Her Exotic Prince

As a boy, his grandfather would have stood in this same spot, looking at the creek, the town, the desert beyond it, certain in the knowledge that every drop of water, every grain of sand would, insh’Allah, one day be his.

Except that Allah had not willed it. His grandfather had followed his heart instead of his head and, as a result, had been judged unworthy. A lesson he had learned well.

He drained his cup, took one last look, then returned to the summer house.

Sparrows, pecking at a piece of pastry, flew up at his approach and a single look was enough to tell him that Rose had fallen asleep, tea untouched, croissant untasted.

And, now that the sun had risen high enough to banish the shadows from the summer house and illuminate her clear, fair skin, he could see the faint violet smudges beneath her eyes.

Clearly sleep had eluded her aboard the plane and a long day, a long flight, had finally caught up with her. This was no light doze and he did not attempt to wake her, but as he bent and caught her beneath the knees she sighed.

‘Shh,’ he said, easing her arm over his shoulder, around his neck. ‘Hold on.’

On some level of consciousness she must have heard him because, as he lifted her out of the chair, she curled her hand around his neck and tucked her head into the hollow of his shoulder.

She wasn’t anywhere near as light, as ethereal as she looked, he discovered as he carried her along the path to Lucy and Han’s seaside retreat. Not an angel, but a real, solid woman and he was glad that the huge doors stood wide to welcome her.

He walked straight in, picking up a little group of women who, clucking anxiously, rushed ahead to open doors, circled round them tutting with disapproval and finally stood in his way when he reached her bedroom.

‘Move,’ he said, ‘or I’ll drop her.’

They scattered with little squeals of outrage, then, as he laid her on the bed, clicked his fingers for a cover in a manner that would have made his grandfather proud—and he would have protested was utterly alien to him—they rushed to do his bidding.

He removed her shoes but, about to reach for the button at her waist to make her more comfortable, he became aware of a silence, a collectively held breath.

He turned to look at the women clustered behind him, their shocked faces. And, remembering himself, took a step back.

That he could have undressed her in a completely detached manner had the occasion demanded it was not in question. But this was not London, or New York, or Paris. This was a world where a man did not undress a woman unless he was married to her. He should not even be in her room.

‘Make her comfortable,’ he said with a gesture that would have done his grandfather proud. Maybe it was the place calling to his genes, he thought as he closed the door behind him, leaving the women to their task.

Then, to an old woman who’d settled herself, cross-legged, in front of the door like a palace guard, ‘When she wakes she should have a massage.’

‘It will be done, sidi.’

Lord…

‘Don’t call me that,’ he said, straightening, easing his own aching limbs.

‘You don’t want to be given your title, Sheikh?’ she asked, clearly not in the slightest bit in awe of him. ‘Your grandfather wanted to be the Emir.’

About to walk away, he stopped, turned slowly back to face her.

‘You knew him?’

‘When he was a boy. A young man. Before he was foolish.’

She was the first person he’d met in Ramal Hamrah who was prepared to admit that. He sat before her, crossing his legs so that the soles of his feet were tucked out of sight.

‘Here? You knew him here?’

‘Here. In Rumaillah. At Umm al Sama. He was the wild one. Headstrong.’ She shook her head. ‘And he was stubborn, like his father. Once he’d said a thing, that was it.’ She brushed her palms together in a gesture he’d seen many times. It signalled an end to discussion. That the subject was closed. ‘They were two rocks.’ She tilted her head in a birdlike gesture, examining him closely. ‘You look like him,’ she said after a while. ‘Apart from the beard. A man should have a beard.’

He rubbed his hand self-consciously over his bare chin. He had grown a beard, aware that to be clean-shaven was the western way; it would be something else the Emir could hold against him.

‘My grandfather doesn’t have a beard these days,’ he told her. The chemo baldness hadn’t bothered him nearly as much as the loss of this symbol of his manhood and Kal had taken a razor to his own beard in an act of solidarity. It had felt odd for a while, but he’d got used to it.

‘They say that he is dying,’ she said. He did not ask who had said. Gossip flowed through the harem like water down the Nile.

