Desert Sheikh vs American Princess (21 page)

She didn't have any money of her own she could access. She got an allowance from dear old Dad and that was it. It covered clothes and stuff she wanted. Kept her in Kindle books and shoes, but she couldn't offer Walid millions to play with.

On the other hand, say he had one priceless jewel... Maybe a legendary green diamond, one of the rarest jewels in the world. He could sell it, as crappy as that would be.

She turned back to the map. Finding the Palm and giving it to Walid had a lot of benefits. Including the fact she'd be able to leave. Only now she sort of felt like it might be okay to come back here once in a while. Or Walid could join her in Paris.

But finding the jewel was not going to be easy, even with a pirate princess at her back.

Okay
, she thought at Bonnie.
I know what I'm going to do. I'm going to stick this out, no matter what.

Yarrgh
! agreed Bonnie.

*****

"I thank you for joining me today, Sheikha Farouk."

Walid attempted to think of something delicious, something that would make his dry mouth water. He had a weakness for the horn-shaped almond cookies that Suzette's kitchen was famous for, but even the imagined smell of these treats did not bring any saliva into his mouth. Imagining her apricot pastries had a similar non-effect.

The smell of Noelle's skin, warming in the sun, as he left her sleeping... Ah, now that did manage to do the job.

Memories of last night hardened his resolve. Noelle. She was the impetus behind this meeting in the first place.

Reda Farouk nodded acknowledgment to her king and took the chair on the opposite side of Walid's desk. The older woman had broadening hips and bone-white hair that she covered with a filmy scarf, but her most distinctive feature was her cutting black eyes.

Sheikha Farouk had inherited five oil wells in an abandoned corner of the desert and turned them into a business that did billions of dollars in revenue every quarter. Her reputation for fairness in her dealings was legendary. And her consortium had been the first one "repatriated" by his father to fill the royal coffers when his investments had failed.

Since Walid had restored the refineries and tanker ships that his father had seized, did not Sheikha Farouk owe him a favor? Perhaps a favor to the tune of fifty million dollars for a few months? He still had five days to pay the loan. Time enough to move the money and pay the bill.

"How may I serve my king?" asked Sheikha Farouk, but with an odd twitch in the corner of her mouth. As if serving her king was the last thing she had on her mind.

Walid held a sigh behind a dam of self-control. He had no desire to speak the next words, but what else could he do? Askar needed a loan. He did not ask for himself, but for the country.

It was only until Winston Oldrich paid back what he owed, after all.

"As you know, Sheikha, the recent downturn in oil prices has caused difficulties with the economy--"

"And the Crown coffers, I imagine," interrupted the sheikha, smoothing a deep navy tunic that fell to mid-calf.

"I have no intention of taking assets from you that you have earned fairly," he rushed to assure her.

"That is well, as you would have to do so at gunpoint," she stated, with the calm flatness of truth. "You are not your father's man. I know this. But I imagine you wish to raise taxes."

He shook his head. "Perhaps in the future, to grow our infrastructure in ways that would benefit everyone. I have plans to make education free for all Askari citizens. However, this is not the time, with oil prices as they are."

"However, the Nahr pipeline is expensive," Sheikha Farouk said. "Rumor has it that the Askar treasury is running low."

He toyed with a lie. But no. His father had lied to everyone and everyone had paid for it. He needed the richest person in Askar as an ally. Savvy, respected businesswoman she was, if she supported him, the other high-profile oil barons would follow suit.

"With no additional expenses, the Askari treasury is sustainable. Even with today's low oil prices."

Sheikha Farouk pursed red-painted lips at him. "I believe the pipeline is, as you call it, an additional expense."

The moment. This was it. He had to admit to her what he didn't want to admit to anyone if he wanted to save his country from public embarrassment. "It is. And it is what I have invited you here to discuss today."

He laid out his argument. The pipeline would benefit everyone--and her most of all, he didn't add. It would lower the cost of production and raise profitability. It would ensure peace between Askar and Zallaq.

"I am aware of all this," the Sheikha informed him. "Your point?"

Had she spoken to his father in such a brusque way, she would have been ushered out of the palace never to be seen again. For one second, he sympathized with such behavior.

He shoved down his irritation. "The Crown is owed a great deal of money that will be repaid shortly. In the meantime, another payment on the pipeline comes due. I would rather arrange a bridge loan from a company within the country than be forced to approach a foreign bank."

Sheikha Farouk leaned back in her chair, a whisper of a smile on her lips.

She'd been expecting this, he realized. She'd been preparing. He needed her and she knew it. Whatever she suggested, he had to agree to it. Otherwise, she would use the information he'd just handed her against him.

Damn.

"I confess," she said, "that I have been waiting for such an opportunity since your father took everything I worked for away from me, and laughed about it."

A shaft of guilt speared him. He had been eighteen when his father had begun seizing private assets to pay for his own expenses, claiming it was his right as ruler. Walid had not even argued against it at the time. He should have been able to do something, to stop it. He should have at least recognized that these were the actions of a tyrant.

Instead, it had taken him twelve years to learn this lesson.

"I cannot apologize enough for that, sheikha." She deserved far more than an apology, he knew. "In part, I wish to build this pipeline as compensation for what my father did."

The sheikha's smile was now full-on, lighting up the room. And he feared that smile. "Oh, I will give you your loan. Actually, it does not even have to be a loan. I will give you the money, my king."

She paused, giving him space to ask the question that hovered in the air between them. What did she wish in return? He didn't give her the satisfaction, and waited for her to continue of her own accord.

