by Valerie Parv
“Now you’d do the same to me without benefit of trial.”
Thinking of what form the trial had so nearly taken, she swallowed hard. “You spelled out your rules for letting me stay in Nazaar. You even ordered me to kiss you.”
“For your own good.”
She rolled her eyes. “My father’s standard justification for his rules.”
He placed his hands behind his neck and stretched his head against them. His whole body throbbed with unanswered needs. He wanted to be angry with her, but he couldn’t. Her father had fled a Nazaar that was still feudal in many ways. Recreating the only life he’d known, Ali al Hasa wouldn’t have been aware that his old lifestyle no longer existed except in his mind. Markaz knew of many children of migrants who were amazed to return and find that their parents were the ones frozen in time while their homeland had moved on.
Not used to justifying himself to anyone, he was surprised at his thinking. Even more by how much he wanted Simone. Forbidden fruit, al Nazaari? he asked himself, but knew the challenge went deeper. He wanted to understand her as much as he yearned to make love to her. “Then let me ask you to please disguise yourself as a member of my household until the murderer is caught.” His tone emphasized that, this time, it was a request.
He had the satisfaction of seeing her lovely eyes widen and she said, “I thought you’d never ask.”
Amal muttered disapprovingly as she mixed a verbena-scented potion in a bowl. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
“Markaz says my blond hair stands out like a beacon.”
“All the same, we could cover it with a hejab if you have to go out. Or even a burka that would leave only your eyes exposed. Changing your beautiful hair color seems like a sin.”
Stretched out full length on a chaise longue with her head tilted back over a basin, Simone couldn’t imagine herself swathed from head to toe in black, looking at the world through a fabric grille over her eyes. These days only very elderly Nazaari women wore the full burka. Younger women preferred to frame their hair with the hejab scarf or leave their hair uncovered.
“Like most natural blondes, I’ve often wondered what I’d look like as a brunette. Do your worst.”
Spreading the thick lather over Simone’s hair, Amal made a clucking sound of concern. “My worst may ruin your hair altogether. Have you thought of that?”
They’d already gone over this when the sheikh took Amal into his confidence earlier that morning. “We can’t call in a professional. Markaz had my name added to a tour group flying out this morning. My continued presence has to be a secret known to as few people as possible. By the time you’re finished, I’ll look like any one of His Highness’s conquests.”
Working the mixture through Simone’s locks, Amal smiled. “I have lived at the palace on and off since Markaz’s marriage ended. No woman has claimed his attention for long.”
“So he’s fickle?”
Above her, Amal’s slight shoulders lifted. “He is a man with a man’s needs. But he does not let his heart rule his head.”
Good advice for her, too, Simone thought. She closed her eyes and let herself drift as Amal worked the color through her hair. The massaging sensation was hypnotic. She was glad Markaz had told Amal the truth, giving Simone someone she could confide in. The sheikh might think she was brave, but the reality of what she had committed herself to was starting to rattle her. What if someone within the palace was out to harm Markaz? Wouldn’t she also be in their sights? Amal could even be the traitor. Immediately Simone dismissed the thought. Apart from being his cousin, Amal’s devotion to the sheikh was obvious.
While they waited for the color to take, Amal pulled up a seat opposite Simone. “It was late when Fayed brought you back to the women’s quarters last night. Do you find my cousin attractive?”
“Who wouldn’t?” Not that anything would come of it. Should come of it. “He’s a very compelling man.”
“He finds you compelling also.”
His kiss had told her so, but she kept that to herself. “How do you know?”
“I know Markaz. He’s shown no serious interest in a woman for many years. Until you.”
“Only because I did him a favor and now need his protection.”
Amal got up and checked the dye. “You may think so, but I see him looking at you as if he can hardly believe you’re real.”
Simone shifted uncomfortably. “So quickly? That’s impossible.”
“I’m not saying he’s in love yet,” Amal denied. “Only that you’ve had a greater effect on him than you realize.”