‘But still stubborn,’ he replied. ‘He refuses to die anywhere but in the place he still calls home.’

She nodded, ‘You are stubborn, too,’ she said, reaching up to pat his hand. ‘You will bring him home, insh’Allah. It is your destiny.’

‘Who are you?’ he asked, with a sudden sinking feeling, the certainty that he had just made a complete fool of himself.

‘I am Dena. I was found, out there,’ she said with the wave of an elegant hand, the rattle of gold on her skinny wrists. ‘Your great-grandmother took me into her house. Made me her daughter.’

Oh, terrific. This woman was the adopted child of the Khatib and he’d spoken to her as if she were a servant. But from the way she’d settled herself in front of Rose’s bedroom door…

He’d been brought up on his grandfather’s stories, had studied his family, this country, clung to a language that his father had all but forgotten, but he still had so much to learn.

He uncurled himself, got to his feet. ‘My apologies, sitti,’ he said with a formal bow.

‘You have his charm, too,’ she said. ‘When you speak to him tell him that his sister Dena remembers him with fondness.’ Then, ‘Go.’ She waved him away. ‘Go. I will watch over your lady while you sleep.’

His lady…

Dena’s words echoed in his mind as he stood beneath the shower, igniting again the memory of Rose’s lips, warm, vital as they’d softened beneath him, parted for him. His mouth burned but as he sucked his lower lip into his mouth, ran a tongue over it, he tasted Rose and, instead of cooling it down, the heat surged like a contagion through his body.

Do you want me to protect her or make love to her…?

Lucy had not answered his question, but it would have made no difference either way. He was not free. He flipped the shower to cold and, lifting his face to the water, stood beneath it until he was chilled to the bone.

And still he burned.

Chapter Six

LYDIA woke in slow gentle ripples of consciousness. Blissful comfort was the first stage. The pleasure of smooth, sweet-smelling sheets, the perfect pillow and, unwilling to surrender the pleasure, she turned over and fell back into its embrace.

The jewelled light filtering through ornate wooden shutters, colours dancing on white walls, seeping through her eyelids, came next.

She opened her eyes and saw an ornate band of tiny blue and green tiles shimmering like the early morning creek. She turned onto her back, looked up at a high raftered cedar wood ceiling.

It was true then. Not a dream.

‘Bab el Sama.’ She said the name out loud, savouring the feel of it in her mouth. The Gate of Heaven. ‘Marhaba…’ Welcome. ‘Kalil al-Zaki…’ Trouble.

‘You are awake, sitti?’

What?

She sat up abruptly. There was a woman, her head, body swathed in an enfolding black garment, sitting cross-legged in front of a pair of tall carved doors, as if guarding the entrance.

She rose with extraordinary grace and bowed her head. ‘I am Dena, sitti. Princess Lucy called me, asked me to take care of you.’

‘She seems to have called everyone,’ Lydia said.

So much for being alone!

She threw off the covers, then immediately grabbed them back, clutching them to her chest, as she realised that she was naked.

Realised that she had no memory of getting that way. Only of the sunrise with Kal, soft cushions, the scent of buttery pastry. Of closing her eyes.

‘Bin Zaki carried you here, sitti. We made you comfortable.’

Lydia swallowed, not quite sure how she felt about that. Whether it was worse that an unknown ‘we’ had undressed her sleeping body or Kal.

The woman, Dena, picked up a robe, held it out so that she could turn and slip her arms through the sleeves, wrap it around her, preserve a little of her modesty before sliding out of the bed.

It clung to her, soft and light as the touch of a butterfly wing, leaving her feeling almost as exposed as if she was wearing nothing at all. The kind of thing a pampered concubine might have worn. With a sudden quickening of something almost like fear, laced through with excitement, she said, ‘Where is Kal?’

‘He went to the stables.’ The woman’s eyes, as she handed her the glass of juice she’d poured from a flask, saw the flush that heated her skin and smiled knowingly. ‘He took a horse,’ she said. Then, ‘I will bathe you and then you will have a massage.’

What?

‘That won’t be necessary,’ she said.

