by Leslie North
"Of course. Totally understandable." She glanced from him to the books and back again, her brown eyes sparkling.
He took her hand—and shameless advantage of her gratitude. "In return, I have a request. There is to be an official banquet tonight. I would like you to attend as my special guest."
She nodded, her stare fixed on the books. "Sure…sure." She glanced at him. "Could I have a couple of hours this afternoon with the books—just to make sure they're the ones referenced?"
He gave a nod. She bounced on her toes, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed his cheek. "You really are a prince. You don't mind if I get started right away?” Stepping away from him, she bent over the glass case. "This is going to be incredible."
Arif let out a breath. It seemed he had found what most pleased his Christine—two old books. Why must they also be the most valuable books in Zahkim?
Christine had cleared the desk in her sitting room for a workspace. She kept her tablet nearby to help with translations. The first book, a work by Ibn-Khaldun, dated to the 1300s, but it referenced the other book, a seventh-century history written in Kufic calligraphy that had been rebound several hundred years later. There she came up with what she wanted. One scrap of a story of how nomads from the west settled around the Nile. That was it—that was the first mention that would show the world her dad wasn't just pulling ideas out of his butt. She was on the right track now. Even if this was the only reference, she'd found new source material no one else had ever brought to the modern world. This was amazing.
A knock rattled her door, and she answered absently with, “Come in.” A maid entered, carrying something black and glittering with gold.
"With Sheikh Arif's compliments," the maid said. She held up a traditional black robe beautifully embroidered with gold thread and studded with gold coins. Christine's eyes went wide. She stood, despite the lure of the research in front of her, and touched a finger to the robe, finding the fabric soft and light.
She pulled her hand back. "That's real gold."
"And the robes are woven of the finest goat's hair." The maid took the gown into the bedroom, spread it across the bed, and came back. "Sheikh Arif said you have boots already to match. Call if you need any help dressing for tonight."
Christine groaned. She'd forgotten about tonight. She glanced down at her jeans and white button-down shirt. She looked rumpled. Her face didn't have a swipe of makeup. And that gown was too gorgeous to waste on her. She gave a thought to putting on her navy dress, but it still smelled of sex and Arif, and she couldn't do it.
Heading to the bedroom door, she looked at the dress again. She'd never pull it off. That was more dress than she could handle.
Another knock sounded on her door. She turned. If this was the maid, maybe she could send this dress back and ask for something a little more…subdued. She wanted to blend in to the background, not stand out.
Instead of the maid, however, Bian swept in without waiting to be asked. She wore traditional robes in unrelieved black, a veil over her head, but she had left her face uncovered. Gold bangles glittered on her wrists. Kohl rimmed her eyes, making them seem huge and edged sharp as daggers.
Bian shut the door behind her with a soft click and glanced at the books open on Christine's desk. Her nostrils flared.
Looking back at Christine, she said, her voice soft and smooth, "You should leave. You do nothing but cause Arif to do what he should not. A marriage between you and Arif would be cursed and barren."
Crossing her arms, Christine's face heated. "Really? And you know this how? You cast a chart? Threw some bones? How does anything between Arif and me have anything to do with you? I get he's your nephew, but he's also his own man."
Bian's mouth thinned. She took a step forward and glanced into the bedroom. Her eyes widened. "Family is my business."
"Well, then, I guess you really should have been there when Tess married Tarek…oh, let me guess. You didn't approve of that, either, so you stayed away to let them know that." Pushing her hair back, Christine tried to hang onto her temper. Bian was only looking after her nephew, but she wasn't being subtle about it. Christine took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out slowly. "I get it—you care about him. But you don't have to be unpleasant, and I'm not looking to become part of any royal family."
Bian's mouth curved up, and the smugness in her expression grated on Christine's nerves. The woman looked just like every professor who'd dissed her father's theories. She gave back just as fake a smile.
"Of course, I am wearing the dress Arif gave me to the banquet tonight. Now, if you don't mind, I need to change."
Muttering under her breath, Bian swept out, her bracelets jangling. Christine stomped into the bathroom to shower, put on scent, and line her eyes with kohl, and Bian could just lump it when Christine showed up looking like she belonged here.
Once dressed, she almost chickened out. But the memory of Bian's expression—looking like she was all that and more while Christine was something the cat wouldn't even bother dragging in—drove her to stiffen her back. She gave one last, longing look to the books. The guards would be here any minute to sweep them back to the treasury, and she'd barely gotten started with them. But she'd have tomorrow.
She headed out, leaving the jeweled books for the guard to pick up.
Chapter Thirteen
Arif stared at Christine as she strode into the room, her steps long despite her small size. She looked as if she belonged in the clothes of his people. His heart had not lied—she was the only one for him. But he still did not know if she felt the same. The days the astrologer Nadira had forecast as auspicious for marriage were approaching and would soon be gone for the year. That meant he must do his best to convince his Christine to move the ring to her left hand, and then he would ask her for the last time to marry him, and she would say yes.
He headed to meet her, took her hand, and led her into the room.
