The Sheikh’s Fake Engagement (The Blooming Desert Series Book 1)

by Leslie North

“She doesn’t look unhappy to me,” commented Raed.

  Nenet, who had come in the same SUV as Raed, came up and took Raed’s arm. “Who’s unhappy?”

  Please. “It was only a conversation with Raed.” Hamid bent to kiss his mother’s cheek. Hopefully, that conversation would be over now.

  Talitha came over then, Rafiq still asking questions of the falconer, and introduced herself to Raed. “I heard a bit of your conversation before. I will be home soon, but you should both come to my first fashion show. I have plans for a new line of jewelry with my friend, and I think it’s going to be a smash hit.”

  Hamid put a smile on his face, nodding along and adding details about the first show he’d attended, but her words burrowed deep into his mind. Right—she was making plans for her future. She wanted to leave. Fake engagement.

  They moved on through the arena, Raed hanging back with their mother, who walked slowly through all the preparations.

  “The tribes began as nomadic groups,” Mubarak was telling Rafiq. “But now they live in wealthy settlements. The wealthiest of all is the—”

  “—al-Shehri,” put in Rafiq. “My father told me that.”

  Pride swelled in Hamid’s heart. He’d remembered their conversations after all. “What else do they do, Rafiq?”

  “They get the oil concession,” Rafiq answered promptly. “And they administer.”

  Hamid laughed. “They administer the work and profits between the other tribes. You’re right, my son.”

  “So they’re the biggest source of employment in the desert, then?” Talitha’s eyes skimmed over the noise and bustle. They were nearly to the end now, and the mood was heightening along with the noise. Soon, the parade of tribes would officially open the tournament. She met Hamid’s eyes. “Your Highness, is there real competition in the tournament?”

  “It’s a ceremonial competition.” Hamid stopped along with Rafiq to watch a group of men and horses going through warm-up exercises for the polo game. “The al-Shehri always win the games as a demonstration of their fitness for the contracts that they’ve been awarded for two hundred years.” Mubarak stepped aside with Rafiq, and Talitha came to stand at Hamid’s side while he spoke. “It’s a reflection of the way the tribe was originally awarded the concession. They were the strongest and the most capable of causing trouble when the nation first came together.”

  The corner of her mouth turned up, but Talitha said nothing. She cocked her head to the side and seemed to be watching the polo players even more intently. A whisper of jealousy curled up the back of Hamid’s neck, but if he knew Talitha—and, with a shock, he realized he did know her—then she had already rearranged the tournament in her mind.

  “Times have changed, of course.” Hamid stepped closer, putting a hand on the small of her back. Rafiq and Mubarak returned, hovering close by. “Now, the Trabelsi, Mokranij, and bin-Nawawi are also educated, specialized, and capable of such leadership and prominence.”

  The problem with touching Talitha was that it made him want to take her to his bedroom and have a more private discussion. Preferably that discussion would include fewer words and more moans. And that was not something he could afford to fantasize about right now. It would distract him from the tournament, and distraction led to mistakes. Hamid dropped his hand to his side.

  “It’s good that the al-Shehri family always wins,” Rafiq said. His son’s little face was a perfect mimicry of his own in this moment, serious and pointed.

  “It would be odd if they didn’t,” Tali said with a laugh as the polo team took a break. A few more members gathered near the royal entourage, their tribes denoted by the color of their uniforms. A deep blue for Trabelsi and yellow for Mokranij. The bin-Nawawi wore a rich orange. “Look. The al-Shehri has the best equipment and animals.”

  A few of the men nearby laughed, and the hairs on the back of Hamid’s neck stood up. “That’s because they have more money,” said one of the Trabelsi members, then he drank deeply from his water bottle.

  “Because the al-Shehri get the lion’s share of oil revenue,” Talitha said. “Self-fulfilling.” She kept a serene smile on her face, never faltering.

  “Well, the other tribes always let the al-Shehri win,” whispered one of the Mokranij.

