The afternoon light was low, the sun beginning to drop behind the hills. As Nikki bathed Samira’s forehead she wondered what Zakir was doing, how his talks were going.
The image of Gelu’s cold eyes snaked back into her mind, and she shivered slightly. How was she going to get out of this?
A shadow darkened the entrance of the small adobe hut. Nikki stilled, her hand resting on Samira’s hot forehead. She sensed it was Zakir. Guilt reared up inside her, and her pulse began to race.
Slowly she glanced up.
He filled the doorway, a dark silhouette in a black tunic and riding boots, scimitar at his hip, the bejeweled hilt of the jambiya sheathed at his waist catching the fading light.
Her heart began to thud.
“It’s okay,” she whispered softly to Samira. “It’s the king. He’s here to help us.”
Nikki bought a few moments to compose herself by carefully squeezing out the cloth, saving the precious water droplets in a clay bowl. She stood, wiped her hands on her skirts and approached him. His stillness was unsettling.
He’d resumed his regal stance. Gone was the man she’d glimpsed alone in the mountains.
Zakir stepped back and out the door as Nikki came near, and she followed him into the sunlight. She looked up at his face and was startled by the intensity in his gaze. And again, studying him closely, she saw that the pupil in his left eye was not reacting to the rays of the sun setting behind the peaks.
“I wanted to thank you for being my envoy, Nikki. I misread you. The Berber shepherd has told me how you saved him and brought him back to the village.”
Nikki heard admiration in his voice. Emotion punched so powerfully through her that she had to tighten her jaw, her fists, to hold it all in. “Thank you, Zakir,” she whispered.
For respecting me. For admiring me.
She’d felt like a pariah for so long, been so filled with self-loathing over the way she’d handled her grief, that to earn this man’s respect was almost overwhelming.
“You didn’t expect this?”
She shook her head, laughed—an exhalation of relief. Then she inhaled shakily, pressing her hand against her sternum. “You keep surprising me. I guess I misjudged you, too.”
“Is that young girl in the hut the one who is pregnant?”
Nikki nodded. “Samira.”
“How is she?”
“Not good, I’m afraid. The baby is not due for another eight weeks, but Samira’s been having contractions, bleeding. She’s very dehydrated, and she has a fever. The baby is also in transverse lie—”
“Which means?”
“The fetus is lying sideways in the uterus. Sometimes you can get it to change position before labor starts by doing what is called an external version where you manually try and shift the baby.”
“And if you can’t?”
Nikki wiped her brow with the back of her sleeve, suddenly feeling exhausted. “Then it could become stuck during labor, and without surgical intervention the mother will die. If I can’t turn the baby soon, Zakir, Samira will need to be in a hospital before she enters labor. And I’m worried about the contractions she is having now. Premature labor could be induced by a long journey to Tenerife. She really shouldn’t travel.” She sighed. “I’m not sure what to do.”
Apart from performing an emergency C-section in primitive medical conditions. Nikki prayed it wouldn’t come to that.
Zakir’s eyes narrowed as he studied her, and something shifted in his dark, rugged features. Nikki thought again about how she’d felt under his body with his mouth a breath away from hers, the way she had stirred to life deep inside.
She flushed, swallowed. “I…I should get back to her.”
He gave a curt nod, as if irritated with himself. Then he wavered, as if not wanting to let her go yet. “How are the other children?” he said, voice crisp.
“Much better. The hydrolytes helped with dehydration and the antibiotics with the stomach infections. They’ll get strong again with…” Tears overwhelmed her as she spoke, and she angrily swiped them away with the base of her thumb. “Sorry. I’m tired, Zakir. I’m just so relieved to be with them again, to have brought them this far.”
He placed his hand on her shoulder. Heavy. Warm. Such a calming strength transferring from his touch through her body. It was a gesture as potent as it was subtle, a message of affection, kinship, a sign that she should not feel so alone.
“And your wound—it’s okay?”
She nodded. “I’m fine.”
