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All heads turned toward the sheikh.
Jemma stared at him, her stomach churning all over again.
The sheikh’s expression was beyond fierce. His lips curled, his dark eyes burned as he pushed the camera in Keith’s hands down. “That’s enough,” he gritted. “I’ve had enough, from all of you.” His narrowed gaze swept the tents and crew. “You are done here.”
And then his head turned again and he stared straight at Jemma. “And you, Miss Copeland. Cover yourself, and then go inside the tent. I will be in to deal with you shortly.”
She covered herself, but didn’t move.
The sheikh had called her Miss Copeland, not Mrs. Xanthis, the name she’d used on the visa, but Copeland.
Panic flooded her veins. Her heart surged. Sheikh Karim knew who she was. He’d recognized her after all these years. The realization shocked her. He, who knew so many, remembered her.
Hands shaking, she tugged the coat closer to her body, suddenly icy cold despite the dazzling heat. “What’s happening?” she whispered, even though in a dim part of her brain, she knew.
She’d been found out. Her true identity had been discovered. How, she didn’t know, but she was in trouble. Grave trouble. She could feel the severity of the situation all the way down to her toes.
“I think you know,” Sheikh Karim said flatly. “Now go inside the tent and wait.”
Her knees knocked. She wasn’t sure her legs could support her. “For what?”
“To be informed of the charges being brought against you.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”
His dark eyes narrowed. His jaw hardened as his gaze swept over her, from the top of her head to the boots on her feet. “You’ve done everything wrong, Miss Copeland. You’re in serious trouble. So go to the tent, now, and if you have half a brain, you’ll obey.”
* * *
Jemma had more than half a brain. She actually had a very good brain. And a very good imagination, which made the walk to the tent excruciating.
What was going to happen to her? What were the official charges? And what would the punishment be?
She tried to calm herself. She focused on her breathing, and clamped down on her wild thoughts. It wouldn’t help her to panic. She knew she’d entered the country illegally. She’d willingly agreed to work on a shoot that hadn’t been condoned by the government. And she’d shown her breasts in public, which was also against Saidia’s law.
And she’d done it all because she hadn’t taken money from her family since she was eighteen and she wasn’t about to start now.
She was an adult. A successful, capable woman. And she’d been determined to make it without going to her family begging for a handout.
In hindsight, perhaps begging for a handout would have been wiser.
In the wardrobe tent, Jemma shrugged off the heavy fur coat, and slipped a light pink cotton kimono over her shoulders, tying the sash at her waist. As she sat down at the stool before the make-up mirror, she could hear the sheikh’s voice echo in her head.
You’ve done everything wrong...
Everything wrong...
He was right. She had done everything wrong. She prayed he’d accept her apology, allow her to make amends. She hadn’t meant to insult him, or disrespect his country or his culture in any way.
Jemma straightened, hearing voices outside her tent. The voices were pitched low, speaking quickly, urgently. Male voices. A single female voice. Jemma recognized the woman as Mary Leed, Catwalk’s editorial director. Mary was usually unflappable but she sounded absolutely panicked now.
Jemma’s heart fell all over again. Bad. This was bad.
She swallowed hard, her stomach churning, nerves threatening to get the better of her.
She shouldn’t have come.
She shouldn’t have taken such risks.
But what was she to do otherwise? Crumble? Shatter? End up on the streets, destitute, homeless, helpless?
No.
She wouldn’t be helpless, and she wouldn’t be pitied, or mocked, either.
She’d suffered enough at the hands of her father. He’d betrayed them all; his clients, his business partners, his friends, even his family. He might be selfish and ruthless and destructive, but the rest of the Copelands weren’t. Copelands were good people.
Good people, she silently insisted, stretching out one leg to unzip the thigh-high boot. Her hand was trembling so badly that it made it difficult to get the zipper down. The boots were outrageous to start with. They were the stuff of fantasy, a very high heel projecting a kinky twist, just like the fashion layout itself.