  Laughter burst into the air around them, and heat washed over Hamid’s cheeks. “Let’s go,” he said, putting a hand on Rafiq’s shoulder. “It’s time to get to our seats for the parade.”

  They took their places on a viewing platform under a decorative canopy in shades of green—the color of renewal. The tribes would parade past them into the large arena where the events that didn’t involve galloping animals would take place. Hamid settled into the shade with Rafiq on one side and Talitha on the other. She smoothed her dress over her knees and watched the hurried back-and-forth of the last few moments before the parade. This was the ceremonial judging bench, where the king would eventually declare the winner of the tournament. The entire tent was miked for the occasion. The sound system would be turned on as the honor guard crossed the parade’s starting line, so that he could remark on each tribe’s presentation and extend his thanks to them for their loyalty and service.

  Hamid turned to remind Tali and Rafiq—five-year-old fidgets would need to be contained through the whole event. But Tali’s brain was stuck on their earlier conversation, and she spoke before he could open his mouth.

  “Don’t the other tribes resent never having a fair chance at winning the contract? Why don’t they protest the system?” Her voice was projected over the entire crowd, ringing out through the loudspeakers, and then came the hiss and crack of the sound system being hastily turned off by some poor tech—probably the same one who had presumably forgotten to turn it off after the sound check.

  Hamid’s stomach clenched, then sank. This was very bad. Insulting, among other things. He kept his face carefully neutral. Maybe if he ignored it, everyone else would, too. He raised his hand to signal the start of the parade.

  But the parade wouldn’t start. At the head of the lineup, a huddle of the younger leaders and eldest sons from the tribes were muttering, shooting glances at Hamid and the al-Shehri delegation.

  Hamid’s captain of the guard stepped forward. “Shall I order them into position, Your Highness?”

  Send his soldiers to herd the tribe members into their places at the head of the parade? It would be a throwback to even older traditions—ones that called for the king to rule by force, not by agreement. No. That would not be good. It would be even worse than what Talitha had said.

  Mubarak leaned forward from his spot beside Hamid and jerked his head toward the guards, raising his eyebrows.

  “No,” Hamid said out loud. It was too late, anyway. The leaders of all four tribes approached the tent and climbed the stairs until they were in front of the long table. Hamid braced himself for a confrontation, and Raed moved from the other end of the table to stand behind him.

  But one by one, the leaders bowed respectfully. The leader of the Mokranij came forward. “Your Highness, we humbly request a meeting with you, to take place after the parade and before the first event.”

  Hamid had options, and he ran through them in the blink of an eye. Refuse. Order them back. Order the guards. Instead he inclined his head in agreement. “Let’s have the parade, and then we’ll meet.”

  He sat back in his seat as if his heart weren’t pounding and waited while they took their places for the parade. Music swelled, the parade moved forward, and Hamid sent up a prayer—let the meeting be nothing. Let it be done quickly. Let this event survive intact.

  17

  After the parade, the leaders of the tribes gathered in one of the arena’s meeting rooms. Over the years, the big tent that had been used to host the tournament had been built up until it had reached its current form: a stadium with all the amenities. Hamid’s family had successfully modernized the tradition.

  Or so he’d thought.

  Raw irritation chafed at his skin. He
’d called for the staff to bring in coffee and pastries, and they circulated among the leaders, who arranged themselves in a circle. It all seemed very civilized now, with Talitha sitting next to him and Rafiq squirming in his seat and all the tribal leaders murmuring their thanks for the coffees. He had thought to meet with them privately, with only his advisors and perhaps Rafiq. But the tribal leaders had requested that Talitha be there—they wished to address her directly—as well as the rest of the royal family. He’d conceded—Talitha had opened this can of worms, so she should witness the results.

  A strange energy filled the air. Anticipation, perhaps. Or the winds of change. Raed and Nenet came in fast, Raed wearing an easy smile and Nenet’s expression thoughtful. They joined Hamid on the other side of the room, and Raed casually accepted a coffee as if this weren’t the most momentous meeting of the year. Of their lifetime, perhaps. He felt his mother’s hands on his shoulders, a light reassurance, and then she took a seat on the other side of Rafiq and Talitha.

