that letter to me before he died. What he has to say is quite extraordinary and of such import that I thought it wise to take you from Rita.”
Sakir stared at the letter but made no move to pick it up. “What does it say?”
“It states that twenty-six years ago our father traveled to America to meet with the two senators of California on modern oil-drilling practices.” His lips thinned with irritation. “There he met a woman.”
Sakir’s brows knit together. “A woman?”
“She was a young aide who worked for one of the senators. It seems that our father was instantly captivated by her beauty and spirit. He asked her to take a meal with him that night, and she accepted. After dinner they took a long drive up the coast—” he paused, inhaled deeply “—then she invited him to her home.”
It was a moment before Sakir spoke, but his eyes glittered with bewilderment. “This is very hard for me to believe. Our father detested Americans.”
“I thought so, as well, but Draka says that the sultan told him that this woman was different.”
For the second time in twenty-four hours, anger inched its way into Zayad’s blood, and he hated himself for it. He was no romantic. He did not believe in true love, at least for himself. He understood the ways of men in his position—even married men. But his father had been different. Or so Zayad had thought. The Sultan had never taken another woman to his bed. Only his wife. He had always claimed his love for Zayad’s mother was true and without competition and that the old ways had not, and would not, claim him.
“How long was our father in America?” Sakir asked.
“Three days.”
“And his nights were spent with this woman?”
“It would appear so.”
“You spoke of a child,” Sakir said, his jaw tight.
“One month after the sultan returned to Emand, the woman contacted Draka.”
“And?” Sakir prompted when Zayad paused.
“She claimed she was with child. She claimed the sultan was her child’s father. She wished to speak with him, to tell him of this news.”
“And what did our father say to her?”
Zayad walked to the balcony, searched for calm in the rugged landscape, the desert floor and the mountains beyond. “Draka did not tell our father of her call or her news.”
“What?” Sakir fairly snapped.
“Draka did not believe that the woman was speaking the truth.”
“Yes, but an investigation should have been made.”
“Of course it should have.” Zayad’s gaze fell to the acres of lush garden that held fruit trees and herbs, but more importantly, held the grave of his youngest brother, Hassan. The boy had died many years ago in a military training accident, and for Zayad, grief still spread through his bones every time he thought about losing his brother.
Butterflies flew and fed at the red and purple flowers by Hassan’s grave-site. A reminder that his spirit remained, yet would always be able to fly free. Zayad knew in that moment that even if there was the smallest possibility that he and Sakir had another sibling, he had to pursue it.
“What are you thinking, brother?” Sakir asked.
Zayad turned, his back to his beloved land. “This is a personal matter, a family matter, but one that needs to be addressed. I am thinking that at long last an investigation will be made.”
Sakir nodded. “Yes. We will find this child.”
“I will find the child.”
“But—”
“As you said, brother, you have a beautiful pregnant wife at home who needs you. You cannot be away from her for longer than a few days. I feel selfish in taking you away for that long, but I was convinced a phone call would not do here.”
“You were right.”
“And I am right about you going home and staying there with your Rita.”
Sakir’s mouth formed a grim line, but he nodded. “The child’s DNA must be tested.”
“It will be. But, Sakir, you understand that this is no child. Not anymore.”
“Of course. He must be a full-grown man by now.”
With a quick flick of his wrist Zayad stabbed at the letter with the tip of his sword, piercing the paper. He thrust it at his brother. “Read the last paragraph.”
Sakir slipped the paper from the blade and read.
With curious eyes Zayad watched his brother, watched as his face turned from interest to unease to shock.
When Sakir finally looked up, his green eyes were wide. “A girl?”
“Yes.” Zayad had been just as stunned when he had read this. After three men of Al-Nayhal, the thought of a girl child born to his father hadn’t occurred to Zayad.
“Where is she?” Sakir asked.
Walking over to the table, Zayad grasped the glass of plum juice from his tray and drained it. “She lives in a town one hour from Los Angeles, California. It is called Ventura.”
“When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow morning. My investigation is already under way. I must have more information on this woman and her life before I leave, before I attempt to get close to her. I will fly with you to the States, then continue on to California.”
“Then what?”
“I will live as an American, get to know this Jane Hefner, see if she is truly an Al-Nayhal, see if she is capable of knowing and accepting her truth.”
“You will keep me updated, yes?”
“Of course.” Zayad motioned for a servant to come and remove his breakfast tray and for another to take his sword. They were swift in their tasks, and soon Zayad and Sakir were heading inside the palace.
Sakir stopped at the doorway to the ballroom, turned to Zayad and grinned. “We could have a sister.”
Not sharing his brother’s enthusiasm, Zayad continued walking down the marble hallway. “Do not get your hopes up just yet, Sakir. We could have a sister. But we also could have an impostor.”
One
Are all men jerks, or what?
Mariah Kennedy stepped out of her ’92 Escort—sans air-conditioning—and into the ninety-degree California weather.
Gorgeous, brilliant, charming—ten million dollars to his name—and yet he refuses to pay child support for his three-year-old twins.
She
