The Desert Lord's Baby

by Olivia Gates

  He turned to Carmen, catching her elbow as her feet wobbled with her first step onto Judarian soil, on a red carpet, no less.

  She averted her eyes to the black stretch limo parked at the end of the carpet as his entourage flitted in and out of her field of vision. “It’s amazing how everything feels—I don’t how to say this—steeped in the stuff of Arabian Nights fables. I don’t know how, when everything is so modern, futuristic even. It must be those subtle cultural touches to the designs.” She stopped because he did, shifted her feet on the ground, suppressed a shudder. “No, scratch that. It’s the land itself.”

  He looked down at her, the declining sun infusing the gold of his irises with fire, or probably just revealing it. “You feel the land, don’t you? It’s calling to you. What is it saying?”

  It’s saying, run now, or you’ll never leave. In life or death.

  Before she confessed her thoughts out loud, a rumbling separated itself from the airport’s background noise, rose to the pitch of approaching thunder.

  Caught and held by his probing gaze, she felt no alarm. Probably because he transmitted none, and Mennah seemed to fear nothing in his arms. Carmen interpreted the din only when he released her from his focus, turned it toward the source.

  Her reaction still lagged until he said, “Here they are.”

  It was the pleasure and affection in his voice that made her follow his gaze toward a helicopter the like of which she had never seen, a matte-black majestic alien lifeform.

  In seconds it landed a few dozen feet from them in a storm of sound and wind, deafening her, sending her hair rioting, her loose clothes slapping against her flesh. Farooq and Mennah were all smiles as he pointed out the chopper to her, their hair flapping like raven wings. She heard Mennah’s screeches of excitement only when the rotors winded down as both doors opened and two bronze colossi descended and started toward them.

  Both Farooq’s height, one maybe even taller, in body-molding casual chic, one in blacks, one in grays, they looked like the embodiment of the forces of darkness and twilight, modern-day gods descending from the heavens to rule the earth.

  And she wasn’t being fanciful here. Not by much. She bet they inspired such hyperbole in everyone. She’d bet everyone felt everything holding its breath, slowing down like in movies to emphasize the gravity of their approach.

  As the sun slanted golden light and shadows on them, worshipping every sinew of their bodies, every slash of their faces and strand of their hair, it was clear they didn’t possess only the same physical blessings and impact as Farooq, but like him they had power and the entitlement of an ancient birthright encoded in their genes. The same genes. Though they resembled him only vaguely, it was unmistakable that they were his blood.

  And it was as unmistakable that they were both staring at her, giving her what felt like a total body and mind scan.

  She found herself groping for Farooq, this time sagging into him when he contained her in the curve of his body.

  As the two men came to a stop at arm’s length, they had mercy, terminated their visual and spiritual incursion of only her and instead took in the image of the nuclear family they made.

  Did they know how far from the truth this image was?

  They had eyes only for Mennah now, who was looking back at them with fascination. And excitement.

  A shard of mortification drove in her heart.

  Had Mennah’s agitation in the presence of strangers been her fault? Had she infected her daughter with her own fear, of losing her, transmitted her distrust of everything and everyone? Had she been influencing her into developing neuroses without knowing?

  If she had, that was over now. With Farooq’s appearance in her life, Mennah had learned fast that she had a defender for life, one with the power to wrestle the world to its knees.

  Gray man looked at Farooq before his gaze was dragged back to Mennah. But it was enough. In that moment as obsidian eyes had melded with gold ones, she’d seen a lifetime of understanding, of unbreakable loyalty and unshakable love. Though she’d never had anything like that in her life, she recognized the connection, understood its significance. Even had Farooq not told her about this meeting, she’d have known. This had to be his brother.

  Curious about him now she was certain of that, she examined him as he initiated interaction with Mennah, an approach of both eagerness and sensitivity, which the baby responded to wholeheartedly.

  He was Farooq’s height, with the same daunting proportions, but his face was more symmetrical, his hair a longer sweep down his collar, a rainfall of deepest black with strands kissed by indigo as if manifesting his electric aura, deepening the impact and darkness of his eyes. The eyes of a hypnotist.