“Go,” he said softly, rich, low. Authoritative. “Tend to your children. I will be meeting with the clan sheik and his tribal council later tonight. Other chiefs are coming from villages in the surrounding mountains. This has been made possible through your diplomacy, Nikki. I thank you for this. I will come and see the other children later—tonight.” Almost reflexively, he gently, very briefly cupped the side of her face.
Heat rippled through Nikki, pooling low in her belly.
Then he was gone, striding away, his long gait eating up the distance to the main huts of the clan council.
She swallowed, composing herself before ducking back into the dark cool of the hut.
“Was that really the king?” Samira whispered in French.
“Yes, it was.” Nikki placed the damp cloth on Samira’s forehead, her heart squeezing at the smile crossing the child’s thin face, the sudden glimmer of light in her huge dark eyes.
“We will be all right, then, Miss Nikki, with a king’s help.”
I hope so.
“Yes, we will—I know it in my heart, Samira,” she lied. “And you must believe it, too. You and your baby will be just fine.” As she spoke, memories of her own toddlers sifted into her mind. Pain stabbed through Nikki, her eyes growing moist again.
She clenched her teeth. Nikki needed to do this—she had to save Samira and her unborn baby. It might give some reason to why her own two precious little souls were stolen from her.
“He’s very handsome,” whispered Samira.
A breath of laughter burst through Nikki’s tears, and she wiped her eyes. “You think so? How could you even see his face in this light?”
“I saw. I saw that he likes you.”
Nikki stilled.
Her pulse quickened, along with something else, a little trill through her stomach. But she said nothing. Because she knew Samira was right—and it frightened her.
Later that night Nikki crept quietly up to a hut and pressed herself against the clay wall still warm from the sun. From this vantage point she could remain hidden while she tried to catch snatches of the tribal council debate around a fire that had been lit at the center of the village. The flames crackled, shooting hot orange sparks into the cool, dark sky.
Headmen from neighboring clans had traveled to join the Rahm sheik’s council, and he and his men were passing a hookah around the fire as they listened to Zakir. The rich scent of tobacco reached Nikki as a young male attendant placed fresh charcoal in the clay water pipe.
The discourse was growing animated. Suddenly, Zakir leaned forward, his eyes locking with those of the clan sheik.
The men fell silent. Nikki tensed.
Even sitting on the ground, Zakir exuded a larger-than-life commanding presence. Tonight he wore his flowing black cloak against the mountain chill, and his hair fell loose and shiny to his shoulders. The flames caught the angles of his regal features, and his black eyes flashed as they reflected firelight—eyes that were failing him. Nikki’s heart compressed involuntarily at the thought.
Blindness was going to be a real challenge for a man who liked to control everything.
Zakir broke the tension around the fire with an abrupt movement of his arm as he uttered something to the sheik, his voice resonating with the bass and guttural tones of the rough Rahm dialect. The sound rippled over Nikki’s skin, warming her stomach. She could not take her eyes off him. She was mesmerized by this fireside vignette of what was possibly a historic political discussion.
The Berber sheik replied, his tone low, earnest, and the rest of the men leaned forward in interest. Zakir spoke again, saying something about representation at key government levels, and heads nodded in agreement. Nikki noticed that every now and then, almost as if subconsciously, Zakir’s hand went to rest on the head of Ghorab who was lying with the two female salukis—Khaya and Tala—in the sand at his side. She leaned against the wall and just watched him for a while, enjoying the residual warmth from the clay spreading through her body.
Enjoying the look of him.
It was a guilty pleasure she hadn’t allowed herself in years, just appraising a good-looking male. It also made her uncomfortable, reminding Nikki of who she used to be and of all the things she used to want—family, children of her own. The love of a good man.
But even as she was being inexorably pulled toward the king, attracted by his shimmering power and charisma, she feared his control over her emotions, her body. Because deep down, these were the same reasons she’d fallen for Sam.
Nikki had been a powerful and influential professional in her own right—an accomplished and feted surgeon who’d been drawn toward the intoxicating sensuality of a powerful, good-looking and sharply intelligent man. Sam had represented a challenge to her, and a promise of something incredible—in bed and in life. And look what had happened.
