by Leslie North
Glancing at his watch, he wondered if he had long to wait. Would Miss Reynolds—Belle—keep him waiting? Or would she jump into clothes to prove that she could?
It seemed the latter was the case.
He heard boots on the carpeted stairs, pushed off the column and turned to give her his most charming smile. She had done more than to cover her arms and legs—she had a scarf wrapped around her head, a silly thing, silk with bright colors. It would do nothing to protect her head from the sun and wind. He almost allowed her to go out like that. He had donned a keffiyeh and agal. Now he turned and called out. A servant appeared at once and he gave a quick order. The maid hurried back with a black headscarf and held it out to Belle.
“This will serve you far better—it is to shade you and not just a polite head-covering.”
She eyed the scarf warily, as if expecting some trap, but she pulled off the silk nonsense from her head and then held out the black scarf in front of her. Zafar rolled his eyes, and asked the maid to help her. Smothering a smile, the maid did so, taking the scarf from Belle’s hands and deftly wrapping it around her head and shoulders.
Belle twitched at one end of the scarf and Zafar extended a hand to the front doors. “Are you ready?” She nodded and stepped outside.
The day was already warming. Sweat bloomed on Zafar’s face and stuck his shirt to his back. This was why he preferred traditional dress of cooling cotton and linen, not modern polyesters.
Belle glanced at the waiting SUV and then back to Zafar. The driver held the door open for her, and Zafar said, “I order the car for us. A small convenience.”
“Not that small,” Belle muttered. But she stepped inside and scooted over to allow him room to enter. “Nice ride,” she said, sliding her hand over the cream-colored leather upholstery.
Zafar had a sudden image of her hand on his skin. He frowned at the thought. He had no need of such ideas. But she had lovely hands. Narrow, long and tapering fingers with slender wrists. Elegant hands, he thought. He folded his arms and leaned back. “It will take twenty or thirty minutes to reach the project site.”
“Yes, I’ve been meaning to ask—why build so far from the city?” She looked out her window and then back at him. “Particularly, the newer part. The airport, and most modern construction, has been on the north side. And then you have the old quarter smack in the middle—it’s going to be left begging for renovation.”
Zafar lifted a hand. This had been an argument he’d had with his father several times—and had lost. He’d even argued with Adyan—but his brother had taken their father’s side. Now he simply gave Belle back the same reasoning that had been thrown at him. “We’re talking about the need for a great deal of land. If we build in the center of the city, homes would be lost and historic buildings would be destroyed. To the north, land is expensive, and it would mean the old quarter would be left neglected—pushed into becoming irrelevant. Besides, this is land already in the Tadros family. There is no need to acquire property.”
She gave a nod. “That’s always a plus. So is the fact that your father’s position leaves him able to influence permits.”
He shook his head. “We will not be cutting corners. This building must be better than any built in your own country.”
Shifting in her seat, the leather squeaking under her, she faced him. “Look, I think we got off a little bit on the wrong foot. I’m sorry your father didn’t mention that I’d be the lead architect.”
He stiffened. “My father did tell me—he said Reynolds & Family had been hired. It is his decision.”
“Head of the family and all that. Not very democratic is it?”
Reaching forward, he opened the mini-bar built into the back of the front seats and pulled out a bottle of water. He offered one to Belle, but she shook her head. With a shrug, he opened his water and drank. “We are a traditional people.”
Her eyes took on a bright glitter. “Yes, so you say. Still, if my dad dropped a bomb on me like that, I wouldn’t be happy.”
“But you would do as you were told?”
She gave a sigh and nodded, then grinned. “Well, initially. But I’d start looking for a way out. Are you looking?”
He sipped more of his water. He did not like such direct questions, but he saw no way to avoid an answer without being rude. “I am looking for a design that will please both father and me.”
She nodded. “You like being an architect.” It wasn’t a question.
“I like—as you put it—seeing ideas become reality.”
“At least we have that in common.” She had a wistful look on her face, and Zafar wondered how difficult it must be to be part of the renowned Reynolds family. He and Adyan had taken up different parts of the family business—Adyan concerned himself only with construction. They left the financing and deal-making to their father. Someday, Zafar knew that as the eldest, even by only a few minutes, he would have to take over those duties as head of the family. For now, he could indulge himself, designing only those buildings he loved. Putting his passion first. Had Belle been able to do that?
From how she spoke, he wondered if she’d been living in the shadow of the family—were her parents and brothers the real architects? Was she simply a pretty girl playing at a career—or did she love her work? Just why was she really here?
He tried to study her face as she stared out the SUV window, her profile to him, but the headscarf hid part of her face. She looked a determined young woman—another American trait. The women of his country were brought up to remain more in the background. Oh, education was encouraged now—but most women, if they chose a career, opted for a nurturing profession, or something related to children.
He had worked with a few women interior decorators—he thought women often excelled at color choices, at knowing how to make a space more welcoming. That, he often thought, was a problem at the palace—his mother had died years ago and his father had never thought to remarry. The place was too much at times a man’s domain and nothing more.
