by Diana Palmer
He ignored her. So did the men.
"You can't take over my bedroom!" she tried again.
"The guest room is inadequate. The bed is lumpy. I have no intention of sleeping on a lumpy bed."
"Then why don't you call the President and ask if you, can stay with him at the White House?" she raged.
He considered that for a moment. Then he shook his head. "It is a bad time," he said simply.
She glared at him. She glared at the men. Everybody ignored her. She picked up her purse and went into the living room. At least he hadn't tried rearranging that yet.
The men left and he came sauntering out in a white and-gold caftan with silver threads. He looked more foreign than she'd ever seen him look in the princely regalia. She hadn't considered before how alone the two of them were. The night before, she'd been to visit Tad and the sight of him had affected her much more deeply than before. She'd arrived late, and she hadn't seen Ahmed at breakfast. She'd gone straight in to work, thinking, silly her, that it was working out very well. Ha!
"You must do something about the television," he began." "There are too few channels. I want the French stations. Another thing, there is no fax machine here." He gestured impatiently. "How am I expected to attend to matters of state without a facsimile machine? I need a telephone line upon which these juvenile neighbors of yours are not always discussing―what do you call them?—arcade computer games!"
She just looked at him. He still didn't understand her budget. He made it more obvious by the day.
"And these.. .plants," he muttered, fingering the leaf philodendron with distaste and glaring at a trailing Ivy plant, "they make the room feel like a rain forest. I prefer desert plants. They make me feel at home."
"I'll send right out for some stinging nettles and cactus," She assured him.
His black eyes narrowed. He had an arrogance of carriage that sometimes made him look dangerous. He was using it now. "You mock me. Few have dared that over the years."
"What will you do, cut off my head?" she challenged.
"I believe I...we... outlawed beheading some years ago." He waved his hand.
"It was becoming politically correct with our allies. They found it offensive."
Shy couldn't believe he wasn't kidding. She moved toward the kitchen. "I'll fix something to eat." She turned. "No shrimp," she said. "And no wine. I had in mind some hot dogs."
"Hot... dogs?" His eyes bulged. "Hot dogs!"
"I like hot dogs with chili," she said.
"You served chili last night," he began.
"And I'm using up what was left tonight, on hot dogs She sighed, exasperated, and frowned. "Don't you understand? I don't throw away food, ever! I stretch it. If I have leftover bread, I make bread pudding. I waste nothing! I can't afford to!"
It didn't register. "You have credit cards, surely."
"I owe up to the limit right now," she explained. "I just bought a new bed, for my bedroom," she emphasized, "because the mattress I was sleeping on was so lumpy. Until then, there wasn't a bed in the guest bedroom, Lucky you, not to have to sleep on the floor or the sofa!" she added sarcastically.
"I would never do such a thing," he said absently. "It would be unseemly. What is this limit? I have no limit.'
"Why does that not surprise me?" she asked the ceiling.
He looked up to see who she was talking to, and she walked off and left him.
"I will have vichyssoise instead of hot dogs," he "I prefer cream and churned butter," he added with smile.
She took down a boiler, filled it with water and put hot dogs in it. She turned on the burner. Then she took a whole potato from the bin, walked into the living room and handed it to Ahmed.
"There you go. Instant vichyssoise. Just peel it and add cream and churned butter and a little water and simmer it for half an hour or so. Should be just delicious," she added, and walked right into her bedroom and closed the door with a snap.
When she came back, he was nowhere in sight. The potato was lying on the counter in the kitchen and the guest room door was closed. Her telephone had been unplugged and removed from the table by the sofa. She frowned, wondering what he could be up to.
Minutes later, he came back, carrying the telephone. He set it on the table and sprawled on the sofa, you might plug it back in," she suggested.
"Why?" he asked. "I unplugged it, after all, and plugged it into the bedroom wall. I am fatigued." He laid his head back on the sofa. "And very hungry. I had a hamburger from the corner diner for lunch."
He made it sound as if she should feel guilty about that. With fries?" she asked cheerfully. "They make good fries.
"I loath french fries," he informed her.
She'd mark that down mentally and soon she'd serve him some, she decided irritably, She dished up her hot dog and added mustard and catsup to the bun she'd placed it in. "There's one left if you want it," she offered.
He glared at her.
She shrugged. "Starve yourself, then." She sat down at the table. Just as she lifted the hot dog to her mouth, the door buzzer sounded.
Ahmed got up and pressed the button beside the door." Yes" he asked haughtily.
There was a spate of Arabic, which he answered in kind,pushed the door release.
"You can't do that! What if it's the people who are after you? They'll kill us all!" she raged.
He gave her a look. "It is my men," he told her. "Do you not think I know them by now?"
She started to argue, decided against it and went back to eating her hot dog.
Her peace didn't last long. An entourage of men in suits carrying boxes marched in, displaced her from the table with intimidating looks, and spread out a feast fit for a king for Ahmed. Then they left, without receiving a word of thanks.
He rubbed his hands together. "Ah," he said, inhaling the aromas of lobster and fresh sauteed vegetables and fresh-baked breads. He went into the kitchen, got a plate and utensils and proceeded to fill the plate. "You may join me if you wish," he added carelessly.
