Hasan Sheikhs: The Complete Series Read online

  An hour into the tour, she realized Zayid wasn’t next to her. She turned her head to look and spotted him coming toward her at a clip, his eyes on his phone.

  “We need to move to the next exhibit if we want to stay on schedule.” He shot her a distracted grin, as if this wasn’t the most important museum visit of her life.

  “Not yet,” said Laila. “There’s more to learn about this display.” They’d stopped in front of a glass case filled with pottery implements from five hundred years before.

  “We need to continue on.” Zayid checked the time on his phone again. “I’ve allotted one more hour for the visit. I want you to see the whole museum, but that means we have to pick up the pace.” He moved to the next exhibit and gestured for Laila and the curator to follow along. When they met up again, Zayid looked up from the painting he was studying and smiled at the curator. “Please tell the sultan we could not have asked for a more enlightening visit.”

  Laila’s mind stuck on the words. Was this some official visit, meant to show the sultan that they appreciated Majadin’s art and history? Would she later discover photos had been taken of them going in and out, big smiles on their faces?

  An hour later, on the steps of the museum, Laila listened hard for the telltale click of the cameras but didn’t hear or see any photographers. She settled back into her seat in the SUV and looked out the window at the museum entrance. The pillars retreated into the distance. She wished for full day to explore the collection—a full week. But it turned out that even marrying a prince couldn’t make all her dreams come true.

  Not that she’d expected it. She shook off her sadness at having to leave the museum behind and sat up straight. “So, where are we going next?”

  13

  The helicopter soared over the mountain ridge, and soon the green oasis came into view. This time, Laila took her time scanning the area, and one thing stuck out. “Is that another helipad?”

  “Yes,” said Zayid. “We’re landing there.”

  “On a helipad in the middle of the desert?” Laila laughed, adventure singing in her veins. “Since when are there helipads in the middle of the desert?”

  “Since I had one built at my favorite oasis.”

  The helicopter descended again, and Laila’s breath caught in her throat. She’d expected to head back to the palace and sit at Zayid’s right hand at a long table full of diplomats and powerbrokers, but this—this was so far from the formal dining room and her formal gowns and small talk with people she’d never see again once this was all over.

  They got out of the helicopter, and Zayid led her down a narrow path through the trees. They came out into a green space on the edge of the desert, a stream with a miniature waterfall trickling nearby. The clearing was large enough that the circular tent in the center, all in white and strung with lights, had plenty of empty space around it. The evening air hung softly over everything, the sound of the helicopter growing more distant every second.

  Zayid led her into the tent, and Laila sucked in a breath. This was no camping tent with faulty zippers and flimsy stakes. This tent had a ten-foot ceiling, screens, and draped fabric, and the floor was laid with plush carpets in the vibrant patterns she recognized from the marketplace. A low table laden with covered dishes sat in the center of the rugs, surrounded by cushions.

  “Zayid, are you taking me on a dinner date?”

  He nodded, looking pleased with himself. “Yes. And more, if you’re so inclined. Or we could go back to the palace.”

  She took a second look around. The circular tent wasn’t the only one. Doorways hung with heavy fabric led to other tents. One of them was a bedroom with a king-sized bed in a dreamlike cloud of white pillows and blankets. “Can we really stay here?”

  “Certainly,” said Zayid.

  “Then let’s stay.” It was already too late to get back for the lesson, anyway.

  He helped her down into the cushions and took his place across from her, then lifted the coverings off one of the silver dishes lining the center of the table. Something seemed...different. Laila tried to put her finger on what it was while Zayid put portions of rice and spiced lamb and vegetables swimming in a savory sauce on her plate.

  “Are we alone?” she asked.

  “We’re completely alone.” Zayid’s eyes caught hers and held. “There are guards at a desert post a quarter mile away in case of emergency, but I thought you would appreciate a night away. Just us.”

  Laila tried to keep the heat out of her cheeks and the swoon out of her chest while they lingered over their meal. Zayid had thought of candlelight, he’d thought of her favorite chocolates from the marketplace—he’d thought of almost everything.

  “What was your favorite part of the museum today?” He murmured the question into her ear as they reclined on cushions in front of a low fire that burned in a steel firepit just outside the tent.

  Laila kept her eyes on the stars and leaned back in Zayid’s arms. “The pottery. I can’t get enough of it.”

  He took a deep breath, and the pause beat on long enough to pique her interest. “I know a few things about pottery.”

  She laughed. “Do you? I know you have quite a few pieces by the mysterious artist of Raihan in your palace, but I’ve never seen you hanging around the studio.”

  “Fine. I know one thing about pottery.”

  “What is it?” she teased.

  “I know the identity of the mystery potter.”

  The whole world ground to a halt around Laila, all the crickets singing in the trees and the babble of the stream going utterly silent. “You do?”

  Zayid stroked his fingers down her arm and tugged up the blanket. “She was my great-aunt Zein.” Of all the jewels of knowledge she’d collected at the museum, this was the largest one, scattering all the others beneath it. “She introduced me to the world of art when I was young. It’s her pottery that you can spot from a mile away—that you studied in school.”