Sam had tired of her, started having affairs…
Against her will, memories whispered again, the desert night enveloping her with cold images of that tragic, snowy Christmas Eve. Nikki glanced up at the cliff silhouetted against the light of a pale moon. And she told herself she really had nothing to fear. Her children were healing, and Zakir had infused her with hope that they’d all make it to the Canary Islands soon.
Once she was away from him she could forget her past self again. She could stop the ugly memories of Sam again, stop worrying about her fraudulent identity being exposed.
Nikki started as she felt a warm little hand slipping into hers. She glanced down and smiled as Solomon’s eager eyes peered up at hers, glistening pools in the darkness. “Can you please sing us the bedtime story, Miss Nikki?”
She crouched down. “Of course, Solomon, I’ll be right there. You go on ahead.” She ruffled his head of tight dark curls. “Make sure the others are all lying down on their sleeping mats, okay?”
He ran off into the darkness. An owl hooted softly, and Nikki glanced once more at Zakir holding court. The king barked something angrily in Arabic, stabbing his jambiya forcibly into sand as he launched to his feet. She strained to hear, but the rough dialect eluded her. He stood, looming above the men, arms akimbo, his dark cloak lifting in the breeze, the bejeweled hilt of the scimitar at his hips catching firelight.
Dead silence descended over the men.
And then they suddenly broke out into knee-slapping laughter. Ghorab got up and yipped, followed by the excited barking of the two female salukis.
Relief rippled through Nikki.
For a moment she’d thought negotiations had turned sour. She had no idea what Zakir’s joke was, but she found herself smiling as she turned and made her way to the orphan’s hut. After all that the children had endured she was pleased to have been able to expose them to a community where jokes and laughter were a part of life, where the notions of family, respect and honor were sacrosanct.
Whatever diplomatic wizardry Sheik Zakir Al Arif was busy weaving around those orange flames in the velvet desert night, Nikki knew instinctively it would be for the better—for both the Berber clans and Al Na’Jar.
Darkness was complete, the fire dying to red embers in the diplomatic circle. Above, in the inky vault of sky, stars were flung as if by supernatural hand. The wind had died, and all was still.
But tonight Zakir’s sight was not good, and he could not visually appreciate the beauty of a Sahara night sky.
Anger stung him. He hated from the depths of his heart that he could not win the war against this one physical weakness in himself.
A soft and magical sound rose into the air, distracting Zakir from his emotions. Singing—a woman’s voice, gentle, lyrical—came from the orphans’ adobe hut, where a candle glowed through a narrow window. Zakir reached for Ghorab’s collar and coaxed his dogs toward the blurry gold flickering in the dark.
As he neared, he realized with a surprising surge of pleasure that the voice was Nikki’s and that she was singing a story in French.
Zakir walked quietly toward the hut, not wanting to make any sound that might telegraph his presence, simply hungry to listen to her voice. A jackal yipped somewhere in the hills as it hunted, and Zakir abruptly silenced his dogs, signaling them to lie at his boots. He leaned his shoulder against the mud wall and listened for a while, his pleasure deepening as he realized that he recognized the words of her story.
It was an ancient desert fable from his own youth, one his mother, Nahla, used to sing to Zakir and his siblings. His mother had told them the story had been passed down from nomadic Bedouins who used to sing it to their children while they traveled from the Western Sahara all the way to the Caspian Sea.
Bewitched by the threads of story and song, the king was inexorably pulled back to memories of the boy he once was.
The exact words of the tale varied across the Sahara, but essentially the story was the same—about a princess stolen by warriors and sold into slavery. She was bought at a North African market by emissaries of a strange and mysterious man who some said was a chimera who shifted between king and animal.
The princess was taken to this man’s desert castle, and while she never actually got to see him since he moved about his palace only by night, she was taught by staff to fear him. The orphan princess was also taught the dance of the veils.
“And then—” Nikki’s voice switched from song into a soft whisper “—when she was old enough, one night the princess was summoned to dance before this mysterious king. And she danced and danced, swirling in her veils, and then the king said to the slave girl, ‘Now you must sing for me.’ And the slave girl did.” Nikki’s own voice rose in song, and Zakir felt in himself a rush of anticipation and warmth as he recalled his mother’s voice singing these same words in Arabic while he, Da’ud, Tariq and Omair sat listening rapt at her feet, and tiny Dalilah, who was just an infant at the time, slept in his mother’s arms.
