Or perhaps the thrill of something old . . .
And now Kabeer was swept back to those lingering memories of childhood, of happy days in old Bukhaara, when the royal family was truly a family. Sheikh Bukhaara’s two wives—Yasmeena’s mother and his own mother—in the large open kitchen in the eastern chambers of the palace. The two queens considered it their sacred duty to supervise the preparation of the family meals, and the mornings were always the happiest times of young Kabeer’s days as the royal children played in the sprawling chambers as they watched their mothers, the queens, the Sheikhas of Bukhaara, chattering away with each other, calling out instructions to the veiled attendants who bustled around the kitchen, chopping and cutting, mixing and rolling, grinding fragrant spices, tenderizing fresh meat, baking Arabian flatbreads while that pure, saffron-flavored rice bubbled to completion in the background.
Of course, in the happiest of days it was three royal children who played in those vast, lavish chambers, laughing and yelping as they bounced on the silk-covered daybeds, clambered over the ancient teak-wood tables that sat low to the ground, splashed through the shallow fountains lined with the finest Italian marble and studded with diamonds that flashed like stars under a new moon, emeralds green as wet summer grass, rubies red like . . . red like . . . red . . .
Stop it! Kabeer told himself as he prepared to enter the Sheikh’s chambers. For a moment he felt sick as the yacht lurched over a swell in the waters, and he almost turned away. But Kabeer didn’t get seasick. The sickness was not in his body but in his mind.
Stop thinking about it, he told himself again as he touched the cool wooden door to his father’s chambers. But now Kabeer was that child again suddenly, standing outside his father’s private chambers in the Royal Palace, shivering in his little princely robes as he waited to be summoned. The memory of that feeling—that feeling of despair, fear, GUILT—was so strong that Kabeer shivered and drew his hand back from the door, clenching it into a fist as he stopped and gritted his teeth, trying to force the memory of his older brother Sirhan’s death to go back where it belonged, into the deepest crevasses of his mind.
“It is not your fault, my dear Kabeer,” the great Sheikh had told him in those royal chambers all those years ago, with the two queens on either side of him, Yasmeena at his feet, all of them somber and shaken, bereft and broken. “No one thinks it is your fault, and it is very important that YOU, my son, do not think it was your fault.”
Of course it wasn’t his fault. Not logically, at least. Kabeer knew it then and he knew it now. But emotionally . . . that was different. Emotionally that memory cut too deep to ever fully heal:
Princes Sirhan and Kabeer had been playing like boys play, running wild through those very same chambers of the Great Eastern Wing of the Royal Palace. They had been playing that old game called “Follow the Leader,” and it was Kabeer’s turn to lead.
Little Prince Kabeer was six years younger than Sirhan, but stood almost as tall and was certainly more athletic, and so Kabeer often attempted physically challenging acts when playing this particular game. The objective of “Follow the Leader” was to repeat what the leader had just done or else you lose, and Kabeer had just leapt from the top of one of those low wooden tables directly into a marble-lined fountain, landing on his feet in the ankle-deep water that was sprinkled with rose petals.
“Follow that, brother Sirhan!” Kabeer had squealed in Arabic as he bounded out of the fragrant water and stood to watch his brother make the leap.
But brother Sirhan was not endowed with the strong legs, the tall frame, the grace and agility of young Kabeer, and the older prince had tripped over the short marble wall of the fountain and tumbled head first into the fountain, hitting his head against the ornate marble centerpiece with such force that the sound of the deadly impact rang out through the open rooms, echoed off the high ceilings, tunneled its way into Kabeer’s young mind, perhaps twisted its way into his psyche.
“I will never play that game again,” little Kabeer had told his father that day as the Sheikh hugged his son while the women sat silently beside the Sheikh and his last remaining prince. “It is a dangerous game. No good can come of it. Father, I will never play Follow the Leader again!”
And Kabeer looked at his clenched fist and smiled, shaking his head as he felt those memories of his homeland and family recede to the background. Now he was that lone wolf again, and his territory was American high-society, he reminded himself. A man answerable to no one. A leader of only himself, with no followers, no one to lead astray.
