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But Sariq was progressive, and Sariq was persuasive. He spoke of Shajarah, the capital of RKH, that had been born from the sands of the desert, its ancient soul nestled amongst the steel and glass monoliths that spoke of a place of the future, a place of promise. He spoke of his country’s educational institutions which were free and world-class, of his belief that education was the best prevention for war and violence, that a literate and informed people were less likely to care for ancient wounds. He highlighted what the people of RKH had in common with the rest of the world and when he was finished, there was widespread applause.
Yes, the speech had been a success, but still there was a kernel of discontent within his gut. A feeling of dissatisfaction he couldn’t explain.
‘Your father would have been proud of you, sir.’
Malik was right about that too.
‘When we return to the hotel, have the concierge come to me,’ Sariq told Malik. He didn’t know her name. That was an oversight he would remedy.
‘Is there something you require?’
‘She will see to it.’
If Malik thought the request strange, he didn’t say anything. The limousine cut east across Manhattan, snagging in traffic near Bryant Park, so Sariq stared from his window at the happy scene there. The day had been warm and New Yorkers had taken to the park to feel the brief respite from the temperature offered by the lush surrounds. He watched as a child reached into the fountain and scooped some water out, splashing it at his older brother, and his chest panged with a sense of acceptance.
Children were as much a part of his future as ruling was. He was the last heir of the Al Antarah line of Kings, a line that had begun at the turn of the last millennia. When he returned to his kingdom and his people, he would focus more seriously on that. He knew the risks if he didn’t, the likelihood of civil war that would result from a dangerous fight for the throne of the country.
Marriage, children, these things would absolve him of that worry and would secure his country’s future for generations to come.
‘You wanted to see me, Your Highness?’ Her heart was in her throat. She’d barely slept since she’d left his apartment the night before, despite the fact she’d been rostered off during the day, while he was engaged on official business. That was how it worked when she had high-profile guests. She knew their schedules intimately so she could form her day around their movements, thus ensuring her availability when they were likely to need her.
He was not alone, and he was not as he’d been the night before—dressed simply in jeans and a shirt. Now, he wore a white robe, flowing and long, with gold embellishments on the sleeve, and on his head there was a traditional keffiyeh headdress, white and fastened in place with a gold cord. It was daunting and powerful and she found her mouth was completely dry as she regarded him with what she hoped was an impassive expression. That was hard to manage when her knees seemed to have a desire to knock together.
‘Yes. One moment.’
His advisors wore similar outfits, though less embellished. It was clear that his had a distinction of royal rank. She stood where she was as they continued speaking in their own language, the words beautiful and musical, the Sheikh’s voice discernible amongst all others. It was ten minutes before they began to disband, moving away from the Sheikh, each with a low bow of respect, which he acknowledged with a small nod sometimes, and other times not at all.
His fingers were long and tanned, and on one finger he wore a gold ring with a small, rounded face, like a Super Bowl ring, she thought out of nowhere and smiled at the idea of this man on the football field. He’d probably take to it like a duck to water, if his physique was anything to go by. Beneath those robes, she knew he had the build of a natural athlete.
Great.
Her mouth was dry all over again but this time he was sweeping towards her, his robes flowing behind him. She had only a few seconds to attempt to calm her racing pulse.
When he was a few feet away from her, he paused, so she was caught up in the masculinity of his fragrance, the exotic addictiveness of it—citrus and pine needles, spice and sunshine.
‘You were offended last night.’
His words were the last thing she’d expected. Heat bloomed in her cheeks.
‘I was too familiar, sir.’ She dropped her eyes to the view, unable to look at him, a thousand and one butterflies rampaging wildly inside her belly.
‘I invited you to be familiar,’ he reminded her so the butterflies gave way to a roller coaster.
‘Still...’ she lifted her shoulders, risking a glance at him then wishing she hadn’t when she discovered his eyes were piercing her own ‘...I shouldn’t have...’
‘He had been sick. It was unpleasant to witness. I wished, more
than anything, that I could do something to alleviate his pain.’ A muscle jerked in his jaw and his eyes didn’t shift from hers. ‘I have been raised to believe in the full extent of my power, and yet I was impotent against the ravages of his disease. No doctor anywhere could save him, nor really help him.’ He didn’t move and yet somehow she felt closer to him, as though she’d swayed forward without realising it.
‘Your question last night is difficult for me to answer.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong.’
Her body was in overdrive, every single sense pulling through her, and she was aware, in the small part of her brain that was capable of rational thought, that this was a completely foreign territory to be in. He was a guest of the hotel—their boundaries were clearly established.
She had to find a way to get them back onto more familiar territory.