Or wanted to have. The yet also troubled Simone. She diverted Amal by asking about her daily life, equipping herself to deal with the new environment. “I gather it helps to like shopping,” she said dryly.
“It’s a favorite pastime of our women. You don’t enjoy it?” Amal sounded disbelieving.
“Mainly I shop over the Internet.”
“How can you see and touch the items on offer? Or share coffee with the shopkeepers?”
Uncivilized was the word she didn’t use, but Simone heard it anyway. “I manage. However, I will shop for some of your heirloom embroidery for my business.”
Amal brightened. “We’ll go together as soon as Markaz declares it’s safe.”
Declaring the wait over, she sluiced tepid water through Simone’s hair. The blow-drying stage followed, then she was handed a mirror. Holding the glass, Simone stifled a cry. Her hair gleamed red-gold like the sky at sunset, making her skin glow. “I look like pictures of my mother as a young woman. I used to wish I looked more like her.”
“Now you do.” Amal clapped her hands. “We’ll complete the look with traditional clothing.”
Simone set the mirror aside. “You’d risk lending me another galabia after I tore the first one?”
Amal looked puzzled. “What do you mean, another?”
“Didn’t you set out traditional clothes for me to wear last night?”
“I heard Markaz order dinner served in the New York suite, so I knew your own Western clothes would be more appropriate. Unless…” She tapped a fingernail. “I saw Markaz’s mother, Princess Norah, take some clothes into your room. But she would have known what Markaz planned. Why would she want you to dress unsuitably?”
Simone could work it out, or thought she could. Amal might not have been the only one to notice Markaz’s interest in Simone. Sabotaging her appearance was one way to nip it in the bud. Simone would have to watch herself around the princess.
With Amal she had no such qualms. The young royal’s enthusiasm was catching as she piled garments into Simone’s arms. “Try this, and this. One of these. And this of course.” She added jewelry to the armload.
Simone laughed. “Surely you don’t mean I should wear them all at once?”
Amal took the garments from her and piled them in a divan. “Look, I’ll show you. The galabia goes on first.”
Divesting Simone of the cotton robe she’d worn for the hair treatment, Amal slid a straight-cut dress over Simone’s upraised arms. The lovely silk was embroidered at wrists and chest, and fell in graceful folds to her feet.
Then she slid another, lighter layer over the galabia. This layer was also brightly embroidered in gold thread and was called a thobe, Amal explained. “Different styles are worn for different occasions.”
Simone was familiar with the sirwall, the flowing, trouserlike garment worn under the dress and caught at the ankles with still more embroidery. She looked forward to studying the designs more closely, making some sketches and learning about their history from Amal.
“More layers?” she said as the young royal arranged a fine, silky cloak around her shoulders.
“This is the abaya,” she explained. Finally she wound a length of fabric around Simone’s head. “The headpiece ensures privacy, especially if you veil like this.” She fixed a gauzy cloth over the lower half of Simone’s face.
Expecting to feel stifled, Simone was surpr
ised to find she felt mysterious and exotic. Dressing this way all the time might have less appeal, but as an experience it was excitingly different. Coupled with her new dark hair, all trace of her normal appearance had been erased.
Amal took her hand and threaded each finger with a ring, the rings in turn attached to a chunky bracelet. “This is a traditional piece of Nazaari jewelry, popular with young women during celebrations. Most royal women wear a fortune in jewelry.”
Simone lowered her hand and her eyes. “As you wish, Princess Amal.”
Delighted laughter greeted her meek pose. “Now you are a true Nazaari lady.”
“I’m not sure how long I can keep up the subservient routine,” Simone said with a laugh.
“May I tell you a secret? It’s an act to beguile our men into thinking we’re demure and biddable. After marriage, they find out the awful truth, that we have minds and spirits of our own, but by then it’s too late.”