  He let out a harsh sigh, his rugged face becoming etched with tenderness and wonder as he flicked a finger down Mennah’s velvet cheek. “Ya Ullah, ma ajmalhah.”

  Farooq exuded pride and pleasure as Mennah rewarded the ragged comment with a “squee” and a grab of the exploring finger. “Naffs kalami bed’dubt lamma ra’ait’ha.”

  My exact same words when I first saw her.

  “Mafi shak, hadi bentak.”

  No doubt, this is your daughter.

  Those words, spoken in a bass voice that was even deeper than Farooq’s, brought her eyes to the man in black. She’d been avoiding looking at him. Of the three of them, he unsettled her most.

  He was taller than Farooq, maybe by an inch or so, but that wasn’t why he overwhelmed her. It was his face, his eyes, what radiated from him, similar to Farooq and the man in gray, but laced with more harshness and danger. The slashed angles and hewn planes of his face were more merciless, the night of his hair total, the trimmed beard deepening the impression of ruthlessness, echoing the desert and its raiders, his eyes that of a lone wolf, hard and unforgiving.

  “W’hadi maratak?” he said without looking at her.

  And this is your woman?

  And she found herself saying, “If you’re speaking Arabic to exclude me from this exchange, I’ll be courteous and tell you it won’t work and warn you not to say anything not meant for my ears. According to Farooq, my grasp of Arabic is ‘impressive.’”

  Four sets of eyes turned to her, three of them boring into her with reactions comparative to each man’s character. Farooq’s vacillated between that humor he kept losing control over and his intention to add this to her running tab. Gray’s was the surprise of someone who couldn’t believe he’d mistaken a tigress for a housecat, both amused and intrigued by his faux pas. Black’s was unimpressed, his eyes telling her he was quick to judge and impossible to budge. No one got a second chance with him, and she was another false move away from eternal damnation.

  But since she was already eyes-deep in it, what the hell.

  She shrugged. “I see Farooq has no intention of introducing us. But you know who I am, and, while your identities seem to be need-to-know info he evidently thinks I don’t need to know, they’re not hard to work out. You must be Shehab and Kamal. And here I have to ask, is this what I should expect from now on?”

  Farooq cocked an eyebrow at her. “What is ‘this’?”

  “This.” She swept a gesture from him to Shehab and Kamal. “Are all Aal Masoods like this?”

  “Like what?” he persisted.

  “Larger-than-life? Description-defying? Will meeting you in your masses be like stumbling into a superhero convention?”

  His lips tilted at the corners, his eyes crowding with a cacophony of emotions. She was surprised to feel amusement ruled them all. “Are you flirting with my brothers, Carmen?”

  “I’m not even flirting with you. I’m stating facts. The three of you are the biggest proof of how grossly unfair life is. Giving you all that must have created severe deficiencies elsewhere. Your personal assets could be divided among three hundred men and they’d still be damn lucky devils.”

  Gray threw his head back, gave a hearty guffaw. “B’Ellahi, I’ve made up my mind. I like you already,
Carmen.” She looked at him, unable to hide her gratitude at finding one among the hulks surrounding her who wasn’t impossible to reach. He extended a hand to her. Her hand rose automatically, trembled as his closed around it. His smile turned assessing at feeling the tremors arcing through her. He shook her hand slowly, the fathomless black of his eyes brimming with astuteness and good nature. “I’m Shehab. Second son. Kamal is our baby brother.”

  Said baby brother shot her an implacable look, not following his older brother’s example and extending a hand of acceptance.

  Gathering the rest of her courage, feeling Farooq’s eyes burning the skin off the side of her face, she turned to Kamal. “I’m Carmen. And you don’t look like anyone’s baby brother.”

  Was that a hint of surprise in his eyes now? That someone dared breathe, let alone speak her mind, in his presence?

  “With two years between me and my ‘big’ brother, I don’t feel like such a baby.” Was that a hint of relenting, too?

