Desert Kings Boxed Set: The Complete Series Books 1-6

by Jennifer Lewis

  “He’s her boyfriend.” Amahd poured himself a tiny cup of coffee from the tall brass urn.

  “No, he isn’t.” Osman frowned. “A woman like Samantha would never be interested in such a… wimp.”

  Zadir chuckled. “Whether she is or not, they’re together. I saw her kiss him when they went into their rooms.”

  “What?” Indignation flashed through him. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost think it was jealousy. But since he’d barely even met her, that was impossible. “If they’re a couple, why didn’t they ask to stay together?”

  “Perhaps they’re aware that unmarried couples shouldn’t cohabitate in our culture,” said Amahd. “And she just doesn’t want any trouble.”

  Osman stood and paced across the dimly lit space. Samantha and that feeble excuse for a man? On the other hand, American women did have some strange criteria for choosing their mates. Someone had told him that they considered a sense of humor to be the most important characteristic in a man.

  A sense of humor? That wouldn’t get you too far in the heat of battle.

  Or in bed.

  “If I need to liberate Samantha from an unfortunate union with the wrong man, then so be it. Fortune smiles on the bold.”

  Samantha’s wrinkle-proof, easy-care travel attire looked rather frumpy in the full-length mirror, with its hand-tooled silver frame. At least her long, dark hair was clean and shiny after a hot shower. Osman had led her to an ornate chamber draped in rich fabrics. It had electric light, which she was beginning to wonder about as they walked through the ancient stone palace, and a luxurious bathroom with every amenity.

  Definitely a palace.

  And Osman Al Kilanjar was heir to the throne. She didn’t have too much respect for inherited wealth and power. Still, she had to be nice enough to him that he’d help them find a mechanic in the morning and hopefully drive them back to their car. If he didn’t slit their throats, of course.

  She smoothed a not-supposed-to-be-there wrinkle out of her khaki skirt and tugged at the shapeless patterned tunic the catalog had described as a “blouse.” She looked like a nun, which was probably a good thing when she thought about how the tall, commanding sheikh had kissed her hand.

  The effect was alarming and made her feel uncomfortable in his presence.

  She hoped Allan was holding up okay. He liked to think of himself as intrepid and unflappable, but once again, she had to take charge and make things happen. Of course, that was why she’d become a producer, but every now and then it would be nice if someone else could shoulder the load. And apparently neither of them had the nerve to suggest sharing a room.

  A knock on the door made her jump.

  “Who is it?” Maybe it was Allan coming to check on her.

  “It’s Osman.” Of course it was. His bold voice boomed through the heavy door.

  “I’m almost ready.”

  “Impossible.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You can’t be ready when I have your evening attire in my hands.”

  “I don’t need anything.” She took a disapproving glance at her drab ensemble. “I’ve changed for dinner.”

  “Every woman must dress for the festival. Surely you don’t want to flaunt local traditions while you’re here?”

  Local tradition. Hmm. She did like the idea of experiencing the culture for herself. She squinted at her frumpy, beige-clad reflection. Then she walked to the door and gingerly opened it.

  Osman beamed. He was a full head taller than her, which was just annoying. She was five-foot-seven, for crying out loud! He must be nearly six-five, which was far too tall to be useful. Looking him properly in the face for the first time, she noticed his eyes weren’t dark brown like she’d assumed. They were an interesting olive-green color, brighter than a generic hazel.

  She glanced down at the pile of colorful fabric in his hand. At least it was unlikely to be revealing. Women in this part of the world were generally covered from head-to-toe. Curiosity pricked her as he lifted a garment with one large hand. A bright-pink dress with a lot of gold disks sown along the hem and cuffs.

  “That’s really not my style.”

  Osman’s eyes rested on hers for a moment. Then they drifted lower, to her lips and chin, to her neck, raking over her body and heating the skin beneath her practical khakis and shirt. “I can see that. Is this some kind of camouflage?”

  “It doesn’t show dirt.” She brushed at an imaginary speck.