A new ambassador from Dijobuli had arrived, and a few local dignitaries would want to meet his Christine. What he really wanted was to sweep her away on Mahbouba's back and carry her off to a desert fortress where he could have her all to himself. Even more, however, he wanted his Christine to shine.
And she did.
She had lined her eyes with kohl, and her dark brown eyes dominated her oval face. Her pale skin glowed, and he hoped that could only be due to her being happy. She smiled and greeted the guests with Arabic or English, as was appropriate. She earned approving nods, and so what if Aunt Bian glowered? She, too, would eventually see that Christine was meant to be by his side.
Sweeping his Christine off to gather a plate of food from the buffet table, Arif leaned close to ask, "Enjoying yourself?"
She smiled up at him. "More than at any academic function I've ever been to. I never thought I'd be rubbing shoulders with sheikhs and diplomats."
He shook his head. "They are just people. The ambassador you met, the one from Dijobuli, the country to the east of us, he is here to try and make a match for his sheikh's daughter, so he is disappointed to see you by my side. And the king over there, the fat one, he pines still for my Aunt Bian, who has refused his offer to marry five times."
Christine's hand shook, and she almost dropped her plate. Arif caught the china and righted it for her. "What’s the matter?"
"Nothing…just, well, I could almost imagine what it might be like to stay here. Except…you know, I should have called my dad tonight."
Arif took the plate from her. He swept her out of the peacock throne room and into the gardens. Pulling out his mobile, he offered it to her. "Call him. Now."
Her eyes widened, but she took the phone and punched in a number. A few moments later, she was chattering to her father about the books she had seen today. Arif smiled. What he wouldn't give to be able to do the same—to spend a few minutes with a father whose voice he barely remembered and a mother whose perfume had once smelled of old roses. He was pleased he could do this for his Chr
istine.
She rang off and handed back the phone. "Dad actually sounded excited."
Smiling, Arif took back his mobile and tucked it away. "And you?"
She shook her head. "We keep talking about me, but I want to hear what you want for a change—other than you want to be married."
He gave a small laugh but took her hand and walked into the garden. "What do I want? What does any man want? A family—happy children. My country to do well. Zahkim has oil, but too often the money goes to the rich, and not those who keep working their hands to the bone. We've had troubles between those who want to modernize and those who don't. But there's great potential in our young people. I want—need—someone beside me who could help to lead Zahkim into a better world." He glanced at her, searched her face for answers. "I want someone who loves me for myself—but who also loves Zahkim. Is that too much to ask?"
"I don't know." Glancing over her shoulder, she gestured to the party. "We should probably get back."
He smiled and touched a finger to her face. "I have made my appearance, and you have made yours. Come with me instead, will you, habibi?" For once he held out his hand to her instead of taking her hand. His heart thumped hard in his chest. He held his breath. Would she choose him tonight?
With a small smile, she put her smaller hand into his.
She was going to let herself be happy in the here and now. She promised herself that. For the first time in her life, she felt beautiful. The soft robes swirled around her legs, and the coins jingled as she moved. She grinned as she and Arif slipped away like teenagers sneaking out after curfew. He ran up the stairs to his rooms with her, and she giggled like she was a kid about to be caught.
Once the door shut behind them, he took her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss took her breath away. He didn't demand, didn't push—this kiss was coaxing and tender, a soft press of his mouth over hers. He moved his lips to her cheek, to her neck, to the spot just behind her ear that sent a tingle down her spine.
Her robes—and his—slipped off. Wasn't that the blessing of traditional garb? Easy on and easier off. Sweeping her up in his arms, he carried her to his bed, then put her down as if she were made of glass. He stretched out next to her. "What do you want, habibi? Tell me."
"World peace? The Finlay Medal for my work—I saw my dad win it when I was ten. He published his thesis and became the boy wonder of academia for a time, and then became the old man everyone laughs at."
He put a finger over her lips. "No—not him. You. At this instant, what do you want?"
She put her arms around his neck. "You to make love to me."
"Ah, that I can do."
He took her in his arms, kissed her, stroked her. Every touch sent fire along her skin, sparked desire low in her belly, left her wanting and wanton. He teased with his lips and teeth, seemed to worship and adore her with every touch. She sighed, and when he rose to get a condom, she wanted to pull him back. But he was wise to be cautious, and she was crazy to think about abandoning herself to fate.
When he came back, she spread her legs wide, opened for him. With a smile, he knelt between her legs. He put his mouth on her first, licked into her, sucked on her clit, and sent her soaring. When she could bear no more, she touched his shoulder, and he rose to cover her body with his. He came into her slowly, carefully, sweetly. She smiled and rode the waves of pleasure, warm and safe and feeling utterly loved.
He came with a long breath pushed out and held utterly still. She hung onto him, felt his heart beating hard and fast against her, had his beard tickle her cheek. He rolled off her, onto his side and pulled her close. "Habibi."
Darling.
