Cinderella and the Sheikh

chapter Eight



The trip to the desert didn't happen the following day. A servant woke them early, with the news that Rasyn should come to his uncle right away.

He was gone all day.

Libby spent it wandering the palace and relaxing in the gardens. Rasyn returned without his usual glowing smile, and unwilling to talk. The concern that he wore like a cloak made her think that the King of Abbas was sicker than anyone let on.

After they’d made love, a long, slow dance of give and take, Libby had been aware that he had lain awake for hours. She didn’t bring up going back to New York. It seemed too selfish.

When she awoke in the morning, her bed was empty. She found Rasyn and his cousin at the breakfast table. Even with slight dark circles under his eyes, he looked handsome in a pair of designer jeans and a beige cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. When he dressed like that, she forgot that he was so far above her, and her heart ached just to look at him.

Imaran scowled at her. A slow heat crept up her neck, burning from the inside out.

Rasyn seemed not to notice, but casually read the newspaper and sipped his coffee.

"Cousin." Imaran laid his gold-embroidered linen napkin across his plate. "Could I trouble you to meet with me?"

"Certainly. When?"

"Now."

The ice in his tone made Libby fight a shiver. Something was definitely off.

"Love, do you mind if we put off our trip a little?" Rasyn folded his paper, his face a blank mask.

She shook her head, not trusting her voice.

After they'd gone, she stared at the breakfast on her plate. It was so odd to see such an ordinary thing like toast served up on hand-painted gold-rimmed china so delicate that the light shone through it. In a way, she felt sorry for the plain, utilitarian toast. It must feel incredibly out of place.

Though it was probably gauche, she leaned across the table and flipped through the papers at Imaran and Rasyn's places, hoping to find some English reading material.

Nothing.

The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood in warning. They'd had English papers for the last two days, so why not today? There was no reason for it.

The bottom dropped out of her stomach. Unless there was something in the papers they didn't want her to see.

Rasyn wouldn’t do that, she assured herself. Then she remembered; he'd done it already. He hadn't told her about the Princess's allergy. So maybe he was hiding something now.

Whatever it was, she needed to know.

The quiet click of a door slipping back into place interrupted her thoughts. The palace servants seemed like ghosts to her, doing their jobs silently, then disappearing. This one had been and gone without her even noticing.

Libby grabbed the newspaper and dashed after him. He wore the uniform of all the palace servants, beige pants and a matching tunic. Before she could catch up, he went through a nondescript door and was gone.

Libby followed him through the door. The assault on her senses made her close her eyes. The smell of onions frying and sweet herbs filled the air. Dozens of uniformed servants cooked, washed an endless array of dishes, and picked up trays loaded with stainless steel domes. The heat made her sweat.

Even halfway across the world, a busy kitchen was just the same. For the first time since she left New York, she felt at home. She stood for a moment, just breathing in the experience.

A hush fell. A dozen wide-eyed servants stared back at her, most of them frozen in mid-action.

"Oh, hi. Does anyone speak English?" she asked. "Ingleesi?"

Libby beamed as a familiar face appeared. "As-salaam alaikum, Umm Tariq."

"Wa alaikum as-salam." The woman followed her greeting with a string of words.

Even though she didn't understand the Arabic, Libby knew the language of servants as well as anyone. Umm Tariq had offered to help her.

"Ingleesi. I need someone who speaks English."

"Aiwa."

Libby hoped that meant yes as she followed Umm Tariq past a row of gleaming industrial stoves.

Umm Tariq barked an order and the activity in the kitchen resumed, except the noise level reduced to low whispers. Libby couldn’t help noticing that more than one shot her a cold look.

Umm Tariq led her through a door, and she blinked when she found herself outside, under a watery blue sky with a blazing white-gold sun pouring heat down on her. Instead of the polished palace gardens, she faced a rocky road leading toward a service gate in the high wall of the palace. An ancient-looking truck, beige with desert dust, idled nearby. A man in faded jeans and rolled up shirtsleeves leaned into the trunk.

"Jarah." Umm Tariq walked toward him.

He turned to face them and Libby recognized the dark mole just under his left eye. Her stomach sank in pure misery. She'd wanted a translator, but did it have to be the waiter she'd tripped at the reception? That explained the icy looks from the staff.

