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The Sheikh's Secret Son
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Two
Sheikh Barakah Karif Ramir entered the Palace Lights penthouse suite with the slow and measured step that reflected his life of patience, of waiting, of watching for the most opportune moment and then seizing that moment with both hands.
That was life in Kharmistan, the life of a prince, a sheikh. It was the life his late father had lived, and his father before him, for all of the sheikhs of Kharmistan who had known the feint and jab of politics, of intrigue, while these Americans were still learning how to build log cabins.
The sheikh had been raised at his father’s knee, then sent off to be educated; first in England, later in America. He had not needed the education found in books, for there were books and teachers in Kharmistan. At the age of twelve he had been sent away to learn the ways of the world, of the men who were outside his father’s small but strategically important kingdom.
Having an English mother had helped him, but nothing she had taught him could have prepared him for the lack of respect, mingled with hatred and misunderstanding, that had greeted him when he’d taken his first steps out of Kharmistan and into the world beyond his father’s kingdom. In Kharmistan his family name was revered, honored, even feared. In England he was the outsider, the alien being, the oddity. His clothing was ridiculed, his speech pattern mocked.
That was when the young prince had learned the value of conformity, at least an outward conformity that seemed to put his classmates at ease.
He had forsaken his comfortable tobe and kibr for the short pants and blazer of his classmates, even though his father had gained permission for him to avoid the school uniform.
He had answered insults with a smile until he had found sticks big enough to beat them all down. Those sticks had been his brilliant horsemanship, his skill on the playing fields, his excellence in the classroom.
Within a year he had become the most popular student in the school, as well as its top student. He was invited to large country estates over term breaks, introduced to the sisters of his classmates, both welcomed and welcome wherever he went. His friends were legion, and they believed they knew him well.
They never knew him at all. But he knew them. He knew them very well.
What had begun so encouragingly in England had been equaled and then outdone by the success he had found in America during his years at Yale. He assimilated. He blended. He fit in. He became one of “them,” even though he was not one of them.
He could never be one of them, one of those he met, roomed with, ate with, laughed with over the years.
Because he was Barakah Karif Ramir, only son of the sheikh, heir to the throne of Kharmistan.
All his English and American friends knew him as Ben, the nickname his Yale roommate had given him when he could not remember how to pronounce Barakah.
And being Ben was easier, simpler. Nobody groveled, nobody harassed, nobody bothered to try to impress him or beleaguer him or ask anything of him.
It had been as Ben that he had traveled to Paris in an attempt, years after his return to Kharmistan, to recapture some of that simplicity that had been lost to him in the halls of his father’s palace.
It had been as Ben that he had met Eden Fortune, the beautiful Texan he’d foolishly introduced himself to as Ben Ramsey. And why not? He’d anticipated an innocent flirtation, a Parisian romance, perhaps a mutually pleasurable dalliance.
Most women fawned all over him once they learned he was a prince. They fawned, and they preened, and they asked inane questions, and they got mercenary gleams in their beautiful eyes when they looked at him.
He had not wanted to see that acquisitional gleam in Eden Fortune’s lovely blue eyes. And he had not. He had seen interest, yes. In time, he had seen love, a love he returned in full measure.
Even as he deceived her.
The summons back to Kharmistan had come too soon, before he could confess that deception, before he could ask her to marry him, share her life with him. A hurried note left on a pillowcase, and he was gone, flying back to Kharmistan on his private jet, racing to the bedside of his seriously ill father.
But he had written. He had written several times, little more than hurried notes scribbled between taking care of state business and sitting at his father’s bedside. He had ordered those notes hand-delivered to Paris, with her replies placed directly into his hands.
Nothing.
There had been nothing.
No answer. No response.
And then she’d been gone. By the time he could assure himself of his father’s recovery and jet back to Paris, Eden had returned to America.
He may have let her believe he had never gotten a letter from her, but he had. The concierge at the hotel had handed him a small envelope when he had inquired about Eden at the front desk. It’s better this way. Eden. He had taken that to mean that she’d wanted nothing to do with him once he had told her, in his letters, of his true identity, of the privilege and the burden that he carried as heir to the throne of Kharmistan.
