Zahkim Sheikhs Series: The Complete Series Read online

"I'll see if I can get a decent photo without a flash." They chatted a little bit longer about the weather back home, and her dad asked her if she'd been out sightseeing. She didn't dare mention the Forum—that was a loaded memory. So she talked about the souk.

  "Get out and meet the people, Chris. The world's not all books."

  "Ha, coming from the man who prefers an evening in his own library to anything else," she told him. He still managed to extract a promise that she'd at least make sure to sample more of the local foods and customs.

  And how do I do that without Arif trying another seduction—and me falling for it?

  Chapter Eight

  Arif knew himself to be terrible at waiting. He paced the floor outside the archive, thought of going in with an excuse of needing to look up something. However, his duties required a computer to research modern educational structures and funding approaches more often than dusty, old books, and he had sped through his meetings and responsibilities as fast as possible today. He also could think of no real reason to be in the archives other than to pounce on Christine. But this was her sanctuary—he understood that much.

  Sweeping back the ends of his keffiyeh, he paced across the hall again.

  He had taken special care with his dress, donning a black suit and tie, a white silk shirt, black shoes and socks, and a keffiyeh. He wanted to show Christine how well the Western world blended with the Middle East in Zahkim. He was also hoping that a few days away from his side had made her miss him a little bit—Nasim had sworn that neglect was the best way to interest a woman. Arif had some doubts about that—and even more about Nasim's other advice.

  "Best thing with a virgin, get the first time over and done. Then you can focus on pleasure." That sounded backwards to Arif, but Nasim just laughed and told him, "Women want a bloke who's a bit of a caveman. They're not looking for a bloody needy fellow."

  Hands behind his back and pacing across the hall once again, Arif could not see his Christine being the least bit happy with any such approach. He'd texted Tarek for confirmation of Nasim’s advice, but Tarek had simply texted back—Find out what she wants.

  What did that mean? He knew she did not care for shopping; she had told him that. And she'd loved the ruins. But that had nothing to do with marrying him. Was he supposed to ask what food she liked or her favorite color? Those seemed…insubstantial. Which left him with his current idea.

  He'd modified Nasim's instructions somewhat. He would be insistent, but he also had an idea how to figure out what Christine wanted at her wedding.

  But where was she?

  Glancing at his watch, he saw five minutes had passed since the last time he had looked. Sahl should have closed the archive fifteen minutes ago. He was about to give up and go in after her when the sandalwood door opened. Christine stepped out. She looked adorable with her hair curling and mussed, her jeans tight around her hips, and a white, oversized button-down shirt doing very little to hide her curves. Even though she spent most of her days in the archives, Zahkim's sunshine had put some color in her cheeks.

  Arif put on his best smile.

  Eyes wide, she blinked at him. "Uh…oh." She closed the door behind her and clutched her tablet computer to her chest. "Hi."

  He swept her a bow. "I came to offer an apology."

  "That's not—"

  "I insist. You were right—my jealousy was uncalled for. I was just…taken aback. Of course you have had men falling at your feet."

  She winced. "Well, they didn't exactly fall."

  "A woman with your beauty and intelligence and grace—"

  "Okay, now you're laying it on a bit thick."

  He spread his hands wide. "I am telling you the truth. And I have a surprise for you."

  Frowning, she clutched her tablet even tighter. "I think I'll just head up to my room, if you don't mind."

  Arif tried for a hurt look—he hoped his sad eyes would stir her sympathy. "Are you only interested in Zahkim's past? What about the people? Our culture? Do you come only to rob us of the history we've accumulated?"

  Reaching up, Christine smoothed her hair, but it sprang right back into curls. "Rob is kind of a strong word."

  "Ah, then you'll come with me? For this surprise? You enjoyed the ruins—this will be just as good. But with far more vibrant life." Her eyes brightened, and he knew he had caught her interest. He put his hand over his heart. "I vow to do nothing that you do not ask for first."

  "My asking is what has me worried," she muttered. Pushing out a breath, she straightened and asked, "Do I have time to shower and change?"

