Kadir would love to be the one to pull the trigger and see Zahid dead, but he’d left that part of his life behind when he’d decided to be a diplomat. He could not battle for his country’s future in both ways—only one. Violence required less thought, and was in many ways much easier than diplomacy. A soldier did as he was told and the results, good or bad, were immediate. In his current position he had to be cautious about every word, every decision. Yes, in many ways being a soldier was easier…but he was no longer a soldier, and very little in his life was easy.
Sharif wanted to see Bin-Asfour dead as much as Kadir did, but for his own reasons. There had been a time when they’d discussed those reasons…but no more. The time for talk was long past.
He could’ve ordered dinner for two to be served in the elegant formal dining room of his home-for-the-moment. Ms. Klein no doubt expected that, and would come prepared to maintain her all-business attitude toward him. She was his contact here in Silvershire, his advocate—though she did not yet see herself in that way. She was his key to gaining access to Lord Carrington, and he would do whatever was necessary to woo her to his way of thinking. In order to do that, he must first charm her.
He suspected where Ms. Klein was concerned, a gun would likely be much easier than diplomatic charm.
In order to keep her off guard, he arranged dinner for four to be served at a small table in a cozy drawing room. He invited his clerk and his aide to join him and Ms. Klein for dinner, and as with all else they complied. Sayyid and Haroun would keep watch, while Fahd and Jibril slept. They would take over at midnight, and until he left Silvershire they would maintain that schedule—two men midnight to noon, the other two noon to midnight. He was growing so accustomed to the constant presence of bodyguards, he sometimes forgot they were with him. After all, they could usually blend into the background—a necessary precaution, a part of the job.
In the past few years, Zahid had not been a direct threat. He and his followers moved from country to country, searching for and occasionally finding support for their cause. They performed acts of terrorism outside of Kahani, and at the same time they built their fortune through the sale of drugs. Kadir didn’t know why Zahid had tried to have him killed at the present time, but neither could he deny the new danger. No matter how much he would like to, he could not entirely forget why he had such a close guard at hand.
It was pleasant to see the expression on Ms. Klein’s face when she was escorted into the sitting room precisely at eight o’clock. She was still dressed in her severe suit, and had added no makeup or jewels to make the ensemble more appropriate for evening. It was surely her way of telling him that their relationship was purely business and would remain so. She was dedicated, in that way only the very young can be. What would it take to make sure that she was dedicated to him and his mission of meeting with the king-in-waiting?
“Thank you so much for taking the time from your busy schedule to dine with us this evening.” Kadir watched as her eyes took in the small table set for four and the silent presence of his aides. She then turned her eyes to him. Was she surprised to find him dressed casually and comfortably? His pants were freshly pressed, but the shirt he had chosen was unbuttoned at the collar, and he wore no tie. He had not even trimmed his mustache and goatee, so a bristly shadow roughened a portion of face. He needed a haircut, as usual, but he was not by any means disheveled. Just casual, as if the meeting were of no real importance.
“We do have much to discuss,” Ms. Klein said, almost suspiciously. “I can tell you all about the schedule for this coming week, and if you have any questions about the events surrounding the Founder’s Day Gala, I’ll be happy to answer them.”
“Lovely.” He eased her chair away from the table and waited for her to sit. After a split second of indecision she did so, and he made sure she was in place before he sat across the table from her. Hakim and Tarif took the remaining chairs, while Sayyid and Haroun maintained their posts at the two doors that opened off the small sitting room.
Kadir listened attentively as Ms. Klein told him all about her plans for the week. Museums, gardens, tours of homes much like this one. Nothing of substance, and nothing he had not seen before. He did not tell her so, of course, but smiled and expressed interest in each and every event. As the simple meal progressed, she became more and more relaxed. She was never entirely relaxed—he suspected that was not in her nature—but at least she was no longer suspicious of his motives.
After dessert, Hakim excused himself, stating that he had work to do before retiring for the night. Tarif was not far behind him. Kadir asked Ms. Klein about the state of Silvershire’s public education system, and she gladly began a well-practiced and seemingly attentive diatribe.
Kahani’s public education system was in bad need of an overhaul, and the subject was of great interest to him. But it wasn’t long before Kadir’s attention’s wandered. His Silvershire aide had such attractive gray eyes, and such a wonderfully lush mouth, it was impossible to concentrate on test scores and curriculum when she was looking at him. He was not a man who could be easily distracted, but that’s what Cassandra Klein did. She distracted him to the extreme.
What man would not be distracted? The suit she wore did not entirely disguise the fact that she had a nicely rounded female shape. He had hoped that at some time during the evening she would remove her suit jacket, but she had not. Of course not. She was determined to be professional and proper, which was a true waste. Her eyes were lively, and her mouth was made for better things than talking business. The lips were soft and full, and made for kissing. He wanted to see her laugh, at least once.
As nice as his wandering thoughts were, he didn’t have time for such nonsense. Like the woman sitting before him, he needed to concentrate on the reasons for this visit.
“You have made such wonderful plans for my time here, and I certainly don’t want to miss a single event. I do wonder if there would be an opportunity to tour Barton College while I’m here?”
