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“Is your room acceptable, Miss Henderson?” He cut Marook off mid-sentence, returning easily to her language.
She resisted the instinct to lean forward a little. It reeked of nerves, and she would not let him know how he set her on edge. “Perfectly, sir.”
“Good.” He turned back to her in the mirror and his eyes burned with the same intensity as they had in his hotel room.
The butterflies in her stomach began to tumble into one another.
The car travelled far from the built-up suburbs of Vegas, out into the dusty desert. Red sand stretched for miles with occasional tumbleweeds and clumps of straw-like grass punctuating the steady vista. Occasionally they’d pass a rancher’s house or a gas station, but for the most part, it was just acrid desert.
Eventually, the driver slowed and steered them to a set of almost military-seeming gates. He held a tag up to an intercom and the gates opened a few seconds later.
Here, desert gave way to oasis. Green lawn stretched like magic on either side of the paved driveway. It swept over a gentle crest and then gave way to a turning circle around a landscaped garden. Beyond it, a plantation style home nestled into the lawns, with a wide porch, dormer windows, and a set of three steps leading to wide French doors. Plants in pots were placed with the appearance of casual disregard on the deck, and they were fruiting trees. Citrus, she guessed, thinking longingly of her mother’s small grove back home.
There was no sign to announce what purpose the business served, but it definitely wasn’t residential.
Curiously, she looked to Zamir in the mirror and felt a lurching of compassion. His face was tight, his eyes scanning the building with an obvious sense of wariness. Wherever they were, he did not savour the task ahead. His nerves became her nerves.
“Wait here.” He spoke in English, but he addressed all three of them.
He stepped out of the car before the driver could get around to open the door. And he moved up the steps with a steady determination, despite his obvious dread.
Like all medical facilities, it smelled of disinfectant and discomfort. Even the expensive and tasteful furnishings couldn’t obscure the security measures. Every door had three locks and the glass panels were braced with metal grids. The nurse’s station at the front desk had a panic button and discreet security cameras.
“I am here to see Sheikh Ra’if Fayez,” he said darkly.
“Good morning, sir,” she responded, scanning the computer screen. “This way, please.”
She was a woman in her thirties with shining brown hair and a pleasing figure. She wore the kind of nurse’s uniform that he’d seen in movies. A crisp white dress with a folding collar and a nametag that said Delores.
“I will speak to his physician first.”
Delores paused. “Oh. I see.”
Zamir, used to being obeyed instantly, narrowed his eyes. “I trust this will not be a problem.”
“No, no. I’m sure it won’t be.” She bit down on her lower lip, and her eyes seemed to linger on his face. “Would you mind waiting while I find him?”
Zamir’s nostrils flared as he expelled a breath of disapproval. He had selected this facility for its reputation of unparalleled excellence. But now? His first impression was far from favourable.
Delores was turning beetroot red in front of him, and she almost passed out with relief when footsteps approached them from behind.
“Ah, Doctor Swan,” she smiled broadly. “This is His Highness Sheikh Zamir Fayez.”
“Ra’if’s brother.” The man nodded, and Zamir was glad. Glad that someone at least knew what was going on. The doctor was older than him, perhaps in his fifties, with hair that was silvering at the temples and a middle-aged paunch at his waist. His eyes were a crisp blue and his cheeks were marbled with pink veins beneath his pale skin.
“How is he?”
“He’s only been here a week, sir, and the beginning stages of recovery are the most difficult.”
“Recovery,” Zamir couldn’t help repeating. His anger was a force that he’d grappled with for many years.
“Yes, recovery. Addiction, sir, is a disease. A disease your brother will struggle with for the rest of his life, no matter how good our outcome is here.”
Zamir tilted his head away while he worked to regain control of his mood. “And how thorough do you expect the outcome to be?” He said, when he could trust himself not to express his own thoughts on Ra’if’s addictions.
“It is too early to say. This is not his first overdose.”
Hearing Ra’if’s failures discussed in black and white terms was shocking to him. He was used to dealing with staff who employed euphemisms and deferred to the Sheikh’s loyalty to his older brother.