  "There is no need. You look delicious as always."

  She smoothed her hair again. "Seriously?" Her stare swept over him. "You look a little formal. Maybe just a quick freshen up. And I'll put on a dress."

  Arif bowed again. "As you wish." He made a mental note—she liked showers better than baths. And she owned a dress. It was a start to figuring out his Christine.

  Twenty minutes later, Christine walked carefully down the palace stairs; she wasn't used to heels. She'd showered, slapped on minimal makeup—foundation with sunscreen in it and a swipe of lipstick with moisturizer—and slipped on a long sleeve dress. It was a favorite. High necked, floor length, but with enough skirt around the hem that she could walk, the navy jersey flowed around her. It was her go-to for university functions, and she'd swept her curls up and away from her face, plastering them in place with hair gel. She was ready to face Arif—and keep him at a distance. But the ring glittering on her finger seemed to mock that idea.

  She'd tried slipping it off a couple of times, but it had stuck over her knuckle. She didn't want to damage it, and she'd try with some soap or oil later. For now, it looked great with the dress—very dramatic.

  Once she stepped outside the palace's thick walls, however, she almost regretted the long sleeves and hem. Heat seemed to close around her, even though the sun had set and twilight lingered in the sky. Overhead, stars had begun to pop, bright and shimmering. The world smelled of the dry desert and car exhaust from the black limo waiting for her, door open.

  Arif waited for her, his hips propped on the side of the car. He looked sinfully good, and Christine made a mental note not to think about how his arms had felt around her. He pushed off the car and gestured to the limo's dark interior. "This will be more comfortable than my car."

  And it was. The second she stepped in, air conditioning washed over her, cool and soothing. Music—something local she suspected, given its non-Western drum rhythm—played softly. Maybe it was one of Tess's new productions.

  Arif swept into the limo like a force of nature. The thing was huge, but his personality dominated the interior. She tried to focus on the soft seats, the tan leather trim, the miles of leg room, and the minibar built into the back of the front seat. A window separated them from the driver. But she kept glancing at Arif, kept noticing just how wide his shoulders were, how the light hit his face to reveal new angles, how the hollow of his throat looked with a small nick where he'd tidied his beard.

  Stop it.

  Arif shut the door, and the car moved down the drive with a low purr and not so much as a bump. Okay, she could get used to this. Her compact back home was great on gas mileage, but not much on comfort.

  Keeping his promise, Arif also kept his distance from her. It was almost maddening to be so close, with his scent teasing her and those long elegant fingers gesturing but not touching. He offered her sparkling water in a cut-crystal glass, asked about her day, how her research was going. She didn't think he could be all that interested, but he listened with his body angled toward her, his eyes serious and attentive, and she found herself starting to talk about the latest discovery of a manuscript with the writing in Greek, Coptic, and early Egyptian hieroglyphs.

  "It's unusual, and I'm struggling a little with the translations. I can't tell yet if the Greek is a translation or just comments on the hieroglyphs."

  He lounged against the leather seats and crossed his legs
, which almost touched hers. "If you need resources, let me know. I maintain my ties to Oxford, and I am supposed to be the Protector of Knowledge. What good is protecting it, if that knowledge is not shared? That is Sahl's problem. His idea is to never allow anyone to touch anything to keep it safe. If he'd ever had a child, he would have put the poor thing under glass."

  "No wonder the place isn't properly cataloged and organized."

  Arif nodded. "I've begged Tarek to retire the man, but Sahl served Tarek's father, and his father before that. Shiekha Amal—Tarek's grandmother—would be angry to see the man let go from his position, and Sahl might well just die without his work, and so Tarek cannot bring himself to do what ought to have been done years ago."

  "Have you considered bringing in an assistant? Those documents really need to be digitized, and while it's dry here, there's the issue of preservation."

  "Oh, the rooms are now climate controlled. Tarek saw to that at least."

  "You sound fond of your cousin."