  “So that’s why you all look the same age.” She cast her gaze between them, shook her head at the magnitude and range of virile beauty displayed before her. “I bet it’s great to have siblings so like yourself, so close in age. I would have loved to have any siblings at all, any family—but there you go. I hope you realize how lucky you are to have each other.”

  The three men exchanged glances, betraying no reaction to her words. She felt it anyway. Surprise. At her words. At their reaction to them. And to her after hearing them.

  When they turned their eyes back to her, it felt as if it was with new insight, more interest. She wasn’t sure she liked the intensified focus she’d provoked.

  She waved between them. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

  “Do what?” Shehab asked, his eyes intent on her.

  She wondered at how relative everything was. Seen alone, Shehab would be intimidating. Among his harsher brothers, he was the one who felt kinder, more approachable, the one she gravitated toward, counting on his leniency, his empathy.

  She exhaled. “Stand around in the open like that, together.”

  “You mean Judar’s heirs in one sniper’s bull’s-eye?” A definite shard of lethal humor glinted in the depths of Kamal’s eyes. “Though we always take every precaution, it has been drilled into us from birth never to put all eggs in one basket, so to speak. Farooq failed to tell us why he made an exception this time.”

  Farooq shrugged, seemingly no longer concerned with the progress of her first meeting with his siblings, playing with Mennah. “I had to coordinate with you face-to-face. As for the rest, I told you everything there is to know.”

  Shehab huffed in mockery. “Aih, you sure did. I have a daughter,” he reproduced Farooq’s voice. “Be there when I arrive. I get married tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow…?” Carmen choked on the word.

  “You didn’t get that telegram, eh?” Kamal sounded as if he relished knowing Farooq hadn’t put her in the picture, either.

  She shook her head, everything getting hazy, the juggernauts surrounding her cutting off air and light and reason. “I got nothing. He only mentioned you to explain your role as witnesses to our—to the-the orfi marriage and…and…”

  Shehab and Kamal stared at her, no doubt feeling her about to snap with anxiety, then turned to Farooq, eyebrows raised.

  Farooq ignored him, his eyes on her, hard with—what? Suspicion? Of what? Her reluctance, her outright panic? Well, surprise. “Do you have any reason for wanting to put off the ceremony?”

  “I—I barely set foot here, I need more time…”

  “You had sixteen months.”

  The endlessness of space around them turned into a vise, crushing her. She’d thought she’d have more time…

  At that moment, Mennah lurched forward, throwing herself into Carmen’s arms. As if she knew how much she needed her, to abort the spiral of agitation, to remind her of why she was doing this.

  Shehab, it seemed, thought it time to end the confrontation. He held out his arms to Mennah, who pitched herself at him, as if continuing a game she’d devised of throwing herself around the circle of her new-formed family.

  “Ana amm.” Shehab held her up, smiles wreathing his face as she wriggled and giggled, performing for her captive audience, pushing her enchantment factor to maximum. “I’m an uncle to this delightful treasure. It’s amazing, humbling, and it puts everything in perspective. We’re uncles, Kamal. Farooq, you’re a father. Ya Ullah, do you realize what a miracle this is? It’s all that matters.” He turned on them, holding Mennah out. “She is.”

  Kamal held out a hand to Mennah, as if unsure whether he could touch her. She grabbed his hand, tried to use it as a chewing toy, before repeating her catch-me maneuver. He caught her, the large hands capable of crushing men trembling, shock and other fierce emotions detonating in his eyes. Pride, protection, possessiveness. He was Farooq’s brother, all right.

  After a few moments of surrendering to Mennah’s pawing, he groaned, “Let’s get those marriage papers signed and sealed.”

  Farooq’s face was satisfaction itself at his unyielding brother’s capitulation, at how Mennah had secured it without effort. He beckoned, and Hashem materialized carrying the chest.

  Farooq took Mennah back from Kamal. Shehab reached for the chest, his eyes on Carmen, as if saying he was on her side. Kamal’s eyes, clearing of the emotions Mennah had provoked in him said he’d be watching her, that one step out of line, even if forgiven by Farooq, would guarantee her a formidable enemy for life.

