by Leslie North
"This is not what I expected. If you've used this line before and had it work, you should know that I'm not the kind of woman who leaps into bed with any guy with a cute grin and a—"
"Ah, you think my grin is cute. That is a good start, for I find you to be adorable." She stiffened. Perhaps he had said the wrong thing, so he added, "Adorable and beautiful, and I cannot wait to see you spread naked on my bed. You were made to wear pearls whose luster would match your skin. Pearls and diamonds, and I shall see you draped in them and nothing else."
Light spilling from the library revealed her blush. She broke away from him and crossed her arms. "Okay, I know weddings are great places for pickups, but no. Just no. I came here because Tess asked me and because…well, I was hoping to get access to the palace archives, and if you really are this Hami Almaerifa, I thought that might be a good connection, but I draw the line at—"
"Of course I have access. Is that what you wish? But why? I could show you the wonders of Zahkim instead. The bright lights of Al Resab. The beauty of the desert." He reached for her. She took a step back and turned to lean against the wrought iron railing of the terrace. Stepping next to her, he leaned close. "We have the crescent moon and the stars with us tonight. I could take you to an oasis where we can swim under the date palms."
She wet her lips again, and he almost wished she would stop doing that. Every sweep of her tongue over that sensual lower lip of hers sent a jolt of heat through him.
Chin lifting, she said, "That sounds…well…nice, but I'm not really a believer in love at first sight."
He pulled back. "Then what do you believe? In what you can see and touch and feel?" He touched his fingers to the back of her hand. Heat spread up his arm. She must feel that connection between them—the flare of attraction which would soon deepen.
She shook her head. "I don't know what Tess has told you about me, if anything. I just finished my PhD, and facts tend to impress me a lot more than feelings, which can be somewhat misleading and are subject to change. Now, about the archives…would I be able to present my credentials to you—or to whoever is in charge—and gain access? I tried writing letters, but all that got me was the runaround."
He ran a finger along her cheek. "Let us talk instead about our future together. Do you prefer long engagements or short? Myself, I think we need time to learn about each other—and I wish to discover how to please you in bed."
She had blushed before. Now her face flamed, but she stammered out in a rush of words, "I am far more interested in Zahkim's past. I did my thesis on the development of early Saharan nomadic tribes and the development of trade routes between Africa and the Arabian Peninsula. And I…well, I'm following up on my father’s theory about a group he named the 'Lion People,' whom he postulated to be the actual first settlers of Egypt and the true builders of the Sphinx. And I've come across sources referencing the history of Zahkim and early migration of tribes to this area that fits the timeline for the development of Egypt's early civilization."
Christine ran out of breath. There…she'd gotten it out. This was why she'd jumped at the chance to come to Zahkim. She wasn't here just for Tess's wedding. She was here for her dad, too. She was here to give him something to live for. She was here to find the proof to make his most daring theory something more than a joke in academia. And maybe this guy could help her. That is, if she could manage to keep him—and herself—under control.
He'd just about melted her into a pool of lust with that kiss of his. She had the feeling, too, that he wasn't half trying. What would he do to her if he put everything into another kiss? She'd wanted to moan. She wanted now to grab his robes, pull him to her, and kiss him again. But she wasn't sure where things would end if she did that.
And the raw truth was she wasn't that kind of girl. She thought of herself as a country girl from New Hampshire, a newly minted PhD who knew more about how to make parchment than she did about how to make out.
But this sheikh, with that soft beard that had tickled her cheek and that mouth that had set her on fire, almost made her wish she really was that kind of girl after all.
She swallowed and tried to manage what she hoped was a charming—but not too charming—smile. He'd brought her to the perfect spot for a romantic moment. Golden light spilled onto the stone terrace. The music had become a faint tune that was almost haunting. Beyond the wrought iron railing, a crescent moon spilled light across a starlit sky and edged the sand dunes with silver. Sheikh Arif's scent—that subtle spice with a hint of male underneath—left her dizzy. She could almost believe it to be a place where love at first sight was possible. But that just wasn't the world she lived in.