  “It doesn’t show you, either.” He thrust the pink dress forward, and she grabbed it as he dropped it. Then he lifted some matching pink pants with more gold discs around the cuffs. “You’ll feel more at home in this, here in Ubar, dressed the way women have adorned themselves for centuries.”

  “I’m not sure it will go with my coloring.” The token protest felt essential somehow. Besides, she hadn’t worn that garish shade of bright pink since she left nursery school.

  “It will bring out the natural roses in your cheeks.” He said it with deadly seriousness that made her want to laugh.

  Part of her wanted to try on the colorful silks. The fabric felt unbelievably luxurious. Part of her wanted to defy him. His arrogant gaze, taking in her whole body as if she were simply a mannequin, had left her rattled. “I’m quite comfortable as I am.”

  “Suit yourself.” He said it quite pleasantly, then closed the door and left.

  Sam was left staring at the door, holding the pink dress and leggings that he’d managed to foist on her. She’d expected some high-handed insistence, so for him to simply disappear left her poised for a battle that had been canceled.

  Maybe she should try them on. Just for the experience. If this was what women wore for the festival, it was research anyway. Right?

  She’d dressed, surprised to find that the ensemble was rather fitted and showed off her curves. There was a veil of sorts—pearl gray with gold beading—and she remembered from images she’d seen in her research that it draped over her hair and was secured with a gold ring, similar to a headband, which she found nestled within it. She’d just finished outlining her eyes in dark pencil, to get the full effect, when there was another knock on the door.

  She decided to ignore it.

  “Sam?” It was Allan.

  “Come in, babe. It’s open. You’re not going to believe what I’m wearing.” The mirror now reflected back the image of an Ubarite princess. Or at least an elegant commoner. The eyeliner was a winning touch. With the tan complexion of her mother’s French ancestry, she looked surprisingly Middle Eastern.

  The door opened slowly, to reveal Allan still in the same rumpled t-shirt and jeans he’d had on earlier. He stopped and stared.

  She smiled. “Whaddya’ think?”

  His pale blue eyes narrowed. “Did he make you wear this?”

  “Make me?” She laughed, but only to hide a growing sense of unease. “Or course not. Why would you think he could make me do anything?”

  Allan rubbed his arm. “I don’t know. He seems like the type to make women do things.”

  “Women aren’t as malleable as you apparently believe, Allan. He simply offered them to me, so I could experience the culture, and I decided to try them on.” She attempted a confident smile. “Maybe we’ll get better footage if we can blend in easily with the locals. Perhaps you should dress up, too?”

  “Going native is not my scene.” He cast a dubious glance over her colorful finery. “They brought me an outfit, but I sent them away with it. If you start letting these people push you around, you have no idea what they’ll try next.”

  “No one’s pushing me around, Allan.” She wiped off some of the eyeliner with a fingertip. Maybe she didn’t need to look quite so full of Eastern promise. “Isn’t it kind of cool that we’re staying overnight in a real sheikh’s palace?” She gestured around at the carved stone archways, the luxurious hangings.

  “I don’t know. This Osman character seems like trouble.”

  “
Nonsense. He’s a little arrogant, but nothing we can’t handle. Think of it as an interesting exercise in cultural immersion.” She squeezed his arm. “Come on, Allan. This is a big adventure.” She took his hands. “This is almost our honeymoon. Let’s enjoy it!”

  He inhaled deeply and seemed to grow taller. Good. She’d managed to inflate his confidence. She needed to bring alive the romance of the situation. She leaned toward him and puckered her lips. He gazed abstractedly into the air behind her.

  She drew back. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I should call Roth to go over our plan for the edits of the Arts Council thing.”

  “I’m sure he can handle it by himself.” She smiled reassuringly and leaned in further.

  “What are you doing?”

  A twinge of disappointment flicked inside her. “I was hoping to kiss you.”