The question took her by surprise. Her eyes widened slightly, and she held her breath for a moment. “Certainly,” she answered. There was a short hesitation before she added, “You do realize that Barton is a women’s college.”
“Of course.” Ms. Klein would find that she was not the only one who came to this meeting well prepared. “If my memory is correct, Barton College was founded in 1873, and has been a school of privilege until the past seventeen years, when generous scholarships funded by the government have allowed those who otherwise would not be able to afford such a fine education to attend.”
Ms. Klein looked slightly suspicious at his knowledge. “I attended Barton myself. My mother teaches there.”
“Wonderful! I can expect a most thorough tour, in that case.”
She cocked her head slightly. “May I ask why you wish to tour Barton?”
“Education is the answer to so many of the world’s problems, don’t you agree?” He didn’t give her an opportunity to answer, but he read the yes in her eyes. “I am interested in forming just such a facility in Kahani. How can I work to bring my country into the new millennium without offering an adequate education for one half of our population? The educational needs of women in Kahani have been neglected for so long, it seems only right that we rectify that disservice in as practical and effective a way as possible.”
She shook off her surprise quickly. “I will make the arrangements. The summer session is much smaller than fall and spring, but we can tour the facilities and meet with the dean, if you’d like.”
“I would like that very much. Will I have the opportunity to meet your mother?”
Again, the question took her by surprise. He liked surprising her; her reactions were so genuine, they cracked her tough facade and revealed the woman beneath. “Perhaps.”
She glanced at her watch, and appeared to be surprised at the lateness of the hour. “I really should go, Excellency.” She stood quickly. “Thank you so much for dinner. I will collect
you at quarter of nine in the morning, so we can begin our tour of the museum before it opens to the public.”
Kadir cared nothing for museums, but did not say so. “I look forward to seeing you again.” He bowed gently. “May I…”
She turned to face him as she collected her handbag from the small table by the door. Sayyid was posted just outside that door, but was out of sight.
“May you?” she prompted.
“May I call you Cassandra? It’s such a lovely name, and we will be spending many hours together in the weeks to come. I would, of course, like it very much if you’d call me Kadir. ‘Excellency’ has never suited me. I keep looking over my shoulder for the stuffy old man who answers to that dignified title.” He tried a smile, even though the woman who was poised to flee didn’t look as if she were about to say yes to his proposal. But then again, she did want to please him, to keep him happy. It was her job, and she was a woman who took her job very seriously.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” she said softly, and before he could ask her why, she was gone.
Every Tuesday night, Cassandra wrote her mother a letter. It had become a habit, and she could not sleep on Tuesday nights until her letter was written. She always posted the letter from the office on Wednesday morning, and it was delivered on Thursday afternoon. Sometimes the letters were brief, if she was busy or if the week had been uneventful, but on other nights the letters were pages long.
These days e-mail made keeping in touch easy, and Cassandra did use that form of communication regularly. But her mother had told her how she loved receiving an old-fashioned handwritten letter now and then, and this tradition had been born. Now it was a ritual, one she didn’t dare miss.
Dear Mum,
Lexie is off to Greece with Stanley. I suppose you already know that, but since Lexie is not the best of communicators I thought I’d pass the news along. She’ll be gone a month.
Dressed in loose-fitting yellow pajamas, a cup of cooling tea at her elbow, Cassandra tapped the end of her pen against the pad of blue paper. The paper was unlined, and was decorated with a smattering of pink and lavender flowers along the left margin. The pad sat on her desk, and she perched on the edge of her chair. Should she mention the sheik or not? Her first instinct was not, but there would be no hiding the man if they took a tour of Barton College. Cassandra straightened her spine. And why on earth would she hide His Excellency, Sheik Kadir? She often wrote about her work, and the sheik was all about work. Nothing else.
I began a new and very exciting assignment today. A representative of the Kahani Foreign Ministry is visiting the country for the next three weeks, and I am to be his guide and aide for the duration. All those nights of studying Arabic have finally paid off. This is a plum assignment, and I’m happy to have it. You could say it’s the chance I’ve been waiting for. Ms. Dunn, who is always so hard to please, said I had the qualifications necessary to fulfill this assignment.
The sheik is very well-known. The short version is His Excellency Sheik Kadir Al-Nuri. Perhaps you saw his picture in the newspaper. There was an article in the Silvershire Times about his impending visit, and I believe it ran three or four days ago.
Again she tapped the end of her pen against the paper. She could leave it at that but her mother was practically psychic, in that way only mothers can be. She seemed to know things she should not, and this short letter might illicit a “what aren’t you telling me?” response. It was so unfair.
We will likely be taking a tour of the college. That was Al-Nuri’s suggestion, not mine. I never would’ve thought he’d be interested. He has ideas of founding a women’s college much like Barton in his own country, which is quite ambitious if you remember how archaic some of their customs are. He wants to make changes, and I suppose I must admire him for that. In any case, the sheik and I will probably be there sometime in the next three weeks. I’m not sure when. I’ll have to tinker with the schedule. Perhaps we’ll see you while we’re there.