And she was here for the archives. She kept telling herself that.
Sheikh Arif studied her, his head tipped to one side and the ends of his keffiyeh fluttering in the breeze. Was he mad, to go around proposing like this to a total stranger? Or just accustomed to women falling into his arms at the mere hint of marriage? His eyes had narrowed, and she honestly couldn't make out from his expression what he was planning. To kiss her again?
Oh yes, please.
No…not that.
She frowned at herself. She wasn't usually this confused, but she also wasn't usually swept onto a balcony and kissed senseless.
Arif smiled, an insufferable, sure of himself smile that left her wishing she had some quip that would show him she was no man's toy. "You are not going to accept my proposal, are you?"
Pulling in a breath, she let it out slowly and said, "Thank you. But no, thank you. I didn't come here to become a sheikh's wife."
"What if I make you a bargain? You will stay in Zahkim for three months. In that time, you may research in the archives, and I will help you."
"That sounds…a little too good to be true. What's the other shoe you haven't dropped?"
He took her hand, holding her fingertips lightly within his palm. Even that touch set her heart pounding. "During that time, you will allow me to court you. To prove I adore you—and that instant attraction is more than possible."
"That's it? You want to court me. And for that I get three months’ access to the archives? Full access? Please tell me you really are serious this time. And just what happens if I don’t end up falling for you? You don't have dungeons in this palace still, do you?"
He grinned. Oh, no—that was worse than his smile. His teeth gleamed white in the darkness, contrasting with his dark skin and trim, black beard. That small crescent scar near the corner of his mouth disappeared into a dimple.
"I promise you, the next time I ask you to marry me, you will say yes."
Chapter Three
Okay, that did it. Christine had met some arrogant men in her time—academia was full of tenured professors who were sure they were God's gift to their university—and this guy topped the list. But she wasn't about to pass up an offer for exactly what she needed to prove her father's theories. She met his stare, pulled her hand from his, and then stuck it out again. "Deal."
He smiled, but instead of just shaking her hand, he pulled her into his arms. "No. We will seal this bargain with a kiss."
She braced herself for…well, for him. But he simply brushed his lips over hers, a teasing, tempting touch that left her ready to growl with frustration and wanting to pull him back in for something more than a taste. He stepped back at once and smiled. "Now, shall we dance?"
Christine got a stiff upturn of her lips in place. Okay, maybe it was going to be harder than she'd thought to manage both her research and this too-sexy sheikh. He already had her off balance and distracted. The cure for that was to keep thinking about access to the palace archives. That was going to be hard, however, with his arm around her waist and all that masculine goodness so close to her.
Arif strolled into Tarek's office. He'd dressed in casual Western clothing—trousers and a loose, white linen shirt. He had no need to be formal today, but he wondered why Tarek had sent for him. His cousin would be madly busy getting everything in or
der so he could take three weeks away from his duties as ruler of Zahkim to spend time with his new wife on an official honeymoon.
Tarek's office lay in the newest part of the palace, built around the turn of the previous century, not long after Zahkim had first discovered oil and the riches it could bring in the modern world. After his father had died, Tarek had had the office modernized and expanded. Tarek had wanted to impress visiting ambassadors and heads of state, as well as the businessmen who came here with an interest in Zahkim's oil. Another update had been necessary to incorporate modern technology—a huge, hidden screen for video conferences, a long table for meetings. A small blue-and-white-mosaic fountain gave off a peaceful trickle of water, and a thick carpet covered most of the stone floor.
Sprawling into one of the high-backed chairs set in front of Tarek's mahogany desk, Arif listened to Tarek give orders to his assistant Farid as to how matters were to be handled while he was away. Arif thought Tarek already sounded reluctant, as if he wished he had not given in to the lovely Tess for time away from Zahkim for just the two of them.
