Out of respect, Imani clamped her lips shut, but she was not pleased.
“Do not be so quick to dismiss the idea. Your father and I only want the best for you, and this is a very good man. At least give him a chance. Spend some time with him.”
“I have someone I’m already interested in.”
“The Senegalese man? He’s not worthy of your station.”
Imani had met Abdou on a trip to Senegal. They’d stayed in touch sporadically over the years, and with his gentle nature she thought he could be the perfect husband.
“Imani, are you there?”
“Yes, Mama.”
Benu’s voice softened. “Be open to the idea, okay? Love can come later, which is why it’s so important that you are compatible in the first place. Arranged marriages have been practiced for centuries all over the world and many have done well. Look at your father and me. I will send you a photo of your potential suitor. He is very handsome.”
Imani heard the smile in her mother’s voice and became more annoyed. “What’s his name?”
When her mother gave the name, she didn’t need to see a photo because she remembered him. He was certainly better off financially than Abdou—a filthy-rich, domineering forty-something-year-old who’d inherited his father’s utility empire. Absolutely not.
“Baba said I could choose my own husband. We had an agreement. Besides, since the last fiasco, I’ve decided to take a break from men and concentrate on my work when I return to Zamibia.”
Benu sighed dramatically. “You’ll never find a husband if you’re busy with international trade agreements, business deals, and women empowerment seminars. I’m proud of you—we both are—but you must consider your future. Your father is concerned.”
“Is he also concerned about my brothers?” Imani asked in a saccharine-sweet voice.
“Did you know a woman is born with all the eggs she will ever have?” her mother asked, deftly ignoring the question. She often shared medical facts, as if to remind herself that at one time she had planned to become a doctor, before she dropped out of college and married Imani’s father.
“Yes,” Imani answered dully.
“We are born with millions of eggs but lose approximately 11,000 every month. Your brothers can have children at almost any age. You cannot. You’re twenty-eight years old, my love. You need to find a husband and have some babies before you run out of eggs.”
Imani rolled her eyes.
“Let us see where this will go, okay? Humor me. Can I send you a photo of Kwadzo?”
There was no way she’d marry her parents’ choice. She wouldn’t even entertain him. He would most certainly try to stifle her independence and curtail her work, and she’d be miserable in a marriage like that. “Yes, please, send a photo.”
“Good. Let me know what you think so that I can pass on your thoughts to your father.”
“Will you also pass on my thoughts about how I feel about him setting me up for marriage?”
“Imani…”
She sighed without making a sound. “I’ll talk to you soon, Mama. Unfortunately, I have to go now because I have paperwork to take care of. I love you.”
“All right, my dear. Have a good evening, and let me know what you think when you get the photo.”
Imani disconnected the call and walked over to the window that overlooked the backyard of the two-story home she occupied as the Zamibian ambassador to Barrakesch. From here she could see the full lawn and the decorative tile around the swimming pool. She’d soon be gone and would miss this place. Though she returned to Zamibia from time to time, she had spent most of the past six years in Barrakesch—first as a graduate student and then as an ambassador.
Her phone pinged and she glanced down at it. Her mother had sent a photo of her intended. He was handsome. Older. Distinguished-looking, with dark brown skin, thick eyebrows, and high cheekbones.
She sent a message: He’s handsome.
Benu: I knew you would think so. I will tell your father the good news!
Imani sighed heavily, feeling as if a herd of camels had been deposited on her shoulders. Her mother was right, there were many successful arranged marriages, but there were unhappy ones, as well. Particularly if the couples were mismatched.
She set down the phone and exited the bedroom. Earlier, the scent of cooking lamb signaled that dinner would soon be ready. She couldn’t get enough of Barrakeschi cuisine, and at her request, the chef prepared Zamibian and Barrakeschi food equally. Her chef had his own bzar recipe—a blend of pepper, cardamom, nutmeg, coriander, and ginger—that made the lamb mouthwateringly delicious.
Walking down the hall, her feet tread on the beautiful burgundy and green rug that stretched along the middle of the solid wood floor. As she neared the top of the stairs, she heard feminine laughter which sounded like her house manager, a Filipina woman named Vilma. She listened closely and also heard the low murmurs of a male voice but couldn’t pick out any words. Yet she knew that voice, and the skin on the back of her neck pricked with heat.
She looked down from the top of the stairs, and there was Crown Prince Wasim ibn Khalid al-Hassan talking to Vilma. His unexpected presence sent pleasure coursing through her veins.
The minute he lifted his gaze and saw her, he pressed a finger to his lips, indicating Vilma should be quiet. “Shh, the boss is here,” he said ominously.
Imani placed her hands on her hips. “Very funny. Stop corrupting my housekeeper, please. What brings you by?”
“A special delivery. The approval on the next phase of the oil drilling project.” He held up a folder in his right hand.
“You’re running errands for the Ministry of Oil now?”
“Not at all, but I can’t trust Minister Nair to do a proper review because the poor man has a crush on you, and I’m concerned he’ll give you too much leeway.”
“A crush? On me? You’re being ridiculous. You don’t trust your own minister.”