Cassandra wasn’t about to tell her mother that Al-Nuri had actually asked if he could meet her during the tour of Barton. That request sounded so personal, and it would certainly raise questions she didn’t want to answer. She started to sign off, but thought better of it. Perhaps she should end the letter on a more personal note.
I think I ate some bad salad dressing at lunch today, but tonight all is well.
Love,
Cassandra
She sealed the letter in an envelope that matched the notepaper, and placed it beside her purse so she wouldn’t forget it in the morning. That done, she dumped out the half-empty teacup, brushed her teeth, turned out the lights and crawled into the waiting bed.
Her mother had always called her Cassandra, but almost everyone else was determined to shorten her name to Cassie or Cass. After a while, it sounded petulant to insist that they call her by her full name, so she simply accepted whatever they wished to call her. Her sisters called her Cass, and always had. Even her dad called her Cass, and she really didn’t mind. Coming from her family the name sounded fitting enough. When people she’d just met immediately shortened her name, it annoyed her.
Al-Nuri had asked if he could call her Cassandra. Not Cass, not Cassie…Cassandra. The way he said her name, the way the word rolled so sensually off his tongue as if he could taste it…Heaven above, the man could be trouble. If she allowed him to be, that is. And she would not.
She pulled the covers to her chin, then closed her eyes and insisted that sleep come quickly and deeply. Right before she drifted off, she whispered the fervent hope that she not dream of bedroom eyes and slightly accented Cassandras.
Chapter 3
The museum was only mildly interesting. The building itself was large and modern, not at all in keeping with the rest of the city. There was lots of glass and sharp lines that did not mesh well with the older, more quaint sections of the city. Large rooms that connected like a twisted maze were filled with paintings and drawings, intricate carvings and displays of ancient weaponry that had some significance to Silvershire history.
As much as Kadir admired fine art, no painting or sculpture could hold a candle to his personal tour guide, the lovely Ms. Klein. Once again she had dressed in a plain and conservative suit, and her pale hair was pulled back severely. Today, however, he occasionally caught her in a blush, and there was a light in her eyes she could not disguise, no matter how she tried. Like it or not, she was affected by his presence.
As he was affected by hers.
She was a wealth of information, telling him something about each artist and each artifact. Soon her words began to run together, and he simply watched and enjoyed her. Every display in the museum dulled beside her beauty, and he did not feel guilty to enjoy watching her instead of the artworks he was meant to appreciate.
Photographers were awaiting their departure from the museum, alerted to his presence by a museum employee, no doubt. Kadir was accustomed to camera flash bulbs and unflattering photographs plastered in newspapers around the world. In truth, no part of his life was his own—and so he smiled for the cameras as he strode along the paved path, and waved when his name was called. Ms. Klein held back, allowing him and his guards to be the focus of the photographs. Too bad, since a picture of her would be much more pleasant than one of his own.
Fahd and Jibril were tense. Yesterday’s assassination attempt, which they had managed to keep out of the press, had them on edge. Rightfully so. This trip to Silvershire had been well publicized in the past few weeks, so Zahid surely knew where Kadir was. Would Bin-Asfour be bold enough to make an attempt here, in another country, or would he wait for Kadir to return to his home before trying again?
As they reached the parking lot—Fahd and Jibril alert, Hakim and Tarif lagging behind, and Ms. Klein doing her best to hide—a photographer made his way past the barricade and moved in for a closer shot. He lifted his camera and took a series of photographs before Jibril rushed to the photographer and forced the man back
to his proper place.
Jibril was a large man, so it was unexpected that the smallish photographer would put up a fight. He did, however, and Fahd did his best to hurry Kadir to the waiting limousine, which was bulletproof and could move very, very fast when necessary. As Kadir increased his step in order to accommodate his bodyguard, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot reverberated through the humid air.
Kadir spun away from Fahd and away from the limousine, instinctively grabbing Ms. Klein’s arm. He pulled her to him, protected her as best he could with his body and threw them both toward the opened car door and safety. Behind them onlookers and photographers shouted and fell to the ground, and Jibril shouted orders in crisp Arabic. Ms. Klein screamed as they vaulted through the air and into the back seat of the limousine, where he landed on top of her. Fahd slammed the door shut, but as no more gunshots reverberated, Kadir deduced that the immediate danger was over.
Two attempts on his life in two days, and all he could think about was the softness of the woman beneath him.
Her cheeks reddened, and her lush lips parted slightly. One of her slender legs was caught between his, in an awkward and yet somehow apt position, and she’d instinctively wrapped her arms around him. Though they were no longer vaulting through the air, she did not loosen her hold. Her heart beat so hard and fast he could feel it, pounding against his own.
“Are you unharmed?” he asked, his voice low.
“Yes.” The single word trembled. “You?”
“I’m fine.” They had moments—mere seconds, perhaps—before they were joined by the rest of the party.
And still, Kadir did not move. The body beneath his fit very nicely, and no suit, no matter how severe, could disguise the softness he felt. Cassandra Klein was very much a woman, and he did not want to move. Not yet.
The Sheik and I Page 3