Finishing his orders, Tarek turned to Arif. "You and Nasim will have to manage without me for almost a month. Do you think you can?"
Arif grinned. "You mean without starting a coup to overthrow you? I can't speak for Nasim, but I have plans for the next few weeks."
Heading over to a sideboard built into the wall, Tarek poured two glasses of water into heavy, crystal glasses. He came over to Arif and handed him one glass.
"Yes, Tess mentioned you couldn't pull yourself away from her friend's side last night. I warn you, Tess may not be so much of an angel if you play with her friend and hurt the girl's feelings."
Arif leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and held the crystal glass between his palms. "This is the one, Tarek."
Pausing with his glass halfway to his mouth, Tarek studied his cousin. "The one? As in you mean—?"
"To marry her. Yes." Arif smiled and leaned back in his chair. "I have three months to convince her."
Tarek sipped his water and sat down opposite Arif. "How many other women have you fallen for, Arif? I can recall four without even thinking about it."
Arif waved away such an idea. "Those were all different. And you should be one to talk. How long did it take you to realize Tess was the only woman for you?"
"I had a prophecy to help guide me…in a way." Leaning forward, Tarek set his glass on a side table. Then he put a hand on Arif's arm. "I worry about you, cousin. You let your heart lead you all too often."
"And that is a bad thing? Tarek, my father once led me to the palace tower to show me all of Al Resab spread out before me."
Leaning back, Tarek groaned. "Not this old story again."
"Yes…and again and again. You're not listening to it. He told me—"
"Zahkim will only prosper with love in the marriages of the sheikhs. I have heard you tell this story a dozen times. And, yes, I had a prophecy about a falling angel, but there is far more to finding a wife than luck. We will not even begin to talk about what it takes to maintain a relationship. It took me longer than a week to get a wedding ring on Tess's finger."
"Ah, but this woman—she is different."
"Meaning she did not fall at your feet." Tarek stood. "Tread cautiously, cousin. Tess has told me that her friend is interested only in her career as an archeologist. From what Tess has said, Christine and her father are just the same in that. She might not be what you think she is."
Arif stood and smiled. "The heart knows what it wants, my cousin."
Tarek shook his head. "That is an impractical notion." Arif opened his mouth to speak, but Tarek held up a hand. "No, don't repeat yourself. I just urge you to remember that you may know your heart, but you know nothing of what this woman wants."
Arif grinned. "Ah, but finding out about her will be pure joy. And now I must go and be the Minister of Education and see surly old Sahl ibn Harun about a pass for my Christine."
Chapter Four
Arif had never had a tour of the palace given to him. It was a novel and amusing situation, and he wondered if Christine knew she was babbling like a nervous guide.
"This has to be what was once called the Hall of the Ambassador. It's marvelous. Far better in person—larger. I've read that the site of the original palace was chosen in 540 and construction lasted twenty years, with over ten thousand craftsmen. Four hundred kilograms of gunpowder were used to blast through the bedrock to lay the foundation. Of course, it's been expanded over the centuries. I read that, in total, the palace now includes six hundred rooms, and the archives takes up the entire south side. Of course, the archives is really the heart of the palace."
"Of course," Arif said. He was delighted to allow Christine to lead him. Her eyes and skin glowed as she spoke. Her hands danced in front of her as if she could not contain them. She had worn what must be her work clothes—close-fitting black trousers and a linen shirt that clung to her curves. Gold sandals flashed on her dainty feet, and he was having a hard time keeping his eyes off her. Her short hair curled slightly, still damp from her shower, and that sparked images of her naked, her creamy skin bared and wet…and…and he really needed to pay heed to what she was saying.
