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Compared to this, the harem in Qasim’s palace had been heaven with its little garden, its reflecting pool, the soft breeze that blew in from the sea.
Here, she had only the four walls that enclosed her. At day’s end, Hakim walked her to the door and left her to the ministrations of a pair of sullen women who brought her evening meal—a glob of unidentifiable something on a chipped plate that looked as if it had never been washed, a pitcher of liquid that tasted like warm beer, and a hunk of flat, tasteless bread. The women never responded to Megan’s attempts at communication.
Hakim wasn’t much better. When she complained at her treatment, he assured her that his master understood her situation, but when she demanded to see Qasim, he looked horrified and told her such a thing was out of the question.
Was Hakim telling her the truth? Did Qasim know what was happening? She had no idea. He acted as if she were invisible.
When she entered the meeting room the first day, just seeing him lifted her spirits.
“Qasim,” she’d said softly, but he’d looked right through her. He’d warned her, told her what would be expected, but surely he could at least make eye contact? Didn’t he want to know how she was being treated?
Hakim had pointed to a low stool behind his master. Megan had bristled. Sitting behind Qasim was one thing; sitting four inches off the floor with her knees tucked under her chin was another.
But the room had begun filling with men; she’d felt all those dark eyes on her and suddenly the stool behind Qasim had seemed like an eminently fine idea. She’d settled on it, struggled to find a way to get her long legs under her and her briefcase in her lap while she told herself the meeting and their time in this horrible place would not last more than a day.
Wrong.
It was two days later and they were still here.
Some things, at least, had changed for the better.
Qasim still ignored her. But the women who waited on her had taken to offering occasional smiles. She’d demanded Hakim arrange for her to get some air and last night, the women had produced lanterns and taken her for an hour’s walk along cobblestone streets that twisted and turned and ended, abruptly, at the city wall.
Some of the changes were for the worse.
Ahmet had taken to looking at her. None of the other men did, not after that first time. They treated her as Qasim did, as if she were invisible.
Not Ahmet.
Qasim had said Ahmet was too ill to travel, but he didn’t appear ill to Megan. He looked—there was no other word for it—evil. Evil, and fat, and filthy. And yes, he was always sneaking glances at her. She caught him a couple of times but mostly, she sensed him watching her. His eyes were like tiny black beetles. She could almost feel them crawling over her skin.
Like right now.
Megan shuddered. Concentrate on what you’re doing, she told herself. Forget Ahmet, forget everything but the numbers and words on the papers in her lap, and Qasim’s questions.
What a ridiculous procedure this was.
Qasim would address his comments to Hakim in his own tongue and then in English, probably so she’d have more time to find the information. Then she had to look at Hakim, give her answer to him so he could repeat it to Qasim.
It was a waste of time, and all done for no purpose she could see. Qasim had been worried her presence would offend the super-macho males of his country but how could she offend them when they ignored her?
Ignored her, except for Ahmet.
He was watching her again. She could feel it. She looked up and stared straight at him, something she knew was forbidden, but enough was enough.
Megan narrowed her eyes and gave him her best Don’t-Mess-With-Me glare. It always worked with idiots who thought a woman alone in a restaurant was just aching to be hit on…but it didn’t work now. Ahmet’s beady little eyes assessed her with even greater interest. His tongue came out and licked slowly over his fleshy lips.
Her heart did a terrified two-step. She dragged her gaze from his and looked down, blindly, at the papers in her lap.
So much for staring him down. And so much for handling this on her own. Qasim might not want to talk to her, but she sure as hell wanted to talk to—
“Ouch!”
Megan swung around. Had someone kicked her? She rubbed her hip and glared at the man nearest to her. He glared back, spat a couple of guttural words and answered the question by kicking her again. It wasn’t much of a kick, it was more a prod with the tip of his booted foot, but it was the final straw.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she said as she shot to her feet.
The room, normally humming with conversation, became completely silent. All eyes were on her now, even Qasim’s.
