“Could you take us to Nabattur?” She cursed her voice for shaking.
“You can stay overnight in my home. It’s just a few miles up the road. In the morning, we’ll find a mechanic to retrieve your vehicle.”
“Oh.” She turned to Allan. This was the kind of warm desert hospitality she’d been told to expect. Was it too good to be true? “What do you think, sweetie?”
She heard him swallow. “I think we should stay with the car.”
Frustration filled Sam’s chest. This man was trying to help them and now Allan wanted to insult him by refusing his offer of hospitality. She turned to the stranger. “I don’t want to be a bother, but are you able to call a tow service for us? We can’t seem to get any cell service here.”
His throaty laugh rang out in the empty desert. “A tow truck? At night? Do you think you’re in New York City?” He gestured to his car. “Grab your bags and jump in. I wouldn’t leave anything behind. There are some unsavory characters on this road at night.” His voice dropped for the last sentence and made her wonder if he included himself in that group.
They had two choices. They could stay here and face whoever else might wander along the road that night. Or they could go with someone whose intentions and motivations were unclear, but who at least spoke English. Right now the latter seemed like an easy choice.
“Let’s get our stuff.” She jostled Allan gently to push him into action, and before she had time to talk herself out of it, they were piling their duffel bags of clothing and equipment into the back of his black Mercedes.
Their rescuer ushered her into the front seat next to him and Allan into the backseat behind her. She realized, as she buckled her seat belt, that she hadn’t introduced herself. In fact, she hadn’t even looked at him properly yet. The interior lights were still on from the doors opening, and she turned sideways in time to catch a bold profile with a strong, aquiline nose and a determined chin. His head was bare and his hair cropped quite short. He turned to look at her, and she felt the full force of his dark gaze for a split second before the lights went out.
She recognized him instantly. Those eyes shone with fierce intensity from even in the grainiest newspaper photo, and she’d seen several during her research. In fact, she’d had a hard time getting his strongly hewn features out of her mind. She thrust out her hand, determined to keep her head. “I’m Sam Bechtel. Samantha.”
He took her hand but didn’t shake it. Instead, he held it for a moment, as her palm heated against his. “Osman Al Kilanjar, at your service.”
She resolved not to be intimidated, even now that she knew for sure that their rescuer was a member of the ruling family. And was taller and more handsome in person than she’d imagined from seeing his photos. His English was excellent, with a hint of a British accent, which wasn’t exactly surprising since she’d read that he was educated overseas.
Not exactly the armed bandit Allan had anticipated. She started to relax a bit.
Then he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it.
An odd sensation, powerful and unsettling, flashed through her, and on instinct she jerked her hand back. He let go, and it slammed against her chest. Her heart pounded, and her just-kissed hand throbbed with awareness.
She felt as if he’d just claimed her.
“I’m Allan Strano,” came a thin voice from the backseat. “We’re here in the desert to shoot a documentary about the festival. Our car broke down a couple of hours ago and yours is the first car we’ve seen.”
Her heart swelled to hear her fiancé galloping to the rescue. Likely the hand kiss was just some archaic custom of the region and she was reading too much into it. She sucked in a breath and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m the producer, and Allan’s the director. It’s so frustrating to break down when the festival starts tomorrow. We need to be in Nabattur to record the opening ceremony.”
“When the streets are strewn with rose petals.” His voice was very deep, with a hint of humor. She saw his eyes gleam in the dark.
“Yes, thousands of rose petals. It seems extraordinary to sacrifice so many flowers in a place where it must be so hard to grow them.”
His low chuckle filled the car. “Perhaps the roses are the lucky ones, to participate in such a joyous occasion. You know it’s a festival of love?”
“Yes. A group wedding ceremony. I did as much reading as I could about it.” Which wasn’t much. This region was both obscure and impenetrable due to geographical isolation behind several intimidating ranges of mountains. Which only made her more excited to explore it for herself.
“We take love seriously here in the high country. Most of our songs and stories address it. Our world is harsh and demanding, and the choice of your life’s partner is the most crucial test.” His low voice crept into her ear.
“A test? I’ve never heard it described that way before.” Allan piped up from the back seat.
“Absolutely.” He fixed his gaze on her, which was disconcerting, even in the dark. “Choosing the wrong partner brings the worst kind of bad luck. Some believe that our ancestors will come back to haunt us if we make a poor choice.”
“I suppose it’s all about picking someone who can be fruitful and multiply,” muttered Sam. Traditional cultures sometimes set her teeth on edge. At least this region didn’t seem to believe in more barbaric rituals like clitoridectomy.
“Of course.” She saw the glimmer of white teeth. “Continuing the family line is of paramount importance.”
“What about companionship?” she protested.
“Essential.” He held her gaze just long enough for her to become self-conscious about her breathing. This man made her very uncomfortable. A kinder person would try to put two stranded strangers at their ease, not stare at them until their pulse rate doubled while lecturing them about choosing their mate.
She wondered if he knew Allan was her boyfriend. Fiancé really, but she didn’t wear a ring because they were both concerned about avoiding blood diamonds and hadn’t decided what to get. In fact, Allan had never actually proposed to her, but they’d discussed marriage and decided to go for it, so since then she’d considered them officially engaged.
