he left Al-Qasr, Sheikh Markaz ordered your things brought from your hotel. They have been placed in your room,” Amal said.
The room was a gracious blend of East and West, with priceless carpets scattered over the marble floors. The ceilings were finely carved and colored, and arched doorways opened onto a terrace hung with ferns. The canopied bed could have accommodated several people, Simone thought. Her bags looked lost beside it. They were already unpacked, she found when she checked. The staff hadn’t wasted any time carrying out the sheikh’s orders.
Amal opened another door to reveal a marble-floored reception room and beyond that, a domed bathroom. In the center, framed by columns, was a bathtub as large as a child’s wading pool. Simone immediately put a dip at the top of her to do list.
But first she needed to do something else. “Is there a telephone I can use to call my mother in Australia?”
Amal looked surprised at the question. “Of course.” Returning to the bedroom, she opened an ornate cabinet to reveal an electronic console and took out a remote control. “I’ll translate the settings for you.”
“My Arabic isn’t as good as your English, but I can read this.” Simone laughed. “Knowing how it works is a different matter.”
Leaning across her, Amal tapped keys with a long, rose-tipped nail. “This operates the audiovisual system, this the climate controls and these buttons are for the telecommunications system. If you give your mother the number on the handset, she can call you directly or leave voice mail for you. The line is scrambled for security. If you require anything else, call me on the internal system. After you make your phone call to Australia, you’ll have time to rest and freshen up before you dine with the sheikh tonight.”
This was news to Simone. “I didn’t know I’d been invited.” How did she feel about spending time with him on his own ground?
Evidently there wasn’t a choice. “His Highness will send for you at eight.”
Figuring out the high-tech phone system was less of a challenge than talking to her mother. Sara’s depression had worsened, her mother’s nurse who liked being called simply Mrs. H informed Simone. Sara was under sedation and would be told of her daughter’s call when she awoke.
“Should I come home early?” Simone asked.
Down the line, Mrs. H’s tone gentled. “At this point, it wouldn’t help. We’re doing all we can for her. There’s nothing more you can do.”
Except find her half uncle, Simone thought. No point raising her mother’s hopes until she had definite news. Or worrying her by letting her know about Simone’s present situation. “Give her my love,” she said before hanging up.
She tried to suppress her fear. Mrs. H was a capable professional who was giving her mother the best of care. Worrying wasn’t going to change matters. Simone would be better off concentrating on her objective. Right now Markaz was the key.
What did one wear to dine with a sheikh? Her clothes had been chosen for business and sightseeing, but she’d brought a long, slinky black dress with a matching chiffon wrap just in case.
First the tub beckoned. Who could resist such luxury? As water gushed from a swan-shaped gold fountain, she threw in handfuls of scented bath crystals in the shape of rose petals she found in a tall glass jar behind one of the columns. Then she shed her clothes and stepped in. Bliss.
Some time later, feeling refreshed, she swathed herself in a towel the size of a tablecloth, wound another around her freshly washed hair and padded barefoot back to the bedroom. And stopped in surprise.
On the bed, someone had laid out a fabulous peacock-blue jeweled and embroidered galabia and matching sirwall for her. She fingered the fine fabric in delight. Pure silk. The gold-and-silver embroidery and beadwork was finer than anything she’d seen before and she turned it over in her hands, marveling. Wearing this, a woman had to feel like a princess.
Forgetting the nap she’d intended to take, she dug in her cosmetics bag for eye shadow and eyeliner and spent an absorbing half hour experimenting with a look that would do justice to the fabulous clothes.
By the time she was satisfied, she could barely keep her eyes open, and blamed the heat and the stress of the morning at Al-Qasr. She removed her experimental makeup, carefully lifted the gorgeous outfit off the bed and draped it over a chair, then wrapped a robe around herself and stretched out full length. Within minutes she was deeply asleep.
Someone was in her hotel room. Heart pounding, she jerked to full wakefulness and sat up to the realization that this wasn’t a hotel. And the intruder was a maid who looked as startled as Simone.
“My apologies for disturbing you,” she said softly in Arabic. “I brought tea for you.”
“What time is it?” Simone asked in the same language.
Almost six in the evening, she was told. She had slept for over two hours. Swinging herself out of bed, she said, “Then it’s a good thing you woke me. I’d have slept the clock around otherwise.”
On the terrace, the maid had set out hot mint tea, fresh figs, plums, apricots and dates, the shredded pastry stuffed with white cheese called kanefeh and tiny pots of creamy bread pudding. Assured that this was more than adequate, the maid left her to her tea.
At this rate she would need more than visits to the gym to balance the indulgences when she returned to Australia. Disciplining herself to touch only the tea and a couple of succulent fruits, she turned her back resolutely on the tray and rested her arms on the parapet, taking in the view of the city.
Her former accommodation was a pink speck far below. Along the winding road above it she saw a group of the sheikh’s guards hiking uphill, evidently on a training exercise. After her journey to Al-Qasr, she knew the road was steep, but they scaled it effortlessly. The sheikh’s opponents must be mad, thinking they could defeat such a disciplined force.
Yet they had killed Markaz’s father and older brother, came the unwelcome thought. According to her reading, the old sheikh and his son had been flying home from a state visit when their plane had been destroyed by a rebel bomb.
If he’d stayed in Nazaar, her father could have been on board. As the editor of the Nazaari Times, he’d often traveled with the old sheikh to report on royal activities. He hadn’t fared much better with a hit-and-run driver in Australia, but at least he’d had the better part of thirty years of living first.
Shaking off the sad thoughts, Simone returned to the bedroom, her spirits reviving as she put on the lovely clothes. With her makeup complete and the chiffon wrap improvised into a hejab, the scarf used by Nazaari women to cover their hair, she was ready when the sheikh’s emissary came for her.
Fayed salaamed, looking approvingly at her appearance. “The sheikh is waiting for you, Miss Simone.”
“Just Simone, please.”
“Perhaps in Australia, but not here,” he rumbled.
“But you call the sheikh Markaz. I heard you.”
The giant frowned. “We grew up together and are brothers in all but name.”
And with men it was different anyway. How on earth did men like Fayed cope with the reforms Markaz was gradually introducing?