They would have been smarter doing this feature in Palm Springs instead of Saidia with Saidia’s strict laws of moral conduct. Saidia might be stable and tolerant, but it wasn’t a democracy, nor did it cater to the wealthy Westerners like some other nations. It remained conservative and up until two generations ago, marriages weren’t just arranged, they were forced.
The tribal leaders kidnapped their brides from neighboring tribes.
Unthinkable to the modern Western mind, but acceptable here.
* * *
Jemma was tugging the zipper down on the second boot when the tent flap parted and Mary entered with Sheikh Karim. Two members of the sheikh’s guard stood at the entrance.
Jemma slowly sat up, and looked from Mary to the sheikh and back.
Mary’s face was pale, her lips pressed thin. “We’ve a problem,” she said.
Silence followed. Jemma curled her fingers into her lap.
Mary wouldn’t meet Jemma’s gaze, looking past her shoulder instead. “We’re wrapping up the shoot and returning to the capitol immediately. We are facing some legal charges and fines, which we are hoping to take care of quickly so the crew and company can return to England tomorrow, or the next day.” She hesitated for a long moment, before adding even more quietly, “At least most of us should be able to return to England tomorrow or the next day. Jemma, I’m afraid you won’t be going with us.”
Jemma started to rise, but remembered her boot and sat back down. “Why not?”
“The charges against you are different,” Mary said, still avoiding Jemma’s gaze. “We are in trouble for using you, but you, you’re in trouble for...” Her voice faded away. She didn’t finish the sentence.
She didn’t have to.
Jemma knew why she was in trouble. What she didn’t know was what she’d be charged with. “I’m sorry.” She drew a quick, shallow breath and looked from Mary to Sheikh Karim. “I am sorry. Truly—”
“Not interested,” he said curtly.
Jemma’s stomach flipped. “I made a mistake—”
“A mistake is pairing a black shoe and a blue shoe. A mistake is forgetting to charge one’s phone. A mistake is not entering the country illegally, under false pretenses, with a false identity. You had no work permit. No visa. Nothing.” Sheikh Karim’s voice crackled with contempt and fury. “What you did was deliberate, and a felony, Miss Copeland.”
Jemma put a hand to her belly, praying she wouldn’t throw up here, now. She hadn’t eaten much today. She never did on days she worked, knowing she photographed better with a very flat stomach. “What can I do to make this right?”
Mary shot Sheikh Karim a stricken glance.
He shook his head, once. “There is nothing. The magazine staff must appear in court, and pay their fines. You will face a different judge, and be sentenced accordingly.”
Jemma sat very still. “So I’m to be separated from everyone?”
“Yes.” The sheikh gestured to Mary. “You and the rest of the crew, are to leave immediately. My men will accompany you to ensure your safety.” He glanced at Jemma. “And you will come with me.”
Mary nodded and left. Heart thudding, Jemma watched Mary’s silent, abrupt departure then looked to Sheikh Karim.
He was angry. Very, very angry.
Three years ago she might have crumbled. Two years ago she might have cried. But that was the old Jemma, the girl who’d grown up pampered, protected by a big brother and three opinionated, but loving, sisters.
She wasn’t that girl anymore. In fact, she wasn’t a girl at all anymore. She’d been put to the fire and she’d come out fierce. Strong.
“So where do felons go, Sheikh Karim?” she asked quietly, meeting the sheikh’s hard narrowed gaze.
“To prison.”
“I’m going to prison?”
“If you were to go to court tomorrow, and appear before our judicial tribunal, yes. But you’re not being seen by our judicial tribunal. You’re being seen by my tribe’s elder, and he will act as judge.”
“Why a different court and judge than Mary and the magazine crew?”
“Because they are charged with crimes against Saidia. You—” he broke off, studying her lovely face in the mirror, wondering how she’d react to his news, “You are charged with crimes against the Karims, my family. Saidia’s royal family. You will be escorted to a judge who is of my tribe. He will hear the charges brought against you, and then pass judgment.”