For nearly six years he had believed he had done the right thing to walk away, to not look back. To forget. His father had never fully recovered from his stroke, and Ben had been forced to work night and day to try to fill his shoes, to keep their subjects calm, to eventually step into those shoes completely when his father died.
There had been no time for romance, for fond memories, for much of anything except the work of ruling his country.
He had married Nadim’s daughter because it had been a politically advantageous move that had solidified the populace. But neither Leila nor Ben had been in love. Her death three years later had saddened him greatly, but he had barely noticed a difference in his always busy days. For he was the sheikh, and the sheikh lived for the state, not for personal happiness.
And then he had seen the memo from one Eden Fortune that Nadim had placed on his desk….
“Nadim?” he called out now as he went to the small bar in the corner of the living room of the suite, helping himself to an ice-cold bottle of spring water. “Nadim, are you there?”
A servant dressed in the traditional white linen tobe, his kaffiyeh secured to his head with an agal fashioned of thick woolen cords, appeared in the doorway, bowed to him. “His Excellency will be with you momentarily, Your Highness, and begs your pardon for inconveniencing you by even a moment’s absence,” he said, then bowed himself out of the room.
“Yeah, right,” Ben muttered under his breath as he pulled the kaffiyeh from his own head, suddenly impatient with the formality with which he was treated as the Sheikh of Kharmistan. It was as if he lived inside a bubble, and no one was allowed to approach too closely, speak too plainly, say what the devil was on his or her mind.
He had a sudden longing for that long-ago summer in Paris, for the days and nights he had spent with Eden. That was probably because she had looked today as she had looked then, only even more beautiful, more assured, more amazingly intelligent and independent.
Although not so independent that she could refuse his request—his ultimatum—to come here tonight, to meet with him again. She had been angry with him, certainly, but she had also seemed frightened. Frightened for her job? No. It had been more than that, he was sure of it.
But what? What?
“Your Highness requested my presence? I ask forgiveness for being unprepared for your seemingly precipitate return. Things did not go so well at the meeting?”
Ben turned to look at his closest advisor. Yusuf Nadim was a tall, extraordinarily handsome man in his mid-sixties. Dark skin, dark hair without a strand of gray, a thin mustache over his full upper lip. Nadim wore Western clothing well, but seldom, and looked quite impressive now in his sheer white silk kibr ornamented with a gold neckband and tasseled cord. He wore the flowing kibr over a fine linen tobe. His kaffiyeh was constructed of the same sheer material as his kibr, and anchored in place with an elaborate agal wrapped in gold thread.
He bowed to Ben, but his dignity did not bow with him.
My third cousin, the man who would be sheikh, Ben thought idly, then dismissed the reflection as it did not give him pleasure. Neither did the subject at hand.
“You would like me to say yes, it did not go well. Would you not, Nadim?” Ben asked, smiling quite deliberately. “That way you could remind me of how very indispensable you are to the Sheikhs of Kharmistan, both to the father before him and now to the son. You could tell me how foolish I was to think I could negotiate a simple business deal without you by my side.”
“On the contrary, Your Highness. I would never presume such a thing. I only ask, as advisor and father-in-law and friend, to humbly serve Your Highness with all of my feeble, unworthy self, in any way I can.”
Nadim bowed again, but not before Ben saw the quick gleam of satisfaction—mingled with dislike?—in Nadim’s dark eyes. He recalled his father’s words on the subject of enemies. It is best to keep them close, where you can watch them.
Ben took another long drink of water, to cleanse his palate after Nadim’s too sweet apology—or whatever the hell the man thought he had been offering. “I postponed the meeting until tomorrow, as something came up. Something unexpected,” he told Nadim, effortlessly massaging the truth, “and unexpectedly personal.”
“Your Highness?” Nadim asked, waiting to seat himself until Ben had lowered himself onto one of the two striped couches in the living room area of the immense suite. The suite had six rooms, not counting those for the servants. Texans, it seemed, took great pleasure in living up to their reputation of “everything is bigger in Texas.”
Ben pushed a hand through his coal-dark hair. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “Do you by chance remember an American woman by the name of Fortune, Nadim? Miss Eden Fortune?”
“A woman?” Clearly, Nadim was puzzled. “You postponed a meeting we have been planning for six months—for a woman? I know our beloved Leila is gone these past three years, Your Highness, but surely if you had need of a woman, there is no dearth of them at home in Kharmistan. If you had but asked, I—”
“There is a saying here in America, Nadim—‘Get your mind out of the gutter.’” There was an edge of steel in Ben’s voice as he interrupted the man. “You would do well to remember it.”
