traditional man by nature, he thought it a strange relationship.
Near the front of the assembly, dressed in well-tailored Western-style suits, was the contingent from Montebello. Several, including Ahmed’s new ally and in-law King Marcus Sebastiani and his firstborn son, Prince Lucas, stood with heads respectfully bowed. The day after tomorrow, to conclude the weekend’s festivities, there would be a state dinner and reception to celebrate the joyous occasion of the prince’s miraculous return from the dead as well as the new alliance between the two countries as personified by the marriage of Rashid and Julia.
But first…tomorrow would be the Walima, the feast given by Hassan to celebrate the consummation of his marriage to Elena Rahman. The palace would be ablaze with flowers and light and alive with laughter and music. There would be an abundance of good food, good friends and good conversation, all of which Ahmed most especially enjoyed. It would be a joyous occasion. On this day, all was well with the Kamal family. Tamir was at peace, and prospects for its future prosperity were bright.
Yes, thought Sheik Ahmed as he uttered the final words of the Khutba-tun-Nikah, life is indeed good.
Allah be praised.
Chapter 1
From a balcony overlooking the palace gardens, Leila watched the man in the dove-gray cowboy hat stroll unhurried along tiled pathways. She’d watched many people traverse the garden that morning, but she particularly liked the way this man moved—confidently but without arrogance. The way he seemed to study everything around him—the flowers, the fountains, the colorful mosaics at his feet—with unselfconscious interest reminded her of a child at the zoo.
She laughed out loud as a brightly colored bird flitted across the man’s path, startling him. He lifted his head to follow the bird’s flight, revealing a deeply tanned, hard-boned face, cheeks creased, teeth bared in a smile. For several seconds he seemed to look right at Leila, and her breath caught, stifling the laughter. Oh, she knew he couldn’t really see her. She was well concealed behind the balcony’s intricately carved screen. It was just that he had such a nice smile.
“That one,” she said in a conspirator’s whisper to the woman beside her. “Who is he—the one in the hat? I saw him yesterday at the wedding. He must be an American.”
“Oh yes, Princess, he is—and not only that, but from Texas.” The servant Nargis threw a guilty glance toward the divan where her mistress, Leila’s sister Nadia, had her nose—and her attention—safely buried in her sketchbook. She lowered her voice anyway. “His name is Cade Gallagher. The princess—er…Mrs. Elena invited him. Salma heard her tell Madam Alima that he is her guardian.”
Leila made a derisive sound, forgetting to whisper. “Do not be silly. Elena is an American. In America women don’t have guardians.” She couldn’t keep a note of envy out of her voice. Her new sister-in-law was only four years older than Leila, but so smart and sophisticated, and the head of her own company! And still she had managed to attract and win the love of a handsome and powerful man like Hassan.
Nargis shrugged. “It is what I heard.”
“Perhaps Elena only wished to honor the customs of our country,” said Leila’s sister Samira in an appeasing tone, laying aside the needlepoint she’d been working on and coming to join them. “You know that since the death of her father, she has no family of her own. This man may be a distant relative, perhaps a friend or even a business associate. Anyway,” she added, gently chastising, “if Hassan has agreed to have him here as a guest, there can be nothing improper about it. You should not gossip, Leila.”
Leila hooked her arm through her sister’s, not in the least chastened. “Oh, but look at him, Sammi—do you not think he is handsome?” But at the same time she was thinking that the word “handsome” really did not suit the tall man in the gray suit and cowboy hat. It seemed too pale and feminine a word, somehow.
“He seems very…rugged,” said Samira after a moment’s consideration, voicing Leila’s very thoughts. “Quite imposing, really.” She tilted her head sideways as she thought about it. “It would be difficult not to be intimidated by such a man.”
“Oh, I know,” Leila teased, rolling her eyes, “you’d prefer someone more suave…someone smooth, someone sophisticated—” she pointed “—like that one there—the dark, beautiful one with the impossibly gorgeous eyes.” And much too aware of how gorgeous they are, she thought with disdain. She didn’t know quite why, but she found something about the man vaguely unpleasant. Rather like food that had been cooked in too much grease. “And…is he not the one I saw talking with you yesterday?”
“That is Desmond Caruso, Princess,” Nargis interrupted eagerly, pleased to be the bearer of information that would make her once more the center of attention. “He is one of the Sebastianis—you see, that is Duke Lorenzo with him. And the woman with the red hair is Duke Lorenzo’s new wife, Eliza. She is an American, too, you know.” Her voice dropped to a gleeful whisper. “A newspaper reporter.”
“Really?” As always, Leila’s interest perked up at the mention of America, and she did not stop then to wonder why Samira had suddenly gone so pale and silent.
“Really—you three are the worst gossips,” said Nadia, making a tsk-tsking sound. But she said it good-naturedly as she, too, came to join them at the screen.
There was a little silence while the four women watched the shifting patterns below in the gardens…people gathering, greeting, moving on. Sounds drifted up to them on the balcony…the tinkle of water in the fountains, snatches of laughter and the murmur of conversation.
“Well,” Leila said flatly, “I do not trust a man who is that handsome.” A small, involuntary shiver surprised her. Funny—the same thing had happened to her when she had seen him talking with Samira yesterday in the corridor near the great hall. Something about the man was definitely off, but Leila did not mention it. No one would take her seriously anyway. She smiled with lowered lashes and added in a voice like a purr, “I much prefer the tall American. Do you not think he looks like a cowboy? Even dressed in a business suit?”
Samira smiled indulgently. “Oh, Leila, you just like Americans. You have a fascination with that country.”
“Why not?” said Leila, tossing back her long, black hair. “America is fascinating.”
“How do you know?” Samira asked with a trill of laughter.
Leila could feel her cheeks growing warm. “Hassan evidently thinks so. And Elena has told me about America—especially Texas. Since Elena is from there, it must be a very wonderful place, must it not? She is so smart, so…” She caught herself before she could say the word in her mind—free!—and instead turned her back on Samira and addressed the sister on her other side. “Nadia? Wouldn’t you like to visit America?”
Nadia gave an indifferent shrug. “What is so special about America? It is just…very, very big.” “But,” said Leila eagerly, “that is what makes it special.” She threw her arms wide. “It is so big. And Tamir—” she brought her hands almost together “—is so small.” She finished with a sigh. “It is hard to imagine a place so enormous.”
Oh, but Leila could imagine it. If she closed her eyes she could see herself mounted on one of her brother Rashid’s polo ponies, riding like the wind across the green-gold fields of his farm on the outer island of Siraj, with the wind blowing back her hair and the sky cloudless and blue above and all around