Transported, Zakir inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, allowing his other senses to absorb this moment. Nikki’s voice wrapped around him like soft velvet, bringing even more memories of family, comfort, a time when everything was right in his young world.
And in his heart Zakir suddenly yearned to return to that place of family and togetherness. He longed to feel inside himself the pure love that he’d glimpsed in his father’s eyes as the then king had looked upon his mother.
Nikki reached a verse where the children’s voices joined hers, a little orphan choir rising in song, high in the barren hills of a desert night—children of violence, singing with such innocence and purity and beauty that it could make a man weep.
This surely was the essence of life, of the future. Especially for a country like his. And Zakir realized suddenly that this childlike purity that could still be coaxed from these abused war orphans was the very thing that Nikki sought so desperately to save.
Compelled, hungry for something he could not even begin to articulate, Zakir reached forward and carefully edged aside the curtain that hung over the door. He peered inside, eyes trying to adjust to candlelight.
Nikki’s face was turned away from him. He could see the blur of her profile, skin like porcelain. She wore no scarf, and her golden hair fell across her face in a cascade of loose curls. She looked like an angel.
Around her feet, on seven reed mats on the dirt floor, were the children. Each pair of dark eyes was turned toward Nikki, their voices earnest as they sang the fairy-tale words of Zakir’s youth.
The eldest child, Samira, caught his movement at the door. She glanced up and abruptly stopped singing. Like an electric current rippling through the other kids, they all fell instantly silent and spun to face him.
Zakir sensed their fear.
He cleared his throat, stepped inside the room. “I apologize,” he said in Arabic, then French. “Je suis desolé. I wanted to listen, but not to disturb.”
Nikki lurched to her feet, hand shooting to chest in surprise. “Zakir!” She hurriedly groped for her scarf to cover her hair. But he stepped forward and stayed her with his hand on her arm. “Please, don’t.”
She hesitated.
“I don’t want you to hide yourself from me anymore,” he whispered against her ear. Then loudly he said, “I just wanted to hear the story.” He smiled and turned to the orphans, holding his hands out at his sides, palms up. “So, you must be the famous children who crossed the burning sands of the Sahara!”
A little boy bobbed his head and excitedly got up on to spindly brown legs. He bowed deep. “I am Solomon, your Royal Highness.”
Zakir laughed with deep pleasure, and he crouched down, balancing on the balls of his feet as he peered into the young boy’s dark eyes. “I know. And I am Sheik Zakir Al Arif, the King of Al Na’Jar. Can you introduce me to everyone else, Solomon?”
Pride swelled the little boy’s chest.
Nikki’s eyes glistened as she watched him, and for some damned reason Zakir wanted to do her proud, to not disappoint her. He wanted to see that glow of admiration in her eyes again. He wanted to ease the tension that seemed to permanently knot her shoulders.
“This is Philippe, Mahmoud, Lorita, Koffi and this is Lina—” Dusky faces broke into smiles as the children launched to their feet in turn and bowed in front of Zakir.
“And this is Samira,” declared Solomon. “She’s going to have a baby!”
Zakir’s heart torqued with sudden ferocity as Samira, a mere child herself, lowered her dark head in reverence, her silken hair spilling forward. She had Arabic blood, like him, but with much browner skin—a child of mixed race and culture, born of violence, and carrying another conceived in violence. A cycle that never ended.
A cycle Nikki was fighting to stop.
Zakir shot a fierce a glance at Nikki, suddenly understanding the steel he’d glimpsed in her eyes. He now knew how she’d managed to walk up that deserted boulevard toward his tanks and guns. He understood the way in which she’d confronted him in his reception room.
He exhaled slowly, a little overwhelmed with the sudden rawness of affection he felt for her, and he turned to her children. “Did you all have enough dinner tonight?”
They nodded quietly.