Then he knocked on the heavy wooden door, and in an exaggerated American accent that could not hide who he truly was, Kabeer Bukhaara called out, “It is me. Ready or not, I’m coming in.”
8
Was she ready for this or not?
Jenny looked over and across the boundless lake. The wind was strong now, whipping her hair across her face just like it was stirring the great lake waters into thousands of white-tipped, ferocious little waves.
Are you ready, Jenny? Ready to navigate these waters that have gotten very complicated, very quickly? Ready to build the business that you’ve being dreaming about for years? Ready to risk your money, your time, your reputation on something that could wipe you out, use up that small inheritance, leave you bankrupt, jobless, with no chance of getting a real goddamn job because there’s nothing on your resume except a part-time MBA and a full-time failed business?
Jenny turned and leaned back against the railing now, looking over the empty deck, now over at where Kabeer had been standing not so long ago. She had felt him there, standing quietly, watching her. She sensed him get close. She could almost feel his desire cut through the wild lake wind as he approached. And though she tried to make it stop, she could feel her own flames rise with his . . . yes, those flames of desire that licked at her secret depths like the wicked tongues of a thousand devils. She could feel the blood in her ears as the Sheikh took another step, and she had held that railing tight as she braced herself, prepared herself, readied herself . . .
Readied herself for what? Would she have told him to stop? Pushed him away? Turned him down? And would he have stopped? Would she have WANTED him to stop?
Now YOU stop, she told herself as she crossed her arms over her chest and began to pace as a fever tore through her like that damned wind. Stop thinking yourself into circles. Stop mixing up what your body wants with what you know is the ultimate objective here: to figure out if it makes sense to sign this deal. If it makes BUSINESS sense to sign this deal!
But how could she separate things now? Now that Kabeer had demanded that HE be the celebrity chef? And why the hell would he want to do it? Did he even know how to boil a goddamn egg? Could he even make himself mac-and-cheese out of a box if he had to? Celebrity . . . yes, Jenny could see that. If she—someone who never read celebrity news—had heard of him, it certainly meant something. And it wasn’t like the celebrity that movie stars or hip-hop artists had—it was something more subtle, more secretive, more . . . exciting?
There you go again, she told herself, pacing down to the end of the deck and back again. She hugged herself and rocked back and forth as the thoughts and arguments, the pros and cons, the yays and nays fought and played, tussled and struggled, bitched and moaned, howled and groaned as everything played out in her head.
But it was no use, and as Jenny stepped to the railing again and looked down at the blue water zipping by, the frothy tops of little waves pointing and laughing at her like imps, she realized that she couldn’t possibly sort it out cleanly. There were too many possibilities, too many potentials, too many ways this could go wrong . . . and a lot of ways this could go right. So right. Oh, GOD, so right!
Now the tension of the day made itself known once more, and she leaned over the side of the railing and just SCREAMED into the wind, WAILED up at the sky, and now she was laughing and crying, shivering and sweating, hot and cold, high and low, turned inside out, upside down, flipped over,
twisted around, spun about like a top, and . . . and . . . and what do I do, what do I do, what do I DO?!
Take the step and jump in, came that silent whisper, soft and silky through the roaring wind. Jump in, little Jenny. Yes, jump in and have faith that the universe will catch you.
Jump in.
9
“Look before you leap.”
“What? I do not understand, Father.”
“Look before you leap. The expression. You have heard it, Kabeer, yes?”
The old Sheikh raised his head from the cushioned end of the green-and-gold divan on which he lay. His right arm lay stretched out as an attendant sat on a wooden footstool beside him, taking the old man’s blood pressure, it looked like.
“Yes, Father. I know the expression,” Kabeer said, eyeing the black bag of medical paraphernalia that sat open on the long wooden table behind the attendant.
“Tell me what it means,” the old Sheikh said now, wincing as the attendant tightened the blood pressure tube around his upper arm.
Kabeer sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “What is this about, Father?”
