The Desert Lord's Love-Child

My exact same words when I first saw her.

“Mafi shak, hadi bentak.”

No doubt, this is your daughter.

Those words, spoken in a bass voice that was even deeper than Farooq’s, brought her eyes to the man in black. She’d been avoiding looking at him. Of the three of them, he unsettled her most.

He was taller than Farooq, maybe by an inch or so, but that wasn’t why he overwhelmed her. It was his face, his eyes, what radiated from him, similar to Farooq and the man in gray, but laced with more harshness and danger. The slashed angles and hewn planes of his face were more merciless, the night of his hair total, the trimmed beard deepening the impression of ruthlessness, echoing the desert and its raiders, his eyes that of a lone wolf, hard and unforgiving.

“W’hadi maratak?” he said without looking at her.

And this is your woman?

And she found herself saying, “If you’re speaking Arabic to exclude me from this exchange, I’ll be courteous and tell you it won’t work and warn you not to say anything not meant for my ears. According to Farooq, my grasp of Arabic is ‘impressive.'”

Four sets of eyes turned to her, three of them boring into her with reactions comparative to each man’s character. Farooq’s vacillated between that humor he kept losing control over and his intention to add this to her running tab. Gray’s was the surprise of someone who couldn’t believe he’d mistaken a tigress for a housecat, both amused and intrigued by his faux pas. Black’s was unimpressed, his eyes telling her he was quick to judge and impossible to budge. No one got a second chance with him, and she was another false move away from eternal damnation.

But since she was already eyes-deep in it, what the hell.

She shrugged. “I see Farooq has no intention of introducing us. But you know who I am, and, while your identities seem to be need-to-know info he evidently thinks I don’t need to know, they’re not hard to work out. You must be Shehab and Kamal. And here I have to ask, is this what I should expect from now on?”

Farooq cocked an eyebrow at her. “What is ‘this'?”

“This.” She swept a gesture from him to Shehab and Kamal. “Are all Aal Masoods like this?”

“Like what?” he persisted.

“Larger-than-life? Description-defying? Will meeting you in your masses be like stumbling into a superhero convention?”

His lips tilted at the corners, his eyes crowding with a cacophony of emotions. She was surprised to feel amusement ruled them all. “Are you flirting with my brothers, Carmen?”

“I’m not even flirting with you. I’m stating facts. The three of you are the biggest proof of how grossly unfair life is. Giving you all that must have created severe deficiencies elsewhere. Your personal assets could be divided among three hundred men and they’d still be damn lucky devils.”

Gray threw his head back, gave a hearty guffaw. “B’Ellahi, I’ve made up my mind. I like you already, Carmen.” She looked at him, unable to hide her gratitude at finding one among the hulks surrounding her who wasn’t impossible to reach. He extended a hand to her. Her hand rose automatically, trembled as his closed around it. His smile turned assessing at feeling the tremors arcing through her. He shook her hand slowly, the fathomless black of his eyes brimming with astuteness and good nature. “I’m Shehab. Second son. Kamal is our baby brother.”

Said baby brother shot her an implacable look, not following his older brother’s example and extending a hand of acceptance.

Gathering the rest of her courage, feeling Farooq’s eyes burning the skin off the side of her face, she turned to Kamal. “I’m Carmen. And you don’t look like anyone’s baby brother.”

Was that a hint of surprise in his eyes now? That someone dared breathe, let alone speak her mind, in his presence?

“With two years between me and my ‘big’ brother, I don’t feel like such a baby.” Was that a hint of relenting, too?

“So that’s why you all look the same age.” She cast her gaze between them, shook her head at the magnitude and range of virile beauty displayed before her. “I bet it’s great to have siblings so like yourself, so close in age. I would have loved to have any siblings at all, any family—but there you go. I hope you realize how lucky you are to have each other.”

The three men exchanged glances, betraying no reaction to her words. She felt it anyway. Surprise. At her words. At their reaction to them. And to her after hearing them.

When they turned their eyes back to her, it felt as if it was with new insight, more interest. She wasn’t sure she liked the intensified focus she’d provoked.