  Maybe it wouldn’t turn out to be as life-changing as Hamid’s body thought it would be. His throat had gone tight with nervousness. He did not appreciate that feeling, or the impending sense that he was about to disappoint his mother.

  Hamid raised his hands, and at once the group fell silent.

  Into that silence the eldest son of the Trabelsi’s leader, dressed in a fine blue uniform for competition, lifted a hand. “I’d like to answer you, Lady Talitha, and tell you why we don’t protest the system.” The young man glanced at Hamid, who nodded his approval. He kept the tension knocking at the back of his mind out of his expression.

  “Previous generations have protested this system,” the young man continued, eyes fixed on Talitha. “But in those days, the protests were violently quashed. Over a century ago, the king executed the leaders of the tribes who argued against the fixed tournament. Silencing protestors is a tradition that’s better off discontinued, of course.”

  What? Hamid’s face had gotten hot, the heat spreading down the back of his neck and under his shirt. “That can’t be so,” he burst out, keeping his hands on the arms of his chair. “I’ve never read any such thing in the palace records, and I’ve studied the tournament tradition extensively.” I’ve been fighting to keep it in line. A low murmur rose from the tribal leaders. A few of them exchanged guarded glances.

  The same young man squared his shoulders and faced Hamid directly. “It may have been excised from your official histories, Your Highness, but the tribes themselves hold the memories of the event.”

  Hamid looked to Mubarak Al-Baluchi, who stood next to the wall, eyes on the floor. He must have felt Hamid looking at him because he raised his eyes and gave him a slight nod.

  So it was true.

  “I believe you,” said Talitha at his side. “But Hamid isn’t like that, and nothing like that would happen these days.” She put a hand to her chest. “I know Hamid would never follow that particular tradition or even consider it. As for the current tradition, I feel that the oil concessions are better bid for, with the winning bid awarded the prize.”

  “Hence the games,” insisted the leader of the al-Shehri, Ibrahim Jaziri, and he pressed his lips into a thin line.

  “I disagree.” Talitha folded her hands in her lap. “The world is changing. Borders are opening, and if the kingdom is going to compete in the global economy, all the tribes—all the people—are going to need to work together for maximum efficiency and sustainability.” Hamid felt like he’d been shuffled to the back of the room and hidden away where no one else could see. “People care about environmental impact these days,” Talitha went on. “The traditional ways are harmful and wasteful, and persisting with them will only stifle innovation and weaken the country.”

  The silence in the room beat like a drum, and then the elders of the tribes demurred. “This is not done,” one of them said, and the echo was picked up by each of the elders in turn. “Not the way,” they said, to each other and to Talitha.

  “You’re right.” Talitha brought them to silence again. Hamid’s heart ticked up, hopeful that she’d stick by him. “But it should be.” So much for that hope. “If everything stays the same, there’s no need to innovate, but innovation and cooperation can lead to increased profits for every tribe. These things would benefit everyone, including the al-Shehri. Frankly, gentlemen, your tribe has been resting on its laurels and doing things the same way for decades, since your position has never been threatened.”

  This earned Talitha wide stares from the al-Shehri.

  “What are you proposing?” Ibrahim’s eyes darted back and forth between Hamid and Talitha. Hamid should stop this, immediately. No—he should let it go on. A true leader would be able to pick up the pieces no matter the outcome.

  “Why can’t a consortium be formed, using the strength and the know-how of skilled members of all the tribes? Including the women,” Talitha said pointedly. “Wouldn’t that be better for the continued success of the oil industry and the nation? Then all the tribes would share in the profits equally. That would make all the tribes more invested in it, and it would make everyone a stakeholder in ensuring sustainability and in investigating other sources of revenue.”

  Ibrahim sat back as Talitha’s plan sank in. Surely they would all see the value of maintaining the traditions. Surely they would see that Hamid had worked to keep their nation strong by not changing everything. His father had been a good king, and Hamid clenched a fist by his side as if he could keep his father’s legacy intact through force of will alone. What would he have said, watching this meeting? Would he have felt the same dread?