His jaw clenched as he recognized her, too. Umm Tariq spoke to him in Arabic, but Jarah's gaze stayed on her. When Umm Tariq finished speaking, he nodded.

"You wanted someone who speaks English, miss?" His lips turned down as he spoke, as if tasting something bad.

"They fired you, didn't they?" she asked.

"What is that to you?"

"It was all my fault. I'll ask Rasyn to give you back your job. I'm so sorry."

Confusion marked his face. "Why would you care about a servant?"

"Because I didn't get fired when a kid tripped me at my last job. I dropped a tray of drinks all over the floor."

"You were carrying drinks?" Jarah folded his arms across his chest.

"I'm a waitress."

Jarah's eyes went wide. "You're a servant? How did you meet Sheikh Rasyn?"

Libby told him, leaving out the more personal parts, of course. She paused occasionally to let Jarah catch up the translation for Umm Tariq.

"Why were you looking for someone to speak English?"

She passed him the newspaper she'd been carrying under her arm. "Can you tell me what this says?"

Jarah pursed his lips, not looking past the front page. He saw something, definitely.

"Please," she said.

Finally, Jarah nodded. "It says that Parliament has passed a bill that takes any man who marries a commoner out of the line of succession."

Libby went numb. She couldn’t feel the sun on her skin or smell the chemical exhaust of the truck.

"Oh." The words seemed to form by themselves. "I think that's because I spilled soup on the princess. It's probably a good idea."

Yes, yes, it was a good idea, wasn’t it? Parliament was doing the right thing, ensuring Rasyn didn't make the kind of mistake that could ruin his life. It was right. They were being smart. And it made her feel like crap on a stick.

Jarah handed her back the papers. “You do not have to worry about me. I have already found a new job at the orphanage. I am taking the palace's extra food there. It is a custom."

Her ears perked up. Knowing that, she didn’t feel as bad for Jarah. The pay was probably worse, but now he had a chance to really make a difference in the lives of people who would always remember him for it. Suddenly, she couldn’t face the idea of spending the morning alone and useless in the palace.

"Do you need some help?" she asked.



***



"Tell me you've found her." Rasyn's voice came out like a growl, and made the pair of servants flinch as they walked toward him and Imaran in the palace corridor.

The look that the two men gave each other told Rasyn that the news wasn't what he hoped. He closed his eyes against the headache throbbing between his temples.

The taller servant spoke. "Several people saw her—" He hesitated. "Saw her leave the palace six hours ago. In a truck."

Six hours. His headache exploded in his brain. Libby wasn't stupid. She wouldn’t go off with strangers. Unless they offered her a chance at the one thing she'd wanted from the beginning, to go home. But she hadn't taken her luggage.

"Someone get me the U.S. embassy on the phone," he ordered.

As the two servants hustled off down the hallway, he could only pray that she was safely at the embassy. He didn't allow himself to consider the alternative.

He felt his cousin's hand grip his shoulder. "Maybe it's for the best."

Rasyn whirled on him. "You have no idea—"

"What it is like to lose someone I love?" Imaran's eyes were cool. "You know that I do, as well as you do, anyway. But this is not like you. A woman you met less than a week ago could never mean this much to you. You've never been a man of strong passions, and this woman is not your type."

Libby wasn't his type. She wasn't sophisticated or polished. She wore her heart too openly, smiling when she was actually happy and letting her tears flow when she was sad. She was exactly what he needed—for his plan.

He never should have let her out of his sight. Now that Parliament had passed a bill essentially forbidding him from marrying her, a clear apology to Damali, he had to do it more than ever.

He shoved aside the thought that any woman without royal blood in her veins would take him out of the succession now, and was about to scramble the militia to look for her when he caught a familiar glint of auburn hair cross the hallway in front of him. Rasyn strode toward her, as quickly as dignity would allow. Despite the blood pounding in his ears, he heard the footfalls of his cousin behind him.

Within seconds, he'd turned the corner. Libby. His heart buzzed with relief. He grabbed her by the arm and swung her around. For an instant, her green eyes registered pure shock and her lips opened in surprise.

Her face softened to a smile. "Rasyn. It's you. You worried me there."

"I worried you?" He clenched his teeth. "Where have you been?"

Libby folded a silk headscarf in her hands. "I went to an orphanage with Jarah."