Perfect courtship camouflage, as well as a disguise to protect her from Natalie’s killer, Simone reflected. The thought sobered her. This wasn’t a game of dress-up, but a life-and-death necessity. She arranged the abaya around her shoulders as Amal had demonstrated. “Thank you for doing this for me.”
Amal caught her mood. “I wish it was for a different reason. I don’t like to think of you in danger.”
“Or Markaz. He’s the real target.”
“He is strong. And well guarded.”
As long as it wasn’t by a traitor, Simone hoped.
A commotion at the entrance to the women’s quarters sent fear jolting through her and she pulled the abaya up to cover her head. But one of the teenage royals, a girl of no more than sixteen, ran up to them. “Amal, you have to help me. Something terrible has happened.”
Chapter 6
With a worried look at Simone, Amal grasped the young woman by the shoulders. “Calm down, Bibi. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Bibi gulped hard. “Some police officers came to meet with Sheikh Markaz. Abdl saw them arrive and panicked. They caught him when he tried to sneak out of my room.”
“Oh no. You gave the sheikh your word you wouldn’t see Abdl alone again until you finished school.”
“I know, but I love him.” The girl’s reedy voice rose to a wail. “They took him away in the police vehicle. What am I going to do?”
Amal exchanged concerned looks with Simone. “You should have thought of that before breaking your promise. You know how much Sheikh Markaz hates lies and deception.”
Too distressed to pay attention to Simone, Bibi hadn’t given her a second glance. Now Simone felt uneasy, thinking of her own small deception in not mentioning Yusef’s past to the sheikh. If he was this tough on a young girl in love, how would he react to Simone’s evasion? The thought was unsettling.
No doubt the police had come to see Markaz to discuss the investigation into Natalie’s murder. Simone had given them her own statement earlier in the day. At the sheikh’s request, she’d been interviewed at the palace, and the police had agreed to keep her whereabouts quiet.
“Why was Abdl taken away?” she asked in Arabic.
Amal answered. “It sounds like something Markaz would have set up for show, to teach Bibi a lesson. Markaz knows Abdl isn’t a rebel. His family is among the sheikh’s closest friends. He’ll probably be released into their custody later with orders not to show his face at the palace except in his parents’ company for a few more years.”
“Years?” Bibi wailed again. “I can’t bear it.”
“Yes, you can. If you’re a good student, Sheikh Markaz may let Abdl visit you, although not in your room.”
The teenager had calmed down visibly. “Will you speak to him for me?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Bibi threw her arms around Amal. “Thank you, thank you.”
“Thank me by studying hard.”
“I will.” Finally she threw a curious glance at Simone. “And thank you…”
“This is my cousin, Sima,” Amal supplied before Simone could answer.
“Thank you, Sima.”
Her parents had sometimes called her that as a pet name. Hearing it now gave her an odd feeling of belonging. “You’re welcome, Bibi.”
When the teenager had gone, Simone pulled off the abaya and sank onto the chaise longue. “Shades of Romeo and Juliet.”
“Except that their families aren’t in conflict. They are simply too young for anything more than friendship yet.”
“Do many girls like Bibi live at the palace?”
“The royal family is large and scattered. Some branches are from desert communities where there are limited educational facilities. Our society frowns on the young princesses living alone, so the palace is the most suitable environment for them while they complete school or university.”
“Bibi paid me no more attention than she would the wallpaper. She completely accepted me as your cousin, Sima. Quick thinking on the name, too.”
“It’s the nearest Nazaari name to your own, so you’ll remember to answer to it if addressed. No one will give Cousin Sima a second look.”
Knowing her life could depend on it, Simone nodded. “Then I’d better make sure it stays that way.”
Simone found out the next day that one person she didn’t have to fool with her disguise was Markaz’s mother, Princess Norah. She hadn’t expected to have much to do with the princess, but was summoned to join her for lunch in her apartments.