‘Bin Zaki ordered it so. Princess Lucy always needs a massage when she comes home.’

‘Really?’

But the woman had opened a door that led into a bathroom that was out of a fantasy. A deep sunken tub. A huge shower with side jets. A seat big enough for two.

‘Which?’ Dena asked.

‘The shower,’ Lydia said, dismissing the disturbing image of sinking into the huge tub, sharing it with Kal.

She really, really needed something to clear her head, wake her up.

Dena turned it on, adjusted the temperature, apparently oblivious of the fact that her floor length black dress was getting wet. Apparently waiting for her to shed the robe and step into the shower so that she could wash her.

No, no, no…

Lydia swallowed, said, ‘I can manage. Really.’

She nodded. ‘Come into the next room when you are ready and I will ease the ache in your shoulder.’

Lydia stared after her. Raised her left hand to her right shoulder, the one that ached when it was cold or damp. After a long shift on the checkout. The legacy of years of lifting other people’s groceries across a scanner.

How did she know? What had given her away?

She shook her head.

Nothing. Dena couldn’t know that she was a fake. If she did, the whole house of cards would be tumbling around her ears by now, she told herself as she slipped out of the wrap, stepped under the warm water.

If she was a trained masseuse she would be observant, that was all, would notice the slightest imbalance. It didn’t mean anything.

She might have slept awkwardly on the plane or strained it in a hundred ways.

She turned up the heat and let the water pound her body, easing an ache which, until that moment, she’d been scarcely aware of herself.

Lathered herself in rich soap.

Washed her hair.

Putting off, for as long as possible, the moment when, wrapped in a towel that covered her from breast to ankle, her hair wrapped in a smaller one, she would have to submit herself to the ministrations of the slightly scary Dena.

But as she lay down and Dena’s hands found the knots in her muscles, soothed away the tension of the last twenty-four hours, all the stress floated away and she surrendered to total pampering.

Wrapped tenderly in a robe, seated in a chair that tilted back, her hair was released and unseen hands massaged her scalp, gently combed out her hair, while a young girl did miraculous things to her feet, her hands.

Painted her nails, drew patterns with henna.

By the time they were finished, she was so utterly relaxed that when one of the girls held out a pair of exquisite French knickers she stepped into them without a flicker of embarrassment.

Slipped into a matching lace bra and left it for someone else to fasten.

Held up her arms as Dena slipped a loose silk kaftan over her head that had certainly not been part of the wardrobe packed by Rose.

It floated over her, a mist of blue, then settled over her shoulders, her arms, falling to the floor before nimble fingers fastened the dozen or more silkcovered buttons that held it together at her breast.

Then she stepped into a pair of soft thong sandals that were placed in front of her.

A week of this and she’d be ruined for real life, she thought, pulling her lips back against her teeth so that she wouldn’t grin out loud.

Wow! Wow! Wow!

Thank you, Rose! I hope you’re enjoying every second of your freedom. Having the most wonderful time.

And, with that thought, reality rushed back as she looked around for the clutch bag she’d been carrying.

A word and it was in her hand and she took out her mobile phone to send the agreed ‘arrived safely’ message, followed by another more detailed message to her mother. Not just to let her know that she’d got to her destination without mishap, but that the apartment was great and she was having a great time.

So far, so true. Unless…Did kissing Kal count as a mishap?

She looked at the message doubtfully, then, with a rueful smile, hit ‘send’, grateful that her mother had insisted that overseas mobile calls were too expensive, that the occasional text was all she expected. She would never be able to bluff her way through an entire week of this, not with her mother. With Kal…

She looked up and realised that everyone was waiting to hear what she wanted to do next.

She slipped the phone into a pocket in the seam of the kaftan and said, ‘May I look around?’

Dena led the way, down a series of steps to a lower level entrance lobby with a two-storey domed ceiling richly decorated in floral designs with tiny ceramic tiles, her helpers following, all anxious to see her reaction. Clearly wanting her to love this place they called home.

They waited patiently while she stopped, turned slowly, looking up in awe at the workmanship.

‘This is a holiday cottage?’ she asked in amazement. ‘It’s so beautiful!’

