Valerie Parv - Desert Justice

He didn’t seem fazed. “Are you sure?”

“About the weather?”

Leaning forward, he fingered pads on a control panel. Instantly, the air around her became much cooler. “What is air-conditioning but controlling the weather? As to your second example?”

Despite the chill air sliding over her skin, she felt overheated suddenly. The champagne must be having an effect. “Yes?”

“I would not want to make someone fall in love with me. Love is overrated as a means of choosing a life partner.”

Was he speaking as a man who’d been once bitten? “I wouldn’t know.”

He toyed with the stem of his glass. “You can’t tell me that someone as attractive as you has never been in love?”

Two compliments in one conversation. She’d have to be careful she didn’t start believing him. She paid attention to the walnut grove they were driving through. In contrast to the soaring sandstone hills locking in Al-Qasr, the surrounding region was green and fertile, dotted with villages where time appeared to have stood still. She turned back to the sheikh. “I thought I was in love until recently. It didn’t work out.”

He smiled in satisfaction. “See? You bear out my thesis that love is overrated.”

“Just because one relationship goes sour doesn’t mean the whole notion is a crock.”

“Then you are a romantic fool.”

She shifted sideways, the buttery-soft leather tilting her closer to him. “You’re the boss, Your Highness.”

Without asking, he topped up her champagne glass. “If I thought you meant that, I’d be disappointed.”

She lifted the glass and studied the bubbling liquid, then lowered it slowly. “Then with respect, Your Highness, you’re dead wrong. I may be a romantic, but I don’t think I’m a fool.”

“No,” he said after a pause, “I don’t think so, either.”

“Thank you.”

His low laugh rippled through her like a caress. “Didn’t you expect me to concede the point?”

She dragged her free hand through her hair. “After this crazy day, I don’t know what I expect anymore. This morning I was an ordinary visitor. Now I’m the target of a criminal, forced to hide out in a royal palace.”

His gesture took in their luxurious surroundings. “Is it such a troubling prospect?”

“If I said yes, I would be a fool. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience.” Afraid the champagne was starting to affect her, she put her unfinished glass down on the bar. “I only wish I were here under less harrowing circumstances.”

“The police are already at work tracking down Natalie’s car. Her assailant will not be a threat to you for long,” he assured her.

Their bodies were so close. Another couple of inches and she’d be touching him. She held herself rigid, aware of the champagne working to undermine her self-control. “I was thinking of the threat to you.”

His gaze skimmed over her face. “You aren’t a fool, Simone Hayes. But you are a dreamer.”

He made it sound like a flaw. “Because I don’t want to see you hurt?”

Her concern had touched him, she saw as his gaze softened. “I didn’t mean it as a criticism. Dreams are the first steps to making the world better. But you should be dreaming on your own account, not on mine.”

“Can’t I do both?”

The car rounded a curve, sliding her farther into his personal space. The contact was momentary before she pulled back, but the effect lingered. He fascinated her for all the wrong reasons. Concern for his safety only went so far.

She was still pondering the problem when the motorcade approached the massive wrought-iron gates guarding the entrance to the Raisa Palace. She had already seen the complex from her hotel. Indeed it was hard to miss. Situated on a massive rocky spur overlooking the city, the palace had the stark simplicity of a fortress and dominated the road linking Raisa to Al-Qasr and the desert beyond. Terraced gardens surrounded the palace, while more gardens planted with cypress groves decorated the park within the gates and around the buildings. She had read about the palace, but never expected to be a guest here. “It’s hard to believe this is a private home.”

“It also serves as the administrative heart of the kingdom,” he explained. “We are passing Dar el Baranie, the exterior lodging. Next is Dar el Wousta, the middle lodging. My true home is Dar el Harem, the private quarters.”

Here Markaz’s motorcade glided to a halt under an elegant arcade. The facade of this building was adorned with delicate sculptures and wonderful carved marble and alcoves. As the driver opened the door for them and staff hurried to assist them, she felt as if she were stepping into the pages of a fairy tale.

Markaz’s pleasure in his home was magnified by seeing it through Simone’s eyes. Having grown up in the palace, he was largely immune to the effect, but he enjoyed watching others gain their first glimpse of royal life. Simone’s evident appreciation was especially satisfying.

Seldom had anyone shown as much selfless concern for him as she’d done today. She’d risked her life to bring him the ring, without knowing that it contained codes to the operation of a new defensive weapon developed between his country and America for Nazaar’s future security. His visit to Al-Qasr had been devised so Natalie could deliver the codes. Only concern for both women’s safety had stopped him from telling Simone of the great service she’d done his country. He decided to find a special way to show her his gratitude.

Only a generation ago, the sheikh would have thanked her by taking her to his bed. Just as well she was preoccupied, he thought as an almost painful pleasure bloomed through him. He shifted to ease the sudden pressure in his loins, wondering how she’d react if she knew. Probably violently, and his eyes gleamed at the thought of intercepting her hand on the way to his cheek and crushing her fingers to his lips. She’d be no easy conquest, this curious mix of desert daughter and self-assured Western woman.

Who was Simone Hayes? He looked forward to finding out. Not the practical details his security people would provide for him within hours, but the essence of her that was less easily uncovered. A closer look had affirmed his suspicion that Arab ancestry had sculpted her distinctive features and kissed her flawless skin with gold. But where and how, and was the connection recent or generations ago? And where did her heart belong?

Back in his father’s time, the law had allowed the sheikh of sheikhs to possess any woman catching his eye. Not that Kemal bin Aziz al Nazaari had ever indulged the privilege, Markaz thought, with the inescapable sense of loss accompanying memories of his father. Kemal had joked about taking more wives, knowing full well that there was only room for one woman in his heart.

Norah Robinson had been an American nurse working for a royal cousin, when Kemal went to stay with them. After his arm was slashed to the bone while training a new falcon, Norah had tended his injury and captured his heart. Ten years ago a rebel bomb had killed Kemal and their older son, Esan. Norah had carried on magnificently, but Markaz knew his mother still grieved the loss every day.

His parents’ example was the reason Markaz had married Natalie so quickly. Wanting what they’d had, he’d assumed it automatically followed physical desire. Even choosing an American wife had been an unconscious wish to replicate his father’s happiness. Nowadays Markaz knew better. But by his oath, Simone made him wish the dream had not died with the ending of his marriage.

He watched her until the driver opened the car door, then got out slowly, reluctant to leave their shared cocoon. Usually surrounded by servants and advisors, he treasured his moments of solitude, yet traveling with Simone was better than being alone. It was all he could do not to step back into the car and order the driver to keep going.