Not quite the juniper and live oak-covered vistas of his Hill Country ranch retreat back home in Texas, he thought, but not at all bad.
Admittedly, he hadn't seen much of Tamir so far, save for the mosque and the royal palace and gardens. Thanks to the usual flight delays, he'd arrived late yesterday afternoon, just barely in time for the marriage ceremony. He found it all interesting, though frankly he was already beginning to feel cooped up and restless. He was more than ready for all this partying and celebrating to be over with so he could get on to his real reason for flying halfway around the world to this remote little island kingdom-business.
More specifically, oil business. In the beginning he'd resisted Elena's invitation to attend the wedding as her honored guest, and to stand up for her as her guardian-ridiculous idea, he knew of no one on earth less in need of guardianship than Elena Rahman-in place of nonexistent family. At first. Until she'd mentioned that Sheik Ahmed Kamal, her father-in-law to be, was interested in refitting his country's oil refineries, perhaps even building new ones. Cade was in the business of building and refitting oil refineries. The opportunities had seemed too promising to pass up.
There was very little in this world that impressed him, certainly nothing having to do with wealth or title or positions of power. But the old sheik-Sheik Ahmed-he'd made one hell of an impression on Cade, even after only one brief meeting. He was sharp, that one. Silver-haired and carrying the weight of a little too much good living, but still crafty as they come. Surprisingly unpretentious, too. The man was the absolute monarch of his country, yet he'd elected to use the title of sheik-a general all-purpose title of respect, was the way Cade understood it-rather than king. Cade liked that.
He liked the sheik's son, Hassan, too, though he wasn't ready to admit as much to Elena. Cade was beginning to think Elena hadn't completely lost her mind after all, marrying into a Middle Eastern royal family. Hassan seemed westernized enough, and Elena was just hardheaded enough, as he well knew from personal experience, that they might actually make a go of it.
All at once he was remembering the unheralded softness in Elena's voice on the telephone when she'd called to tell him of her plans to marry Hassan. He was remembering last night, and the way her eyes had shone when she'd lifted them to her new husband's face as he'd drawn aside her veils… Twinges of unfamiliar emotions stirred in his chest-envy and longing were the only two he recognized. Annoyed, he drew deeply on the cheroot, his motions momentarily jerky and disconcerted.
It was at that moment when a low murmur of voices reached him from beyond the rose-covered archway. Glad of the distraction, he hurriedly composed himself, preparing to make polite small talk with intruders on his private corner of Eden. Instead, the newcomers-two of them, from their conversation-halted just on the other side of the arch. About to step through and join them, Cade hesitated. Something-the sneering quality of the speaker, perhaps-made him go still and alert and stay right where he was, hidden from view by a lush bank of hibiscus.
"… joyous occasion!" Suddenly raised, the voice was sharp, sarcastic and clear. That was followed by a distinct snort.
"You seem less than pleased, Desmond," the second voice remarked in a mildly surprised tone. "Lucas is our cousin. Even if he were not family, I would have thought King Marcus's joy would be reason enough for us to celebrate. After all, he had all but given his son up-"
"Now, don't get me wrong," the first speaker broke in hastily, his voice now smooth as oil. "I'm as thankful as anyone that Prince Lucas has turned up alive and… apparently none the worse for wear." There was a pause, and then in a decidedly unctuous voice, "I'm thinking of you, Lorenzo."
"What do you mean?" The question was curt, a little wary.
"Oh, come now-don't pretend you don't know that in the crown prince's absence, King Marcus had been grooming you as his heir. Now that Lucas is back in the picture, your position in the royal court can hardly be the same."
There was an ambiguous sound that could have been amusement or reproof. "It's never been my ambition to govern a country, Desmond. I'm happy with the position I have, thank you." And after a pause… "In any case, I really don't think it's my position you're concerned about."
The reply was blustering. "Look, I'm thinking of my own future, too-sure I am. I'm not going to deny having ambitions."