Dena was unreadable, but the two younger women were clearly delighted.

The tour took in a formal dining room where ornate carved doors had been folded back to reveal a terrace and, below it, set in a private walled garden, a swimming pool.

More steps and then Dena said, ‘This is the room the family use when they are here.’

Furnished with richly coloured sofas and jewel-bright oriental rugs that softened the polished wooden floor, Lydia might have been totally overwhelmed by its sheer size, but then she spotted a fluffy yellow toy duck half hidden amongst the cushions.

It was a reminder that this was someone’s holiday home, a place where children ran and played. She picked it up and held it for a moment and when she looked up she saw that Dena was smiling.

‘It is Jamal’s,’ she said. ‘He left it there to keep his place while he was away.’

‘Bless,’ she said, carefully tucking it back where she’d found it and, looking around, saw the touches that made this unbelievably grand room a home.

The box filled with toys. A pile of books that suggested Lucy’s favourite holiday activity was reading. A child’s drawing of the creek, framed as lovingly as an old master. Children’s books in English and Arabic.

‘You like children?’ Dena asked as she picked up an alphabet colouring book similar to one she’d had as a child. Except that the alphabet was Arabic.

She nodded. ‘Even the little monsters…’

Even the little monsters who whined and nagged their stressed mothers for sweets at the checkout. Their soft little mouths, big eyes that could be coaxed so quickly from tears to a smile with a little attention.

She was so relaxed that she’d completely forgotten to guard her tongue but, while Dena regarded her thoughtfully, the younger women giggled, repeating ‘little monsters’ as if they knew only too well what she meant.

She managed a shrug and Dena, making no comment, folded back doors similar to the ones in the dining room, opening up one side of the room to the garden so that Lydia could step out onto a wide terrace that overlooked the creek.

‘All children love Bab el Sama,’ she said. ‘You will bring your children here.’

It sounded more like a statement than a question and Lydia swallowed.

She had two careers and no time for romance, even if she could ever trust a man again sufficiently to let him get that close.

Maybe Kal was the answer. He, at least, wouldn’t be pretending…

She, on the other hand, would be.

Since the one thing she demanded of a man was total honesty, to kiss with a lie on her lips was not something she could live with, no matter how alluring the temptation.

‘I’m sure they have a wonderful time,’ she said, responding to her first comment, ignoring the second as she walked quickly to the edge of the terrace as if to take a closer look at the beach.

They were much lower here than on the bluff where she’d watched the sunrise, not more than twenty feet above the beach. And, looking around, she thought that the adults must love it too.

There were pots overflowing with geraniums, still flowering in December, the rustle and clack of palm fronds in the light breeze, a snatch of unfamiliar music carrying across the glittering water.

It was peaceful, beautiful, with a delicious warmth that seeped into the bones and invited her to lift her face to the sun and smile as if she were a sunflower.

Even as she did that, a movement caught her eye and below, on the beach, she saw a horseman galloping along the edge of the surf, robes streaming out behind him.

The horse, its hooves a blur in the spray, seemed to be almost flying, elemental, a force of nature. Lydia’s breath caught in her throat and she took a step closer, her hand lifting towards him as if reaching to catch hold, be lifted up to fly with him.

‘It is Bin Zaki,’ Dena said, but Lydia knew that.

He might have shed his designer suit, donned a robe, hidden his dark curls beneath a keffiyeh, but his chiselled face, the fierce hawkish nose were imprinted on her memory and, as he flashed by in a swirl of cloth, hooves, spray, the profile was unmistakable.

‘He is chasing his demons. So like his grandfather.’

For a moment she didn’t respond, scarcely registered what the woman had said, but Kal had gone, lost from sight as the beach curved around massive rocks, the final fling of the mountain range behind them. And already the sea was smoothing away the hoof prints, rubbing out all trace of his passing.

She turned to discover that Dena was watching her and, suddenly coming back to reality, she dropped her hand self-consciously.

‘Demons? What demons?’

‘He will tell you in his own good time. Do you need anything, sitti?’

