by Avery Laval
Though he wouldn’t mind making the experience as hard on her as possible.
With a wicked smirk at the thought, he moved back inside, through his suite, and stepped swiftly into the hall, where he found Jana and Amid looking surprised and guilty enough that he knew his speculations of gossip had been dead on. He pretended not to notice. “Thank you for the privacy,” he said in his normal standoffish tone. “If you’ll step inside, I need to discuss my plans for this evening with you.”
He waved them in and they followed like ducklings. Once he’d closed the door behind them, he gestured around the suite. “First things first. By tonight at eight p.m., I want there to be no trace of business left in this room.”
Jana looked confused. “We’re not working late tonight?” she asked, incredulous.
Khalid shook his head. “Quite the contrary. In fact, I’ll need the suite to myself. After, of course, you’ve helped me set the stage...for a romantic dinner for two.”
This time, he couldn’t stop from smiling a little when he saw their looks of shock.
Dinnertime came far too soon for Marissa. Her meeting had gone brilliantly, and she’d paused in her hotel room afterward only long enough to send her brother-slash-boss a triumphant email before switching into much more comfortable flats and racing out again. She couldn’t wait to see the famous Egyptian Museum, and she was not disappointed. Once she made it through the garden and inside, the crowded halls were full of people, and treasures were in every direction. It was a crush of the living and the long dead, the first marveling in what the second had left behind. Every direction she turned revealed a new host of wonders, from a stunning room of ancient mummies to a grand hall filled with sarcophagi and tombs. She’d lost the most time in a bright, hot room in the far corner of the second floor, where the possessions of Nefertiti were displayed. By the time she’d puzzled out the French labels in that hall, she’d realized she was covered with a fine coat of dust and sweat, as if she herself had been excavating the ruins. If she hoped to be at least remotely presentable for dinner—and in truth she wanted to look her very best, despite her common sense—she would need to hurry back to the hotel and start from scratch.
By the time she rushed out of her hotel room at five to eight that evening, Marissa felt like a new woman—on the outside. On the inside she felt as nervous as she’d felt on their first date, when Khalid had taken her to a little, out-of-the-way Italian restaurant with checkered tablecloths and Sinatra records playing nonstop. That dinner had turned out to be amazing—a date she’d never forget, not only because of their involved conversation and an unmistakable feeling of falling she’d had the moment he walked in. She also would never forget it because, in an attempt to keep from ending the evening, she’d ordered a double espresso after dessert, acting as though she were the sort of cosmopolitan woman who always drank that much caffeine at ten at night. Later, after he’d kissed her softly on the lips and bid her good-bye, she’d been so wired that instead of going to bed, she’d stayed up all night bouncing around the house, thinking endlessly of Khalid’s sweet kiss and his dark eyes. And watching endless episodes of Magnum, P.I., on cable. The next day at work she’d been half-asleep. To this day, when she tasted espresso she thought of Khalid—and Tom Selleck.
Down in the hotel lobby, she took a moment to check herself out in one of the full-length mirrors that seemed to grace every wall that wasn’t already occupied by flowers or artwork. Her usually unruly brown curls were pinned up in an improvised French twist, and she wore what she hoped was the appropriate attire for a closure dinner: a sleeveless white picot blouse embellished with a long ruffle running down the button placket, and an embroidered cotton skirt that fell above her knee in a straight pencil cut. In the mirror she looked thinner than usual, and longer, too. The high-waisted skirt did wonders for her short-torso/long-legged frame, and the tan slingbacks she’d packed didn’t hurt either. But neither did anything to hide the generous curve of her hips, she realized with a shrug. Khalid had always loved her curves, or so he’d said—and then he’d married a rail-thin woman. Maybe his tastes had changed, and he’d find her sizable caboose less appealing, she thought with a frown. Not that she cared what he thought of her anymore.
Before she could become too self-obsessed, she spotted a woman bee-lining toward her purposefully. Marissa took her in. She was tiny, swimming in a dark pantsuit with her black hair pulled back in a bun. She had the beautiful olive skin of the Rifaisi region, but she was certainly not Khalid’s wife. That woman was more Amazon in appearance, or so she’d looked online.
“Ms. Madden?” asked the stranger hesitantly, in a thick accent.
“That’s me.” Marissa extended her hand. “Are you with Khalid?”
The woman looked taken back by Marissa’s use of his first name, but took her hand gingerly and shook it regardless. “I’m Mr. Abbasi’s assistant, yes. May I escort you to his suite, please?”
“Thank you,” Marissa said warmly, following Khalid’s assistant as she walked briskly to the nearest bank of elevators. “Please call me Marissa, by the way.”
The woman frowned for a moment but then she shrugged ever so slightly, and a faint smile crossed her lips. “Very well. I’m Jana. Pleased to meet you.”
“You too.” Marissa was glad to see her companion’s face relax a little. “How long have you worked for Mr. Abbasi?” She used his last name to keep Jana comfortable.
“Since the very beginning,” Jana replied. “I worked at the palace before we even knew he existed. When we found out he was coming, I was given the honor of working on his team.”
