by Diana Fraser
Zavian glared at Naseer. He could hardly tell him that his obsession with Gabrielle was only increasing over time. While he managed to push her to the shadowy recesses of his mind during the day, she always emerged fully formed in his imagination at night. “And what did he say?”
“The piece was purchased from the dealer for a rumored one million dollars, and has been donated to the museum. He wanted to assure you that it was all above board, that everything has been done legally.”
Zavian looked out at the museum, its honey-colored stone warming now under the slowly moving finger of sunlight. “And the paper trail your source provided”—he nodded to the pile of papers on his desk—“is genuine?”
Naseer gave a slight bow, which was for form only. “I am assured it is.”
Zavian let the remaining doubt burn away just as the sun burned away the shreds of mist that lingered along the coast, leaving the full form of his golden city revealed. Its domed minarets thrust up into the pale gold-gray sky, the warmth of its umber tones deepening, minute by minute, in the early morning light.
Naseer sniffed with disapproval. “Although I haven’t seen the papers myself, as you instructed.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you care to tell me what this is about?” his vizier asked. “The museum director isn’t the only one who’s curious.”
Zavian shook his head. “It’s of no consequence.” Not to his vizier, anyway. But to Zavian? It had the power to change his world.
“I hadn’t realized you were so interested in the museum’s acquisition process.”
Why did Zavian keep the old man around? He was a thorn in his side. But as he’d practically raised him, he couldn’t imagine living without him, no matter how irritating, or dismissive he was of Zavian’s word. Where others would quake at Zavian’s merest glance, Naseer would answer him back. Trouble was, it was usually a pertinent answer—an answer, or a question, that no one else dared give and that Zavian knew, deep down, he needed to hear.
“You’re surprised I like culture, Naseer?”
The old man raised his eyebrow. “The nearest you’ve ever come to culture was hunting in the desert with your grandfather’s spears, or the harness on your Arab stallions when you raced.”
“Ah, a blend of tradition and sport. Yes, you’re probably right. But it’s never too late to start, is it? Never too late to show the world that my country is more than simply a producer of oil and a strategically placed ancient port. Maybe it is time to attract more tourists here. Tourists who, in turn, will bring investment from foreign companies. Under our control, of course.”
“Of course.” There was a moment of silence while they both remembered when that hadn’t been the case. It had taken a great deal of work to redress the wrongs his great-grandfather had innocently created.
“Besides, it’s the PR and marketing that you’ve always told me I should be more interested in, right?”
Naseer nodded thoughtfully. “It’s certainly timely. With the bi-millennial celebration coming up as well as your, er, personal plans, a renewed focus on public relations can do nothing but good for you and Gharb Havilah.” He said the name of his country softly, with a reverence that betrayed his love for it. However he treated his king and subjects, Zavian knew his vizier would do whatever he had to do for his country. Naseer nodded to the city. “Two thousand years, Zavian. Two thousand years.”
Zavian looked at the old man, whose expression revealed the emotion that had made him call Zavian by his first name, something he rarely did. “A milestone worth celebrating indeed.”
“A personal one, as well as state one. Marriage negotiations are about to commence with the King of Tawazun between you and the eldest daughter.”
Zavian grunted, and Naseer frowned.
“You agreed.”
“I did. Now that King Amir has married, the task has fallen to me.”
“I’m sure it won’t be an unpleasant one. The princess is reputed to be very beautiful.”
Gabrielle’s image refused to be replaced by that of the Tawazun princess. He had reasons to delay his decision, but he had only one which prevented him—Gabrielle.
He was waiting for the day when his heart wouldn’t ache for her, when he wouldn’t feel her betrayal as sharply as a stab in the back. And that day was drawing closer. When he’d discovered the mystery behind the identity of the donor of the fabulous centerpiece to the collection, and how much the donor had paid for it, he knew Gabrielle was behind it. Not only because she was one of the few who’d have been able to confirm its provenance, but also because of the price.