  He frowned. “Oh.” He leaned in, and their lips met in an unconvincing way. He draped his arms around her and sighed. “I’m sorry I’m not being more romantic. I’ve just got a lot on my mind with the upcoming release and those awards I’m up for. We have a tight turnaround on this project and this delay has me rattled.”

  She squeezed him. “Me, too. The festival only lasts three days, so we have to stay focused. Besides, I don’t love you because you’re romantic. I love you because you’re brilliant. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

  “It’s nice to be appreciated.”

  “Together we can accomplish anything.” She stroked his messy hair. “We were lucky to be rescued, and we need to focus on getting out of here as early as possible tomorrow morning so we can get our car fixed.”

  It was a relief to simply stand here with their arms around each other. They were a team, and they could face anything together. Even Osman Al Kilanjar kissing her hand. She wasn’t sure if Allan had noticed that, but she decided not to mention it. Why should she anyway? It was inconsequential. “Are you ready to go experience a traditional local meal?”

  “I suppose so. I took a Pepto-Bismol ten minutes ago so it’s probably kicking in.” He grinned. She kissed him again, just a quickie on the lips. She didn’t feel the amazing chemistry she’d read about in Cosmo with Allan, but their relationship was based on mutual respect and companionship. That was the stuff of long-lasting partnerships. Her own parents, both actors, had a tempestuous on-again-off-again marriage that had created an atmosphere of constant upheaval during her childhood and made reliability seem far more appealing than steamy passion.

  “Let’s go, sweetie.”

  “I can’t believe you’re willing to go down there dressed like that.” Allan surveyed her from head-to-toe. He was polite enough not to look at her in a way that made her skin sizzle under her clothes.

  “It’s fun. Almost like a costume party.” She shrugged. She didn’t tell him she felt elegant and exotic in her silk ensemble. She’d have fun telling her friends about this and about the green-eyed sheikh with his grand palace. In a week or two, this would all feel like a dream.

  Or a nightmare. She hoped she wouldn’t have to explain to the Kaplan Fund people that she’d spent all the money they gave her for the project but didn’t have any footage to show for it.

  “What if they serve us locusts baked in honey?” Allan raised a brow.

  “Eat them with a smile.” He almost seemed like his old self now.

  “Filleted snake?”

  “I might need hot sauce for that.” She shoved him with her elbow as they headed for the door. “What about fricassee of scorpion?”

  “Sounds crunchy.” Allan winked.

  She walked out the door with a smile on her face. They would get through this together. Tonight’s unexpected detour was a bump in the road of life. Just one of many that they’d face and conquer together.

  Sam closed the bedroom door behind them, making a mental effort to remember where it was. Third door along from the big arch with the blue inlays.

  She was about to wind her arm through Allan’s, to show him how warmly she felt toward him, when a loud crash boomed through the palace and made them both jump.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “His Majesty Sheikh Osman Bin Nizwan Al Kilanjar.” Sam understood enough to make out that much. The loud clash they heard must have been the clanging of twelve swords, as two rows of six armed guards created a tunnel of blades for his majesty to walk through.

  Talk about pretentious!

  Sheikh Osman held his chin high as he swept under their raised weapons and through a pointed archway. Two stern young men motioned for them to follow. Her blood pressure hadn’t yet come down from the crash, and she’d have grabbed Allan’s hand for support except that he’d shoved them both down hard into the pockets of his rumpled khakis.

  She walked gingerly across the polished marble floor, wishing with all her might that she hadn’t dressed up in this ridiculous costume. Osman had probably just suggested it to make fun of her. The archway led into a banqueting hall with a long table lined with heavy carved chairs. Silver plate and ornate silver goblets were laid for about twenty people, and Sam’s eyes widened as she saw the plates piled high with fragrant food.

  Rice pilaf, spiced chicken, skewers laden with barbequed shrimp, piles of glistening orange segments, slippery mango and papaya slices and shiny dates. There were also piles of steaming flatbreads and jugs of mysterious liquids.

  Not a toasted tarantula in sight. Her stomach grumbled, and she glanced around hoping no one had heard it.