“I don’t trust you.”
Imani smirked, taking the barb as a compliment.
“Not that I blame Minister Nair, but you have the poor man wrapped around your finger.”
“You’re giving me way too much credit.”
“Hardly, but I have a vested interest in making sure this project goes well because of all the money involved. And this way, I get to spend time with my favorite ambassador.”
The corners of Vilma’s mouth lifted into a little smile, and Imani shook her head as if Wasim were being ridiculous. Still, she blushed. He could be quite the charmer—which made him an excellent emissary when his father called on him to be his representative abroad. She would miss spending time with him when she left.
Imani started slowly down the staircase. “There you go, being all charming again. I’ll take a look at the contract and then you can be on your way.”
“Vilma told me we’re having lamb tonight.”
The closer Imani came to Wasim, the more her stomach tightened. “We? Lamb for me, not for you.”
Hospitality was an important part of Barrakeschi culture. Since Wasim arrived around dinnertime, it was a given that he was invited to join her and it was understood that he would accept. Nonetheless, she liked to tease him and knew he’d play along.
“You wouldn’t be so cruel as to not invite me for dinner. A guest in your home. A prince, no less.” One eyebrow over his brilliant copper-brown eyes arched in question.
Imani stopped several steps above him. Wasim. In Arabic, his name meant “handsome” and “graceful.” He was aptly named.
He wore traditional attire today, and from her position on the staircase she had the height advantage and a clear view of every angle in his handsome face beneath the ghutra that covered his head. The low, neatly trimmed beard couldn’t hide the power of his square chin and jaw, nor could the white dishdasha obscure the width of his shoulders and the fitness of his firm body.
“There’s only enough food for one. Sorry, you should have told me you were
coming.” Imani shifted her gaze to Vilma. “We’ll be working in my office.”
“Yes, Ambassador.”
Vilma walked away and Imani preceded Wasim down the hall. On either side were tan walls displaying paintings and photographs of ambassadors who’d lived there before her. “Your visit has really surprised me. I assumed you’d be spending time with your family.” She glanced at him over her shoulder.
His gaze shifted from somewhere below her waistline to her eyes, and a moment of acknowledgement passed between them that heated her cheeks. The loose-fitting black abaya hid her body well, yet she felt unclothed before him. Jittery. Off. He’d always made her feel that way, and she fought those sensations by teasing and joking with him often. But in the past nine months, those sensation had become more pronounced—ever since their unexpected interaction the night of the polo match in Estoria last year.
“I was with my family and friends yesterday in the desert,” he answered smoothly, seemingly unperturbed that she’d caught him looking where he had no business.
“Racing?”
“Yes.”
“And did you win?” Imani opened the door to her office.
“I always win.” He followed behind her and left the door open, per the custom when an unmarried woman and man were alone together.
“Such confidence.”
Wasim chuckled and placed the folder on the table in the sitting area. He sat on the cream sofa and stretched an arm across its back, looking perfectly relaxed.
His commanding presence filled a room decorated in neutral colors with splashes of gold and silver. The pillows on the sofa were cream-colored and covered with gold and silver zigzagged lines. The rest of the office was bright and airy, with large windows on each side that she sometimes opened to let in cool air when the weather was pleasant. She did that now, pushing a window outward behind her desk and opening the French doors that led onto the patio.
Imani picked up her reading glasses from the desk—one of several she kept in various rooms around the house so she wouldn’t have to remember to carry them with her at all times.
She walked over to where Wasim sat, feeling his eyes on her every movement. Annoyingly, her heart raced a little. Ever since she had met him through her cousin, Prince Kofi, Wasim had affected her. They had a playful relationship—teasing, flirting, even linking arms or the occasional touch—but outside of Barrakesch. Inside the country, that type of touching was forbidden in public between unmarried members of the opposite sex.
Wasim always shifted easily into the customs once they returned to Barrakesch, but for her, the transition was much harder. It frustrated her that she couldn’t touch him, and that frustration highlighted the fact that her feelings were entering dangerous territory. Part of her wondered what would happen if she took his flirtations seriously and disclosed her feelings. Would he—no point in letting her thoughts go there. They were friends, nothing more. He was next in line to the throne of his country, and she would be leaving Barrakesch very soon.
Imani sat across from Wasim in a thick-cushioned armchair covered in cream and gold fabric and picked up the folder. She perused the document, the words he crossed out, and the comments in the margins. This was her biggest project to date, and one that she was especially proud of. To think, she would be a key player in taking her country’s economy to the next level.
Zamibia had discovered oil off its shores in the Atlantic Ocean, and with help from Barrakesch, who had much more experience in offshore drilling than they did, intended to take advantage of this new means of income for their country.
Imani had been instrumental in arranging an exploratory agreement between the two countries, and she was now working on the final negotiations where they would create a joint venture to extract the oil. When the details were finalized, King Khalid—Wasim’s father—and King Babatunde—her uncle in Zamibia—would sign the agreement.
Billions would pour into Zamibia and remain in the country to boost the economy. She’d already worked on a budget that used a small percentage of that revenue to fund her causes, all geared toward female empowerment through education and entrepreneurship.