She waved between them. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Do what?” Shehab asked, his eyes intent on her.

She wondered at how relative everything was. Seen alone, Shehab would be intimidating. Among his harsher brothers, he was the one who felt kinder, more approachable, the one she gravitated toward, counting on his leniency, his empathy.

She exhaled. “Stand around in the open like that, together.”

“You mean Judar’s heirs in one sniper’s bull’s-eye?” A definite shard of lethal humor glinted in the depths of Kamal’s eyes. “Though we always take every precaution, it has been drilled into us from birth never to put all eggs in one basket, so to speak. Farooq failed to tell us why he made an exception this time.”

Farooq shrugged, seemingly no longer concerned with the progress of her first meeting with his siblings, playing with Mennah. “I had to coordinate with you face-to-face. As for the rest, I told you everything there is to know.”

Shehab huffed in mockery. “Aih, you sure did. I have a daughter,” he reproduced Farooq’s voice. “Be there when I arrive. I get married tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow …?” Carmen choked on the word.

“You didn’t get that telegram, eh?” Kamal sounded as if he relished knowing Farooq hadn’t put her in the picture, either.

She shook her head, everything getting hazy, the juggernauts surrounding her cutting off air and light and reason. “I got nothing. He only mentioned you to explain your role as witnesses to our—to the-the orfi marriage and … and …”

Shehab and Kamal stared at her, no doubt feeling her about to snap with anxiety, then turned to Farooq, eyebrows raised.

Farooq ignored him, his eyes on her, hard with—what? Suspicion? Of what? Her reluctance, her outright panic? Well, surprise. “Do you have any reason for wanting to put off the ceremony?”

“I—I barely set foot here, I need more time …”

“You had sixteen months.”

The endlessness of space around them turned into a vise, crushing her. She’d thought she’d have more time …

At that moment, Mennah lurched forward, throwing herself into Carmen’s arms. As if she knew how much she needed her, to abort the spiral of agitation, to remind her of why she was doing this.

Shehab, it seemed, thought it time to end the confrontation. He held out his arms to Mennah, who pitched herself at him, as if continuing a game she’d devised of throwing herself around the circle of her new-formed family.

“Ana amm.” Shehab held her up, smiles wreathing his face as she wriggled and giggled, performing for her captive audience, pushing her enchantment factor to maximum. “I’m an uncle to this delightful treasure. It’s amazing, humbling, and it puts everything in perspective. We’re uncles, Kamal. Farooq, you’re a father. Ya Ullah, do you realize what a miracle this is? It’s all that matters.” He turned on them, holding Mennah out. “She is.”

Kamal held out a hand to Mennah, as if unsure whether he could touch her. She grabbed his hand, tried to use it as a chewing toy, before repeating her catch-me maneuver. He caught her, the large hands capable of crushing men trembling, shock and other fierce emotions detonating in his eyes. Pride, protection, possessiveness. He was Farooq’s brother, all right.

After a few moments of surrendering to Mennah’s pawing, he groaned, “Let’s get those marriage papers signed and sealed.”

Farooq’s face was satisfaction itself at his unyielding brother’s capitulation, at how Mennah had secured it without effort. He beckoned, and Hashem materialized carrying the chest.

Farooq took Mennah back from Kamal. Shehab reached for the chest, his eyes on Carmen, as if saying he was on her side. Kamal’s eyes, clearing of the emotions Mennah had provoked in him said he’d be watching her, that one step out of line, even if forgiven by Farooq, would guarantee her a formidable enemy for life.

Well, one out of two—make that three—was better than zero.

Farooq pulled her back to him, looked down at her for a moment before he let her have Mennah. “Wait for me in the limo. I’ll coordinate tomorrow’s ceremony with Shehab and Kamal. Then I’ll take you and Mennah home.”

Home. They were going home. A home she couldn’t even imagine. Farooq’s home. Mennah’s now. Would it be hers? Could it ever be?

The questions ricocheted inside her until she felt pulped.

