One Desert Night

Lifting her face up to the skyline again, she noted the impressive stone-built watchtower, hovering even higher than the golden pinnacle of the roof. Once upon a time this palace must have been the most intimidating and impenetrable fortress. It wasn’t hard to imagine what it must have been like then. From the outside it appeared as if twenty-first century modernity had barely touched it at all.

A slim-built young man with watchful amber eyes, dressed traditionally in a jalabiya and a headdress with a colourful agal rope securing it round his head, stood waiting patiently as the two Europeans ogled a sight that for him was no doubt commonplace. His name was Jamal, and he was proud to call himself a servant of Sheikh Kazeem Khan, he told them. He had met them at the foothills of the city, where the taxi that had waited for them at the airport had left them, and had then accompanied them up the mountain in a cable car. From there, a comfortable horse-drawn buggy, with ravishing silk curtains and cushions, had transported them to the palace.

Gina was tired, travel-worn and melting in the heat, yet an undeniable excitement thrummed in her veins, making her not want to miss anything if she could help it.

‘We must not linger here in the afternoon heat. We should go inside now. This way.’ Jamal made a sweeping motion towards a vaulted sandstone passageway. ‘Another servant will show you to your rooms, where you can rest for a while. Then, later, you will make preparations to meet with His Highness.’

Gina’s tiredness vanished completely when she was shown to her guest quarters. She’d been absolutely charmed by the comfortable adobe style house that she’d lived in when she’d stayed with the Husseins, but this…this was like walking into the sumptuous boudoir of an eastern princess. The furnishings were lush, with ravishing silk brocades of every imaginable hue and colour, and floor-to-ceiling voile drapes fell in a sensuous sunburst from two slim windows. An azure-coloured blind was partially unfolded behind the curtains, to keep out the heat and glare of the sun, and the floor was made from blissfully cool white marble. A generous-sized Persian rug picked out in sensuous gold and bronze threads was spread out at the foot of the bed…the bed.

If Gina had been inclined to write poetry she would have composed a veritable sonnet to such a bed. It was vast in every sense, with the broad-clawed feet of a sphinx and intricate Arabian carvings inlaid in a rosewood headboard that appeared magical and ancient at the same time. It practically drowned beneath a sea of silk and brocade cushions of every conceivable shape and colour.

Throwing herself down amongst them, she sighed with pleasure. A delicious if bittersweet daydream about Zahir drifted into her mind. Was there some way she could get to see him? she wondered. Was she crazy to even hope he might agree to a meeting?

She would have broached the subject to Mrs Hussein on that morning before she’d left for the airport to return home—asked her hostess if she could elaborate on who he was and where he lived. But Clothilde had seemed busy and preoccupied, and it just hadn’t felt right or proper to ask about the charismatic male guest that Gina knew simply as Zahir.

He’d left early the next morning, even before she’d risen to dress for the airport. His parting embrace had filled them both with intense longing all over again, but she’d given him her phone number and he’d promised to call her the very next day. It had been the hardest thing she’d ever done to kiss him goodbye and then watch him walk away, with the only remaining evidence of his presence the scent of warm aroused male he’d left on her body and the tingling ache between her thighs. She had surrendered her innocence to him—surrendered it with full heart and a fervent pledge to love him for ever…no matter what.

It was said that a woman never forgot her first love. In Gina’s case her only love. That was why she could never give up her precious memories of that night. But she’d made sure all she would ever have was memory when, incredibly, she’d rejected Zahir’s invitation to go back to Kabuyadir and be with him. Even now she couldn’t believe she’d done it. Grief over her mother and worry over her father must have temporarily made her lose her mind. The thought of the pain and disbelief in Zahir’s proud voice had gone round and round in Gina’s head for three impossible years.

Turning her face into a plump silken pillow, she felt stinging tears of regret and longing wash into her eyes as she whispered his name…whispered it like a prayer…

At last Farida had retired to her quarters, and Zahir could safely entertain his guests from England. She would only become agitated and tearful if she knew of his intention to sell the Heart of Courage—the jewel that she seemed convinced was possessed of some kind of prophetic power when it came to their family’s marriages. But when sufficient time had passed and she was more like herself again he was certain he could persuade her that the sale was for the best.

They had had a tumultuous time of late. Their parents had left this world one after the other, and then Azhar—Farida’s husband—had lost his life in an automobile accident in Dubai. The only thing his beloved sister needed right now, Zahir believed, was peace and plenty of time to heal. The presence of a family heirloom that he privately thought of as a curse would not help her achieve that. And for him it would only act as a painful reminder of all he had lost. It mocked his once fervent belief in it himself. He’d rejected the prophecy when the woman he had fallen in love with callously turned down his plea for her to be with him…

The money he received from the sale of the jewel he would give to Farida, to do with what she willed, he decided. He certainly didn’t need it.