  Hamid had long since learned to let a group he was tasked with leading come to their own consensus before he moved in with the final word. That, at least, was something he could be sure his father had done. Leading is simpler when the people come up with the idea on their own, he’d said once when Hamid was still in middle school. So he kept his lips pressed tightly together as the tribal leaders broke the silence with low murmurs at first. None of them seemed to want to put an end to the discussion or speak out at a louder volume.

  Except the son of the Trabelsi’s leader, who watched all of his peers carefully for a moment. “It’s a better system than we use right now.” His voice carried clearly over the room. “This is a more modern idea that benefits all of us as citizens of the nation.”

  “How about an extension?” called a young Mokranij. “I’d like to call for an extension to the awarding process to discuss these new ideas.”

  Horror rose in Hamid, hand in hand with dismay. One by one, they were all nodding their support for the extension. And if they wanted to have an involved discussion about awarding the contracts, then what they really wanted was to upend years of tradition. Of course change was part of every nation’s life cycle—of course he’d expected some change. But doing things the way Talitha had suggested might bring the ceremonial games and sports to a halt. Hamid had the distinct sensation of trying to hold grains of sand in his fists. They only slipped away, and he couldn’t get them to stay in place.

  This had gone badly out of control, and he needed it back. Now.

  “We should proceed with the games.” Hamid’s voice brought the room back to quiet. “Everyone has gathered, and the games honor our ancestors, who forged this nation together.”

  “Yes, of course,” Talitha said, “the games should go ahead now. Perhaps it would be a good idea to keep the current structure for five years. We can use that time to work out a new system that’s open to all, including women. The tournament could be used to attract breeders for the horses and falcons, for instance. Another source of revenue.”

  Rafiq wriggled close to Hamid. “Daddy, can we have the games all the time?” His son’s face shone up at his, and something deep inside of him shifted. Hamid was torn—get Talitha to stop talking, and let his son share ideas, too. “Talitha told me about festivals in Spain that they have every year.”

  Talitha caught Hamid’s ey
e over Rafiq’s head. “We learned about the running of the bulls last week, and the Golegã horse fair in Portugal. They bring out old-fashioned costumes and have events along with selling the horses.”

  “And Father took us to Highland Games in Scotland when we were young.” Raed had joined the discussion at the worst possible time. “Don’t you remember the piping and drumming and dancing? Even Father took part in the athletic competitions. They got it right, those Highland Games.”

  What was Raed thinking? This wasn’t the time to chime in with examples of other festivals. They got it right was a punch to Hamid’s gut. He had been trying to get this right for years—since he was sixteen—and now it turned out that no one particularly cared. It was a disorienting jolt that Hamid didn’t dare let show. Months of work on this tournament, years, and it had all come undone because...

  He stood up, the rest of the leaders and their sons scrambling to their feet. He waved them back down.

  “Talitha.” He looked down into her face and saw hope there in her dark eyes. Hope for what? That she could tear down everything he’d worked to build while he was out of the room? “I need to speak with you in private.”

  18

  The two of them stepped out into the hallway, but it wasn’t nearly private enough—not with all the people rushing in every direction, still trying to prepare for a tournament that might not happen now. Anger made Hamid’s muscles tense and ache, and he tried to breathe deeply, tried to dispel the emotions and clear his head. But the emotions wouldn’t be silenced. He only had control of his words and his expressions, and from the way people dove out of their way, he could tell he was not controlling his expression very well. Get it together. The mention of his father—that had been the last straw.

  He pressed his lips together. Look focused, not angry. There—there was the room he’d been looking for. A smaller meeting room set aside for the use of the royal family. Talitha followed him inside, and he shut the door with absolute care. There would be no rumors of a king slamming a door after walking out of a meeting. He had come up short when it came to the ceremony and the oil concessions and making sure all the traditions were upheld. He would not fall short again.