"My God, Desmond, are you that mercenary? That you'd wish Lucas had not returned, for the sake of your own-"
"How can you think such a thing of me, your own brother?" Whoever he was, Cade thought, this Desmond had apparently really stepped in it, and was now backpedaling so fast he was almost sputtering. "I only meant-I was referring to our future in service to King Marcus. My only ambition is to serve His Highness, in any way I can, as he sees fit…"
As the voice babbled on, Cade almost snorted out loud. This Desmond guy was slippery as a snake oil salesman.
Apparently his companion was starting to have some doubts about the man's character, too, brother or not. There was a formidable chill in his voice when, after a marked silence, he suddenly said, "I see my wife is looking for me. Excuse me."
Footsteps quickly retreated. A moment later Cade heard the hiss of an exhalation followed by some mutterings that sounded mostly like swearing, and then a second set of footsteps moved off aimlessly along a tiled path, fading finally into the general noise of mingling guests and whispering water.
Cade released a breath he'd not been aware of holding, then took a quick drag on the cheroot he'd all but forgotten. Cautiously, casually, he stepped around the clump of hibiscus. Interesting, he thought as he watched two men in white dinner jackets move off in different directions. Apparently all was not entirely rosy after all in this Garden of Eden.
Back in the crowded main courtyard, he snagged a waiter, resplendent in white brocade and saffron yellow turban.
"Excuse me-uh, do you speak English?"
Balancing a tray of fruits carved to look like flowers, the waiter dipped his head respectfully. "Of course. How may I help you, sir?"
Cade smiled in mild chagrin. The man sounded as if he'd stepped right off the campus at Oxford-or wherever it was those British lords went to school.
"Uh…yeah, I was wondering if you could tell me who that gentleman is-the one with the lady with red hair. I was just talking with him, and didn't catch his name."
"That would be his lordship, Duke Lorenzo Sebastiani of Montebello, sir. The lady is his wife-an American. I believe her name is Eliza."
"Ah-of course. And that gentleman over there-the dark one? I think he said his name was Desmond…"
"Yes sir-that is Duke Lorenzo's brother, Desmond Caruso, an advisor to King Marcus."
"Ah," said Cade. "Yes…thank you."
"I am happy to be of service, sir." The waiter bowed and went on his way.
Interesting, Cade thought again. But, since it didn't have anything to do with Tamir or Elena or her new in-laws, it didn't concern him, either.
He winced as a piercing "Yoo-hoo!" rose above the pleasant chuckle of a nearby fountain. "Cade-oh, Cade!"
He groaned and glanced around in hope of finding cover. Seeing none, he rolled his eyes and fixed what he hoped was a welcoming smile on his face as, with one last fortifying puff of his cigar, he went forth to greet Elena's other guest, her loud and annoying friend, Kitty.
* * *
Leila was bored. The wedding banquet had been going on for more than three hours, and showed no signs of concluding any time soon. The parade of waiters bearing trays laden with an incredible variety of delicacies seemed endless, even though Leila-and, she was sure, most of the other guests-had already eaten as much as they could possibly hold. The food had been wonderful, of course, befitting a royal Walima-chicken simmered in pomegranate juice and rolled in grape leaves, veal sauteed with eggplant and onions and delicately spiced with tumeric and cardamoms. And for the main course, Leila's favorite-whole lamb stuffed with dried fruits, almonds, pine nuts, cracked wheat and onions, seasoned wi
th ginger and coriander and then baked in hot ashes until it was tender enough to be eaten with the fingers. Leila had eaten until she felt stuffed herself-which was, she supposed, one advantage in being forced to wear the gracefully draped but all-concealing gown that was Tamir's traditional female costume. At least she didn't have to hold her stomach in.
The trays now were offering a variety of fruits, as well as an amazing assortment of sweets-cakes, pastries and candies, even tiny baskets made of chocolate and filled with sugar-glazed flower petals. Ordinarily Leila had an insatiable sweet tooth, but tonight she was too full to do more than nibble at a chocolate-covered strawberry.