A million dollars had been given to Gabrielle to stay away from him and his country by his father. She’d taken it and left Gharb Havilah. And someone had paid the exact same sum for a piece of Gharb Havilah’s culture. If it was her, it proved she didn’t want the money in the first place. Then why did she take it? He had his suspicions but was looking forward to finding out the answer from her.
“I’ve arranged a meeting with the King of Tawazun.”
Zavian nodded. “When?”
“Two weeks.”
“Good. That will give me time.”
“Time?” His vizier narrowed his gaze. Zavian knew that look of old. Sometimes he thought Naseer knew him better than he knew himself. “Time for what? That girl?”
Zavian ground his teeth. He’d always hated his vizier’s antipathy to Gabrielle. “You mean Dr. Taylor?”
“Of course I mean her. I was against you bringing her here, and I was right. She’s unsettling you. I can’t believe you want her here after what she did.”
“It was just money.”
“Just a million dollars, which was paid to her to leave you. She needed no persuading.”
Zavian looked at his vizier suddenly. “And how would you know that?”
The vizier’s glance slid away. “I heard.”
Not for the first time Zavian wondered what part his vizier had played in Gabrielle’s disappearance.
“Anyway, it’s irrelevant. You know now that she’s the sort of woman who can be bribed, she’s not loyal, she’s not for you, and she’s not for our country.”
Zavian no longer believed anything of the sort, but decided to play things close to his chest. The three countries which comprised the ancient land of Havilah needed to unite with Tawazun through blood ties, and his own country needed a queen in whom his people could believe. With a history of bitter battles over the centuries for control of the strategic port, his country had now entered a period of peace, and he would do all he could to ensure that continued. And that meant building up a common identity, and a people loyal to the Crown.
“I know what kind of queen my country needs. It needs someone who believes in it utterly, and who will be loyal to it, absolutely.”
The vizier nodded, not noticing any shortcomings in Zavian’s statement. “Exactly. It needs a Tawazun princess.”
Zavian didn’t reply.
Gabrielle ran her fingers lightly over the objects of her passion, which, growing up, had been more familiar to her than dolls, before pushing the tray back into the cabinet. After spending a morning in meetings with the museum director and his team, she’d managed to secure a whole afternoon alone with some of the country’s most precious artifacts. She’d told him she needed time to inspect each piece personally and its data. It wasn’t exactly true, and she suspected the director knew it. But it seemed either he didn’t mind or had been told to give her free rein. She suspected the latter.
She glanced around the room at the ancient pottery shards, at the fragments of ornate tiles and rare, intact pieces in their display cases. The pieces, which illuminated the everyday life of the Bedouin a thousand years earlier, were her whole life. At the age of three, her grandfather had pushed a soft brush into her hands to sweep away the sand from buried objects. As an impressionable girl, she’d lain in her tent at night, moved by the songs, poetry, and music of the Bedouin who continued to live their triba
l lives as they had done for centuries in the desert. And then later she’d developed a career which had extended beyond the desert, all the way through to the hallowed halls of Oxford. She might have left it a year ago, but there was no denying that Gharb Havilah and its people and culture were her life.
And, while she worked tirelessly towards these artifacts receiving international recognition for their cultural significance and artistry, her life in the desert had taught her one other thing. It had ingrained in every pore of her skin, in every pulse of her blood through her body—her need for freedom. Being confined to the palace was killing her.
Reluctantly, she locked away the last piece and gave the windowless room one last sweeping glance. She’d be staying there, working through the evening surrounded by her favorite objects if she could have her way. But there was only one person who could do as they wished in Gharb Havilah, and that was the king. And he’d again summoned her to meet him. But it wasn’t a public reception this time. It was dinner. She just hoped there would be plenty of other people seated between her and Zavian.