She glared at him and deliberately took a bite of the hot dog.
He hid a smile. Proud, he thought. It was an emotion of which he was not ignorant. She was no beauty, but she had spirit and compassion. Perhaps he would buy her a car when this charade was finished.
"You didn't thank your men for bringing all that to you," she remarked when she was washing up.
His face registered surprise. "Why should I? It is my fate to be served, and theirs to be my servants."
"You sound like a prophet quoting the Koran," she said. "I understood you to say that you were raised a Christian."
"I was," he agreed. "But I understand and respect the religion of my people," he added.
He turned his attention back to the exquisite cheesecake he was just finishing.
"A most adequate meal," he said finally, getting up from the table to sprawl back on the sofa. The remains of his meal were strewn all over the table and the cabinet. Brianna, already tired, eyed the mess with distaste.
"You may clear away now," he said offhandedly.
"I may clear― You may clear!" she raged. "This is my home. Nobody orders me around in my own home! I'm not a servant!"
"You are my landlady," he said imperturbably. "And you can hardly say that I am not paying for my stay here."
That brought Tad back to mind. No, she thought, she couldn't say that. He wasn't paying, but his government was. She had to adapt to him. Perhaps it wouldn't be for much longer. The thought cheered her. She packed away the trash and washed up the few remaining dishes.
"I should like a cup of cappuccino," he murmured as he changed the channels on the television. "Sweet, but not too sweet."
"I don't know how to make cappuccino."
He turned, his expression one of amazement. "You cannot make cappuccino?"
He made it sound like a mortal sin. She shifted. "No." She hesitated. "What is it?"
"Cappuccino?"
"Yes."
"You are j
oking."
She shook her head. "Is it some sort of after-dinner drink?"
His expression softened as he realized just how unworldly she was. He got up from the sofa and approached her, noticing how nervous she became when he paused very close to her. "It is a coffee with frothed cream and cinnamon, very sweet. I am fond of it." He caught her arm, ever so gently, and held her in place.
"Oh. Well, I can't make it. I'm sorry," she added. His touch bothered her. How odd that it should disturb her so. fine tested his hold and found him willing to let her break It. She stepped back and then looked up to see his reaction.
He was amazingly patient, almost contemplative, as he looked down at her. His black eyes mirrored his introspective mood, sweeping slowly over her exquisite bone structure, over her straight nose and down to her soft bow of a mouth.
"Women are property in your country, aren't they?" she asked, feeling chilled at the memory of what she'd read about some Arab nations.
"Not in mine, no," he replied. "We are a modern nation. There are those of our women who are not deeply religious, who consider the veil archaic and refuse to wear it. Our women work in public jobs and hold responsible positions in government." He smiled ruefully. "Needless to say, I am labeled an infidel by some disgusted neighbors."
"I expect your king is, too," she replied.
He cleared his throat. "Of course."
"Arabic is pretty," she said after an uncomfortable silence. "I have a friend who can speak a few words of it. It's musical."
"So they say."
"But it is," she argued, smiling nicely. "When you speak English, your voice has a lilt. It sounds, very.. .intriguing," she said after a careful choice of words.
He lifted one dark brow. "Intriguing? Not sexy?"
She flushed, and he smiled again.
"Vous êtes un enfant, Brianna," he said quietly. "Une très belle fleur avec les yeux comme la mer."
She frowned. "I don't understand French," she said, hesitantly, registering the depth and sensual tone of his deep voice as he stared at her much too intently for a mere acquaintance.
"It is just as well," he said wistfully. "Come and watch television with me."
"What are you going to watch?" she asked, because she knew already that it would do no good to demand access to her own television. He was being generous right now, but it wouldn't last. He didn't have it in him to be considerate for long.
"A special program on the connection between stress and the immune system," he said, surprising her. "It is a new study, one which has been challenged by many scientists. But I find the premise an interesting one."
She did, too. Her doctor often worried about her obsession with being at the hospital four out of every five days to sit with Tad. She never missed, even if it meant freezing or getting soaked, or waiting half an hour for a ride. He said that one day she was going to fall victim to some debilitating illness because of the strain. She never had, though. Not yet. There was a minor cold and a bout with the flu, but nothing more serious than that.
However, as she watched the program with Ahmed, she began to understand the connection they were trying to present. It was a little disturbing. Tad might be in a coma for the rest of her life. What then? She felt a surge of panic as she realized what she hadn't in three years―that she might never see the light at the end of the tunnel. It was the first time she'd considered that hope might one day be lost forever.
"This is not what I expected to see," he said suddenly. He changed the channel.
"Illness depresses me. I had hoped for something scientific. Ah. This is much more pleasant." He left it on the public-television station, where a new Sherlock Holmes adventure was just beginning.
She was taken aback by his abrupt action. She couldn't find the right words to express what she felt. Illness depressed her, too, but she had no choice at all except to deal with it. She couldn't change the channel of her life to something more pleasant.
She watched the program with him, absently rubbing the edge of her blouse between her fingers. The blouse was getting frayed. She would have to scrap it before too much longer. That was disturbing. She didn't have much money for clothes.