The sheikha stood, abandoning her chair. Putting herself in a position to look down on Walid. She ran an insouciant finger across his desk as she paced.

She'd been a great beauty, he knew. Now he saw that she had not been afraid to use her beauty in negotiations.

"I will give you the money," she repeated. "However, I will need something in return. I never again wish to be in a position where my assets can be seized with no one to advocate for me."

"All I can do is assure you that this will never again be the case, sheikha."

She whirled on him, snapping, "That is not good enough."

"Sheikha." He put the utmost respect into the one word, but also a note of warning.

She cleared her throat, recovering from the burst of anger. Misplaced, he knew. What she truly wanted was revenge on his father.

What had the relationship between the two been? They would have known each other, traveled in the same small circle. The two of them were of a similar age.

"As I said, Your Majesty, I wish to have someone in a high office who can be my advocate should similar circumstances ever arise." Her tone carried great politeness and a twinge of the vicious.

The circumstances where the king became wild with his own power and placed his own needs far above those of Askar. This would never happen in his lifetime, he knew, but the sheikha needed additional assurance.

Relief. For some reason, he had imagined she would ask for something far more difficult. "I can create such an office. Special advisor, perhaps? I will take a list of suggestions from you for who might be acceptable to fill it."

"There is no need." The sheikha's smile grew broad as a river. "The office already exists, and is vacant. My list of candidates has only one name upon it. All you need to do is accept."

"Explain."

"The position," she said, "is queen. And the candidate is my granddaughter."

*****

Noelle practically pulsated with excitement as she turned the corner into the waiting room of Walid's office. She'd only seen it once before, for a few seconds, when she'd been herded through on her way to have that interview when he'd informed her of her sort-of-kidnapping.

She could hardly wait to tell him what she'd found in the map.

She'd wait in one of these super-comfy modern chairs arranged along the walls of a subtly decorated room. Under abstract paintings that seemed familiar in a vague way--as if she'd seen similar ones in art galleries and museums.

Anyway, she'd wait here, then talk to Walid to let him know she would be leaving the palace to start the hunt for the Palm. Let him send all the guards he wanted.

He'd appreciate being told. Besides, last time she got out of the palace, he seemed to know she was gone, and where she was going. Even though she hadn't told anyone. It had been just plain weird, and he'd never explained that one.

A stylish young Arabic woman already sat in one of the half-dozen chairs, her long legs displayed by a mid-calf skirt in an amazing burnt umber. Mmm. The suit was from the Gucci spring collection. Hard to miss, considering the sheer number of Gs dancing across it. Strappy spiked heels with telltale red soles. Thousand-dollar Louboutins.

The girl had big boobs and she knew how to do a fantastic smoky eye. Noelle had met a hundred women like her. Gobs of money, no need to do anything but spend it. She wore her need to be admired like she wore that huge gold bangle with the letters of the word Fendi cut out of it.

Her heart grew spikes inside her. She might be looking at herself. Only with six years or so shaved off.

The girl turned those smoky eyes on Noelle, a few seconds after the bulldogs in tailored suits that stood to either side of her did.

What did they see? She was in ballet flats today, shiny green ones from a cute store in San Fran. A local designer. Slim-fit capri khakis with cargo pockets. A blousy white silk shirt, boyfriend style. Around her neck was a light blue infinity scarf, draped just so. And her own Prada piece, the shoulder bag with the map in it.

The young woman took all this in, sizing her up. Mentally calculating the price of everything she wore, just like Noelle had done to her. Calculating her social standing.

Noelle stepped forward, intending to take up a chair far away from the girl. The guards, as one, made a move toward her--but the young woman raised a hand and they instantly relaxed. Not that they didn't keep intense gazes on Noelle. In case she pulled an Uzi out of her Prada.

But the girl... Those smoky eyes practically buzzed with excitement.

"Are you Walid's mistress?" she asked, in lightly accented English.

Was she? "I'm a guest staying at the palace. My father does business in Askar."

The girl's eyes lost a little of their buzz. "It would be okay if you were Walid's mistress, you know. I do not care."

"Uh, sure," Noelle said. "I'm Noelle Oldrich."

"Kalilah Farouk." She reached for Noelle's hand.

Okay, they were shaking hands now. Noelle offered hers.

But apparently they weren't shaking hands, because Kalilah thrust her palm against Noelle's. "Your hand is bigger than mine," she said, and giggled.

Then Kalilah's fingers entwined with Noelle's. Not a gesture of greeting. One with a lot more... intimacy.

The kid leaned in, whispering close even though there wasn't anyone else to hear. Except the guard dogs, but Noelle was guessing there was a lot of things they didn't hear. "It is really okay that you are Walid's mistress, you know," she repeated, flapping her fake eyelashes like a flight of monarch butterflies about to take off. "Really, very okay."

Before Noelle had to call the guards over to protect
her
, the door to Walid's office opened and he stepped out.

Crap. She had not thought this through. She should have left the room as soon as she saw someone else waiting for him. Now what? He would have to publicly ignore her--not to mention that here was another person who was going to know that there was a random American woman staying in the palace.

If she wasn't dressed for a day of treasure hunting, he might have passed her off as a business associate. In her casual outfit, what was the possible explanation for her being here?

Let's face it, since last night, she sort of was Walid's mistress. The woman he was having an affair with, anyway.

For now.

His eyes caught hers. For a decimal point of a second, she thought they widened with something that had never been in his eyes before. Panic.

Why would the very chill Walid look panicky, a captured gazelle ready to bolt for freedom?