She had also drunk much more of her country's traditional mildly fermented wine than she was accustomed to, and as a result was becoming both sleepy and cross. Not to mention frustrated. It was such a beautiful evening-stars were bright in the cloudless spring sky that canopied the palace's Great Courtyard. The Walima was being held outdoors in order to accommodate the great number of guests, as, according to tradition, everyone in the immediate vicinity was invited to a marriage feast, rich and poor alike. Tiled in intricate geometric patterns and flanked on both sides by stone colonnades, the Great Courtyard was a formal rectangle that extended from the palace to the cliffs, where arched portals framed a spectacular view of the sea. Tables draped in linen and set with fine china and crystal had been set up on both sides of a chain of fountains and narrow pools that divided the courtyard down the middle and reflected the stars and hundreds of flickering torches. A light breeze blowing in from the sea was heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and moonflowers. It was a beautiful night. It might also have been-should'have been-a very romantic night.
Except that Leila had been trying all evening without success to catch the eye of the man she would very much have liked to share such an evening with-the man she had noticed that morning in the garden, the Texan in the dove-gray suit and cowboy hat. As luck would have it, he was sitting at a table almost directly across the reflecting pool from hers. Tonight the hat was absent, and, like many of the other male guests present, particularly those from Montebello and America, he wore a white dinner jacket. Though in Leila's opinion, none of the other guests looked so lean and fit and dangerous in theirs, or boasted such broad and powerful shoulders. She could see now that his hair was thick and wavy, a rich dark blond. It gleamed like gold in the flickering light of the torches. She would like to know what color his eyes were, but they were set deep in his rugged face, and masked in shadows.
If only we could dance like Americans do, she thought wistfully as she watched a line of professional performers of the traditional Tamari dances, faces veiled and torsos cleverly concealed, undulating their way down the length of the courtyard, weaving in and out among the tables to the rhythmic keening of native flutes and sitars. Jewels flashed from their ankles, wrists and hair as they performed the intricate hand movements and kept time to the music with tiny finger cymbals. Like most girls in her country, Leila had learned secretly as a child how to dance the traditional dances, though of course it would not have been proper for a princess to actually perform for anyone-except, perhaps, for her husband, in the privacy of their marriage chambers. If I ever have a husband, she thought moodily, as without her realizing it, her body began to move and sway in time to the music.
On her right, Samira nudged her and hissed, "Leila-stop that. Someone will see you." Leila rolled her eyes. So what? she wanted to say. It would not be the first time. Many people had seen her dance in Switzerland and England, and the world had not come to an end. When she was in boarding school she had learned to dance the western way, to rock and roll music, and in England she had even-and she was sure her father would have a heart attack if he knew-danced with boys the way westerners did. Touching one another. And nothing terrible had happened then, either. She was still, alas, very much a virgin. And likely to remain one for the foreseeable future.
"I am bored," she whispered back. "I have eaten too much and I want to lie down. When is this going to be over?"
"Hush," Samira scolded. "This is Hassan and Elena's night. Remember your manners." "I wish we could at least mingle with the guests-talk to them," Leila said, wistfully eyeing the golden-haired man across the reflecting pool. But his head was bowed as he listened, apparently with close attention, to the frizzy-haired woman seated next to him. Leila sighed. And before she could stop it, her mouth opened wide in a blatant, jaw-popping yawn.
"I'm sorry?" Cade politely lowered his head in order to hear what the woman at his side was saying above 2 the discordant wailing these people called music.
Kitty repeated it in a loud, hoarse whisper. "I said, that girl across the way over there has been tryin' her darndest all evenin' long to catch your eye. I believe she'd like to flirt with you."
Cade's glance flicked upward reflexively. "Oh yeah? Which one?" Anything, he thought, to relieve the tedium. He wasn't accustomed to spending three hours over dinner.
"That one-the real pretty one in the aqua blue dress…long black hair with gold thingies in it…looks like something out of The Arabian Nights. See her?"
Cade looked. He'd already noticed the girl, since she was drop-dead gorgeous and he was a man and only human. Now, though, he felt a shiver of silent laughter ripple through him. "You mean, the one who looks like she's about to swallow herself?"