Nadim inclined his head. “My profound apologies, Your Highness.”
“Not that I am not honored by your offer to…um…pimp for your sheikh,” Ben said, unable to hide his smile. “I had no idea that procuring willing females was part of your duties as my advisor.”
Ben now saw the anger in Nadim’s eyes, the fullness of it, the depth of it, even as the man answered with a smile of his own. “Your Highness is being droll.”
“I try,” Ben said, his own humor evaporating. “Now, to get back to Miss Eden Fortune, if I might. Do you recall the name?”
“I do not, Highness. I am sorry. Have I met the woman?”
Ben stood, walked over to stand in front of his advisor, looked down at him as he sat at his ease. “No, Nadim, you have not. Perhaps you remember my father’s illness of some years ago, the time of his first cerebral accident?”
Nadim frowned as he stood, bowed to his sheikh. “Those were such trying times, Your Highness,” he said apologetically. “Your father had been meeting with the various desert chieftains on the delicate matter of water rights when he collapsed, sending everyone into a panic. Fools, all of them, believing that Kharmistan could not survive your father’s death. Our neighbors were looking for a reason to invade our territory, and without the loyalty of the chieftains we faced a turmoil that had to be avoided at all costs. We had to find you, which, I recall, was not an easy task, Your Highness, and then prominently produce you, prove that Kharmistan would go on, no matter what happened to your father.”
“Then you do recall, Nadim,” Ben said, beginning to pace once more. “And you found me. You found me in Paris. Now do you remember the name Eden Fortune?”
Nadim’s eyes were as dark as a starless midnight in the Kharmistan desert. “The woman. Of course. The father on his sick bed, possibly his death bed, and the lovesick son passing notes like a schoolboy, demanding delivery by hand in Paris. How could I forget?”
Ben turned on his heels, looked straight at his father-in-law. “But you did as I said, didn’t you, Nadim? You followed my direct order to have my letters hand-delivered to Miss Fortune in Paris?”
Nadim pulled his robe about him as he lifted his chin, struck a pose caught somewhere between arrogance and servility. “You question my loyalty, Your Highness? You question my vow to serve my prince in every way? I should leave your service at once, Your Highness, if you were to have lost confidence in me.”
“I will consider that an answer in the affirmative, Nadim. You did send a messenger with my letters. They were, as you had promised me, delivered directly into her hands. I must believe that she lied to me this afternoon, for I cannot believe that my most trusted advisor lied to me six years ago, and is lying now even as he looks into the eyes of his sheikh.”
Nadim continued to stare at Ben for long moments, then bowed, turned, and departed the room.
Ben’s suspicions went with him.
Ben paced the living area of the penthouse suite, pretending he did not see the hands on the mantel clock, pretending he had not heard the clock strike six a quarter hour earlier.
She was not coming. He could not believe she would not come. Not because he had demanded her presence, but because of her loyalty to her employer. Even as he had fallen in love with Eden, he had been able to see her finer qualities with a calm and detached eye. Loyalty, he had been sure then, had been sure until fifteen minutes ago, was very important to Eden.
As he, obviously, was not. Had never been.
How strange, how odd, how unprepared Ben was for rejection. From the time he had been a child, he had only to crook his finger, raise his eyebrow, give the faintest hint of what—or who—he wanted, and all that he desired had simply dropped into his lap.
His birth counted for some of this, his personality and will to succeed accounted for more. From his excellence in sports to his conquests with women, he had only ever brushed up against failure, had never embraced it. Failure had never embraced him.
Except for Eden Fortune, in Paris.
Except for Eden Fortune, here in Texas.
And now what was he to do? If he backed out of the negotiations with the American triad, Eden would surely lose her position. Obviously he had not thought through his plan completely. After six long months of planning, he had failed to factor in Eden’s temperament, her stubbornness in the face of his demands.
She was her own person. He had known that in Paris, he should have remembered it before he had presented her with an ultimatum that could only hurt any chance he had of speaking with her, perhaps holding her again. Perhaps loving her again.