"—decreed this would be a learning center that would rival Bagdad. Over 140,000 books are stored here now, including works in the Greek and Syriac languages from the Hellenistic period, Chinese, Sanskrit, Latin, and Persian works in physics and mathematics, and collections obtained from the School of Nisibis, the Academy of Gondishapur, and the Imperial Library of Constantinople. Some of the works are even said to be from the Library of Alexandria—copies of course, but it's still remarkable to think not everything was burned back in ancient Egypt. Most works have been translated into Arabic, but I'm hoping to find primary sources. I've heard it referred to as the Khizanat Kutub al-Hikma or Storehouse of the Books of Wisdom. According to the legendary fourteenth-century traveler, Ibn Battuta, Zahkim built one of the great libraries."
Still smiling, Arif stopped and opened a heavy, ornate door, carved from sandalwood and decorated with gold leaf. "Do watch out for the spiders."
Christine's mouth formed a small circle. He wanted to touch a finger to those lush lips of hers. She stared at him. "You have spiders in the archive? Intentionally?"
"They protect the books from silverfish and insects. The archive also has a number of cats, but they tend to be elusive creatures, keeping mostly to themselves. Consider them guardians of all this knowledge." He ushered her past the doorway.
Once inside the vast hall, she stopped again, her mouth falling fully open now. She breathed out her next words, her tone hushed, "I've seen a few old photos, but they don't do it justice."
Looking around, Arif tried to see it as she might. Was it impressive? He supposed so, but then “the Bod” back at Oxford had overwhelmed him with its English Gothic architecture, soaring ceilings, and its far more extensive collection of over twelve million items. By comparison, the palace archives seemed to him to be far more intimate.
The floor offered intricate mosaics in rose, gray, and white marble in a geometric pattern that Arif had always found soothing. The wooden bookcases in the Rococo style formed two rows, separated by a balcony with a wooden railing. True, the shelves did seem to stretch on forever, but that was only an illusion. Next to him, Christine pulled in a breath. She gave him a wide smile, and Arif's pulse kicked up and his stomach tightened. He was not certain why she should be as delighted as if he had showered her with jewels. To him the archives smelled musty, as if the weight of the centuries hung heavy in the room. The silence seemed almost forbidding.
That silence was broken a moment later by the shuffle of sandals on tiles, and Sahl ibn Harun appeared from between the bookshelves, his usual frown in place, his eyes dark and sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses, and his thin, aged frame the same as it had been for as long as Arif had known the man. He wore the traditional white robes and turban, his one concession to
modern life being a Kronsegler's watch that showed the constellations in the sky on a blue dial. Arif and his cousins had avoided the archives as much as possible, for Sahl did not tolerate fools or young boys looking for trouble. It seemed he was also not in a mood to tolerate women scholars. He looked at Christine over the top of his glasses as if he would just as soon throw her from the palace off one of the turrets.
That could not be allowed, so Arif stepped forward to make the introductions. "Sahl ibn Harun, may I present to you Dr. Harper."
Christine stuck out her hand and made the split-second decision to speak in Arabic. "Salam, ibn Harun. It is good to meet you.” She switched to English. “It is an honor to meet the man entrusted with the true wealth of Zahkim."
Sahl's lip had curled at the offer of a handshake, but Christine's use of Arabic and her praise seemed to work some charm on the old man. Sahl at least unbent enough to touch his fingers to hers before he turned to Arif and said, his voice gravely and dry, "We are not ready. Come back tomorrow."
Arif swallowed a laugh. He could see how it would be—tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. He had no intention of allowing Sahl to put Christine off indefinitely. Arif lowered his voice and stepped closer to Sahl.
"Tomorrow we will return. See to it that all is in order for Dr. Harper. I have given my promise she will have access."
"And how do you know she won't steal books? Or worse, ruin them! What if she brings her American cola in here and spills one on—"
"Spill a soda?" Christine turned to face Sahl, her voice crackling and her eyes hot. "I will have you know I have reading privileges at the Peterborough and the Bodleian, as well as being responsible for cataloging my father's rather extensive collection. We in New Hampshire love our libraries."
Sahl stiffened, and Arif could see an argument brewing that might well end with Sahl forbidding Christine from setting foot in his domain again—or even worse, the old man might have a stroke. A vein throbbed near his forehead.