There was plenty of evidence in palace records to vouch for the authenticity of the jewel, but as he planned to sell it abroad he’d needed to have that evidence corroborated by a respected independent source. The auction house in Mayfair had an internationally respected reputation. His two guests were a male historian and his female colleague who specialised in the study of ancient artefacts. Zahir hadn’t seen their names—he’d left the details to his personal secretary and lifelong friend Masoud, who had now unfortunately been taken ill—but he had ensured that out of respect and deference the female would have one of the best staterooms in the palace.

Now, as he waited in the main salon where he received visitors, he didn’t know why but an odd sense of foreboding gripped him. Telling himself that he was becoming as bad as his sister, believing in all kinds of supernatural phenomena, he impatiently shook away the unwelcome frisson that shivered down his spine. Lifting the sleeve of his jalabiya, he glanced down at the linked gold watch circling his tanned wrist. The ornate twin doors at the end of the long stately room suddenly opened and his servant Jamal appeared.

‘Your Highness.’ He bowed respectfully. ‘May I present Dr Rivers, and his colleague Dr Collins?’

Already walking forward with his hand outstretched, Zahir felt his footsteps come to a frozen standstill. Beside a slim-built man with sandy-coloured hair who wore glasses stood a woman with elegantly upswept blonde hair, her svelte figure dressed in a long, flowing silk kaftan in stunning aquamarine. But it was her beautiful face and riveting long-lashed blue eyes that made his heart almost stop.

Gina… Was he dreaming?

He could hardly believe it. Everyone was staring at him, waiting for him to speak, but just then to him that was akin to growing wings and flying. Clearing his throat, Zahir moved towards the man first. Even as he was shaking his hand his mouth dried and his chest tightened. He knew he would slip his hand into Gina’s next. She was clearly as shocked and startled as he was. Her cool, slim palm trembled slightly beneath his touch. Their gazes locked, and it was as though the room and everyone else in it apart from the two of them simply melted away.

‘Dr Collins,’ he heard himself intone gruffly, ‘I am honoured to meet you.’

Only too aware that they were being observed, Zahir withdrew his hand and gestured towards the rectangle of Arabian couches positioned round a carved dark wood Moroccan coffee table a few feet away.

‘We should sit and make ourselves comfortable. Jamal, you may serve coffee and refreshments now.’

‘Of course, Your Highness.’ The servant bowed and moved smoothly back towards the double doors, careful not to show his back to Zahir as he did so.

‘Your rooms are comfortable and to your liking?’ Moving his gaze from Jake Rivers to Gina, then back again to the man, Zahir settled himself on one of the longer couches and hoped the smile he’d arranged on his face was polite and relaxed—that it did not give rise to suspicion that he and Gina had met before and that the mere sight of her had all but undone him.

It was a most delicate predicament, and he would have to draw upon all his powers of diplomacy and tact to deal with it, he thought. But every time he found his glance returning to hers he wished they could be alone together, so that he could demand to know the real reason she had rejected him. Had it been because there was someone else waiting for her back home in England? How many times had he tortured himself with that thought over the years? Too many. One thing Zahir was certain of: before she left he would know everything…

‘The palace is truly amazing, and our quarters more than comfortable—thank you,’ Jake Rivers answered, linking his hands across his knees as he sat next to Gina. How old was he? Zahir wondered. He’d imagined that someone expert in their field, as he was supposed to be, would be older and more distinguished-looking. He could almost hear Farida teasing him. That’s because you watch too many old films where every English professor is a caricature, she’d say. A sigh escaped him.

‘That is good. As to the palace’s origin, we believe it was erected in the ninth century, when the Persian and Byzantine wars were over. For the people of this region it has always been a powerful stronghold, and a symbol of strength to see off any foe. They have always helped maintain it, and take a pride in its beauty as well.’

Helplessly and hungrily, his gaze moved back to Gina. What was she thinking? he wondered. Was she shocked to learn his true identity at last? Would she curse her folly in turning him down? It was a bitter straw he would willingly grasp—a salve to his wounded pride that he’d never thought he’d receive.

‘And your expertise is in antiquities, is it not, Dr Collins?’ he asked. He saw her take a breath in and out again, then briefly fold her hands in her lap as if to compose herself.

‘Classical antiquities and ancient artefacts… My colleague Dr Rivers is the historian in our team, Your Highness.’

‘So you are equally qualified?’

‘More or less.’ Jake shrugged, throwing Gina an easy smile.

A stab of jealousy seared through Zahir’s insides, his spine stiffening in protest at the envied familiarity. ‘So Dr Collins is not your assistant?’ he remarked, with a touch of mockery in his tone.

‘My assistant?’ Now the young man’s lips split into a wide grin. ‘I mean no disrespect, sir, but she is far too independent and bossy for that!’

‘Is that so?’ Zahir leant forward, his glance falling into a slow, leisurely examination of a pair of flawless china-blue eyes. ‘How interesting…how interesting indeed…’

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