A glance at the speedometer alarmed her. The car was doing nearly seventy on this desert lane in pitch darkness. Osman Al Kilanjar must know the road well, as little of it was visible even with the high beams on. The desert stretched out all around them, dark and empty. She knew the ever-present mountains were out there, too, shrouded in blackness. “How far away do you live?”
“Far enough.”
“How long will it take to get there?”
“Not long.”
The shine of his teeth irritated her. She wondered what kind of house Osman Al Kilanjar lived in. Simple two-room houses of mud brick where the usual type of local dwelling, but some more nomadic types still lived in large and elaborate tents that housed an entire extended family on the move. He seemed like the tent type, but if he was the future king....
His hand gripped the wheel as he swerved at high speed. She gasped and clutched the dashboard.
“Hey!” called Allan. “What are you doing?”
“My apologies. I just avoided a collision with a gazelle.” His stern profile betrayed no sign of amusement, to her relief. She watched his hand slide slowly back into position. Broad across the knuckles, with long, strong fingers, they were powerful, intimidating, even. Mr. Al Kilanjar exuded masculinity from every pore and she could smell it, even over the strong scent of the leather upholstery.
Or maybe it was sweat. Possibly her own. It had been more than twenty-four hours since they left New York.
“Allan, did you bring the phone chargers?”
“Oh, shit.” She heard the sound of him slapping his forehead. “I left them in the car. I wanted to charge the phones while we were driving.”
“It’s my fault.” She could feel her phone in her pocket. Barely charged and useless as a lump of desert rock until they coul
d find some coverage. “I meant to put them back in my bag.”
“I did lock the car, so hopefully no one will steal them.”
She glanced at their captor. Wait, he was their rescuer, so why did that word spring to mind? He didn’t seem at all interested in their conversation. Likely he couldn’t care less if their whole car got stolen.
“Almost there.” He took a sharp turn to the left, into further impenetrable darkness, and drove along at frightening speed toward distant points of light that pierced the blackness.
“Is that a town?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“You talk very formally.” She said it as lightly as possible.
“The result of my very formal education.”
“Cambridge?” she guessed. She hadn’t researched the royal family since they weren’t directly relevant to her project.
“You’re not entirely wrong. I attended Oxford as an undergraduate, but my business degree is from Harvard, which of course is in Cambridge, Massachusetts.”
She saw a smile tug at his mouth.
“Cute.” She smiled back. Oxford and Harvard were reassuring. He certainly wasn’t dumb or crazy if he’d gained entry to both of those. “I’m a hippie from UC Berkeley, I’m afraid.”
He chuckled. The sound was surprisingly pleasant.
“Allan’s a film geek from NYU.” She didn’t want Allan to think she’d forgotten all about him. “And we both live in New York.”
The flickering lights in the distance grew brighter until she could see they were flaming torches mounted on a high stone wall with an arched opening. They drove through the arch into a well-lit oasis where palm trees lined the road.
“Welcome to my home.”
Wow. The stone ramparts seemed even taller from the inside, illuminated by more blazing torches. To complete the medieval setting, long-robed men darted out of the shadows and opened his door, then their doors as well. Mosaics of colored marble decorated the walls, and brass incense burners added luxurious fragrance to the air. Their host spoke rapidly, and his men’s impassive expressions gave no hint of what they thought about having visitors.
Her heart leaped when she saw them pulling her and Allan’s bags from the trunk, but a brief protest was ignored and their bags were carted off through a tall pair of wood doors.
“Uh, that’s my equipment.” On instinct she followed her bags. The camera alone was worth nearly thirty thousand dollars. Leaving her host, she followed the traditionally garbed men down a stone-floored hallway. Round arches leading into other rooms lined the space. She glanced back to make sure Allan was following. “Sweetie, we need to keep an eye on our bags,” she hissed.
“I know.” His face looked grim. He realized they were way out of their depth.
“Don’t worry. We won’t steal your treasures.” Osman Al Kilanjar’s voice boomed out behind Allan. This was the first English he’d spoken since they arrived. He’d addressed the men in a confusing local dialect that she couldn’t follow.
“I didn’t mean to imply that you would.” She swallowed.
“Your caution is well placed.” He strode toward her, coming up behind Allan. He was a good head taller than Allan, who seemed to shrink in his presence. “You are among strangers. Perhaps our customs include extracting payment for our hospitality from our guests’ possessions.”
“I did a lot of reading about Ubar in preparation for my trip, and several texts mentioned the legendary hospitality of the region.” She attempted a smile.
A wolfish grin spread across their host’s wide mouth. “All your needs will be taken care of. Perhaps even those you did not yet anticipate.”
She frowned and looked ahead. They’d reached the end of the hallway and another high arched doorway. One of the men in the striped robes rapped on it with his knuckles, and a small, high grating opened. This must be some kind of inner sanctum.
The door opened slowly to reveal a beautiful woman in a turquoise silk dress. The woman’s eyes dropped to the floor at the sight of Osman, and she shrank back to let them pass.