  With a smile, Arif launched into stories of how he and his cousins had grown up in the palace and then been sent off to school together. "I was the serious one," Arif admitted.

  She found herself laughing at some of their exploits—the time they'd swapped their professor's lecture notes with a Monty Python sketch to see if the old guy was paying attention, and he hadn't noticed until halfway through, or the time they'd gotten themselves utterly lost in the desert on a dare from Nasim.

  "We are city boys at heart, I fear," Arif admitted. He shook his head, and Christine caught herself reaching for his hand to pat it. She pulled back and glanced out the window instead, seeing only the lights of the city behind them and the darkness of the desert in front. A half-moon hung high in the sky.

  Looking back at Arif, she asked, "Just where are we going?"

  "We are here." He drank the last of his water, put the crystal glass down, and waved at the huge tents spread around a torch-lit oasis.

  Christine leaned forward. The limo pulled to a stop, Arif got out and offered his hand. She had to take it, and for a moment she clung to him, wobbling on her heels on the uneven ground. His arm went around her waist. Her heart skipped a beat, but he let go and offered his arm. Just like a gentleman. This kind of thing was going to drive her crazy.

  His spice had mixed with that coming from the tents. A shrill ululation split the air. Several drums were beating, and the smell of roast meat reminded Christine she'd skipped lunch and hadn't had dinner yet. Her mouth started to water.

  Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, she turned her attention to the oasis.

  A half-dozen black tents flapped in a slight breeze. Almost everyone seemed to be in traditional garb, men and women. She glimpsed an occasional suit or dress, and she was glad she'd changed and had gone for something covering and dressy. The desert air had cooled, and now she was almost comfortable. Except for the heels.

  Two steps and she was sinking in the sand and wobbling again. Arif glanced down at her. He turned to the nearest man and said something far too rapid in Arabic for her to follow. A moment later, a woman in black robes and headscarf appeared with soft, black boots, which she offered to Christine.

  Christine hesitated only a moment. "Shokran…shokran jazeelan. Thank you. Thanks very much." The woman giggled, and Christine hoped it wasn't because of her accented Arabic. She'd never really used it much before this trip. She swapped her heels for the boots and handed the shoes back to the woman.

  The woman glanced at Arif. "Hal beleemkan?"

  Fighting not to roll her eyes, Christine said, "Tab’an! Sure—it's a fair trade."

  Eyes dancing, the woman took the shoes. They disappeared under the black robes. With a bow, the woman rejoined the others nearer the tents. Christine wiggled her toes in the boots—they were a touch large—and glanced over at Arif. He was smiling at her, eyebrows lifted.

  Christine lifted her chin. "Well, she didn't have to ask you if it was okay. They were my shoes to give away."

  "But of course. And now, let us join the wedding guests."

  She stopped where she was and slipped her hand from Arif's arm. "Wedding? Are you trying to marry me here and now?"

  He grinned. "You haven't moved the ring on your finger—so, no. Wafa is the daughter of Abd Al-Wali, who is my third cousin on my father's side, and therefore related to the royal family. I must attend, since there is a family tie and Tarek cannot, but she marries into the Bedouin who travel through Zahkim as they roam the desert. This is to be an utterly traditional wedding. You will see customs that date back thousands of years."

  Christine's eyes brightened, and a smile lit her face. It was like watching the day dawn. Arif caught a breath. He also caught her hand. She did not pull away from him, so he led her into the nomad's camp. She seemed to want to see everything, and she asked a thousand questions. He did not mind. And he watched only her.

  He did not bother to explain that the wedding had been going on for two days already. He did, however, tell her about the traditions unique to the nomads of Zahkim. In Zahkim, men and women did not celebrate in separate tents. The wedding was held under the stars, not inside the main tent, where goat and camel meat, lentil stew, sweet cakes, and tea had been set out.

  The drumming stopped, and the bride stepped out of her tent, her robes and the arga covering her lower face lavishly decorated with golden coins that glittered and clattered as she moved, her eyes bright and rimmed with kohl. Christine caught a breath when the bride lifted her hand, revealing the red henna tattoos on her hands in far more intricate patterns than Tess had gone for at her wedding.

