Hasan Sheikhs: The Complete Series

by Leslie North

  Zayid shot a glare across his desk at his brother, but he couldn’t maintain it. “It’s going well. Endless thanks to you for asking.”

  The joking look on Nadim’s face faded to something resembling sincerity. “I’ve heard good things about her. And she’s an excellent conversationalist at every single dinner. You really picked a woman who knows how to light up a room.”

  “I did. And she lights up every room. Even in the market. Even teaching children.” His praise for her poured out of him, an unstoppable stream until he discovered his brothers were staring.

  “Wow,” said Yaseen. “This is more than convenience now, isn’t it?”

  “No,” he said instantly. “I admire her, that’s all.”

  His brothers exchanged a knowing look.

  “Did you hear that, Yaseen? He admires her.” Nadim looked hard at Zayid. “Look at your face. You’ve fallen hard. Have you told her this? Yaseen’s wedding is in a matter of weeks.”

  That deadline rang in the air like a bell. If he didn’t tell Laila how he felt, she’d be ready to divorce him the very moment the baby was born. “No,” Zayid said miserably. “I haven’t. She—” He didn’t want to admit this, didn’t want to speak it out loud, but here they were. “She and I have had a disagreement lately about her role in our marriage, and the way I—the way I approach things. She thinks I only care about Raihan and not her.”

  Yaseen gaped at him. “And you haven’t told her otherwise, I suppose.”

  “I tried to show her by visiting her in her room and making my requests for the next state dinner in person, but—”

  Nadim groaned. “Zayid, this is pathetic. Tell her how you feel. Show her how you feel, and not with some boring state dinner invitation. Leave no doubt in her mind.”

  Fire blazed through Zayid’s veins at the thought. Leave no doubt in her mind. If he wanted to keep her, then Nadim—Nadim, of all people, his playboy youngest brother and the man who never took anything seriously—was right. Laila had to know how he felt. And she had to know now.

  17

  Laila was reaching for the handle on the guest suite door, ready for her morning session in the studio, when a knock made her jump. A loud knock. She pulled open the door to find none other than Zayid waiting on the other side. Her heart skipped a beat at the flawless, clean-cut sight of him—but there was something in his dark eyes that made her think he hadn’t slept. The freshly shaved cut of his jaw made her want to slide her hands over his cheeks and pull him down for a kiss so she could taste the mint on his tongue and breathe in the spicy scent of his aftershave.

  “Good morning,” she said instead.

  He didn’t move to come in. “I know you have a morning lesson with Talif. But before he arrives, there’s something I want to show you. And I promise it will make up for your missed studio time.”

  Her heart twisted and banged painfully against her ribs with how much she wanted to touch him. She’d fallen for him, and now everything was a mess.

  And yet.

  She should tell him to come back after her lesson, when she was free, but her soul fought to be closer to Zayid.

  “Show me.” She stepped into the hallway, making him back up to give her the space to move, and she saw the way he raised a hand to put it on the small of her back then let it fall to his side. Touch me, she thought, hoping somehow he’d hear. And maybe he did, because Zayid offered her his arm. She took it, clinging tighter than she’d intended all the way out to the waiting SUV.

  They drove into town, taking a series of roads she didn’t quite recognize, until the SUV pulled up in front of a gated compound. The main gate was a set of pillars painted a bright white, a chain-link fenced twined with ivy stretching between them. The driver jumped out and punched in a code on a keypad on the left pillar, and the gate rumbled open.

  The compound itself was made up of low buildings, each built with wide bricks. They stopped in front of one of the buildings, and Zayid helped her out of the SUV and to the door. What was this place?

  “I’ve been wanting to show you this,” Zayid said, his voice low. “But the timing was off.”

  She heard his meaning clearly—that he hadn’t been able to find the time in his busy schedule. “But you finally located a spare moment,” she teased as they went through the glass door, which slid away and let them into a cool, dark space. A museum of some kind. Art hung on the walls in the wide entryway, illuminated by recessed lights in the ceiling. Laila’s shoulders relaxed. A museum. She couldn’t love this more.