  Laila could hardly find words. “You know all about pottery then.”

  “Not as much as you. Enough to build a studio, with a little help from Zein.”

  “But she—she was—she’s passed away?”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  There wasn’t enough air in all the desert for Laila to draw a full breath. “Then how—how did she help with the studio?”

  “All the traditional equipment used to be hers. I kept it when she died.”

  Laila let her head drop back against Zayid’s chest. “No. It can’t be.”

  “Why not?”

  She groaned. “Because now I can never use any of those tools again. Ever. They’re priceless.”

  Zayid laughed, the sound reverberating through her entire body. “If you knew her, you wouldn’t think that. She didn’t believe that anything’s priceless. She thought art should be freely enjoyed. That’s why you can’t buy any of her pieces. She let a few be displayed at museums, but otherwise they’ve been given to family members. And she would have appreciated, more than anything, that another passionate potter was using her tools rather than letting them collect dust in a palace storage room.”

  “I wish I could have met her.” Laila’s throat ached with the sudden sorrow of it. “She really wanted her name to remain a mystery?”

  She felt Zayid shrug beneath her. “It’s a bit of an open secret in Raihan. Those who know respect her wish to remain semi-anonymous. That way, her work doesn’t displace those of the up-and-coming artists in our country, just because she was a member of the royal family.”

  Laila sighed. “She sounds like she was amazing.”

  “The two of you would have gotten along splendidly. I have no doubt.” Despite the fire, a shiver moved through Laila’s body. Zayid reacted instantly. “Go inside. It gets cold in the desert at night. I’ll put out the fire and join you.”

  Laila went to stand by the table, the dishes they’d used neatly covered with their silver lids. Zayid had done it all himself when they’d finished eating. Bu
t it wasn’t the table that drew her attention now. It was the bedroom. The fluffed pillows called to her.

  Zayid announced his presence in the tent by coming up behind her and kissing the side of her neck. “We’re all alone,” he said, his voice making her breath quicken. “Is it warm enough for you?”

  “Warm enough for what, exactly?” Laila said. The heat of his breath on her neck could keep her warm through a violent snowstorm.

  “Warm enough to take all these clothes off.”

  “Hmm.” She swayed back against him, then pulled away so she could take the dress off. She did a slow turn in only her bra, catching the fire in Zayid’s eyes when he looked at her. “It’s not so bad so far.”

  He took off her bra and tugged her panties down and off. “How about now?”

  Laila pouted. “I’m not sure if I can get warm without you close by.” She scampered into the bedroom, jumping directly onto the bed and diving beneath the covers. “It’s too cold in here,” she called to Zayid.

  When he stepped into the bedroom, he was naked.

  Laila still couldn’t get over how taut his body was in the warm light of the bedroom. His abs were so defined they had shadows at the ridges. His legs strong and lean. His full lips in a determined set. She watched as he came to her, every movement a testament to how strong he was. Like he could sling all these tents over one shoulder and carry them back to the palace on foot.

  Zayid took the blankets from her, exposing her inch by tantalizing inch to the desert air. His eyes traced every path down her body, and he climbed up over her, balancing on his elbows.

  “You have scars,” he said simply, tracing one of them with a fingertip. “I’ve never asked about them.”

  She heard the question underneath his statement and closed her eyes, stretching her hands above her head. “Ask away.”

  His lips came down gently over a small scar, nearly invisible, near her temple. “How did you get this one?”

  The memory flickered back into Laila’s mind. “In college, we snuck into the cheerleaders’ training gym because they had the biggest trampoline any of us had ever seen. I went so high.” It still took her breath away, how high she’d launched into the air. “And I landed on the floor. My head connected with some equipment first.”

  “Mmm.” His breath moved down, and then he kissed a longer scar near her elbow. “And this?”

  “My dad built me a treehouse. I wanted to hang a sign, but I was too impatient to wait for him to help me. I fell out trying to hold the sign and the hammer at the same time.”

  He kissed and kissed until he reached a scar on her chin. Laila’s body was alight, aflame, under Zayid’s kisses. All the water in the world wasn’t enough to put this desire out. “This?”

  “I won a bike race against the fastest boy in the neighborhood.”

  “And you got a scar from it?”

  “I got the scar during the victory lap, when a car rolled through a stop sign.” Zayid sucked in a breath. “It could have been a lot worse.”

  He turned her over, starting again at her neck and working down to her shoulder. “What about this one?”

  “A sledding dare.”

  Zayid groaned softly. “I don’t want to know the full details.” And then he planted another trail of kisses down her spine and over the curve of her bottom and around to her left hip. “This is the last one I see.”

  Her muscles trembled underneath his touch, and her hips pressed against the white sheet. All those kisses had made her ache for him. Scar on her hip. Scar on her hip…

  “Bike accident,” she said finally. “Same accident.”

  “Look at you.” Zayid stroked down her spine and went lower, dipping his fingers between her legs. “You like to be kissed, I see.”

  “Who wouldn’t? How—” His fingers worked between her legs, teasing at her entrance and then pushing in. She spread wider for him. “How could anybody resist you?”