Marissa considered her wording. “I take it this was a very prestigious assignment?”
“Oh yes, very,” Jana answered in her musical accent. “Everyone was so excited when the news broke. For years we’d thought that his grandfather, the sheikh, was the last of his line.”
“What about Khalid’s father?”
“He passed away just before Khalid arrived. But to be honest, Ms. Madden—Marissa”—Jana looked her in the eye as she spoke—“there wasn’t ever much hope of him taking over the duties of the throne.”
Marissa had figured out as much from what little Khalid had mentioned about his father in his early emails. But he’d never come out and said so, and it was interesting to have her suspicions confirmed. She nodded. “I see.”
Before she could inquire further, the elevator doors chimed and slid open. “Here we are,” said Jana, a smile in her voice. She gestured to the first door on the long hall, where a bodyguard nodded imperceptibly to them both and stepped to one side. “Presidential Suite,” the door read.
Marissa gulped. For the first time, it occurred to her that she had an audience with royalty tonight. She looked to Jana to lead the way, but the aide didn’t budge. “Will you be needing anything further?” Jana asked politely, already reaching for the buttons on the elevator.
“Thank you, no,” Marissa said automatically, wondering if she should leap for the elevator door herself. But it was too late—she was here and the doors were sliding shut. She steeled herself and lifted a hand to knock.
She had to knock three times before Khalid appeared. When he did, Marissa wondered what on earth she’d been thinking to come to his hotel room in search of closure.
One look at him and she knew getting closure tonight was as likely as learning to fly. He wore a light-colored pair of linen trousers and a luxurious-looking cotton sweater in a heathered shade of oatmeal that made his brown skin seem to glow from within. His hair, the color of rich walnut and longer than it had been when they’d been together, was pushed back out of his eyes—still wet, as if he, too, had just rushed out of the shower. Without wanting to, she found herself picturing that shower, the water coursing over his tight, muscled body, beading on his skin, rolling down his strong back and slowing at his firm butt...
Stop! she told herself. He’s married. Marissa exhaled and wondered when her imagination had gotten so wild. And then
she remembered that the image wasn’t imaginary at all. She’d seen it, the morning before he’d left, when she’d come into her little apartment bathroom to brush her teeth while he showered. She’d seen him there, wet and naked, and had wanted to step inside of the shower with him and kiss away the droplets as they fell. But she’d decided the pregnancy test was more important, so she’d just pecked him good-bye before going, leaning back to keep her shirt dry.
If she could go back in time, she knew in an instant, she wouldn’t have cared about her shirt. She’d have taken the opportunity—every opportunity—to be in his arms again. To feel that body pressed up against hers. To lose herself in passion.
“Good evening, Marissa.” Khalid’s, low, rich voice brought her back to the moment. “You look lovely.”
Marissa looked up at him, scrutinizing his features. The anger he’d shown her earlier was gone. In its place was something far more dangerous. Desire.
“Thank you.” She swallowed hard. “And thank you for inviting me to dinner. I know it’s awkward, seeing each other again after all these years. But I have to believe it’s no coincidence that we’d run into each other so far from our homes.”
“Oh no?” asked Khalid. “What is it then?”
“Opportunity,” she replied. “A chance to put what happened behind us.”
Khalid looked away from her for the first time since opening the door, and Marissa wondered if he was rolling his eyes at her. He’d always been so matter-of-fact. He didn’t believe in fate, or destiny, the way she did.
Or had, until she’d lost her baby.
“Come in,” he said after a moment. “I hope you still enjoy seafood as much as you used to. I’ve asked the chef to do a few choices, but the main event is salmon.”
“I do.” Marissa was pleased that he’d remembered at least that much about her. “Very much, thank you.” She stepped inside the grandly appointed suite and looked about her, taking in the delicious smells of dill and lemon floating through the room. She was in a sunken living room, full of sofas and wingback chairs, a few pointed towards an enormous flat-screen TV mounted on the wall above an understated gas fireplace that crackled quietly. To the left, a few steps led to a pair of French doors. They were closed, but the open curtains displayed a bedroom with a massive four-poster bed stacked high with silk pillows. Quickly, Marissa turned her head away. To the right was a bathroom, and straight ahead and up again was an alcove dining area nestled into a half-circle of bay windows. At closer examination, she saw that one of the windows was actually a door, opening to a balcony beyond. The balcony, she could guess, had an amazing view of the pyramids. Without a second thought she moved up the stairs to the dining room to get a better look.
“Hungry, are we?” asked Khalid, a smile creeping into his voice. “I’m glad I ordered so much food.”
“No, it’s not that,” she said, turning back from the window to see him moving to join her. “It’s the view. My room is on the Nile side of the building, which is beautiful. But these gardens, and the pyramids behind them. They’re breathtaking.”
Khalid reached her side and nodded. “They are indeed. If you enjoy that, you should make a point to visit the Egyptian Museum across the street, and see what was once inside those pyramids. There’s so much to learn from a land this ancient.”
Marissa turned from the view and smiled, happy to be relating to him so easily despite everything. “I’ve already been,” she said excitedly. “But I saw only a small fraction of the collection. I could spend days in there. The history, and the beautiful art. Did you get to see the room with all of Nefertiti’s gold artifacts?”
