to get out.
Once on the pavement, Bethanne stopped and looked at Teaz. “Did you know Hank Pendarvis?” she asked.
For a few seconds he made no move or response. Then he nodded abruptly—once.
“Do you know what happened to him?”
“He was the pilot for the old sheikh. He flew away one day and never returned.” His English was heavy with Arabic accent, but Bethanne had no trouble understanding him.
“Do you know where he was going?”
The same stare, then a quick shake of his head.
“Thank you,” she said. She started for the front door when a thought occurred. Turning, she saw Teaz still staring at her. “Do you know where he lived?”
“In the Romula section of old town.”
She waited, hoping for more, but he said nothing. She had the address. Might as well go and see if she could find someone there who knew him.
“Maybe you could drive me there tomorrow if the sheikh doesn’t need me.” She’d love to see the old city. Match photos with the historic buildings. See a square with coffee cafés and stalls of goods for sale. Skirting Alkaahdar from the airport to the villa showed only the modern high-rises of shining steel and glass. She knew the older section would have been built in the more traditional Moorish architecture that she’d so loved in southern Spain.
“I am at your service,” he said with a slight bow.
Entering the quiet villa, Bethanne paused at the bottom of the steps, then on a sudden whim turned and headed toward the sitting room she’d been in last night. A quick glance showed it empty. Moving down the wide hall, she peered into the dining room they’d used. The last room in the hall was the library the sheikh had mentioned. Books lined three walls. The French doors stood open, keeping the room fresh and cool. Stepping inside, she saw a large desk to one side. From the computer on top and the scattered papers, she knew it had been recently used. Who by? From their conversation, she’d surmised Rashid lived elsewhere. This was a second home.
She stepped in and crossed to the desk. She wouldn’t open drawers and nothing was visible that would tell her anything about her father. It had been three years. Time enough to put away anything of interest.
“Where did you go, Dad? And why?” she muttered softly.
She sat in the desk chair, picturing Rashid sitting behind the desk, working on major deals for oil exports. What did he do for leisure? How come he was not married at his age? Most men she knew had married in their twenties. Rashid had to be close to mid-thirties.
Though she herself was still unwed.
She swiveled back and forth in the chair. Spotting the computer, she sat up and turned it on. Maybe she could search out what she could find about Rashid al Harum. She would not go to dinner unprepared.
Rashid leaned back as the car pulled away from the office. He was on his way to pick Bethanne up for the command dinner. He had thought about her questions, wondering what she felt important to know if preparing for a confrontation with a future mother-in-law.
He thought about Marguerite for the first time in years. How foolish he’d been not to recognize her type when they’d met. He’d fallen for her in a big way. Marguerite had been beautiful and sophisticated and very good at having fun. She’d often spoken about how much fun they’d have together.
Spending his money.
How gullible he’d been. No longer. He had agreed to the possibility of marriage to Haile as a way to connect the two families who had a strong mutual interest in oil. Now that was off the table, he could resume his solitary way of life. It would take another monumental deal to have him consider the institution again soon.
Lucky break, Haile’s running away.
He wondered if his mother would ever see it that way. He’d have to be careful in what he conveyed to her this evening. She could accept things or constantly stir things up in her desire for answers.
How good an actress was Bethanne Sanders? Could he depend upon her? How ironic the woman he was looking to for help was the daughter of a man his family despised. If she was anything like her father, he was playing a dangerous game.
He entered the villa a short time later and paused in the large foyer. The stairs leading up were to his left. The space to the right led to various rooms and eventually back to the kitchen. The evening breeze circulated, keeping the house cool and inviting. Why didn’t he stay here more often? he wondered. His grandmother had left it to him when she died last summer. She’d bequeathed another dwelling and surrounding land on the other side of the city to his twin. Khalid had yet to take up residence. Both too busy.
Fatima started down the stairs, surprised to see him. “I didn’t know you were here, Excellency,” she said. She clung to the railing and looked back up. “I can tell her you have arrived.”
“Please ask her to join me in the salon.”
Rashid waited by one of the French doors. The entire estate was cooler than his flat in the city. He liked living closer to the action, but he had forgotten how much he’d enjoyed visiting when his grandmother was alive. Only a few minutes’ drive from the heart of the capital, yet the estate was serene and lovely, and quite different from the glass and steel of the high-rise where he had his flat.
When he heard the rustle of silk, he turned and watched as Bethanne entered the room. She looked lovely in a rose-colored dress that was most demure. Her hair was done in a neat style, up and off her neck. She wore no jewelry, but her modest attire would please his mother.
“Good evening,” she said with a bright smile. For a moment Rashid wished she meant the smile, that she was actually happy to see him. It was a foolish, fleeting thought.
“You look lovely,” he said.
“Thank you—it’s the dress.” She turned slowly and grinned. “I could get used to dresses like this. Most of the time I wear my uniform or shorts when hanging around at home.”
He’d like to see her in shorts or a bathing suit. Or nothing at all.
Looking away quickly lest he give a hint of his errant thoughts, he walked to one of the chairs and gestured for her to sit in another.
She did so elegantly. What were the odds of having a suitable woman arrive just when Haile disappeared? One who seemed as at home here in his villa as she did behind the controls of the jet?
“So let the inquisition begin,” he said whimsically.
She shrugged. “I looked you up on the Internet. There’s quite a lot written about you and your brother. You have a lot of good press. Is that designed? Or are you genuine?”
“I’d like to say genuine. We are not given to excesses. We enjoy our work and do our best for it.”
“Your brother is harder to find out about, but you are often in the press. But no special woman—hence the arrangement with Miss Haile, I suppose.”
He kept his face without expression. At least the old press about his and Marguerite’s disastrous breakup was old