But a woman architect? He could not quite understand the idea. It was a man’s job to build—a woman’s to then shape that structure into something more. But this woman…well, he simply did not know what to do with her.
Could he shape her ideas? Change her thoughts so that she understood how important tradition was to his country?
He finished his water and tucked the bottle back into its holder. She glanced at him then, eyebrows slightly raised, and he told her, “We recycle almost everything in Scaran. It is another of our traditions—waste nothing.”
Her mouth quirked. She had a wide mouth—a generous one, he would call it, with lush lips. “That’s the kind of tradition worth keeping.”
For an instant, something seemed to spark between them. Her cheeks flushed and she looked away, but the awareness remained, sizzling in the air like the touch of lightning before a storm. He frowned at that idea, but he also began to think on it.
She was a lovely woman—a lonely one, also, to judge by the lack of a ring on her finger. He doubted she would have a boyfriend at home—or even a fiancé. No, she was all business, this woman. She probably put work before anything else.
However, he’d seen interest in her eyes just a moment ago—he could swear he had. Perhaps that was his one advantage. Perhaps that was the way to sway her—to make her see that tradition was more than doing the same thing the same way. Tradition was the heart of his world—perhaps this woman needed to see into his heart.
Leaning forward, he asked the driver to detour slightly through the edges of the old quarter so that Belle’s education could begin.
Chapter 4
From the corner of her eye, Belle saw Zafar lean forward. He spoke in Arabic to the driver. She had no idea what he’d said. She’d never been good with languages—another lack, since her mother spoke five language, her brothers four each, and her dad three. She had two languages—English and architecture.
Zafar sat back, the car turned off the main
highway and Belle glanced out the window—why the diversion? In the next moment, she forgot about the question.
Buildings rose up around them. They were near the edge of the city—a city that clung to the strip of land near the ocean while sand stretched out toward rocky mountains. It was as if the city was a slim strip of life—a mirage. But it was more.
In the distance to her right, tall modern skyscrapers rose up. They became a backdrop for the buildings around her. Stone and plaster construction. Some wood, but many of the structures looked to be polished mud, lime plaster, she would guess. Some of the buildings looked sagging and old—squat, ugly shapes that ought to be torn down. Others, however, sat with the dignity of a revered and enduring old age.
She glanced to the left at the sand, and licked suddenly dry lips. The sight was literally making her mouth dry and her skin feel shriveled. She swallowed and asked, “How far does the desert go?”
Zafar smiled. “Oh, for miles. There are, of course, villages and towns—some built around springs or oil companies. For the most part, what you see is what you get. A great deal of land. The landmarks can change with the winds, so it is often best to travel on a clear night with stars as your guide Even the roads can be empty and deadly. Those who are not prepared to deal with the dangers of the desert should stay out of it.”
“Sounds good by me.” The SUV turned away from the city and headed along what looked a new road—the blacktop was still shiny. A chain-link fence marked off the construction area, but materials wouldn’t—and couldn’t—be delivered until they had plans in place.
The SUV pulled to a stop and Zafar got out. Plant life was minimal—scraggy bushes and a few trees trying to cling on. The earth looked hard and unforgiving. Belle pulled out a pair of sunglasses from her shirt pocket and slipped them on. As soon as she stepped from the SUV, she was glad for the headscarf. Zafar had been right—it was her shade.
She followed him as he headed for what seemed to be the center of the fenced-in area. He stopped on a small rise, as did she and glanced around. “Well, as raw material, this is about the rawest I’ve ever seen.”
His mouth curved up. He pointed to where the shoreline was no more than a glistening silver band on the horizon. “My father wants this complex to be a crowning jewel for Scaran. It will draw not just crowds for events but tourists from around the world.”
Belle turned in a slow circle. She could see it—individual stadiums, arranged in a semi-circle around a large parking structure. Metal and glass to reflect the barren desert. It could be an Olympic-caliber complex. If money wasn’t a problem, they could set up a world-class golf course on the east side, toward the ocean. It’d cost a fortune to keep it green, but what if they did something innovative and wound in bits of the desert with the putting green—natural hazards set up for players.
“You look very lost in your thoughts,” Zafar said.
His low voice pulled her from the vision. She shook her head and glanced at him. “Sorry. I get these…well, images. It’s almost like a vision about how something will look. I’ve got to hand it to you, this spot has possibilities.”
Zafar took a step closer to her. “What did you see?”
She wet her lips. He sounded genuinely curious, so she told him, gesturing with her hands about where the steel could go up—how to layout the parking so it was integrated into the design, constructing with crowd flow in mind.
His eyes sharpened and he shook his head. “Your vision is…nothing that will survive. Golf? Here? With water so precious that it is sometimes worth more than gold? And how will any of this last when the sand pits the glass?”
She stuck a fist on one hip. “Your father specifically requested something that could draw not just the interest of major teams, but conglomerates from around the globe. What did you have in mind?”