She again tried to let the splendor rushing by distract her. It wasn’t every day that she drove through a city that had materialized out of revolutionary architects’ wildest dreams while retaining its ancient mystery through restored historical sites that blended into the whole, its rawness in preserved natural sights.

No use. She felt no pleasure at the amazing vistas they were sailing through. Thanks to Farooq. He sat at the end of the couch that ran the side of the limo beside Mennah, who was passed out in her car seat, worn-out by her uncles’ delight and stimulation, by her newfound extroversion.

“I must know now what you want for your mahr.”

She lurched. She’d thought he had nothing more to say to her.

He’d always have something to say to her. Something distressing. This time something she’d only heard about, never imagined could ever be applied to her. The mahr. The dowry. Paid to the bride in exchange for the right to enjoy marital relations.

She huffed. “Thank you, but I still don’t want a sponsor, even a legalized one. A certain amount of ‘sharing your privileges’ is unavoidable since I’ll live with you and Mennah, but that’s as far as I’m going, so let’s leave it at that.”

Imperiousness fired his eyes, tempered by tinges of … what? Humor? Deliberation? Astonishment? She had no idea. “The mahr is an obligatory gift from groom to bride. It is your right.”

“I can’t get my head around the words “obligatory” and “gift” in the same sentence. To my mind they’re mutually exclusive.”

“Obligations govern relationships, and when observed at their beginnings, they ensure you aren’t short-changed or victimized if anything goes wrong. You entered a relationship before observing only the dictates of romantic rubbish, and where did it lead you?”

“Out the other side without owing anyone anything. To freedom with dignity. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He leaned forward, scooped her up, brought her to rest half over him in one move, one of her legs pressing against his hardness. He kept her gaze tethered as he whispered, soft and inescapable, “Name your mahr, Carmen.”

She lay against him, flayed by his warmth and breath, suffering a widespread neurological malfunction. “I can name anything? You once told me you’d meet any demands I made.”

His hand weaved in her hair, his eyes intent on her lips. “Anything. As long as it isn’t something unreasonable.”

She tried to sit up, felt him expand at her wriggling. “Let’s see, what can be unreasonable enough for you? How about your fleet of jets? And a hundred million dollar token?”

He ground her harder into his erection. “Done. And done.”

This jolted her enough to break the body meld. “Whoa. So not done. I was joking. You know the concept, don’t you?”

His eyes glowed like slits into an inferno. “I appreciate a slap and tickle as much as the next man, Carmen, but this is no joking matter. Your mahr is something only you can estimate, and it is something I’m honor-bound to give you.”

She ran her hands through her hair, raised them. “Okay, okay. How about a blinding stone in an obscene size?”

“You will have my mother’s betrothal jewelry and whatever you wish of Judar’s royal jewels. This is your shabkah, not your mahr. Shall I consider my fleet and the sum you specified your choice?”

She shot up sitting straight. “You certainly shall not. What would I do with a fleet and a hundred million dollars?”

His pout was cynicism itself. “You want investment advice?”

“Listen, I’m not cut out to be a businesswoman or a shopper, so assets and money would be wasted on me.” His eyebrows rose, spoke volumes. She cried, “Does this mahr have to be material?”

He threaded his fingers together. “As long as we’re alive, yes. When we’re ghosts you can have an immaterial one.”

“Clever. You know what I mean. Can’t it be something … moral?”

“Material things can be quantified. And they last.”

“If you think so,” she scoffed, “then I feel sorry for you.” “Says the woman who married for ‘moral’ considerations only to find out how lasting those were. And what would the ‘something moral’ you want to ask of me be? Love?”

The word, his ridicule as he threw it at her, skewered her. “We agreed that doesn’t exist. Or if it does, it doesn’t matter.” “Then what do you want?”

She took a deep breath, asked for something as impossible. “A clean slate.”

Eight

In a life that had exposed him to betrayals, danger and conspiracies of world-shaking scope, few things ever took Farooq by complete surprise, by storm. If fact, only three things had.

They all involved Carmen.

The way he’d felt when he laid eyes on her. Her telling him she’d had enough of him and walking out. And now, her request.

A clean slate.