She propped herself up on an elbow and stared at him. Light from the gardens flooded the room through the windows. She could hear music, distant now, from the banquet. Her heart tightened in her chest. Stroking his beard, the sapphire ring glinting on her finger, she told him, "Arif, you call me habibi, you say all sorts of nice things, you talk about being in love, but not once have you said you actually love me. I think you're really more in love with the idea of being in love than you are actually ready to love someone."
Arif opened his mouth to reply, but his words seemed stuck somehow. She wondered why he couldn't say the words she wanted to hear. Christine's throat tightened. And then he said, his tone clipped, "You want what? Words?"
She pulled back. "Yes. Words are important."
Arif got out of bed, grabbed a pair of trousers off a chair and yanked them on. "Woman, you would drive any man to madness."
She frowned. What had she said wrong? She sat up. Arif spread his hands wide, but before he could say anything, someone pounded on the door, and a guard called out for him.
With a curse, Arif headed to the door. She heard the lock click and the hinges creak as Arif yanked the door open, muttering about people who thought to disturb him.
And then someone blurted out in a flow of rapid Arabic, "Sheikh, the books from the treasury are missing."
Christine went cold.
Chapter Fourteen
Arif's mouth dried, and his throat tightened. He glanced back into the bedroom but did not see Christine in his bed. He dragged a hand through his hair and looked at the guard. He almost asked if the man was certain, but of course he must be. He gave a nod.
"Did you search the entire suite?"
The guard nodded. He seemed to be resisting looking toward the bedroom door. Good man.
Arif glanced upward for Heaven's help, but he doubted it would come. This was a sign—this was a doomed relationship. He ought to have known that from the very first obstacle. Well, this was his fault for having given in to her pleading gaze. This was on his head, and Tarek would be justified in stripping Arif of his position, his wealth, and his place within the family.
He told the guard, "Search the palace. Every room." The guard's eyes widened. Arif knew why—the palace was huge, with a thousand hiding places for something as simple as two books. Straightening, the man gave a salute and went off to do his duty.
Closing the door, Arif turned to find Christine standing in the bedroom doorway dressed in one of his shirts, her arms folded over her chest and her face pale. "The books…Arif, I swear I left them in my room. They were on the desk. They can't just disappear."
He spread his hands out. A cold knot had settled in his heart. He had given up everything for this woman, who loved books more than she loved him. "They have. That man has no reason to lie. The palace guards are known for their honor."
She put a hand over her mouth and then dropped it. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have left them. I should have waited. I didn't think they'd be at risk in the palace."
He came over to her and put a hand on her shoulder. She looked up suddenly. "My notes? She ran for the door and slipped out before he could stop her. He started after her, glanced down at himself, went back to yank a shirt over his head and put on shoes. He found Christine in her sitting room, the door open behind her. She stood staring at an empty desk.
Turning, she wet her lips. Her voice came out ragged. "Gone…they're gone. I hadn't emailed anything to dad for a couple of days. It's all…I'm…" Lifting a hand, she bit down on a knuckle. Arif came to her, but she moved away from him, hugging herself. "It's all been a waste of time."
Arif winced. Ah, so she thought him not worth anything. Not even worth her time. The truth was a hard thing to bear, but it was best he open his eyes at last. Tarek had been right—he should have found out at once what was in Christine's heart.
She kept talking, her words pounding into him like spikes. "I should just go…I should never even have come. I can't even help you look for them. I'd have no idea where to start—I have no idea where they might be. Dammit. This is what I get for not staying focused on the work. It never goes right for me."
He had no idea what to do. She would not allow his touch—not allow him to console her. Not allow anything. She was still focused on her father and no one else. He gave a nod a
nd turned to walk out the door, saying, "I will call a car to take you to the airport."
Chapter Fifteen
Christine packed with the nagging feeling she was missing something.
Yeah, all my notes.
But that wasn't it. That was a blow, but it was one to her mind. Something else battered at her heart, and she couldn't bring herself to see it fully.
Of course Arif had walked out the door, just as she’d known he eventually would. As he must. She should have gone after him, but what could she say? “Sorry I lost two priceless books, and now you’ll pay the price for it, but hey you still have me.” Her stomach soured and she pressed a hand to it. He'd never forgive her for such a horrible thing. She'd failed her father, herself—and Arif.
Once packed, she stared at the bags. One carry-on and one with wheels. She glanced at her hand—the damn ring was still stuck. She tugged on it, went to the bathroom, tried soap on it. It wouldn't slip over her knuckle. She needed a ring cutter, or to lose a chunk of skin. And maybe she should, but when she tried to drag it off again, tears stung her eyes. That damn ring wouldn't come over the knuckle. Holding her hand under the water to stop the pain and swelling, she wanted to cry. She wanted to go back in time and stay in her rooms until the guards arrived. She wanted never to have heard of Zahkim.
She'd made a mess of this. She had nothing else to do but go home where she belonged.
Drying her hands, she headed for the sitting room. She grabbed her bags and purse and started down the stairs. She'd get the ring cut off once she got home, have it fixed by a jeweler, and send it back in certified mail—or better yet, by a personal messenger, even if that cost her a fortune.