"Who the hell is Jarah?" Imaran's voice had an angry edge.

Libby narrowed her eyes. "He's the servant you fired because I tripped him. Completely unfair, by the way. I think he's happier working with the kids, though."

Jealousy slashed through Rasyn, but his cousin beat him to bringing it up. "You went off with a man, unchaperoned?"

"I would have if I wanted to." Libby crossed her arms. "But Umm Tariq went with us. I think she likes the kids. We all played soccer with this ball that was half-flat. Rasyn, could we send them a new soccer ball?"

Imaran interrupted them, his eyes flashing on Libby. "I had hoped you’d displayed the wisdom to leave the country. The Prince of Damali has been insulted.”

"Imaran." Rasyn tamped down on a flare of anger. "I will handle this."

"You had better teach her the Arabic for 'I'm sorry'," Imaran said. "The Prince of Damali arrives in two days. We cannot risk another incident."

The color, and the defiant expression, drained from Libby's face. She actually trembled in his arms. Five minutes ago, he had wanted to shake some sense into her. Now, all he wanted to do was hold her and tell her everything would be all right.

Libby's stomach churned inside her as Imaran strode down the hall, his blue-striped robe billowing behind him as if he were some kind of desert bandit. The prince was coming, and he wanted to speak to her. Waves of sick dread threatened to knock her from her feet.

She faced Rasyn, uncertain what to say. Imaran saw the truth that he was blind to; she was the worst possible woman for him. Maybe Imaran's problem was that he was right.

"Libby." The commanding tone of his voice painted a picture of the ruler he would be someday. As long as he didn't marry her. "Come."

She followed him. There wasn't any other choice—this entire situation was her fault. Whatever fate awaited her, she deserved it.

His crisp footsteps echoed off the high ceiling of the corridor, setting a pace that made her rush to keep up. She stared at the hem of his untucked white shirt, trying to think of something to say to make this all better.

The punishing pace had her breathless by the time they arrived at Rasyn's apartment.

He slammed the door behind her, granting them privacy. He bore down on her, his dark eyes half-lidded and filled with a dangerous gleam she'd never seen before. She'd thought Imaran looked like a bandit? Wildness radiated from Rasyn like a man possessed by a desert demon. A thrill of fear made Libby step backward, but the demon inside Rasyn wouldn't permit escape.

In the space of a thought, he whisked her off her feet and up against the carved wooden door. He pressed himself against her, his broad chest as solid as the door at her back. She gasped in shock. He was so close she could barely breathe.

He forced his mouth on hers, delving deeply with his hot tongue. She stiffened in surprise, too off-kilter to do anything but cling to his strong shoulders for support. His hands moved over her thighs, ribs, arms, as if needing the reassurance of every part of her.

But something was wrong. There was no trace of the smile that usually lurked in his eyes. Beneath the surface of his outward passion, she sensed a tinge of a darker emotion she couldn’t identify.

She put her hands on his to still them and broke the kiss. "Rasyn, what are you doing?"

He drew back and raised a midnight-black eyebrow at her. "This is an old Middle Eastern custom called 'making love to you.' It is best to put up with it so you do not offend me," he said, his tone amused. "I would tell you that it would be over soon, but that would be lying."

He bent to resume nibbling on the sensitive spot behind her ear, but she put up a hand to stop him, despite the sensual promise of his last words.

"What's wrong?" She fought the heat of her own desire and the distraction of his strong hands on her hips. "Why are you doing this?"

"We have been apart all day. I want you."

The deep black of his eyes and flare of his nostrils told her it was true, but there was something else... She'd seen it before, in the hall.

"I do have an ulterior motive." A roguish smile twitched his lips, but somehow she didn't trust that, either. "I thought to distract you from the meeting with Prince Hani."

Her stomach clenched at the thought of the upcoming disaster. She managed to ignore it. "That's not it. I'm getting to know you, Rasyn. You're hiding something from your cousin, aren't you? I've seen it in your eyes."

Instantly, his grip on her hips tightened nearly to the point of pain and she knew she'd hit the mark. The air around her seemed to thicken with tension. For a man who claimed to love her, Rasyn didn’t seem to want to share anything with her. Maybe that was how it was in his culture, but she could never live like that. Her parents hadn't only been in love, they'd been a team, each depending on the other's unique strengths.