She was asking him to surrender his anger, to deny his memory, to erase his knowledge of her crimes. She wanted to start fresh. What for? A way back into his good opinion and goodwill? Into his emotions? Another shot at his faith? Everything she’d once made him lavish on her, and she’d squandered?

The worst part was how she understood him. How she always said or did the perfect thing at the perfect time to have the desired effect on him. His first reaction to her request had been to snatch her in his arms, singe her skin off with the violence of relief, the liberation of capitulation. He still wanted to let his new insight into her ordeals and her exponential effect on him wipe his memory, soothe away the lacerations, drive him to hand her power over him again. He fought the temptation with all he had.

She wasn’t here because this was a shiny new beginning and it was her choice to start over, but because he’d given her none. If it had been up to her, no matter her reasons, he would have never found her and Mennah, and Judar would be heading for destruction.

He must never forget that.

But she was flushed with the agitation of hope, while the dread of the little girl who’d grown accustomed to being turned down clouded the heavens of her eyes, made the redrose petals of her lips tremble, and his convictions evaporated as they formed.

And that was why he couldn’t relent.

She’d been destructive as his mistress. As his wife, the mother of his daughter, she’d be devastating. If he let her.

He braced against the pain as he ended this hope for something he wanted as much as she seemed to … more. “Since temporal control to change the past isn’t one of my powers, a clean slate is probably the one thing I can’t grant you.”

It was a good thing he’d given himself that pep talk. Otherwise he would have relented upon seeing her flame dim.

Which was what she probably wanted him to see.

Which he did see. That this was no act. That she was scared of her new life, wanted to make peace, wanted a chance. A second chance. And he’d just denied her that.

He bit back a retraction, a promise of all the chances she wanted, if only she’d promise never to lie to him again. Which proved her spell was turning into compulsion. She’d promise anything he wanted. Words were easy.

Or they were supposed to be. The ones with which he fought the thrill her seeming lack of avarice provoked had to be forced to his lips kicking and screaming.

“Since you won’t name your mahr, I’ll use my discretion. And you’ll accept it. I’m not having this debate again.”

Her flame went out.

Unable to bear the dejection coming off her in waves, he looked out of the window, pretended to ignore her again.

Tomorrow night he’d give her his undivided attention.

Approaching Farooq’s palace was like one of those scenes in movies where the heroine nears a boundary that, once crossed, would plunge her into a fairy tale. Or a nightmare.

She was about to cross into one wrapped in the other.

Not that she cared right now. She’d asked for the impossible. He’d pointed that fact out. And she felt … gored.

She knew why she had. Asked. Why she did. Feel this way. Because he made her hope there was a chance it wasn’t impossible. A chance to start over, be more than a stray lost in a world she had no place in, clutching a tattered shield of wisecracks and the inconsequence of her dignity.

“Is all this yours?”

The question surprised her. She hadn’t intended to ask it.

His eyes turned back to her. “I have my own home, but even if I haven’t been living here for the past three years to deal with all that my uncle can’t deal with now, we would have come here first anyway. The royal palace is where all royals marry.”

This kept getting better. “You mean this is the royal palace? And we’ll live with the king? And his family?”

His expression filled with mockery. “I assure you your in-laws will not be a source of intrusion. The palatial complex stands on over one hundred hectares, with a three-mile stretch of beach, and its connected annexes boast three hundred twenty rooms and ninety-five suites. And that’s not counting the central building housing the royal quarters and halls for royal functions. It will be like living in a hotel compound where you only see other residents with a previous appointment.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t imagine living in the place he’d described, let alone having any role, any say in it. The moment she tried to fine-tune a picture of herself as the crown princess, or the queen overseeing it all, her mind screeched at the enormity of projections, groped for anything to wrench her focus away.

The sights unfolding before her came to the rescue.

Draped in the illumination of a breathtaking sunset, jutting from a peninsula hugged by crystalline waters, the palace crouched like the starship of some giant alien race among many satellites, nestled between expanses of lush landscaped gardens and pristine white beaches, a construction conjured by the highest order of magic, the collaboration of a thousand genies in the era when impossibilities were everyday occurrences, and transported intact through time. She found herself saying all that out loud.