* * *
Zavian sat alone in the grand dining room, its mahogany table polished, reflecting the wrought gold lamps overhead. The darting flames of candles—caught by the breeze flowing in through the open doors—cast moving shadows over the ceiling. The door opened, and he rose instinctively to meet her. He’d arranged this meeting, but nothing could have prepared him for seeing her again. He devoured every detail of her hungrily with his eyes, needing to know her again.
She hesitated at the entrance and looked around as the door was closed behind her. She glanced around the room at his servants, who stood at each of the four corners of the room, ready to jump to his command and provide for his every need. He was accustomed to it, but he noted the wariness in her blue eyes, which were colorless in the candlelight.
He flexed his hands, forcing himself not to go to her, not to take her in his arms, because in that one moment before speech, before anything else, there was only them. And he wanted her, just as he always had.
Then she looked away, and he remembered everything that had happened. Their passion, her rejection. Simple, final. Or so she’d thought. But she was unfinished business for him, business he had to finish before he could move on with the last piece of the jigsaw that was his life. Before he married and had a family. He wanted her, he would have her, and only then could he continue with his life.
He rubbed his fingers together before extending his hand to her, his body and head remaining rigid and composed. “Gabrielle.”
She walked the length of the table, her large eyes never leaving his. She looked at his hand and then held his gaze once more. She didn’t take his hand. An insult he was not accustomed to, an insult he would not forgive lightly.
“Why have you brought me here?” she asked. Her voice trembled, but the jut of her chin and fierce eyes revealed it shook through anger, not nerves. She’d never been able to hide her feelings. They flitted across her face as openly as the shadows and wind upon the desert sands.
He indicated the food before them, deliberately misunderstanding her question. “To dine with your new employer, of course. Please, take a seat.”
She hesitated only briefly before taking her seat, sensibly realizing she had no choice. She looked smaller than he remembered, fragile against the large-framed mahogany chairs he’d inherited from his great-grandfather’s extravagant reign. She’d lost weight. He hadn’t expected that. He’d held the image of her twelve months ago in his head ever since she’d left. But time hadn’t stood still.
He nodded to his butler who stood at the door, and suddenly the doors were opened, and trays of steaming food were brought in and served, and their wine glasses were filled with the best French white wine, which he knew was her favorite.
“Just like old times, Gabrielle,” he couldn’t help teasing. He had her where he wanted her now, and he could afford to relax a little.
She looked around at his staff, whose presence he scarcely registered anymore. “Hardly,” she muttered.
He frowned and followed her gaze. He signaled to his servants to leave the room. After the door closed with a subtle click, leaving them entirely alone, he turned to her.
“Is that better?”
He could see the struggle in her gaze. “I didn’t mean for you to dismiss them.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I was merely pointing out how you’ve changed.”
He sat back in his chair and carefully placed his wine glass onto the table, giving himself time for his irritation to fade. It didn’t. “I am now King of Gharb Havilah, not second in line to the throne. My father is dead, as is my elder brother. Of course I have changed. As have you. But not enough. I’d have preferred it if you’d changed more.” And he meant it. If she’d changed beyond recognition, grown stouter, dyed her hair, assumed the latest fashions, he might not have felt that same slam of lust in his gut. But even as the thought entered his mind, he dismissed it. Deep down, he knew that no amount of change would affect how much he needed her. And it was this he had to remedy. Twelve months of separation had made no difference. He hoped one month’s togetherness would exorcise her hold over him.
“I assumed you didn’t invite me to dine purely to insult me.”
“You assume correctly.”
“Then why?”
“Why are you here?” He needed to stall her. “I wish to dine with my new employee.” He opened his arms in a gesture of innocence. “Is that so surprising?”
Her eyes darkened with annoyance. “Yes, it is. I was under the impression my contract had been organized by the museum director, that I was his employee. I hardly expected to dine with the king.”
“The museum director,” he repeated. “Really?” He shook his head. “No, Gabrielle, it was I. But you deviated from my plans. Instead of coming direct, you took the plane to Dubai, and then came overland through the hinterland and Tawazun. Your old haunts.”