She, Samantha Bechtel, might be his guest here overnight, but she had no intention of showing such humiliating deference. And she kept a sharp eye on their baggage as the men carried it along another hallway lined with doors under pointed arches.
This place was huge, and she was pretty sure she recognized it from her research. “Is this the fortress of Al Kaur?” She turned to Osman, defying him to ignore her question or give an enigmatic non-answer.
“It is. First erected around four thousand years ago to defend my ancestors from the marauding efforts of the neighboring Azrib tribe. Rebuilt and expanded many times since. For the last four hundred years or so it has been the seat of the ruling family of Ubar.”
She hadn’t yet revealed that she knew who he was. Perhaps it was better to pretend surprise. “So you’re royalty?”
“Indeed I am. “He looked infuriatingly smug.
As well he might if he was to be king.
Then again, who’d want to be king of this desolate stretch of rock-strewn desert?
He’d caught up and now his stride matched hers. Then he leaned in to whisper in her ear. “And perhaps one day you will be too.”
CHAPTER TWO
“I have met my wife.” Osman let his words sink in as he watched his brothers stunned faces. They sat on low cushions around the enormous traditional hookah the servants kept preparing despite his continued insistence that none of them smoked. Their father had smoked a bowl of something or other every day, and apparently he was expected to continue the tradition. The air was thick enough already. Incense smoldered in a brazier in one corner, and beeswax candles burned in several hanging lanterns, casting flickering light over the multicolored mosaics on the walls.
Zadir spoke first. “You’d marry an American?”
“Why not?” Osman had ushered Samantha to their finest guest chamber, where she was changing for dinner. He let his mind briefly stray to wonder what she was wearing right now. “I’ve spent most of my adult life in the U.S. Most of the women I’ve dated are American. Why would you find that strange?”
“That was when you lived in America.” His younger and more serious brother Amahd gestured with his hands. “It’s one thing to date a girl in the land of milk and honey, quite another to bring her back to this barren wilderness and ask her to live here.”
“I’d hardly call our ancestral homeland a barren wilderness.” They’d all grown too used to Western luxury. “Besides, we can maintain a residence or two abroad.”
“You can hardly be king and live somewhere else.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t be the first.”
Zadir ran a hand through his already tousled hair. “I think we’ve found the real reason our father decided to split the throne between the three of us. He wasn’t sure which—if any—of us he could count on to come back and stay.”
Osman frowned. He’d secretly dreaded his father’s death, not out of filial devotion but because of the responsibilities that came with his passing. As the oldest son he’d long been expected to ascend the ancient throne of Ubar in the tradition of his ancestors. It had been a slap in the face when he discovered that his father had rewritten the Monarchic Accord to divide their nation into three equal-sized principalities, promising one to each of his brothers as well.
He had half a mind to wash his hands of Ubar and its problems and head back to New York. Then something more primitive—stupidity, probably—tugged at his heart and made him determined to ascend the basalt throne of his ancestors.
“Our father may have had a heart of stone, but he was a very intelligent man. I think he knew that if he got the three of us here together we’d figure out a way to see this thing through.”
Amahd frowned. “Perhaps he intended for us to prevent each other from making rash mistakes like marrying a foreigner.”
Osman glared at his brother. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud. Besides, Ubarite tradition
tells us that we will feel the call of destiny when we see our intended mate.”
Amahd shook his head. “You’ve barely met her.”
Zadir smiled. “It sounds like our brother has fallen victim to love at first sight. What’s her name again?”
“Samantha.” He tested the word on his tongue. He liked it. Substantial and a little hard to handle, just like its owner. Seducing her promised to be a fun challenge. “She’s making a documentary about the festival, so she must be interested in our culture.”
“That sounds promising enough to me.” Zadir raised his coffee cup.
“You’ve both lost your minds.” Amahd inhaled deeply. “Choosing a bride is a great responsibility, especially when we need to set an example for everyone in the country. There are many beautiful Ubarite women who’d love to be queen.”
“Tell me about it.” Osman raised a brow. “I’m tired of gold diggers throwing themselves at me. If anything, Samantha has done the opposite so far. In fact she’s been rather rude.”
“Maybe she’s rude because she knows you’re a king. Americans hate monarchs.”
“Yes.” He’d enjoyed the stunned look in her eyes when he’d suggested that she might join the ruling family.
She hadn’t bothered to reply. No doubt she assumed he was joking. Maybe he was teasing her at that moment, but already the prospect of pursuing her had seeded itself in his heart.
Since the news about his father’s death four months ago had made the rounds, women were practically climbing up to the palace windows on ladders trying to get an audience with him. It was not likely these crown-seeking ladies were the kind of partner and soul mate he craved yet seemed unable to find.
“I think she’s cute.” Zadir, a connoisseur of women himself, grinned. “I saw her arrive.”
“What about that guy she’s with?” Amahd was always more cautious. Trying to figure out the angles before jumping in.
“What about him?” Osman stretched his arms and shoulders. “She works with him. If anything, his presence here will give her the confidence to relax in our midst.”
Desert Kings Boxed Set: The Complete Series Books 1-6 Page 5