“Stupid!” Ben told himself as he reached up a hand to his sheer kaffiyeh with its bold black agal. He had been as stupid, as cowhanded, with Eden as he had been to have dressed himself in the brilliantly striped aba denoting him as sheikh, a move meant to impress her, perhaps intimidate her.
Before he could yank the kaffiyeh from his head, strip off the aba to reveal the more pedestrian slacks and knit shirt beneath it, the doorbell of the suite buzzed once, twice.
“Eden,” Ben breathed, relaxing his shoulders, realizing that he, who routinely stared down princes, had been both anticipating and dreading this meeting. He was on edge, nervous. And that made him angry.
He walked over to stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city as one of the servants opened the door to the tiled foyer and he heard Eden give the man her name.
“Miss Eden Fortune, Highness,” the servant said a moment later, bowing Eden into the room, then retiring as he earlier had been bidden. Haskim would be back in a half hour, to serve the dinner of Middle Eastern specialities Ben had ordered prepared in the suite kitchen. Ben had, with an inner smile, ordered Dolma—stuffed grape leaves—among other Middle Eastern specialties, just to see how Eden reacted when she took her first bite of the delicacy that was a bit of an acquired taste.
Now he felt petty, and wished he had ordered from the hotel kitchens. Not that Nadim would allow such a thing without making a great fuss out of being his official taster, just in case the hotel chef had tried to poison the Sheikh of Kharmistan. The last person Ben wanted present in the room tonight was his outwardly conscientious, inwardly jealous father-in-law.
Ben watched as Eden walked into the room, her head held high, her posture that of a soldier about to undergo inspection. She was still clothed in the same trim, prim navy-blue suit he had seen her in this morning. Ben considered the outfit to be a deliberate choice, one meant to show her disdain for him, her determination to make this a business meeting and nothing more.
“Your Highness,” she said with a barely perceptible inclination of her head as she stopped, folded her hands in front of her. Glared at him.
Her dark brown hair was still drawn back severely. A French twist, Ben believed the style was called. He wondered if Eden could appreciate the irony in that description. The severe hairstyle helped to accentuate Eden’s high cheekbones, the clean sweep of her jaw, the fullness of her lips. Just as the severe blue suit skimmed over her body, setting off memories, hinting of a promise Ben was sure Eden had no intention of declaring.
She was magnificent. From her pride to her delicious body, she was magnificent. Just as he remembered her. Just as he had never been able to forget her.
Her blue eyes sparkling with anger and a hint of fear he could not like, she gestured to the couches, saying, “If the inspection is over, would it be possible for the two of us to sit down, discuss our problems like adults?”
“I have no intention of reneging on the deal with the clients your law firm represents, Eden,” he said immediately, hoping to see some of the starch leave her slim shoulders. “I can only ask your forgiveness for such a heavy-handed threat, but in my stupidity I could not think of another way to convince you to have dinner with me tonight.”
Eden sat, sliding her hands along her thighs as she did so, smoothing down her skirt. “You could have asked me, Ben,” she said bluntly. “That’s how we do it here. You ask, I answer.”
“In the affirmative?”
Her chin lifted a fraction. “Hardly. I much prefer to keep our association limited to business.”
Ben sat on the facing couch, smiled. “Then I withdraw my apology, for I was determined that we should meet privately. I regret that you only agreed under duress, but I am equally determined to enjoy the evening.”
As if on cue, one of the kitchen servants—Nadim insisted they travel with a full staff—bowed himself into the room, carrying a heavy silver tray laden with a sampling of Middle Eastern appetizers, including the Dolma.
“It all looks delicious, thank you,” Eden told the servant, who bowed to her then asked Ben if he could be permitted to serve them with cold juices freshly squeezed in the kitchen. Ben agreed, and the servant bowed again, backing out of the room.
“I thought he was going to kiss your feet,” Eden said, sitting forward on the couch and picking up a small china plate as her free hand hovered over the assortment of appetizers. “Oh, Dolma. I adore stuffed grape leaves, don’t you? And what’s that?” she asked, pointing to another dish. “I don’t think I recognize that one.”
“A sampling of Maldhoom,” Ben said, watching as Eden popped a grape leaf into her mouth, closed her eyes as she savored the taste. “It is made of eggplant and a variety of seasonings. I can ask my cook to write down the recipe if you like.”