  Zayid looked her in the eye. “I made time. I cancelled all my meetings.”

  A pleasant heat rose to her cheeks, and she reached for his hand. She had never dreamed that Zayid would put aside his official duties to do something like this for her—something that he claimed would be better than her private lesson with Talif. He had taken time for her. It meant as much to her as any jewelry, as any treasure, as any palace.

  “Thank you,” she said simply.

  A grin spread across Zayid’s face. “You haven’t seen them yet.”

  “Them?”

  “Come this way.” Hand in hand, Zayid led her to a smaller room off the wide main entryway.

  Talif stood behind a low table of polished wood, waiting with a smile on his face. Laila’s mouth dropped open. “Talif,” she cried. “What are you doing here?”

  He came out to shake her hand, exchanging a look with Zayid.

  “Laila, I’d like you to meet the chief curator of my aunt Zein’s works.”

  She stopped shaking Talif’s hand and held it tight in hers. “You?”

  He nodded. “It wasn’t something I could reveal until the royal family signed off.” The royal family…until Zayid signed off. Laila could hardly string two words together in her mind. Talif kept watch over the most famous pottery pieces in all of Raihan. In all of the Middle East. Oh, she’d studied Zein’s work so many times, tracing the photographs of her work with her fingertips, wishing she could meet her—and this was as close as she could ever get.

  Zayid smiled down at her. “All of my aunt’s most personal works are stored here. All the pieces she made to mark family events—births, deaths, birthdays, weddings—and to commemorate her own life are kept safe here. Members of the royal family can freely visit them here and enjoy them, any time they wish. Anyone in the family,” he said, looking deeply into her eyes.

  Laila couldn’t shake off the hope that expanded like a balloon at the center of her. He wouldn’t be offering this if he wanted their arrangement to be truly temporary. No, something deeper lighted up Zayid’s eyes. Something lasting.

  “Would you like a tour?” Talif’s soft voice broke into her thoughts, and Laila laughed.

  “Of course I would. If there’s time,” she said, realizing only as she spoke the words how ingrained her assumption was that Zayid would rush them through the visit.

  “There is time.” Zayid squeezed her hand. “Let’s go.”

  Talif led them though the museum, stopping to tell them stories about every piece. Zayid stayed by Laila’s side, her hand in his, and never once let go. He even added his own memories of Zein—the pieces she’d made while they worked together in her studio, the jokes she made while the two of them were away from prying eyes. He had been far closer with Zein than Laila had thought, and she heard how much he missed her in the fullness of his voice. She felt like he’d opened a door into the most personal part of his life—into the grief he still held for his aunt. Zayid the man stood in full color before her. He wasn’t just the crown prince. He was her Zayid, and before that, a part of his heart had belonged to Zein.

  They lingered for three hours, and by the end, the three of them sat together around the big wooden table, laughing and exchanging stories.

  “I wanted to tell you every time you brought her up,” Talif admitted to Laila. “It was the only time I’ve ever struggled to keep my job a secret.”

  “And there I was, chattering away about the mystery potter w
hile I was using her wheel.” Laila dropped her head back and stared at the ceiling. “I had no idea. No idea. And now I want to know even more.” She looked at them both. “I want to come back, and soon.”

  “Every day, if you wish,” said Zayid. He paused, and Laila knew it was time to move on to the next thing. For the first time, she didn’t feel rushed—she’d taken in all she could for the day, and now she had to let her brain process it all before she came back to be with these pieces. Having her dream come true was, she had to admit, slightly overwhelming. “Talif,” he said, and a new solemnity settled over the room, sparkling with anticipation. “Bring me the case.”

  Talif nodded and went into the next room, returning with a large wooden chest. He set it carefully in the center of the table. Zayid stood up and lifted the lid, and Laila followed the motion, her heart beating fast, overflowing with curiosity.

  Two vases nestled inside on a crush of black velvet.