After a few minutes, she realized just how tired she was. She got up from the sofa. "There's a bottle of cola in the fridge, if you get thirsty," she said.
"No Perrier?" he asked without looking away from the screen.
"Dream on." She sighed.
He didn't reply. She moved toward her bedroom, glancing back as she went down the hall.
He obviously hadn't realized yet that he was going to sleep on that lumpy mattress in the guest room. He'd probably get the idea very soon. She wasn't giving up her brand-new bed.
She went into the bedroom and closed the door. Then she locked it and placed a chair under the doorknob. She nodded. There you go, she thought. Get through that!
Mindful of any hidden cameras, she turned out the lights before she disrobed. She was blissfully unaware that the agency had infrared cameras and film, and also that they were discreet enough not to bug her bedroom. Well, not with a camera, anyway.
Having donned her long gown and brushed her hair, she got into bed and pulled the covers up with a sigh. She was almost asleep when she heard the soft whine of the television cut off and footfalls coming down the hall.
There was a sudden stop, an exclamation, and then several loud words in Arabic at the door to her bedroom.
"You might as well calm down," she called through it. "I've double locked the door and there's a chair under the doorknob. It will take a battering ram to get in here. This is my bed, and I'm sleeping in it. If you don't like it, you can call somebody and complain!"
"You think that I will not?" came the haughty reply. "You will be surprised!"
"No, you will," she mused aloud. "Because no red-blooded American gentleman is going to try to force a woman to give up her bed."
She lay back down with a smile and closed her eyes. She didn't even feel guilty. He had no idea how hard and long she'd worked to afford this moderately priced new bed and mattress and box spring. He seemed to have no idea at all what things cost. Presumably his government fulfilled his every whim. It must be nice, she decided, to be in the diplomatic service.
If she'd thought she was home free, she was in for a surprise the next morning. He still wasn't up when she left, and she didn't leave him any breakfast. After his threats of the night before, she didn't think he deserved any. But her conscience plagued her all the way to work.
Once she got there, Mr. Ryker called her into his office. Lang was sitting cross-legged in a chair. He smiled as she came in.
"Oh, no," she pleaded. "Not you again."
"You'll break my heart if you keep talking like that," he complained. "And here I am to compliment you on the way you're taking care of your sweet cousin."
"He isn't sweet," she muttered. "He's a barracuda in a mustache. He commandeered all the closets and all my drawer space, and he even tried to get into my bed last night!"
Lang gasped. "Why, Brianna, I'm shocked!"
"Not while I was in it," she said impatiently. "I mean he tried to take over the master bedroom!"
"Yes, I know. He telephoned my boss this morning, early. He also telephoned the Pentagon, the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Secretary of State. Not to mention," he added, "the Secretary of Defense." He shook his head. "You have no idea how much trouble you've caused."
"He didn't call all those people. He couldn't... wouldn't!"
"He did." He smiled ruefully, pushing back a stray lock of dark hair that fell onto his broad forehead when he leaned forward. He rested his forearms over his knees. "In fact, I've been chewed out since daylight this morning. If you don't let him have the master bedroom, I'm afraid his government may declare war!"
She sat back in her chair, her face almost the color of the soft red turtleneck sweater she was wearing with her gray skirt. "I don't believe this."
"You'd better. I'm not even jok
ing," he added sol-, emnly. "This is a man who's quite used to getting everything he wants. He's never been refused in his life. He's rich and powerful and he isn't used to being denied―least of all by a young lady of your age and position."
"He's only a cabinet minister," she protested. "How can he have that much influence?"
"He has relatives in power in Saudi Mahara," he explained.
"Oh."
"We'll furnish you with a new bed for the guest room," he offered. "And a new vanity and a chifforobe. How about that?"
She hesitated. "Why not just let him bring a bed of his own to the apartment and sleep on that?"
"Great idea. We'll suggest it to him."
"Could you do it before I have to go home?" she asked. "I'm beginning to recognize several words in Arabic, and I don't think they're very nice."
"I can guarantee it." He grinned sheepishly at her start of surprise. "The bugs...?"
"Yes. The bugs." She turned her head a little. "You, uh, you don't have any cameras in the bathroom or anything?"
He chuckled, noticing that Steven Ryker had put his hand strategically over his mouth.
"No, we don't. I promise you. We don't have cameras anyplace where they'd embarrass you."
She let out a long, audible breath. "Oh, thank God. I've been dressing and undressing in the closet."
"No need for that. None at all." He hesitated. "There's just one little thing.
How did he get you to cook him vichyssoise and lobster?"
"But I didn't," she said. "I have no idea how to make those things. He had his men bring them in last night."
Lang was suddenly, starkly serious. "He what?"
"He had his men bring all that stuff in."
"Well, I'll be. You take five minutes to go to the men's room and look what you miss!"
"I thought you had the telephone bugged," Brianna said.
"I did. But Collins tripped over the wire and broke it. We were trying to make a splice... Oh, never mind.Calling out for lobster, was he? Well, we'll see about that!"
Lang stood up, and he looked very angry. Brianna brightened. She wished she could go home and watch him: give Ahmed hell.