Eden wrinkled her nose. Just the way she’d wrinkled her nose at that small restaurant on the West Bank of Paris as she watched him eat his way through a plateful of snails. “Eggplant? Thanks, but I’ll pass. But these are eggrolls of some kind, aren’t they?”
“Shamboorek,” Ben told her, wondering how he could have forgotten how dedicated Eden could be to good food. “We have many varieties of eggrolls, but these, I do believe, are stuffed with ground lamb, onion, and seasoned with a variety of spices.”
Eden nodded her understanding, wiping her fingers on one of the linen napkins placed on the tray, then dabbing the napkin at her chin, which had collected a bit of the sauce from the Dolma. She took a sip of apple juice the servant had placed in front of her, then reached for the Shamboorek.
She had the eggroll halfway to her mouth before she stopped, looked at him, and a very becoming blush colored her cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t eaten more than a few bites all day for one reason or another. I can’t believe I’m diving in like this!”
“But understandable. The fuller the mouth, the less one can be made to speak,” Ben said, lifting a glass of chilled apple juice to his own lips.
“What’s that, Ben?” Eden asked, putting the eggroll back on the plate. “Some kind of ancient proverb? If it is, I don’t like it.”
“Again, my apologies. And, please, continue to enjoy the food. I can remember now how much joy food gives you. A woman who enjoys the pleasures of the senses, and is not ashamed to indulge herself. Do you remember the night I fed you fresh strawberries in cream, Eden? How you licked the cream from my fingers, how I kissed the tart juice on your lips? So innocently sensual, so impossible to forget.”
“That’s it!” Eden said, tossing down her napkin. She stood, with only one quick, longing look toward the plate of Shamboorek. “I came, we spoke, and now I’m leaving. I’ll see you in the morning, Your Highness. And then I’ll count myself lucky if I never have to see you again!”
“Your Highness?”
Ben turned to see three of his servants standing in the hallway, one of them with sword already drawn. “We heard the raising of voices, Your Highness,” Haskim said. “There is trouble?”
Ben grinned up at Eden, who was glaring at the servants with enough anger in her eyes to most probably stop a charging rhino in its tracks. “Do you want to see what would happen if I were to say ‘Sic her, boys’?” he murmured quietly, so that only Eden could hear. “Or maybe you would just rather sit down once more, and enjoy your Shamboorek.”
As Eden stood, and steamed, Ben waved the servants out of the room, wondering just how far Nadim had told them to go, how close Nadim had ordered them to stay.
With that thought in his mind, he excused himself from Eden and followed after the servants, shooing them along in front of him until they stood in front of the door to the kitchen. “You insult me, believing your sheikh could be overpowered by one small female,” he said sternly, then smiled. “Go eat your dinner, all right?”
He stopped to discard the kaffiyeh and aba on a chair in the hallway, smoothed his hair, and reentered the living room of the suite, saying, “I have convinced my attendants that you are not hiding a Glock under your jacket or a bomb in your purse. Although I would suggest you not raise your voice again, not if you want my servants to partake of their evening meal in peace.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Eden snapped, picking up an eggroll and taking a whopping great bite out of it. She spoke around a mouthful of pastry and meat. “I see you lost the robe and…and headdress. When are you going to bring out the crown jewels, or the scepter, or whatever else in hell you think would impress me with how terrific you are?”
“I was trying to impress you, I admit it,” Ben said honestly. “But, as I could see it did not work, I decided to make myself more comfortable.”
“Well, bully for you. I’m not comfortable! Ben Ramsey, garden variety lawyer on vacation. Ha! I can’t believe I fell for that—although no one could blame me for not knowing you were really Sheikh Barakah Karif Ramir, now could they? I mean, how many sheikhs can ten thousand vacationing college girls hope to meet? What are the odds? But now, since we seem to be firmly on the subject I really didn’t want to talk about, let me take a wild guess as to why you left. You have a wife, don’t you, Ben? Or maybe six of them?”
“I have been married since last I saw you, Eden, and widowed three years ago. We had no children. But do not believe all you hear about sheikhs and harems, if you please. It makes for titillating press, but is far from the truth.”
“Widowed?” Eden bowed her head for a moment, then looked at him levelly. “I’m sorry, Ben, I didn’t know. It’s a good thing I don’t have any more eggroll in my mouth. It leaves more room for my foot.”