  Zein’s? They had her signature shape, but not the signature red and gold. One was far less technically proficient than the other. It had a kind of uneven quality that made her heart sink. She tried to work up an appropriate reaction if they were Zein’s, but her mind raced. She’d seen too much, and what was Zayid showing her?

  “These are the last pieces my aunt and I made together before she passed away.” Zayid gazed down at them, a faraway look in his eyes, and brushed his fingertips against the flawless vase, its uneven cousin next to it. “We made them in my favorite colors. Blues and greens, like the sea at different depths when you see it from above.” He was silent for a long moment, and Laila thought her heart might leap out of her chest and wrap itself around his. Zayid’s eyes met hers. “I’ve treasured them more than anything. But I want you to have them now.”

  She put a hand to her chest and couldn’t summon the voice for the word. Me?

  “You,” said Zayid. “You and our baby are what I treasure most in the world.” Zayid’s voice broke. “I’ve missed you. I’ve spent every second missing you. And not just the way you can charm anyone. The way you are with me, when we’re alone. Late at night—” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Talif slip out the door. “I miss you, and I need you in my life. I love you.”

  She stepped into his arms. “I love you, too.”

  “I know we’re already married,” Zayid said as his shoulders relaxed under her hands and his hands worked up and down her back. “But I’d like to make another proposal.”

  Happy tears fell from the corners of Laila’s eyes. “Tell me.”

  “Stay,” he whispered. “Be my wife. For as many days as you can stand it—until we run out of days.”

  Laila looked into his eyes. The fierce, dark eyes that had captivated her that night in the garden and captivated her still. “I accept.”

  He kissed her, long and deep, and the rest of the world fell away. There was only Zayid. Just how it was meant to be.

  18

  Zayid waited outside Laila’s dressing room like a teenager on his first date. He felt giddy, almost overexcited, and when Laila emerged dressed in a deep purple gown that brushed the floor and caught the light in its gold stitching, he caught his breath. This woman was his wife. For the rest of his days. And she carried his child—his child. Zayid had never allowed himself to think of becoming a father, except in the abstract. He’d known all his life that his first duty would be to Raihan.

  He’d been so wrong.

  His first duty would be to Laila and their child, always.

  “How do I look?” she asked with a cheeky smile, turning slowly so he could get the full effect of the dress.

  “Good enough to devour. I could take you to bed this instant.”

  “Oh, not with all the work the team did.” She smiled, radiant. Her dark hair was a spill of curls down her back, and her green eyes flashed mischievously behind expert makeup. “They did this for King Fahd, not for you.”

  “Ha. It’s all for me, and you know it.” Zayid pulled her in close, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Escort me to dinner, would you?”

  “I would.”

  Laila’s eyes sparkled on the way to the reception. “Do you have some plan up your sleeve you haven’t told me about?”

  “Nothing you’d disapprove of, I promise,” she said innocently.

  He didn’t have time to press her—they were at the grand dining room, and he stepped through the door with the most beautiful woman in the kingdom on his arm. King Fahd, stone faced as always, cracked a smile when he saw Laila and lifted his chin. Zayid went to him—as a king and honored guest, they would have the first conversation of the evening. Zayid opened his mouth to greet Fahd. But Fahd got there first.

  “Prince Zayid. Princess Laila,” he said. “Many thanks for the invitation.” His gaze shifted entirely to Laila. “I’ve brought you a gift as a sign of those thanks.” Fahd signaled to someone off to the side, and one of his staff members came forward with a small framed painting. “An original Al-Khahat, but this one more suited to your personal tastes.”

  Laila let go of Zayid’s arm and put her hand to her heart. She took her time studying the painting, which was—Zayid had to admit—utterly perfect for Laila. The canvas held a still-life of pottery on a shelf, so lifelike Zayid almost believed he could reach out and take the pots in his hands.