  “Samantha, I’m delighted to welcome you to my table.” Sheikh Osman swept toward her. He’d changed into a new robe with subtle silver embroidery around the collar, which made him look impressively regal. The intensity of his gaze was quite unsettling. She struggled to stay focused as it heated her skin.

  “It is very kind of you to feed us, after all the trouble you’ve been to already.”

  “There’s nothing I enjoy more than sharing the prosperity I’ve been blessed with. Come sit with me.” He gestured to the head of the table. She glanced at Allan, who looked rather stunned. When she looked back at Sheikh Osman she saw a trace of a frown in his brow. “Your friend shall join my brothers at the other end of the table. Amahd and Zadir, please make our new friend…Allan”—he looked a little amused as he said it—“feel quite at home here in Ubar.”

  His brothers were almost as tall as Osman. Zadir had the wolfish good looks of a typical playboy. Amahd was also disturbingly gorgeous, with a more serious expression.

  Poor Allan looked awfully small and disheveled in their midst. She wished she could go sit next to him to help him through the conversation. She couldn’t imagine that Zadir and Amahd knew all that much about the esoteric world of documentary production.

  But Osman cupped her elbow with one of his big hands. His fingers sent a ripple of sensation through her silky finery and almost made her gasp. And why not? It was odd for a strange man to touch her. She was glad the dress she wore was just loose enough to hide the embarrassing way her nipples tightened in response to him simply touching her arm.

  He probably knew the effect he had on women and was just toying with her. She wouldn’t allow it to throw her off course. She intended to be polite and cordial and do everything in her power to ease their passage out of here at the crack of dawn tomorrow.

  A servant pulled back her chair and slid it in while she sat. She smiled shyly at Osman, then cursed herself for it when one side of his mouth hitched suggestively in response. She busied herself spreading a napkin on her lap, trying to ignore the flare of warmth in her core. This was ridiculous. She wasn’t attracted to this ostentatious peacock. She much preferred a humble man with a sharp intellect to flashy good looks and an outsize ego.

  “Would you like some kefir? It’s made fresh every day from our own goats.” He lifted a delicate silver jug.

  “Then I can hardly say no.” Her taste buds grimaced at the prospect of drinking goats’ milk, but she didn’t smell anything acrid or sour as he poured it ou
t. In fact, it was pale pink.

  “It’s laced with rose water and cardamom.” He lifted her silver goblet. “Try it.”

  She took the cup from him, careful not to have any accidental contact with his fingers, and raised it gingerly to her lips. The fluid slipped over her tongue like rich cream.

  “It doesn’t taste like goat’s milk at all.”

  “We have the finest goats in the world, bred for centuries to produce the sweetest, purest milk.”

  “It’s delicious.” She took another sip, glad she could actually tell the truth. And it was rather sweet of him to be proud of his goats.

  Sheikh Osman had insanely long, thick lashes, like a Hollywood starlet. They contrasted amusingly with the dark shadow of stubble that made his cheekbones jut out.

  She really needed to stop staring at him like this.

  Sam cleared her throat. “That business with the swords nearly made me jump out of my skin.”

  He chuckled. “Old tradition. Some of these guards have been with my father for more than fifty years, and their lives revolve around such small rituals. It would be almost cruel to make them put their swords away.”

  “I read that your father died four months ago. When do you take his place as ruler?”

  His expression was unreadable. “My father’s will contained a number of conditions that must be fulfilled before I can take the throne.”

  “You have to get married.” She helped herself to some crispy-skinned chicken pieces.

  He stared at her. “How did you know that?”

  “I read it in People magazine. They didn’t go into much detail, though. Do you stick with one wife here, or are there usually several?” She couldn’t resist teasing him, even though she knew the answer already.

  His brow lowered. “Only one. We may be a traditional culture, but we are not primitive or barbaric.”

  “I’m sure there are people who consider having several wives to be very civilized. Possibly even the wives themselves, who might be glad to share the duties involved in keeping a powerful man happy.”