“An apology, Eden? I accept it with pleasure.” He sat once more, deftly picked up a grape leaf and popped it into his mouth. “So, are we being sociable now?”
“Sociable, Ben? I don’t know about that. But I suppose we could be civil, at the very least.” She sat back against the couch cushions, smiled at him. “So, how have you been? Is it difficult? Being a sheikh, that is. I should imagine it could be rather suffocating, if this evening’s events are any indication.”
“I manage,” he told her, “although I have never again been able to sneak away to Paris, as I did before my father died.”
“Died? Was that why you deserted…uh…why you left Paris so abruptly? Your father died?”
“He became quite ill, and never fully recovered until his death some six months later. That much is true. But I did not desert you, Eden. I wrote, had letters hand-delivered to your hotel. Those letters you told me today you had never received.”
“And I didn’t!” Eden declared, then winced, lowered her voice. “Sorry. I wouldn’t want to see the cavalry showing up again.”
“I wrote three letters, Eden,” he continued as she wiped at her fingers, avoided his eyes. “Three. Each one explaining who I was, why I had to leave. Three letters personally placed in my chief advisor’s hand and then couriered to Paris by one of his staff. And I saw your answer when I could at last return to Paris myself. How did it go? Oh, yes. Some nonsense about it being ‘better’ this way. Was it better that way, Eden? Better that you should leave, turn your back on what we had?”
Eden continued to stare at him, her blue eyes as honest as they were beautiful. “I never saw any letters from you, Ben. I already told you that. And you believe me, don’t you? You might not have believed me this morning, but you believe me now. What did you do, Ben, turn your trusted advisor over to the thumbscrews?”
“I am considering having him smeared with honey, staked out on the desert, and nibbled to death by toothless camels, even though I am sure he believes he was acting in the best interests of Kharmistan,” Ben said fatalistically, accepting what was impossible to change, as his father had taught him. Then he smiled, sadly. “All these years, Eden. Lost to both of us.”
Eden sighed, shook her head. “Not to you, Ben. You became a sheikh, a great prince. You married. I doubt you gave me a thought until you saw my name as you looked over the oil and gas deal. Just as I put my memories of you in my past and got on with my life.”
“Dinner is now to be served, if it is your pleasure, Your Highness,” Haskim said as he entered the room.
Ben continued to stare at Eden for another long moment, watching a flush kiss her cheeks as she so obviously lied to him. “Thank you, Haskim. Will you please be so kind as to seat Miss Fortune in the dining room? I will join her shortly.”
“Ben—I mean, Your Highness?” Eden said, her voice clouded by concern. “You—you aren’t going to fire the man or anything like that? Anything worse than that? I mean, you have absolute power, don’t you? I’m sure I read that somewhere in my notes.”
Ben stood as Eden did, motioned for her to follow Haskim into the dining room. “You overreact, Eden. I have a call coming from Kharmistan precisely at seven, and it is nearing that hour now. When I have completed my conversation with my minister of water and power, I shall join you. All right?”
“But I can see how angry you are, Ben. Like that day I was nearly run down by a horse-drawn carriage as we walked through Paris. Your eyes are all dark, the way they were then, and I can see a vein pulsing at the side of your throat. Please, don’t do anything rash. What’s done is done, and I’m sure your advisor had very good reasons for disobeying you. You said that, didn’t you? That he must have had the best interests of Kharmistan in mind?”
“You are much more forgiving than I am, Eden,” Ben said, pushing his temper back under his usual tight control, trying once more to remember his father’s words. He had suspected so earlier, but it was only Eden’s honesty tonight that finally convinced him that Nadim had disobeyed his direct orders. “There will be a punishment, I assure you, but I will listen first, then act. And I must act, Eden, as any show of weakness in one’s sheikh is reason to believe in one’s own ambitions. Nadim would expect no less from me. Is that all right with you?”
Eden licked at her lips, eyed him nervously. “I— I suppose so, Ben. And you’ll join me shortly? After your phone call?”
Another servant entered the room, carrying a portable phone on a lace doily placed in the center of a silver tray. Ben picked up the phone, nodded to Eden, then turned his back to her, speaking a fast and fluent Arabic into the phone.
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