Imani tossed the folder on the table. “Looks good so far. I expect to have the final analysis from the environmental commission soon, and then we’ll be able to iron out a final deal.” She could barely contain the excitement in her voice.
Wasim smiled. “I think that’s cause for a celebration, don’t you?”
“Before everything is finalized?”
“Absolutely. We’re nearing the home stretch.”
Imani cocked her head to the side. “What did you have in mind?”
“Oh, I don’t know…stewed lamb?”
She giggled and shook her head. “Did you just invite yourself to dinner, Prince Wasim?”
“Yes, and you better say yes.”
Though he was joking, his voice held an undertone of authority that spiked heat in her blood. “Well, with a command like that, how could I refuse?”
3
Once again, Imani’s chef had outdone himself, and the hearty meal of stewed lamb over rice served with roasted vegetables was quickly consumed on the patio outside her home office.
She had a glass of wine with the meal, which she couldn’t do in restaurants or anywhere else in the country because of the restrictions against the public consumption of alcohol. Wasim didn’t consume alcohol at all, and instead had a glass of jellab in front of him—a drink made of grape molasses and rose water and garnished with pine nuts on top.
During the course of the meal, they discussed the oil drilling project in more detail and touched briefly on other government issues.
After the dishes were cleared away, Wasim poured them both a cup of tea. “Dinner was excellent, as always,” he said.
“I’d be lost without my chef. You, however, have an entire team in your kitchen and yet, here you are, eating my food. It can’t possibly taste better.”
“On the contrary.”
Imani arched an eyebrow.
“It’s the company, you see,” he explained.
“Oh yes. Because you’re in the company of your favorite ambassador.”
“Exactly,” he said.
Imani shook her head as if disgusted, but he knew she enjoyed the compliment, even if she thought he was spewing out empty words. She was adorable and sexy and shared a similar sense of humor to him—an acerbic wit that sometimes had him chuckling to himself long after they’d parted ways because of something she’d said.
But the years since he’d known her had been challenging, to say the least. During this time he’d watched, being a friend, but craving her in a way he hadn’t any other woman. No one knew the restraint he’d exhibited in the face of such temptation.
Lioness Abameha—the honorific bestowed on her by her uncle, the king of Zamibia—Imani Karunzika had come into his life six years ago when she attended the University of Barrakesch to earn a graduate degree in international business. Vivacious and funny, she had a certain determination that intrigued him. And she was a stunning woman with glowing bronze skin, sultry dark eyes fringed by thick lashes, and sexy curves that drew the eye and tempted him to touch. His first sight of her had sent his heart thumping.
But he’d known better than to give in to temptation. His good friend Kofi—her cousin and Crown Prince of Zamibia—had asked him to look out for her, even though she came with a set of bodyguards. They’d seen each other only a handful of times during that two-year period, until she was appointed ambassador to Barrakesch immediately upon graduation—one of the perks of being a member of the royal family. But she was good at her job and worked hard. Sometimes he thought too hard, as if something other than personal goals influenced her work ethic.
They saw each other more frequently once she became an ambassador. They attended many of the same official functions, and so their friendship blossomed and his attraction to her increased. No doubt in his mind that she knew her power over men. Her v
ery bearing suggested that she did, and she wielded her beauty as one of the tools in her vast arsenal of weapons.
Outside of Barrakesch, she was brazen in the way she touched him, and he, too, initiated contact—torturing himself in ways that could only be deemed masochistic. Even he, with his ironclad will, could only handle her in small doses, so he pitied the fools who had crossed her path and been left scarred and broken by her personality and sensual allure.
“So, whose heart did you break while you were overseas?” Imani stirred honey into her tea.
“Me, a heartbreaker? I should be asking you that. I’ve lost track of your many boyfriends.”
“Don’t exaggerate. I’ve only been on a few dates in the past few months, and…”
“And…?” he prompted.
“Let’s just say I’ve had to kiss a lot of toads in the quest to find a prince.” She pressed her lips together.
“Well, if it’s a prince you’re looking for…” Wasim raised an eyebrow.
“You were never in contention,” Imani said. She dislodged a strand of hair from her eyelash. Her hair was cut in a bob that made her thick, silky hair appear even thicker.
Wasim laughed softly and pressed his right hand against his heart. “I am crushed. Why? Because you refuse to take orders?”
“I may not be a princess, but I’m a member of the royal family of Zamibia, and not very good at taking orders,” she said haughtily.
“I know. That’s why I mentioned it. So tell me, what have you been up to while I was gone? Skip the part where you tell me how much you missed me. I already know that.”
“You are so conceited. No wonder you can’t find a woman to marry you.”
“And what’s your excuse for remaining unmarried?”
“Ouch. For your information, it’s rough out here for us women.” She carefully sipped the tea, narrowing her dark eyes against the steam that wafted up from the colorful glass cup.
“From what I heard, it’s rough for the men,” Wasim said dryly.
“What have you heard?” she asked sharply.
Queen of Barrakesch Page 2