pushy man she knew.
Angela tilted her head, her gaze thoughtful. “You’re falling for him again, aren’t you?”
Dahlia opened her mouth, but then promptly shut it. What was the point of denial? She was falling for him again because he was turning into the Kofi she’d fallen in love with three years ago.
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