  "Those are amazing," Christine whispered, leaning closer to Arif.

  He made a mental note that his Christine must have the most beautiful designs put on her skin at her laylat al henna party. Leaning closer to her, he caught a whiff of her scent, and his pulse quickened.

  Putting a hand over hers, he said, "They have no meaning; they are for beauty only."

  The ceremony was simple and short, and afterwards the feast started—and the nomads of Zahkim knew how to party. Christine was pulled into a dance with the women. Tradition held that a women should only dance in front of other women if veiled, and so one of the other women handed her a black veil so she could join in. Guests threw candies into the air, and jokes circulated about how poor Maali had his hands full with a bride who would rule his house. The party moved into the tent to partake of the feast, and the drumming started up again, along with songs and more dancing.

  The festivities were still going on when Arif noticed Christine's shoulders starting to sag. He rose, offered his congratulations to the two families, along with a handsome bride gift of money, and then made their farewells. He led Christine back to the limo with a hand at the small of her back.

  Once inside the car, Christine settled back with a sigh. "That was amazing. But the bride and groom…they seemed so young."

  "Not much younger than we are. And very much in love. Maali has been engaged to Wafa for two years—they met in college, actually. It is custom in Zahkim to marry for love. We don't have arranged marriages, generally."

  "Really?" The questions started again. Why was the wedding held under the stars? Was the food prepared by the groom’s or bride's family? Was there a dowry or bride contract made? She seemed made of questions.

  Arif answered as best he could. He'd never given a thought to most of these things. They arrived back at the palace, and he helped Christine from the limo. She stood on the steps, her hand in his and smiled.

  "Thank you. That was wonderful. But what a lot of fuss. I think eloping is a heck of a lot easier."

  Arif frowned. Did his bride to be wish him to simply run away with her? That would not go over well within the royal family. But if that was what she wanted… No, he could not do it. They needed a proper wedding to be properly married. For now, however, he was not content to let this night end.

  Keeping hold of her hand, he said, "There is one more thi
ng you must see." He led Christine into the palace, down the hallway, and up the old narrow stone stairs. She came with him, for once not hanging back or making excuses to leave. Her boots made no sound on the marble, and his shoes only tapped lightly. The stairway curved and finally opened out at the top of the eastern turret. Arif turned to Christine and swept out a hand. "Behold, Zahkim and all of Al Resab is at your feet."

  She dropped his hand and walked to the turret's stone balustrade. "Wow—now that's a view."

  The city lights of Al Resab glittered in the distance, almost as bright as the stars that swept a path of light overhead. Perfumed scents from the garden in the middle of the palace drifted up to them. The breeze had died, and the night seemed utterly still, as if the darkness wanted to close around them and shield them.

  Coming to her side, Arif stopped next to her. Close enough to smell her scent—something faintly sweet—close enough to feel the warmth from her body, close enough to hear the breath catch in her throat. He put his hand over hers and leaned down to whisper in her ear, "Come into my arms, Christine. Here. Now. With only the moon and stars to see us. I want you so badly, my body aches for the need of you."

  Chapter Nine

  Christine turned to him. This wasn't smart. She knew that. She also knew what she was doing when she put a hand on his chest and felt his heart jump. The pulse thudded slow and heavy in her neck. She should say no. She should be polite and wise and get back to her research.

  But she was suddenly envious of the beautiful Wafa, who'd had such an amazing wedding. Wafa was living her own fairy tale from the Arabian Nights, and Christine had to admit a stab of jealousy had swept through when she'd seen Wafa, seated on silken pillows, looking adoringly into the eyes of her new husband. That was never going to be her fate—she knew that. She was too practical, too wrapped up in trying to help her father, and then she'd have to face the daunting task of establishing her own career—or she'd end up teaching at some small university and barely scraping by. And yet here was Arif offering her one magical night.