Nikki picked up the candle, cupping her hand around the flickering light as she moved toward the door. “Time for sleep, mes enfants,” she said fondly. “I will be back soon. I’m just going outside to talk with the king.”
She carried the candle to the door and blew it out before exiting. In the sudden darkness, Zakir had to reach for the wall. He felt his way to the entrance and held back the reed mat for Nikki.
He knew she was watching.
They stepped outside, and Zakir clicked his fingers softly, his hounds surging to his side. He hooked his fingers into Ghorab’s collar as they walked into the night. “How are they doing, Nikki?”
“Better.”
“Samira? Have you been able to turn her baby?”
“No. And she’s still running a fever.”
He nodded quietly, leading her toward the dying fire with no real purpose other than talking to her out of earshot.
“Where did you learn that song, Nikki?”
“Do you know it?”
“My mother used to sing those words to us in Arabic when I was a child.”
She stilled, looked up at him and smiled. Moonlight caught the slight gleam on her teeth and the shimmer of her eyes. It was all Zakir could see. But her smile did crazy things to his chest. Giving Nikki pleasure expanded Zakir in a way he could not define.
“Why are you smiling, Nikki?”
“Some men,” she said quietly, “you just can’t imagine as having been children.”
He laughed. “Solomon will be like that someday. Mark my words. Overnight you will suddenly see only a powerful man, and you will no longer see the boy.”
“And how would you know?” He heard the slight jest in her tone, a playfulness he had not detected before.
“I just do.”
“Because you were like him?”
He shrugged, slipping effortlessly into easy conversation with her as they resumed walking, his dogs moving like shadows at their side. “I think Tariq was more like Solomon. Very earnest, helpful. He wanted to solve the world’s problems. I was perhaps more quiet than Tariq. My mother used to call me broody, but I was not as sullen as Omair.” He laughed again. “These Rahm Berbers might call me the Dark One, but Omair is the true dark horse. He’s the one whose thoughts will never be read.”
“Well, unless Solomon gets a break, he’ll become like his father.”
“And who was Solomon’s father?”
“A warlord. Very cruel, very powerful. Solomon ran away.”
“Why?”
“He was abused.”
“He was lucky,” said Zakir softly. “How so?”
“Because he found you.” Zakir paused, turned to glance down at her.
Moonlight caught the glisten of emotion in her eyes, but she said nothing. And Zakir couldn’t stop himself. He touched her cheek, in the dark, with no one to watch.
“Nikki,” he whispered, her skin soft under his palm, cool in the night air. He moved his thumb under her chin, his fingers cupping the side of her face. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met.” He brought his lips close to hers. “And I speak of much more than physical perfection,” he whispered in Arabic.
A shiver trilled down Nikki’s spine.
She swallowed, unable to speak, and she was suddenly, utterly desperate to lean into this man’s hard, warm body, to feel his strength, to absorb more of the calm power he seemed to infuse with his touch.
It was such a human need—to be touched. Comforted. Loved. A need Nikki had tried to ignore for so long. And Zakir was forcing those long-buried desires to rise to the surface, making her burn with hunger for him.
He removed his hand abruptly, and she felt as if she’d been dropped from a safety net. Nikki cleared her throat, anxiety tearing through her desire. This man was too strong, too masculine, too sensual, and when she was around him her mind narrowed. It was as if she had no control.
And with her mounting panic, the stark reality of her situation returned. She’d been told to spy on Zakir—if she didn’t, her children could be hurt. She was going to have to face that Gurkha. She had to give him something, and right now she had nothing.
“How did the meeting with the elders go?” Her voice came out husky as she changed the topic.
She felt his body go still, as if he was surprised by the question. An energy, soft and dark, crackled between them. Nikki’s pulse began to race.
“The talks went exceedingly well,” he said finally. “I learned from the Rahm sheik that my father often met with clans. The men knew my father as a person who loved the desert and its people, and so remained loyal to him. My father had also informed them about his plan for democracy. They were happy to learn that I will pursue this agenda, that they will one day have a voice in the government of Al Na’Jar.” He paused. “Thank you again for your help, Nikki. It was good that I came without my guards.”
“What did the chiefs from the surrounding villages say?”
