“Ready to go?” He pushed his shades back onto his head and smiled warmly at Olivia.
She nodded. He led her out to the Jeep, but it was no better sitting in the passenger seat where she was acutely aware of every shift of his muscles beneath the denim when he shifted gears or slammed on the brakes. In fact, it was much worse. Sitting this close to Khaled, she couldn’t help but breathe in the deep seductive scent of him. In desperation, Olivia turned away and determinedly stared out at the landscape they were speeding through.
The drive out to the research center was stunning, so Olivia had plenty else to look at. The road followed the old coastal path, with gently sloping platinum white sand dunes and beaches to the right, and richly luxuriant olive groves and palm trees to the left. Occasionally, they passed a small settlement with half a dozen or so houses, a few goats and chickens, and always a motley collection of small children with wide, staring eyes. Khaled took the time to stop at each hamlet to wave and speak to the children. He had brought several bags of small honeyed cakes to hand out to them. Olivia had no idea what he was saying as he passed the treats round to the children, but it was easy to see that he was putting them at ease, making them smile and laugh, just as he had with the children in Saqat City. He would make a good father one day.
After they had been on the road for nearly three hours, Khaled pulled the Jeep to a halt under the dappled shade of a large palm tree.
“What’s the matter?” She looked across at him in surprise.
“Breakfast,” he said. “I’m hungry.”
As soon as he said it, Olivia realized that she was too. “You brought food?”
“Of course. Wait there.”
He produced plastic tubs of delicately spiced rice and vegetable biryani, and a pile of flatbreads wrapped in a cloth. Olivia tore off a piece of bread and used it to scoop up the biryani.
“Delicious.”
“This is what I miss,” Khaled said, helping himself liberally to the food. There was something curiously intimate about the way they were both eating from the same dish, without cutlery.
“You can get decent curries in London, surely.”
He shook his head. “Indian curries, yes. Pakistani, Bangladeshi, yes. But Arab food is different. I’d know a Saqati biryani anywhere.”
Olivia took another mouthful, letting the tastes separate and mingle on her tongue. “Cinnamon?” she queried.
“Of course. With rose water, oranges, and dates for sweetness.” Khaled ripped off another piece of bread, loaded it with the biryani, and passed it to Olivia.
The more she ate, the more she appreciated the depths of the flavors. “It’s spicy without being hot.”
“No chilies. No cayenne. We like to savor our food here.”
“I can see that,” she said with a pointed look at the heaped bread he was carefully conveying to his mouth.
He shrugged, then grinned as she took an equally large portion for herself.
“Is that all you miss?” Olivia asked later when the biryani was finished and Khaled was pouring them both tiny cups of coffee from an insulated flask.
“Hmm?” He handed her the coffee and turned questioning dark eyes on her.
“When you’re away from Saqat. You must miss more than the food.”
He shrugged. “My father, my family.”
Olivia waited.
“It’s in my blood,” Khaled said slowly. “I am Saqat al-Mayim.”
“Yes.” He was at home here, she realized. Out on the desert track to the research center, surrounded by white-gold sand with the sparkling blue of the Gulf on the horizon, he fit in perfectly. At the souk, bantering with the street traders, he’d seemed happy. It was only in the palace that he faded under the pressures of his role.
“My betrothal is to be announced tomorrow.”
“At the reception?” She’d been warned to bring a suitable gown for a formal reception. Senior Saqati politicians would be there, as well as foreign ambassadors and business people.
“Yes. I wanted to warn you. And explain.”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me.”
“I think I do. You have seen something of my country now. Enough to understand the expectations that my people will have for my wife.”
“She must be a Saqati woman. You told me that before.”
“It is not required, but it will be preferable, yes. She must be part of Saqati culture. It is important that the people accept her as part of their royal family.”
“I know that, Khaled.”
“They will expect her to be a Muslim woman. Virtuous, modest, dutiful.”
She reached to put her hand on his knee. “You don’t have to spell it out. I know that I couldn’t ever be the right woman for you. You made that very plain from the beginning.
“I am sorry, Olivia. If I were free to make my own choice—” He paused. “I am Saqat al-Mayim,” he repeated. “I must be.”
They sat in silence for several minutes. Eventually, Khaled took their empty coffee cups and packed them away.