  Laila looked directly into King Fahd’s eyes. “This is a wonderful gift. I’ll treasure it always.” Then an impish light came to her eyes. “But you’re not the only one who brought a gift. I hope you’ll accept mine in turn.” She turned around and wriggled her fingers—come here.

  There came Maha, carrying an exquisite vase. Round, with a handle and a narrow spout—Zayid recognized it as a traditional water-carrying vessel. He snapped his own mouth shut. Laila took the vase from Maha, stood tall in front of Fahd, and offered it to him, turning it slightly so he could see all its features.

  “I made this myself,” she said. “Purple and black, to symbolize your country. The water vessel, to symbolize the wisdom of you and your people. And naturally, I created this vessel at the start of the full moon.”

  Fahd had to be as shocked as Zayid was. The water vessel was a revered symbol to Fahd’s people, and starting important royal projects at the beginning of the full moon was a tradition both of their countries had shared since ancient times. Was Fahd blushing? Zayid couldn’t tell, but he saw an emotional gleam in his eyes as he took the vessel carefully in both hands.

  “Thank you, Princess,” he said gruffly. “This will be kept in a place of honor.”

  The gift giving set the tone for the rest of the evening, and the intimate dinner—a party of only twenty—filled the room with more laughter and small talk than Zayid had seen in the palace in years. Years.

  He felt almost drunk from how well it had gone when he and Laila made their way slowly through the palace halls after the last of the guests had left the reception.

  “You know,” she said, her voice tired from laughing, “now that I know you have pottery skills, you’ll have to do a session at the studio with me.”

  “If you’d like.” Zayid winked at her, drawing her closer with his hand around her waist. “Speaking of pottery, I appreciated that gift to King Fahd. You showed the perfect amount of reverence for his culture. I don’t think we’ve been on such good terms with his country in generations. A water vessel.” Zayid whistled, the sound low and echoing off the halls around them. “I couldn’t have made a better choice myself.”

  “And right before your trade talks are due to begin.” Laila grinned up at them. “I thought of everything.”

  “You could have told me beforehand, you know. I can keep a secret.”

  She slipped her arms around his waist and rested her cheek against the front of his shirt, breathing deeply. “But that would have ruined the surprise. And I know how you feel about ruining surprises. I think turnabout’s fair play, isn’t it?” She looked up at him, and he laughed—for joy and hope and everything that was good about
the world. Then he bent to kiss her mouth. The taste of her, the feel of her lips, the sway of her hips beneath his hands—it was all perfection. She was the perfect crown princess, and she was all his. For now. Forever.

  Epilogue

  Laila shifted from foot to foot in the springtime sun, warm on her skin as they waited in front of an empty lot off the fountain courtyard in Raihanabad’s market. She patted her round belly, resting her hands there. It would be so odd, in another couple of weeks, not to have that place to rest her hands anymore. Seven months had sped by and now their baby girl was due to arrive any day.

  Zayid hovered nearby, never wanting to be more than a few steps away. He stroked the small of her back, rubbing against an ache that came and went no matter how she stood or sat. “Are you all right? Do you need to sit down?”

  “No,” Laila said good-naturedly. “Sitting down is worse, and then I’d have to get back up.” She smiled at him, projecting as much confidence as she could into the expression. “I’ll last for the rest of the ceremony, and then I promise you I’ll put my feet up when we’re back at the palace.”

  He met her eyes with a calculating stare. “For the rest of the afternoon?”

  “If that would make you feel better.” Honestly, it would make her feel better, too. So would a nice, long nap. But Laila wasn’t about to miss this ceremony.

  Talif stepped to the front of the crowd, where a low stage held a microphone and a rack of shovels. “Hello and welcome to the groundbreaking ceremony for the Zein School of Arts, where the children of Raihan are invited to learn all the arts of our country, in both the traditional and modern styles.” He went on to talk about Zayid’s aunt, and how she’d never wanted her name to take precedence over the next generation of artists. “We apologize, Zein,” Talif said with a glance to the sky. “But we want your name to guide them into a future in the arts. We hope you can forgive us.”