She looked away, lowering her gaze to the intricate mosaic floor. If there was no possibility of that with Rasyn, she thought, we're wasting each other's time. And I’m poisoning his chance to rule Abbas.

Would he feel the same? Would he let her go? On the other hand, if she gave in to him, how long before he came to his senses and blamed her for the loss of his kingdom?

Rasyn captured her face with his hands and forced her to look into the shadowed depth of his eyes. The raw honesty she saw there shocked her to her core.

"I thought you had left me without saying goodbye."

Her throat went desert dry. She could barely force a single word out of it. "No."

"Promise me you will not."

"Leave without saying goodbye?"

"Leave," he said. "At all."

The weight of his request nearly made her knees buckle. It would be too easy to give in, to let him persuade her. From some unknown core of strength, she managed to shake her head.

His jaw hardened. "Then swear you will say goodbye. One last kiss."

Despite the afternoon heat, a chill dropped over her. "I'm sorry. I have to be as honest with you as you've been with me. I can't promise that. If I do, you'll use that silver tongue of yours to get me to stay. We have to stop this. I have to leave. You're throwing away your future for me and I'm not worth it."

A darkness fell over his face. "What do you imagine you know of my future?"

"I know that the entire country wants you to succeed your uncle and that you're sabotaging yourself."

"Do you call love 'sabotage'? My cousin will be an excellent ruler. He spent six years at university studying international relations. Two years ago he took a bullet defending our borders. An ideal king."

"This doesn't explain why you don’t want it."

At Rasyn's abrupt release, she nearly slid down the door. Somehow, she managed to keep her feet under her.

"You do not know Imaran the way I do. He nearly died to do it."

"I'm not sure him getting shot means he'll be a good king."

"I was referring to another incident." Rasyn exhaled a long breath and sat himself on the sofa.

She moved beside him, aware that her skirt, still grimy from playing with the orphans, left dust on his pants where they touched. "Tell me."

"Everything has always come easily to me. Imaran has had to struggle and overcome. We went to Cambridge together, you know. While I was out having a good time, he was always home studying. He even..."

Her nerves were electrified. Rasyn never spoke of his past. Of course she never asked. She was too busy pushing him away. "What did he do?"

He looked down at his hands. "We always competed as children. I thought it was for fun. He took too many caffeine pills one night before a test, trying to beat my grade. He suffered a heart attack. A minor one."

She touched his leg, trying to lend him what strength she could. "That's not your fault."

"It is. I did not even notice how hard he had been working. He could have died. He has been as a brother to me."

Her chest ached for him, this proud man who showed the world the face of a playboy, but privately took on responsibilities that weren't his own. "That was a long time ago. You've learned your lesson and Imaran is okay now."

"'Learned my lesson?'" The wildness in Rasyn's eyes shocked her. "What about today? I left you alone. Do you know what could have happened to you?"

She'd never seen Rasyn look so... tired. He'd always been so strong. She hadn't imagined he had chinks in his armor.

It would be so easy to throw her arms around him and pour out her support. Kiss him or try to make him laugh. Anything to make him feel better.

But no. She couldn't get close to him. He had his armor—and she had hers.

"I'm an adult," she said. "It was my choice, just like what Imaran did was his."

Heartsore, she went to shower the day's dust from herself.



***



Rasyn cursed himself as he walked the corridor. Even the night air couldn't cool his irritation with himself.

What had possessed him to reveal Imaran's secrets to her? He had even kept the truth from his uncle. She watched him too closely, paid too much attention to him.

It had been a surprising relief to talk about the past he had never discussed with anyone, though, and he trusted her with every cell in his body. She would never betray his confidence. She had a servant's loyalty. Still, he had to be more guarded.

"Your Highness." The voice came from behind him.

Rasyn turned to see a tall man in the robes of the Berber tribes native to the desert of western Abbas. He must be one of their leaders to be in the palace this late. Rasyn greeted him politely.

"My name is Waseem, Your Highness. I have been waiting to speak to you alone," he said. "I will be blunt. We do not support your cousin. If your uncle should pass without identifying his heir, the Sharatin are at your command."

The Sharatin. Rasyn's mind whirled. A large tribe, known for their fighting skills. He was proposing war against Imaran.

"That will not be necessary," he told Waseem.

"Let us hope that it is not." Waseem melted back into the darkness.