Khalid furrowed his brow. “Regrettably, I’ve never been able to spend more then five minutes there.”
Marissa stopped her lips. “Oh,” she said, feeling foolish.
He folded his hands together. “It’s not from lack of interest. I come to Cairo every few months to do business, but I’ve yet to find any time to tour. My schedule is tight. It has been since the day I met my grandfather.”
Marissa thought of his sporadic emails and calls as he grew more and more involved. “I know,” she said. “I can’t begin to imagine the demands of this—do I call it a job? Is being a royal a job?”
Khalid smiled slightly. “It most certainly is. A job that I never go home from,” he said, sounding weary. “And an honor,” he added quickly.
Marissa searched his face, wondering for the first time if he regretted taking on such a huge responsibility. She’d always assumed he’d been eager to take his place as a wealthy sheikh and leader. But now she saw that the job had taken its toll.
“Your life has changed so much since the last time I saw you,” she said. “You used to enjoy your freedom so much.”
“And you’ve changed as well,” he said, moving back from her slightly, then covering up the movement by reaching to a side table for a bottle of Pinot Gris. “Wine?”
She nodded, confused by his comment, and he poured her a glass, but took none for himself. “You don’t drink anymore?”
“Drinking isn’t socially acceptable in Rifaisa,” he said. “I have a glass of scotch from time to time, in private.” He picked up a snifter she hadn’t noticed, poured himself one finger of an amber liquid, and raised the glass to his full lips. “This is one of those times.”
An uncomfortable silence built between them. After a moment, Marissa realized she had been staring at his mouth, where the glass had been seconds earlier. Unconsciously, she licked her own lips. Then she cleared her throat. “The wine is very good,” she said, desperate for distraction.
“Is it?” he asked, one eyebrow raised. “You haven’t tasted it yet.”
She looked down at her glass. Sure enough, there was no trace of the telltale lipstick mark that she usually left on the lip of her stemware. She flushed. “It has nice legs,” she said, parroting a phrase her wine-buff father was known to bandy about when a wine clung well to the inside of its vessel.
“I see. Legs.” Khalid replied with a slight smirk, and then she watched as he ran his eyes up and down her legs, as if she herself were a glass of wine for him to swirl around and taste. Her mouth went dry, and she took a sip of the wine to cover her embarrassed gasp.
When she swallowed, she struck back. “Would your wife be happy to know I’m here with you, in your hotel suite right now?”
Khalid’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps we should sit down for dinner now. The food is on heating trays, but it won’t hold forever.”
Marissa frowned, but drifted to the chair he’d gestured toward. Before she’d made hardly a move to sit, he was there, pulling the chair out just as he’d done that night at the Italian restaurant. The gesture was tiny, but like a brick through glass it shattered the calm she’d gathered about her and brought back all the pain Khalid had ever caused her. What was she doing here? she asked herself. Why was she in this man’s suite when his wife was God knows where?
She popped up in her chair and whirled around to face him. “I should go. It’s not proper for me to be here with you alone. You’re a married man, and we were lovers once. Think of how it would look.” Khalid stood in her way like a concrete wall, but she tried to push past him nevertheless.
He raised his hands and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Relax, Marissa,” he said, holding her still despite her struggle. “My wife doesn’t care who I have dinner with. We’ve been divorced for almost two years.”
3
Marissa stopped at once, her hands still on Khalid’s chest to push him away, but her body froze in place. “You’re divorced?” she said, unable to process what he’d just told her.
Not breaking eye contact, he nodded once, slowly. “The marriage was a sham. A publicity stunt gone wrong.”
She shook her head, stepped back, and pulled her hands from his body, feeling the cold loss of their touch. “But why would you marry someone for publicity?” she asked, incredulous. Her mind was swimming with the news. For so long she’d believed he
was lost to her forever. Now she felt the old ache dissolving. Could it be possible that they might have a second chance?
“I didn’t. At least not on purpose. My grandfather arranged the marriage, when he saw that you and I were over. It was political in nature—she’s the daughter of a very important sheikh—but I had no objection. The only woman I wanted was no longer an option.”
Marissa flinched at that, hurt. He was, she figured, implying that a man of royalty such as himself couldn’t possibly marry an American commoner. Was that really true, in this day and age? Marissa wondered. But how could she possibly know what the people of Rifaisa would abide?
She sat back down slowly, realizing that if that were the case, there would be no second chance for them. She shouldn’t have even let herself think it. “And then what happened?” she asked, curious despite herself.
“And then we were married, and I soon discovered that my new bride was after more than just title and honor. She wanted limitless resources and a life of leisure and fame. She had no interest in doing her political duties as my wife, and certainly not in risking her figure and freedom to produce an heir for the country.” He shook his head angrily but did not move from where he stood at Marissa’s side. “It was only a few weeks before we decided to dissolve the marriage, for both of our sakes. But we waited six months to announce it, for the sake of appearances.” His face twisted. “That was time wasted. She was seen in public with another man just a few days after our divorce.”