The old Sheikh sighed too, but it was a different sort of sigh. While Kabeer’s expression had been of impatience, the old man’s was one of resignation, almost disappointment. Kabeer wasn’t surprised—indeed, this was part of the reason for his impatience.
“I will answer my own question then,” the Sheikh said as the blood pressure tube came off. The Sheikh waved the attendant away and then slowly propped himself up on a red silk cushion so he could face his son. “It means that one should understand what one is about to do before doing it. Do not jump before you know where you are going to land.”
“Yes, Father,” Kabeer said now, sighing again as he sat on a white leather couch across from the divan. He stretched out and exhaled. This was going to take a while. “I know what it means.”
“I know you do,” the Sheikh said, flashing a toothy grin. “I just wanted to make sure you knew this conversation is going to take a while.”
Now Kabeer couldn’t help but smile, and he raised his arms in defeat and sat up on the couch, leaning back and spreading his arms across the broad frame of the backrest. “Yasmeena has already talked to you,” Kabeer said.
“Of course. In theory, I am the head of Bukhaara Capital. Yasmeena gives me all the details of every investment.”
“Really,” Kabeer said. “What did you think about that investment in Weston Technology from last year? Or was it Western Technology? Watson Technology? Remind me of the name again, Father. You know all the details, yes? Surely you remember the name of the company we put two hundred million dollars into last year.”
Now it was the old Sheikh’s turn to smile. “Fine,” he said with a chuckle. “I have no idea what Bukhaara Capital invests in. Yes, when I travel to America I like to take some interest in what Yasmeena is doing with the company, and I offer my opinion on whatever deal she is currently looking at. But that is more for my amusement, and also because I know Yasmeena likes it when I take some interest in what she is doing with our businesses. Other than that, your sister is more than capable of handling the business, and I trust her completely. You, on the other hand . . .”
Kabeer’s jaw tightened, his eyes turning a darker shade of green as he looked directly at his father. The old man was teasing, but not really teasing. It was his way, Kabeer knew. But Kabeer was no longer a child. He was a man. His own man. Yes, his own man, a man who would serve no master—certainly a man who would serve no country or its land, no people or their God.
Kabeer glanced at that collection of medical supplies that looked like a hospital stuffed into a goddamn briefcase, and then he looked up at his father again and spoke: “If this is yet another conversation about becoming Sheikh—”
But the old man cut him off. “BECOMING Sheikh? Kabeer, you are ALREADY Sheikh! The title of Sheikh was yours the day you were born, by virtue of your royal blood! And a few years later, when your brother Sirhan died in that tragic accident, you became my heir and successor, the sole and rightful ruler of the country of our ancestors, the nation of our people, the land of our God.” He paused now, swallowing and taking a breath. “The country of YOUR ancestors. The nation of YOUR people. The land of YOUR God.”
Kabeer crossed one leg over the other. His fingers tapped the hard frame of the leather couch. He wasn’t going to take the bait this time, he told himself. He wasn’t going to rise up and disavow the country of his birth, the small, rich nation founded by his own ancestors, strong, determined men and women of the same bloodline, the same blood that coursed through Kabeer’s veins. He wasn’t going to pretend that he didn’t give a damn about his people, didn’t recognize their warmth and charity, their need to live in a society that gave them freedom, justice, and safety while still respecting the holy laws of Allah and his prophets.
“Yasmeena is your eldest child,” Kabeer said quietly. “She is your heir and successor. Allah knows she is capable. She has been running Bukhaara Capital for almost a decade now, negotiating complex business deals, analyzing all sorts of industries, managing the biggest—”
“And she will continue to do that,” the Sheikh snapped now, his dark eyes moving back and forth, side to side as he searched his son’s face like he was looking for something. “Managing billions of dollars of our family’s—and our country’s—money is a very serious and important job. And Yasmeena loves her work. It energizes her. Gives her purpose.” Those eyes stopped darting back and forth now, and the old Sheikh held his gaze on his son. “Besides, the law is clear as written in the ancient scriptures, the law of our land. The eldest son is the true and rightful Sheikh. The SON, Kabeer. You, Kabeer. YOU!”