Turning, he walked a few feet away. Even in the heat, she shivered. It was so isolated out here. She could hear the wind, hushing through the scrub bushes. A hawk let out a sharp cry—it was a lonesome sound. Zafar turned to her and cut the air with one hand. “I had hoped we could do as my father suggested and work together, but we are so far apart, I don’t see that happening.”
She pulled back as if he’d hit her. “Okay…so what kind of buildings did you see here?”
“Traditional ones that pay homage to Scaran’s history and culture.”
Belle shook her head. “You mean mud huts?” The skin around his eyes tightened. She cleared her throat. “What I meant to say was, that the buildings in the old parts of the city are historic. That’s great. But a high-powered executive isn’t going to want his company image to be landed several hundred years in the past.”
“So you disparage structures such as Buckingham Palace, or Red Square, or even your own Empire State Building?” Zafar said his voice flat. “Those places have no power?”
Throat tight, Belle shook her head. “My company—my parents’ company—is under contract to your father. Not to you. If you’ve got ideas for integrating traditional touches, I’d love to hear them. But I’m still taking lead on this.”
Zafar watched her for a moment and then nodded. “Very well. I suggest we both draft individual designs. When my father returns, we shall present our designs and he will decide.”
Starting to shake her head, Belle could think of a dozen reasons why that wouldn’t work. Hadn’t Sheikh Ahmadi wanted an integrated design? But how the hell was she supposed to work with this stubborn, arrogant jerk?
Turning, she started back to the SUV, and shot the words back over her shoulder. “Works for me, sheikh.” Under her breath, she muttered, “And once your dad picks my work, you can go back to playing palace builder.”
Chapter 5
Three days of ignoring Belle was just not possible.
Zafar had to meet her at dinner—it would be rude to leave a guest to dine alone. He realized the first day he must arrange lunch for her or she would not eat. That would not do, either, so he arranged an office for her in the palace library and gave orders for regular meals to be taken to her. That room lay in the older part of the palace, and was a lovely cool room that looked out onto the courtyard. Rugs warmed the tile floors and low brass tables set between the couches provided refreshments. But when Zafar peeked into it, he saw a drafting table had been set up along with computer tables and extension cords that snaked over the floor. The old part of the palace had limited outlets—electricity had only recently been added to some rooms.
By unspoken agreement, they did not speak of work or designs or anything but food during the meals. His father’s cook, Zafar knew, was unmatched in his skills—and so Zafar asked for French cuisine one night, Italian the next, and seafood prepared in an American style on the third. Zafar had offered wine with dinner, but Belle refused, saying she preferred not to drink while working on a project. That was as close as they came to discussing anything to do with the complex. Questions burned on the tip of his tongue.
What did she think of her parents’ designs—what was she planning for her design? What was it like to work with a company as prestigious as Reynolds & Family? But here he could ask none of those things if he wanted to preserve the polite pretense between them.
It did not help that Belle came to dinner dressed in short silk skirts or tight leggings and tops that left her shoulders bare. He caught her scent several times—that exotic spice that seemed so unlikely for any American girl to be wearing. So he began to dress in traditional robes at dinner. If she could play this game, so could he. He would see her seated—he even kissed her hand—just to see her cheeks redden and so he could hear her voice dry into a stammer.
He rose early to work on his drawings—his office stood just off his bedroom, and he used a traditional drafting table. He also began constructing a small model of the complex using cut foam core that could be painted. If nothing else, he knew his father—and knew the man had no skills at visualizing any building. Just look what had happened to the palace, after all.
It would be before dinner, Zafar decided. His father would be impatient for his meal, and so would want to hurry through things. Belle, when Zafar offered for her to go first, gave him a sideways look, but she accepted.
They gathered in the courtyard outside the formal dining room—it was a warm night and the blooming flowers wove their fragrance into the air. The splash of the fountain and the night birds’ song made for a lovely setting—as did the crescent moon in the sky.
Sheikh Ahmadi settled himself in one of the chairs that had been brought outside for him—one of the overstuffed modern ones that he adored. He had a glass of mint tea before him and wore comfortable sweats. He looked all too modern, Zafar thought.
Belle fixed a smile in place. She had not worn one of her temptingly short skirts tonight, but instead had on velvet pants and a dark top of some silky material. In the moonlight her hair seemed streaked with silver and her eyes seemed to glow beneath the lamplight of the courtyard. She seemed to almost be ready to dance from nerves, but she fixed a smile in place and pulled out her tablet computer.
“I’ve been keeping in mind the discussions you had with my father. I feel the spot lends itself perfectly to a circular design. The flow is going to focus on reflecting the world.” She threw terms at his father that left the sheikh’s eyes glazing, and Zafar knew then she’d made a critical mistake. Her computer renderings were breathtaking—and utterly impractical. She was filling the evening with terms that meant nothing to Zafar’s father.
Zafar began to smile.
When Belle ran out of words, Zafar stepped up and clapped his hands. Servants brought out his model and set it on a table.