Only to be held, enfolded, caressed, but not by some anonymous, faceless figure. All the longings and desires that haunted her had become focused on one man and she turned back to the empty beach as if his spirit was still there for her to reach out and touch.

‘I think I’ll take a walk,’ she said, suddenly selfconscious, certain that Dena knew exactly what she was thinking. ‘Explore a little. Is there anywhere I shouldn’t go?’

‘Bab el Sama is yours, sitti.’

Dena left her alone to explore and she skirted the terrace, noticing how cleverly it was shielded from the creek by the trees so that no one from below would be able to see the royal family at play.

Taking a path, she found steps that led invitingly downwards in the direction of the beach but, conscious of the silk kaftan flowing around her ankles, she turned instead along a path that led upward through the garden.

After the crash that had killed her father and left her mother in a wheelchair, she and her mother had moved from their small house with a garden into a ground floor flat that had been adapted for a wheelchair user.

She’d missed the garden but, ten years old, she’d understood the necessity and knew better than to say anything that would hurt her mother. It was the hand that life had dealt but even then she’d used her pocket money to buy flowering pot plants from the market. Had grown herbs on the windowsill.

This garden was like a dream. Little streams ran down through the trees, fell over rocks to feed pools where carp rose at her appearance.

There were exquisite summer houses tucked away. Some were for children, with garden toys. Some, with comfortable chairs, were placed to catch a stunning view.

One, with a copper roof turned green with verdigris, was laid with rich carpets on which cushions had been piled, and looked like a lovers’ hideaway. She could imagine lying there with Kal, his lips pressed against her throat as he unfastened the buttons…

She lifted her hand to her breast, shook her head, trying to rid herself of an image that was so powerful that she could feel his hands, his mouth on her body.

As she backed away there was a scuffle near her feet as a lizard disappeared in a flurry of emerald tail. For a moment she stared at the spot, not sure whether she’d imagined it. Then she looked up and saw Kal standing just a few feet away.

The keffiyeh had fallen from his head and lay gathered about his neck. His robes were made of some loosely woven cream material and the hem was heavy with sea water and sand. As they stood there, silent, still, a trickle of sweat ran from his temple into the dust on his cheek.

After what seemed like an age he finally moved, lifting his elbow to wipe his face on his sleeve.

‘I’ve been riding,’ he said wearily.

‘I saw you. You looked as if you were flying,’ she said.

‘That’s me,’ he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a self-mocking smile. ‘Addicted to the air.’ He took a step forward but Lydia, almost dizzy with the scent of leather, of the sea clinging to his clothes, of tangy fresh sweat that her body was responding to like an aphrodisiac, didn’t move.

Hot, sweaty he exuded a raw sexual potency and she wanted to touch his face. Kiss the space between his thumb and palm, taste the leather; lean into him and bury her face in his robes, breathe him in. Wanted to feel those long, powerful hands that had so easily controlled half a ton of muscle and bone in full flight, on her own body.

She cooled her burning lip with the tip of her tongue, then, realising how that must look, said, ‘Maybe my problem with flying is that I didn’t start in the right place.’

He frowned. ‘You don’t ride?’

‘No.’ Having studied every aspect of her alter ego’s life, she knew that while most little girls of her class would have been confidently astride her first pony by the time she was three, Rose was not one of them. ‘But, if I had to choose, I think I’d prefer it to fishing.’

His smile was a lazy thing that began in the depths of his eyes, barely noticeable if you weren’t locked in to every tiny response. No more than a tiny spark that might so easily have been mistaken for a shaft of sunlight finding a space between the leaves to warm the darkness. Then the creases that fanned out around them deepened a little, the skin over his cheekbones tightened and lifted. Only then did his mouth join in with a slightly lopsided gotcha grin.

‘Here’s the deal,’ he said. ‘You let me take you fishing and I’ll teach you to ride.’

His voice, his words seemed to caress her so that it sounded more like a sexual proposition than a simple choice between this or that outdoor activity. Standing there in the dappled sunlight, every nerve-ending at attention, sensitized by desire, she knew that if he reached out, touched her, she would buckle, dissolve and if he carried her into the summer house and laid her amongst the cushions, nothing could save her.