His amusement blossomed into an unabashed grin as the girl's bright and restless glance collided suddenly with his. Her eyes went wide with horror and she slapped a long, graceful hand over her mouth in a belated and futile attempt to cover up the yawn. Next, he watched, fascinated, as a parade of expressions danced across her face like characters in a play: dismay, chagrin, vexation, arrogance, pride, irony…and finally, to his delight, a dimpled and utterly winsome smile.
Kitty gave a little crow of triumph. "There, you see? I told you she was flirtin' with you."
"Kind of young, don't you think?" Cade drawled. "Not to mention," he added, as the significance of that circlet of gold medallions on the girl's head sank in, "if I'm not mistaken, she's a princess."
"Really?" Kitty gasped before she caught herself, then added with a lofty sniff, "Well, so what if she is? Hassan's a prince. That didn't stop Elena." She gave an excited little squeal. "Oh-I just realized-that would make her Elena's sister-in-law, wouldn't it? I'll bet she could introduce us-uh, you."
"I wouldn't count on it," Cade said dryly. "Looks to me like they keep those princesses pretty tightly under wraps."
Pretending disinterest, he watched out of the corner of his eye as an older woman flanked by a cadre of female servants suddenly appeared beside the princesses' table across the way. This woman he knew. He'd been presented to Tamir's first lady-Elena's new mother-in-law-along with her husband, Sheik Ahmed, following the wedding ceremony last night. Alima Kamal-who, he'd been told, preferred not to use a royal title-was dressed in the same gracefully draped style of gown as were her daughters, this one deep royal blue liberally trimmed with gold. Like her daughters, she wore a circlet of gold medallions in her still-raven black hair. They glinted in the torchlight as she gracefully inclined her head. Without a word, all the occupants of the princesses' table rose and were swallowed up by the royal entourage, which then moved away in the direction of the palace, veils fluttering, like a dense flock of brightly plumed birds.
"Wow," breathed Kitty. "It really is like something out of The Arabian Nights. Do you think they keep them in a harem?"
Cade gave a snort of laughter. "I'm sure they don't. For starters, the sheik only has one wife. And, if Hassan is any indication, they're pretty westernized here. All this native costume stuff tonight-the turbans and veils-I'm sure is just for this occasion. Some kind of wedding tradition, probably."
"Umm-hmm…" Kitty was thoughtfully chewing her lip. "Well, I'll still bet Elena could introduce you to that cute little sister-in-law of hers, if you asked her to."
"No, thanks."
"Why not? She's very pretty
, and she was definitely interested in you, Cade."
"Not on your life." Cade's grin tilted with grim irony. A knockout she might be, but not really his type and way too young for him, anyway. Not to mention that the very last thing he needed was to get tangled up with some royal pain-in-the-ass princess, when what he was really hoping for was to close a nice, lucrative business deal with her father, the sheik.
Chapter 2
Eight horses thundered in close formation down a grassy plain on what appeared to be a collision course with disaster. Long-handled mallets flashed and winked in the bright morning sunlight to the accompaniment of guttural cries, grunts of effort, and shrill and imperious whistles, while on a sideline shaded by olive trees that looked as though they might easily have dated from biblical times, Cade watched the proceedings with an interest that could best be described as ambiguous.
He wasn't a polo fan-in fact, he knew next to nothing about the game. He considered it a rich man's sport. And while there were some who'd place Cade in that category, he certainly never thought of himself in those terms. As far as he was concerned he was just a hardworking businessman who happened to have made a lot of money, which put him in an altogether different class than those who had nothing better to do with their time than gallop around a field on horseback jostling one another for the chance to whack a little ball with a big mallet.
"Snob," said Elena teasingly when he voiced that opinion to her. "I knew it. You, Cade, are a working-class snob. Come on-polo is the sport of kings."
"I rest my case," Cade said around the stem of his cheroot.
"And, it's one of the oldest sports, maybe the first ever invented." She shot him a mock-piercing look. "What's this prejudice you have against royals? Seeing as how I'm now one."
"Prejudiced? Me?' he countered in mock outrage. "I don't even know any royals-except Hassan, I guess."
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