“You know which route I took,” she replied slowly, shaking her head.
“Of course. How could you think I wouldn’t?”
He speared a forkful of the spiced lamb and forced himself to eat, indicating that she should do the same. She sat forward, and he noticed her nostrils flare with appreciation at the aroma from the pungent spices. Despite her unwillingness to dine with him, she was being seduced by the traditional feast of Bedouin delicacies he’d ordered.
“Please,” he said. “Begin.” His heart softened at her hesitation and the uncertainty in her eyes. “It is tradition, Gabrielle, when we welcome old friends into our country, to share our food. I apologize if my welcome lacks polish, but, as you will undoubtedly remember, I am more a man of action than words.”
She bit her lip, nodded once, and broke off a piece of the traditionally baked regag bread. He sat back with a sigh. Her defenses had slipped a notch, and he felt a hurdle had been overcome. She took a sip of water and he watched as her lips, not painted, but softly wet from the water, enveloped the fork upon which she’d speared a piece of lamb and aubergine. Her eyes closed momentarily as the tastes and spices of the dish bloomed on her tongue. He sipped his wine to hide the effect her eating was having on him.
“You like the food?” he asked, after he’d had a chance to recover.
She swallowed and nodded with a smile. “Yes, indeed. Thank you for the welcome and the dinner. It’s appreciated.”
One question hovered on his lips. He ignored it. It was too soon.
“It’s always a pleasure to provide things for people who truly appreciate them.” He shifted in his seat. He’d imagined that by placing Gabrielle at the end of the table, he’d be safe from her allure. He’d been wrong.
Her smile widened, and she raised her eyebrows in mild surprise. “I do. I’d almost…” She trailed off.
“Forgotten?” he prompted. “I can’t believe that.”
Her smile quirked briefly. “No. I don’t think I’ll ever forget thi
s place.” She looked around. “It’s in my blood.”
He sucked in a satisfied breath. She’d given him what he wanted. It was what he hoped she’d say, it was what he’d believed she’d say, but what he hadn’t known was whether she understood it herself. He could proceed with confidence.
And he did. He made sure she relaxed and enjoyed the food and kept the conversation on the impersonal—about the country, archaeology, and mutual friends. Until finally, only the remnants of the meal lay between them, and the candles had burned low, one of them sending sputtering shadows across her face.
“Zavian.” She sat back in her chair, cradling a glass of wine in her hands. “I asked you a question at the beginning of dinner which you refused to answer directly. I’ll ask it again.” She cocked her head to one side, in an attitude he found impossibly appealing. “Why have you brought me here?”
“I thought we should meet as soon as possible to overcome any slight”—he hesitated as he contemplated which word to choose—“awkwardness. After all, you will be working, and living, close to me.”
He didn’t think she could have paled any more under the warm lights.
“Close to you…” she said faintly.
“Indeed. Your work will be the jewel in the crown of our forthcoming celebrations. I wish to oversee it, to make sure everything is as it should be.”
“You have people who do that. This is business, isn’t it?” Her eyes glittered, and he suddenly felt unsure. Her eyes were shadowed as if she were hiding from him. “What else do you expect from me?”
He tilted his head back. “You think I’ve brought you here to renew our relationship?”
“I have no idea. You’ve orchestrated this whole thing, that much is clear. You don’t need me to work for the bi-millennial celebrations. They’ve been planned for months, years probably. They’re happening in one month. It’s a deadline. But for what?”
He licked his lips, as much at the sight of her flushed cheeks as at the unexpected clear summary of the situation. He liked the way she challenged him. It had always been that way. He’d set something in motion, like a chess game, expecting a particular result. Still, he could never predict the unique combination of her intelligent and emotional response, so different to his own. It had kept him on his toes then, and it looked as if it would do the same now. He smiled.