Kabeer shrugged. “This is a new world. If you told any American woman that she could not be CEO or Senator or even President because she is a woman, then you would be called a sexist pig and—”
“My dear son, these days you would be called a sexist pig in Bukhaara as well if you said that! Still, Bukhaara is not America,” the old Sheikh said, his tone betraying the effort he was making to keep his voice somewhat calm. “Yes, there are many things I love and admire about this country, including the freedom that women have to find their own paths, pursue their own goals without being restricted by outdated or oppressive laws. And you know quite well that I have changed many of Bukhaara’s laws to make sure our country’s women are given equal place in society, power in their marriage, freedom to pursue any sort of education or occupation. But there are certain traditions that cannot be broken. Certain traditions that WILL not be broken. Not in my time, at least.” Now he found some calm, and the Sheikh’s breathing slowed as he smiled at his son. “And your sister agrees with me.”
Kabeer shifted on his seat now. Certainly, Yasmeena had often been vocal, pushy, and—like today in her room—almost insulting in the way she challenged him, almost dared him to step up and take over as Sheikh of Bukhaara. But Kabeer had always shrugged it off, never taken it too seriously. He had told her point blank many times that he had no interest in being Sheikh and that in fact she would be a very capable Sheikha. He had told her he would support her, support any change in laws that needed to happen. And although she had laughed it off, claiming to be happy running Bukhaara Capital and traveling the world looking for new companies to invest in, Kabeer had always suspected that she was simply waiting for her father to say the word. And once he did, Kabeer thought as he glanced at his father and nodded, then Yasmeena would drop everything in a heartbeat, put on that veil that she always hated, and become Sheikha without a second thought, without looking back.
“Of course Yasmeena agrees with you,” Kabeer said, smiling as he pointed out what to him was obvious, had always been obvious. “She is Daddy’s girl when it comes down to it. She will always agree with you. And if you ask her to be Sheikha, she will do it without a moment’s—”
“I have already asked her,” the old Sheikh said quietly, leaning back into the silk cushi
ons of the divan, exhaling as he relaxed his thin, wiry frame. “She will not do it. She says you will be a better Sheikh. The people will respond to you better. They will follow you in a way they will not follow her.”
Now Kabeer laughed in disbelief, wondering for a moment if his father’s physical ailments had spread to his brain—or at least his hearing. “Yasmeena said that? She said I am better suited to lead our nation than she is? I do not believe it.”
“She said it herself, I assure you,” the old man said, looking up at the ornate blue-and-pink painted ceiling and shaking his head, an affectionate smile coming to his thin lips. “Yasmeena is smart and self-aware. In some ways she is wiser than both of us put together. She understands that the job of Sheikh is to lead the people in spirit more than anything. Some of the most important work of a Sheikh in today’s world is public relations. There will be speeches, exhibitions, opening ceremonies of museums and sports arenas. Television appearances, radio interviews, photographs taken every day, from every angle. Your every move will be watched, photographed, and then commented on throughout the region.” Now the Sheikh looked over at his son, his old eyes suddenly looking sharp, focused. “Does that sound more like your world or Yasmeena’s world, Kabeer?”
Kabeer was silent as his thoughts raced. He could not argue the point. His father was right, and Yasmeena—if she had indeed said those things—was right too. Yasmeena was intelligent and driven, but she had little patience when it came to things she considered unnecessary and ceremonial. She rarely posed for photographs. She never celebrated her birthday. She seemed to have no interest in marriage, of raising a family. There was not a romantic or sentimental bone in her body, it seemed sometimes!
Now Kabeer blinked several times and shook his head as he realized what was happening. His father was smart, wise, and yes: crafty as all hell! The old man was slowly pulling him in, Kabeer realized as he felt a distant swell of emotion from that place deep inside, the place where all those old memories of Bukhaara were hidden, the place from which those annoying emotions like duty, honor, courage kept bubbling up when he thought about his supposed responsibility to be Sheikh of Bukhaara.
Flames for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 2) Page 8