  Well, one out of two—make that three—was better than zero.

  Farooq pulled her back to him, looked down at her for a moment before he let her have Mennah. “Wait for me in the limo. I’ll coordinate tomorrow’s ceremony with Shehab and Kamal. Then I’ll take you and Mennah home.”

  Home. They were going home. A home she couldn’t even imagine. Farooq’s home. Mennah’s now. Would it be hers? Could it ever be?

  The questions ricocheted inside her until she felt pulped.

  She again tried to let the splendor rushing by distract her. It wasn’t every day that she drove through a city that had materialized out of revolutionary architects’ wildest dreams while retaining its ancient mystery through restored historical sites that blended into the whole, its rawness in preserved natural sights.

  No use. She felt no pleasure at the amazing vistas they were sailing through. Thanks to Farooq. He sat at the end of the couch that ran the side of the limo beside Mennah, who was passed out in her car seat, worn-out by her uncles’ delight and stimulation, by her newfound extroversion.

  “I must know now what you want for your mahr.”

  She lurched. She’d thought he had nothing more to say to her.

  He’d always have something to say to her. Something distressing. This time something she’d only heard about, never imagined could ever be applied to her. The mahr. The dowry. Paid to the bride in exchange for the right to enjoy marital relations.

  She huffed. “Thank you, but I still don’t want a sponsor, even a legalized one. A certain amount of ‘sharing your privileges’ is unavoidable since I’ll live with you and Mennah, but that’s as far as I’m going, so let’s leave it at that.”

  Imperiousness fired his eyes, tempered by tinges of…what? Humor? Deliberation? Astonishment? She had no idea. “The mahr is an obligatory gift from groom to bride. It is your right.”

  “I can’t get my head around the words “obligatory” and “gift” in the same sentence. To my mind they’re mutually exclusive.”

  “Obligations govern relationships, and when observed at their beginnings, they ensure you aren’t short-changed or victimized if anything goes wrong. You entered a relationship before observing only the dictates of romantic rubbish, and where did it lead you?”

  “Out the other side without owing anyone anything. To freedom with dignity. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  He leaned forward, scooped her up, brought her to rest ha
lf over him in one move, one of her legs pressing against his hardness. He kept her gaze tethered as he whispered, soft and inescapable, “Name your mahr, Carmen.”

  She lay against him, flayed by his warmth and breath, suffering a widespread neurological malfunction. “I can name anything? You once told me you’d meet any demands I made.”

  His hand weaved in her hair, his eyes intent on her lips. “Anything. As long as it isn’t something unreasonable.”

  She tried to sit up, felt him expand at her wriggling. “Let’s see, what can be unreasonable enough for you? How about your fleet of jets? And a hundred million dollar token?”

  He ground her harder into his erection. “Done. And done.”

  This jolted her enough to break the body meld. “Whoa. So not done. I was joking. You know the concept, don’t you?”

  His eyes glowed like slits into an inferno. “I appreciate a slap and tickle as much as the next man, Carmen, but this is no joking matter. Your mahr is something only you can estimate, and it is something I’m honor-bound to give you.”

  She ran her hands through her hair, raised them. “Okay, okay. How about a blinding stone in an obscene size?”

  “You will have my mother’s betrothal jewelry and whatever you wish of Judar’s royal jewels. This is your shabkah, not your mahr. Shall I consider my fleet and the sum you specified your choice?”

  She shot up sitting straight. “You certainly shall not. What would I do with a fleet and a hundred million dollars?”

  His pout was cynicism itself. “You want investment advice?”

  “Listen, I’m not cut out to be a businesswoman or a shopper, so assets and money would be wasted on me.” His eyebrows rose, spoke volumes. She cried, “Does this mahr have to be material?”

  He threaded his fingers together. “As long as we’re alive, yes. When we’re ghosts you can have an immaterial one.”

  “Clever. You know what I mean. Can’t it be something…moral?”