“They’re on board. Their support will enable a grassroots alliance along this entire eastern border region. If I can continue to foster relations like this among other Al Na’Jar clans, I can build support for my monarchy from the bottom up, and the handful of enemies inside my administration will be unable to topple me. Besides,” he said, smiling, “it has been good for me to reconnect with these people. They are the essence of Al Na’Jar. They share my values.”
“Your values?”
He laughed low, seductive. “Yes, Nikki. Values I’d forgotten in those boardrooms of Europe and in those nightclubs…” His voice grew distant as he glanced up at the sky. “In some ways it took this terrible family tragedy to bring me home.”
Or perhaps it’s your fear of impending blindness. The realization of your own vulnerability has shown you what really matters.
He took her arm. “This is unorthodox,” he said very quietly, close to her ear, his breath sending a warm shiver over her skin. “But would you care to join me in my hut for a drink? It will be our last time alone before my Gurkhas arrive tomorrow.”
“They’re coming here?”
“The Berbers say my bodyguards are now welcome in the village. I sent for just three of them—Tenzing Gelu, Abhi Hasan and Rajah Sadal. They’re en route by camel as we speak. The other two men have more experience in strategic planning, so they’ll return to the Supreme Palace and select a bigger security team for me. I plan to spend some time building more alliances to the northeast and will be using the Summer Palace as a base for a while.” He touched her elbow gently as he spoke, guiding her. “So, how about the drink, Nikki?”
Her heart thudded, perspiration breaking out over her skin. Everything was happening too fast. Gelu was already on his way. She needed to work out a plan.
“I’m exhausted, Zakir. But thank you for the invitation. For everything. You’ve given my children another window of hope.”
And you’ve given me some self-esteem back.
Zakir nodded, disappointed and a little vulnerable for having vocalized his need and being rejected. In silence he led her back to her hut, using Ghorab, Khaya and Tala as guides.
She stopped outside the door. The scent of the desert was cool, tinged with residual smoke from the fire.
“Good night, Zakir.” She began to pull the curtain back, but froze as he placed his hand on her shoulder.
“Nikki?” he whispered.
She straightened up slowly, and Zakir felt her lean toward him, as if wishing to linger with him. Then quickly resisting the urge, she reached again for the reed curtain. He caught her arm and turned her to face him.
Silence and tension simmered between them.
Shaded from the other huts, Zakir was unable to stop what came next. He threaded his hand into her hair and cupped the back of her neck. Lowering his head, drawing her into him, he kissed her lightly on the mouth. He felt her lips, soft, warm, open under his, and his vision spiraled into a red-and-black kaleidoscope of shadows as heat speared into his groin.
Her body seemed to sigh into his, as if every molecule in her being wanted to give into her need for him, but it was only for a nanosecond. Because Nikki stiffened suddenly and drew back. Her eyes were wide and glittering in the dark, moonlit pools in a pale face. She stared at him, then ducked quickly into the dark hut.
As the reed curtain rustled back into place, Zakir felt hot, his mouth dry.
What in hell are you doing here?
Inhaling sharply, he turned, giving a soft whistle to his dogs. He hooked his fingers lightly around Ghorab’s collar and made his way back to his hut where he paced the packed mud floor of the small interior, cursing himself.
Zakir believed he could trust Nikki enough to let her leave the country now. The presence of her orphans and the Berbers themselves had confirmed her story. She was a genuine and compassionate healer. She was not here to harm him—Zakir believed that.
So why was he messing with her, touching her? Why was he letting himself be distracted? He had a duty to fulfill, problems that needed attention. Like the insurgency. Like his rapidly failing vision. Like finding a wife.
Irritable, Zakir grabbed his satellite phone, dialed Tariq on the encrypted system.
This was his first moment of total privacy in a day, and he needed medical advice from his brother. He glanced at his watch as the phone rang. It would be late in Washington, but he knew Tariq, the dedicated neurosurgeon, would still be at his office. Zakir paced as he listened to the phone ringing an ocean and continent away, and his thoughts drifted back to Nikki and her haunting eyes. Oyoon el waha, he thought—eyes of the oasis. A place of sanctuary, in which a man could drown himself.
