The Sheikh's Wayward Wife. Sandra MartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
says it is late,” Khalil said gruffly. He slung his arm around the old man’s shoulders and walked him through the suite to the door. “Thank you for waiting, but I can manage.”
The old man sighed, bowed so low Khalil feared he might topple over, then backed from the room.
Tradition, indeed, Khalil thought as he closed the door. Would his people ever find their way into the twenty-first century, burdened with so many useless customs? He had grown up with those customs; he had followed them, as was expected, but more than a decade of living in the West had convinced him that some things had to be changed.
He dropped the towel, pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants.
The status of servants, to begin with. The veneration of royalty. The blind rigidity of law as dictated by the sultan, the crown prince…
Or a woman’s father.
Khalil tumbled onto the bed, stacked his hands beneath his head and stared up at the coffered ceiling.
Something was wrong with the story he’d been told on the beach. Weddings practices in particular were steeped in tradition, but there’d been nothing traditional about the arrangements pertaining to this one.
When her people explained that the woman was on her way to be married, that she was the daughter of a rich merchant marrying an important chieftain, why hadn’t he thought to ask the obvious questions?
Who was she marrying? And why was she traveling with such a small bridal party?
Two women. One guard. The details didn’t add up. A wedding between people of wealth and power was an important event and surely this was such a wedding. Every possible honor would be given the bride. She’d be accompanied by at least a dozen horsemen. Easily that many female attendants. Members of her family, of her village.
And what of his father’s role? Why hadn’t he invited the wedding party to attend the elaborate dinner still going on in the ballroom?
Khalil rose from the bed, walked to the window and looked out.
The beach was deserted. There was nothing to show a woman had walked into the sea, that he had gone after her, that he had held her in his arms, felt the warmth of her body, smelled the freshness of her skin.
He might have imagined it all—but he hadn’t.
Something strange had happened tonight. He knew that. He also knew it had nothing to do with him. This was Al Ankhara, an ancient place that held mysteries even he could not always understand.
Khalil went back to the bed.
One thing was certain. The incident had revealed a basic need. A need for a woman.
He’d ended an affair almost two months ago. He had a new mistress but he’d only been with her once before he’d flown here. Surely, that was the reason, the only reason, he’d been stirred by the woman on the beach.
He was hungry, and his hunger would be assuaged as soon as he was back in New York. The woman he’d left there had beauty and sophistication. She would greet him eagerly, wearing something sexy she’d picked up at Saks or Bendel’s.
What man in his right mind would choose a fire-breathing female in a djellebah over that?
Still, when he closed his eyes, the face he saw was not that of his mistress but of the woman on the beach.
All the more reason, he thought as he drifted off to sleep, to find out what his father wanted of him, do it and return to New York as quickly as possible.
His father sent word they would breakfast together in a small courtyard centered on a fountain.
He was already there when Khalil arrived, seated at a marble-topped table set for two that was laden with platters of fruit, cheese, yogurt and freshly baked bread.
The sultan half rose; the men exchanged a quick embrace.
“Sabah ala-kheir, my son.”
“Good morning, Father.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“Please, sit down. Fill your plate. You must be hungry. You didn’t eat very much last night.”
Khalil looked up. The sultan’s expression was innocent. The comment was not. What his father meant was that he’d noticed Khalil had not stayed for the entire meal.
“Was the food not to your liking?”
Two could play at this game. “It was excellent, Father, but I was weary from my journey.”
Meaning, he had come a long distance on short notice and still had no idea why.
Father and son smiled at each other. They had not spent a lot of time together when Khalil was small—it was not the custom—but they had grown closer when Khalil reached adulthood.
“And how was that journey, my son?”
“It was fine. The skies were clear all the way.”
“And your new plane?”
“It is fine, too, Father,” Khalil said, trying to keep the edge from his voice.
“But what would truly be fine,” the sultan said, raising his bushy white eyebrows, “is discovering why I called you home.”
So much for word games. “Yes,” Khalil said bluntly, “that would be a good thing.”
Two servants hovered near a rolling cart covered with silver chafing dishes; another stood ready to pour coffee and tea. The sultan blotted his mouth with his napkin, tossed it on the table and rose to his feet.
“Walk with me, Khalil. Let me show you how beautiful my roses are this year.”
What was this? Was his father concerned about being overheard? Khalil pushed back his chair and fell in beside the older man. They set off on a path of crushed white and pink marble that wound through the palace’s fabled gardens.
When they were deep within its confines, surrounded by flowers and shrubs and far from anyone who might hear them, the sultan sat down on a wrought-iron bench. Khalil took the bench opposite his and waited.
“You were not happy that I requested your return,” the sultan said.
“I was in the midst of an important negotiation.”
His father nodded. “Still you came.”
“You are my father, and you are the leader of our people.”
The older man nodded again. “And you are my heir, Khalil. Since birth, you have known it is your duty to do what is best for your country.”
What was happening here? Khalil folded his arms. “That is a given, Father.”
There were a few seconds of silence. Then the sultan put his hands on his thighs and leaned forward.
“Last night, on the beach, you met a woman.”
Was nothing about his life here private? It was one of the things Khalil had always disliked. Everything he did was subject to scrutiny.
“And?”
“She is called Layla.”
Layla. A soft, feminine name. It suited her. The lushness of her body, the beauty of her face…but it was a direct contradiction to the fire of her temperament.
“Khalil?”
Khalil cleared his throat. “Sorry. I was… What about her?”
“She is to be married.”
“So her people told me.”
“It is an important union. Her father is Sheikh Omar al Assad.”
“Are you certain? Her people said—”