  Her own resistance was crumbling into dust, less than nothing. The words she’d meant to say to him all night—I wish you’d have consulted me about this trip—fell away as Zayid turned her over again, his mouth meeting hers. The night dropped over them, alone in the desert, and Laila arched into his kiss instead.

  14

  Back at the palace a few days later, Laila flipped through the papers on the desk in Zayid’s guest room. She’d been using it as a catchall for any ideas she had when she wasn’t in the pottery studio. Where was that sketch? She turned over another sheet of paper, unearthing a small calendar.

  It was a palm-sized thing, and Laila’s mind caught on something as she picked it up. She’d carried it in her pocket every day during her trip to Raihan. It had little notes of everything important she had planned in case she lost her phone. She flipped through it from the front to the back.

  A tiny star in black ink stopped her on the page from six weeks ago.

  Her last period.

  Laila’s heart sped up, her breath coming fast, and she did the math. No matter how she lined up the numbers, the weeks didn’t add up. She’d missed a period. By a lot.

  She turned away from the desk, pressing a hand to her forehead. If she were anywhere else, she’d just walk down to the nearest convenience store and buy a test. But she couldn’t do that now, could she? Not in a million years. Not in Raihan, and not when she was married to the crown prince.

  Laila found Maha in the sitting area, writing something on a sheet inside the ever-present folio. “Maha,” she said. And then words failed.

  “What is it?” Maha narrowed her eyes. “You’re staring. Is something wrong?”

  She had to ask someone for help. There was no other way to confirm her pregnancy. “I—I think I might be pregnant.”

  Maha gasped, leaping from the couch, her eyes wide. She rushed to Laila’s side. “Pregnant. Pregnant.” Maha took a breath that looked like it was meant to steady her, but she couldn’t keep a grin from her face. “Congratulations, Your Highness.”

  Laila wanted to tell her no, no, this was no time for congratulations, but the truth was that she was excited, too. “I need a test. Or several. And I didn’t know who else to ask.”

  “Stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Maha covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes shining. “I’ll be right back.”

  Laila sat down heavily on the sofa, head spinning. Zayid had never put having a child on the table, and neither had she. The arrangement only covered a limited-time marriage. Surely Zayid wouldn’t think she’d done this on purpose so that she could trap him. Would he? He was the one who’d never used a condom. He wouldn’t be unreasonable. Perhaps he was a bit of a hard man, but they could co-parent. It wouldn’t be so bad. It wouldn’t.

  Four pregnancy tests later—all of them positive—and she wasn’t so sure. She and Maha looked down at the neat row of tests.

  “No doubt,” said Maha softly, then looked at Laila. “Are you going to go to the crown prince now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll let his people know you’re coming. I won’t give a reason.”

  “Thank you.”

  Laila walked woodenly down the halls to Zayid’s office, face buzzing with anticipation and dread and everything between. She arrived at his door too soon. He looked up from his desk, and Laila’s heart felt like it might burst out of her chest. She shut the door.

  “Zayid, I have some news,” she heard herself say. “I’m pregnant.”

  He stared at her, motionless. After an eternity he blinked. Laila felt her insides crumple. She hadn’t expected a fist pump, but nothing? She almost wished he’d been angry. She wished for any emotion.

  He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. “I’ll need to work on revising my succession plans,” he said finally, looking at Laila but not seeming to see her. “We’ll have to discuss which of our political allies would make the best godparents. And we’ll need to let my parents know before word gets out.”

  The sting in her chest felt like a he
art attack. He really didn’t care about anything but Raihan, did he? She was only a convenient distraction while they lived together. And now a political inconvenience. How are you feeling? She cast the thought at him. Ask how I’m feeling.

  But Zayid didn’t.

  It was worse, she realized with a pang, than her parents’ smothering worry. Their helicopter parenting had only spurred her need for adventure, and they’d never understood. But this...distance? This indifference? It hurt her a thousand times more. And it would never change. Zayid would always be this kind of man, and Laila would always be expected to keep out of sight and out of mind. She would only be allowed to emerge when he called her. And their child—he’d demand their child’s dutiful attendance upon command, too.

  Laila cleared her throat, steel climbing up her backbone. “Yes, of course,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. “You should know—I still intend to separate after your brother is married. A pregnancy doesn’t change that for me. This life—this life isn’t for me. I wouldn’t make a successful queen, and you probably won’t have much time for a child in your schedule.” She put on a smile that she didn’t believe. “It’ll be simpler just to co-parent.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Zayid wore an unreadable expression. “Royal babies must be born in wedlock. We’ll have to extend our marriage to cover that time period. It’s the same law that’s requiring my brother to marry in the first place.”

  “Sure, then.” God, he was so clinical and robotic about this—why? Why did he have to be this way? How could he be so stoic, so flat, in the face of being told he was about to be a father? “I guess the timing isn’t as important as the fact that we’ll be getting divorced. Your schedule simply won’t accommodate a child, so I don’t expect you to play a hands-on role in this situation.”

  Laila saw the first sign of fight in Zayid’s eyes, as if he was snapping back into reality. “I will be in the child’s life.”