He gave an amused nod. “The forces creating this place were those of hundreds of masters of their trades, from designers to builders to painters to engineers from around the world, who combined faithfulness to Judar’s legacy of design and architecture with luxury and state-of-the-art technology. Who needs genies when the magic of imagination and skill can create this?”

“Who indeed.”

That was the last thing said as the limo, which she’d long realized was part of a cavalcade, passed through gates ensconced between two towers flying the Judarian flag high above the thirty-foot fence, through street-wide paths lined by palm trees and flower beds and paved in cobblestones. They passed through one tier after another of more gates, courtyards and pavilions until they reached the central grounds of the palace and its extensions.

Everything bore the intricacies and distinctions of the cultures that had melted together to form Judar, the towers leaning toward the Byzantine, the gates toward the Indian, the pavilions the Persian, each twist of metal, each arrangement of stone, every arch and pillar and spire a testimony to one culture’s influence or the other, and all ultimately Arabian.

She finally exhaled her admiration. “This place sure gives Buckingham palace and the Taj Mahal a run for their money.”

“Since construction was completed five years ago and the royal family moved here from the old palace in Durgham, it has become a national symbol of similar importance, and in this last year has been rising in the ranks of the world’s most coveted tourist attractions.”

“Tourists are allowed inside?” That was a surprise. She knew how Middle Eastern monarchies guarded their privacy at all costs.

“In certain areas of the palace and its satellites, two days a week, yes. I recommended this to my uncle and he obliged me. Tourism has spiked by three hundred percent since the practice was implemented.”

“Wow. That was a great thing to do, Farooq, to give as many people as possible a chance to experience the wonder of this place. To tourists it must feel like walking through an oriental fable.”

His smile was tinged with cynicism. “I’ve heard this is the impression this new palace creates. It doesn’t have much to do with reality but that’s tourism for you, capitalizing on the notions held by strangers to the land, on the fantasies the culture projects.”

Before she could analyze his words, wonder if any pertained to her, the limo stopped. And before she could blink, Farooq grabbed Mennah’s car seat, exited the car, then handed her out, too.

And she set foot on the ground of what he’d called her new home.

She stumbled. He kept her up, then had her walking, saved her from looking like a clumsy idiot instead of a self-possessed princess in front of his subjects and employees. He had her caught up in his body, held up by his power, propelled by his will. Her pulse escalated until she feared her heart would either burst or implode. The majesty bombarding her oppressed her, its implications in her tiny life unthinkable. Her breath sheared through her lungs in a mini panic attack as they walked up the expansive steps of the stone palace, which soared four towering levels and echoed every hue of the desert, its roof system sprouting with a hundred domes covered in mosaic glass and gold finials.

“This place … it’s amazing.” That wasn’t what she’d intended to say, but a strange excitement was taking over through her agitation. “I can almost see the grounds and terraces with the stairs leading down to the beach and marina lit with strings of lanterns and brass pillars bearing torches, live ood music playing between a blend of accents as head honchos from around the globe move from one world-shaping banquet to another.”

She turned up entranced eyes, found him staring at her in the semidarkness, his eyes flaring like burning coals.

Then he exhaled. “Who better than you to see the potential of this place? Regretfully, with my uncle ill for so long, it has seen no such events in the five years it’s been in existence. Our marriage will be the first festive occasion to take place here.”

He fell silent as footmen dressed in ornate uniforms materialized to open the palace’s twenty-foot, inlaid-in-gold-and-silver mahogany double doors. She looked back to catch its details, then turned to find more wonders to capture her eyes. The circular columned hall they were crossing had to be at least two hundred feet in diameter, with a soaring ceiling at least one hundred feet high, its center sprawling under a gigantic stained-glass dome.

Her gaze swam around the superbly lit space, got impressions of a sweeping floor plan extending on both sides of the hall, of pastels and neutrals, of Arabian/Moorish influences in decor and furnishing, modern ones in finish and feel on a floor spread with polished marble the color of the sand the palace lay on.