Lunch was the main meal of the day in Nazaar—a time when families gathered at home late in the afternoon, depending on their schedules. But Norah preferred to eat alone in her own quarters.
She felt a moment of panic when a maid came to fetch “Sima” from the women’s quarters and escort her through the palace to the wing Norah occupied. The older woman plainly didn’t like her. Why would she send for her?
She soon found out. “My son told me what you did for him, and requested that I make you feel at home,” she said when Simone was seated across from her on a cushioned divan pulled up to a low table. The abaya lay on the seat beside her. With her newly colored hair, she felt safe enough with her face uncovered among the women, at least within the palace.
A maid served them cardamom-flavored coffee in tiny cups then left them alone. A tall, gaunt woman whose tragic losses were etched on her sharp features, Norah looked anything but welcoming. Simone was distracted by the feeling that she’d seen Norah before, although they’d never met as far as Simone knew.
“That’s kind of you,” Simone said.
“Not at all. Markaz is the sheikh.”
Her meaning was clear. Her son’s word was law and Norah would obey him, no matter how distasteful she found the request. “Nevertheless, I appreciate the courtesy,” Simone murmured.
“The hair and clothes are an improvement,” Norah said as if thinking out loud. “As long as you don’t plan on remaining here after Natalie’s killer is caught.”
Simone sipped the strong, bitter coffee, mentally counting to ten. Letting her temper betray her would get them nowhere. “I can identify the man who dragged her into the car. But he also saw me.”
A flicker of something—sympathy?—flashed across Norah’s expression, then was gone. “Had Natalie chosen a different path, she might still be alive.”
Lowering the cup, Simone said, “This must be hard for you, too. Dealing with so much loss, and worrying about your son’s safety, as well.”
Norah fixed her with a gimlet look. “Don’t think you can manipulate me as easily as you did my son. When you arrived I saw how he looked at you, as if you were a new toy for his pleasure. I may be Nazaari now, but I know how Western women think, and the strategies they use to wrap men around their little fingers.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask the older woman if she spoke from experience. After all, she’d managed to marry her own sheikh. But again Simone held her tongue. Her father would have been proud of her. “With respect, Princess Norah, I�
�m not Natalie.”
“No, but you are her clone. When she decided to return to her old life in America, she hurt Markaz. I won’t let it happen again.”
“So the first night I was here, you provided me with the wrong clothes, hoping I’d look foolish when I dined with Markaz in the New York suite.”
Norah was trembling with anger now. “My husband created that room for me. Markaz had no right to entertain a woman there.”
The way she spat out woman, floozy would have done, as well. “That wasn’t my fault,” Simone observed. “As you said, he is the sheikh of sheikhs.”
It was the right thing to say, she noticed as Norah visibly subsided. But Simone felt shaken. The murder of a husband and son, and now a former daughter-in-law, was enough to unbalance anybody.
But Norah sounded calm enough when she ordered her maid to serve lunch, then slipped into the role of hostess as if the previous conversation hadn’t happened.
Many of the dishes placed in front of Simone were familiar from her parents’ home, but she didn’t interrupt when Norah explained them to her. “This is called youlanji, a meatless dish of stuffed vegetables. And the lentils and rice topped with brown onions is mujadarra.”
There was roast chicken flavored with lemon juice, a spinachlike leafy green cooked in broth and served over rice, a variety of salads and the bread Simone’s mother used to bake at home, called khubz. The aromas alone were enough to make her homesick.
She’d telephoned her mother again after breakfast. This time they were able to talk, but hearing that Simone had no news of Yusef, Sara had become tearful. How was she going to cope if Simone wasn’t able to find out anything more?
Too tense to do more than pick at the array of dishes, Simone wondered what she was doing here. If it was only to warn her off Markaz, little did Norah know there was no need. However scorching the kiss they’d exchanged, Simone had no intention of getting involved with him. She knew his type only too well. If she needed additional evidence. Norah’s deference to her son’s dictates was more effective than anything she might have said.