So absorbed was Zakir that he started at the sudden sound of Tariq’s voice.
“Zakir?” His brother sounded concerned. “What is wrong? Has something happened?” he said in Arabic.
Zakir explained the sudden episodes of blurred vision and blindness. Tariq asked several questions, then fell silent for a moment. When he spoke again, Zakir’s heart sank at his brother’s tone.
“Once there have been several episodes of this nature and duration,” said Tariq, “things could happen fast. Much faster than we at first anticipated. You will find vision in your left eye will go completely, first. This will be followed by decreasing central vision in the right eye, and then the optic nerves will fail completely in that one, as well.”
“How fast?” Zakir said very quietly.
Tariq cleared his throat, “Perhaps within a few months the blindness will be permanent in both eyes.”
Zakir clenched the phone. “A few months?” he whispered.
“It could even be weeks, or days.” His brother was silent for a beat. “I am sorry, Zakir. You will need to marry soon, brother.”
Zakir inhaled deeply, fist tensing around the phone. “I’ll call my emissary in Europe right away, make it clear that I need to marry before the month is out.”
“In the meantime, you can perhaps delay onset of blindness by taking medication to reduce blood pressure. You need to stay calm, Zakir. Stress will hasten vision loss.”
Zakir laughed drily. Calm was not possible—not with the tasks that awaited him. But Tariq was right—the only way to safeguard the throne was to find himself a queen and to be officially crowned. Then he would quickly change the constitution so he could govern blind.
Al Arif Corporation lawyers in Paris had already drafted the contract that Zakir and his potential bride would sign. The candidate of his choosing would agree to a finite term, along with hefty financial compensation, during which she would appear on Zakir’s arm as his queen. She would also try to bear him a child. After the term was up, and once Zakir’s rule was secure, the marriage would be annulled by royal decree, unless both parties mutually agreed to extend the terms and remain married for an additional period of time.
“Shokrun ya akhi,” he said crisply. Thank you, my brother.
He killed the call and sat on his bed, feeling the weight of the future on his shoulders. And suddenly Zakir wanted nothing to do with the women of his past—the kind who’d eagerly agree to marry and sleep with him for hefty monetary gain. The ones for whom he’d never hold any real affection.
He wanted Nikki.
Which was ludicrous. She was not the type to enter into a marriage arrangement for money. Besides, he barely knew anything about her. She’d have to be properly vetted. He’d have to hire an investigator to comb through her past in America.
Zakir lay back on his bed, hooking one arm behind his head while he kept the other on the hilt of his weapon. He would not sleep. Not until his bodyguards arrived. But as he lay there, the idea of possibly entering into a business arrangement with Nikki began to entice him on more levels than Zakir cared to admit.
Irrespective of his growing attraction to her, Nikki was potentially an ideal candidate. She spoke the language of his people, she loved his desert, she was bold and she seemed to be skilled at diplomacy. And as much as Zakir hated to think about it, he knew Nikki would be able to handle his blindness. He’d witnessed her capacity for tenderness in the way she cared for the children.
Malaak er-ruhmuh.
That’s what the Rahm Berbers had called her. An angel.
It irritated him that he even wanted this kind of tenderness from a woman. Then he thought of the sensation of her mouth, soft and warm under his, and desire stirred in his groin.
Would she even think of doing it? Could he persuade her to enter into an official engagement with him while he secretly had her investigated?
Anticipation sparked through his chest—the old thrill of the hunt. And the more Zakir thought about it, the more sense it made. If she agreed, then he could immediately put her name before the King’s Council as his potential wife. It would be a solid first step to securing his reign. It would send the right message to his enemies. Meanwhile, he’d continue to run his search for a wife in Europe. If Nikki’s background check fell through for some reason, he’d still have an acceptable backup waiting in the wings, ready and vetted. And in the interim he’d have enjoyed the security—and the intimacy—of a betrothal.
I can get to know her better. I can touch her. Taste her.
But the clock was ticking. Could he do it? Could he manipulate Nikki into a betrothal of convenience—and seduce her into his bed—before he went blind?