Accidentally the Sheikh's Wife (6 page)

“How people who are involved act.”

She frowned. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Nothing you need be concerned with. I’ll come earlier than planned and brief you on important parts.”

“So I should have a dossier on myself prepared as well?” she asked.

“Not necessary. We have information on your visa request. I can wing the rest.”

Bethanne settled back into the luxury seats of the limousine a few moments later, wishing she could have continued to spend time with the sheikh—if only to listen to his deep voice with its pleasing accent. She also had a bunch of questions. She knew so little about the man. She couldn’t face his mother and not give away the show. She hoped he knew what he was doing.

When they reached the villa, she’d ask about her father to everyone she came into contact with on the sheikh’s staff. Someone must have befriended him. He had a sparkling wit and genuine interest in people and places. Had they all condemned him without a fair hearing?

When they reached the villa, the driver opened the door and stood by, waiting for her to get out.

Once on the pavement, Bethanne stopped and looked at Teaz. “Did you know Hank Pendarvis?” she asked.

For a few seconds he made no move or response. Then he nodded abruptly—once.

“Do you know what happened to him?”

“He was the pilot for the old sheikh. He flew away one day and never returned.” His English was heavy with Arabic accent, but Bethanne had no trouble understanding him.

“Do you know where he was going?”

The same stare, then a quick shake of his head.

“Thank you,” she said. She started for the front door when a thought occurred. Turning, she saw Teaz still staring at her. “Do you know where he lived?”

“In the Romula section of old town.”

She waited, hoping for more, but he said nothing. She had the address. Might as well go and see if she could find someone there who knew him.

“Maybe you could drive me there tomorrow if the sheikh doesn’t need me.” She’d love to see the old city. Match photos with the historic buildings. See a square with coffee cafés and stalls of goods for sale. Skirting Alkaahdar from the airport to the villa showed only the modern high-rises of shining steel and glass. She knew the older section would have been built in the more traditional Moorish architecture that she’d so loved in southern Spain.

“I am at your service,” he said with a slight bow.

Entering the quiet villa, Bethanne paused at the bottom of the steps, then on a sudden whim turned and headed toward the sitting room she’d been in last night. A quick glance showed it empty. Moving down the wide hall, she peered into the dining room they’d used. The last room in the hall was the library the sheikh had mentioned. Books lined three walls. The French doors stood open, keeping the room fresh and cool. Stepping inside, she saw a large desk to one side. From the computer on top and the scattered papers, she knew it had been recently used. Who by? From their conversation, she’d surmised Rashid lived elsewhere. This was a second home.

She stepped in and crossed to the desk. She wouldn’t open drawers and nothing was visible that would tell her anything about her father. It had been three years. Time enough to put away anything of interest.

“Where did you go, Dad? And why?” she muttered softly.

She sat in the desk chair, picturing Rashid sitting behind the desk, working on major deals for oil exports. What did he do for leisure? How come he was not married at his age? Most men she knew had married in their twenties. Rashid had to be close to mid-thirties.

Though she herself was still unwed.

She swiveled back and forth in the chair. Spotting the computer, she sat up and turned it on. Maybe she could search out what she could find about Rashid al Harum. She would not go to dinner unprepared.

Rashid leaned back as the car pulled away from the office. He was on his way to pick Bethanne up for the command dinner. He had thought about her questions, wondering what she felt important to know if preparing for a confrontation with a future mother-in-law.

He thought about Marguerite for the first time in years. How foolish he’d been not to recognize her type when they’d met. He’d fallen for her in a big way. Marguerite had been beautiful and sophisticated and very good at having fun. She’d often spoken about how much fun they’d have together.

Spending his money.

How gullible he’d been. No longer. He had agreed to the possibility of marriage to Haile as a way to connect the two families who had a strong mutual interest in oil. Now that was off the table, he could resume his solitary way of life. It would take another monumental deal to have him consider the institution again soon.

Lucky break, Haile’s running away.

He wondered if his mother would ever see it that way. He’d have to be careful in what he conveyed to her this evening. She could accept things or constantly stir things up in her desire for answers.

How good an actress was Bethanne Sanders? Could he depend upon her? How ironic the woman he was looking to for help was the daughter of a man his family despised. If she was anything like her father, he was playing a dangerous game.

He entered the villa a short time later and paused in the large foyer. The stairs leading up were to his left. The space to the right led to various rooms and eventually back to the kitchen. The evening breeze circulated, keeping the house cool and inviting. Why didn’t he stay here more often? he wondered. His grandmother had left it to him when she died last summer. She’d bequeathed another dwelling and surrounding land on the other side of the city to his twin. Khalid had yet to take up residence. Both too busy.

Fatima started down the stairs, surprised to see him. “I didn’t know you were here, Excellency,” she said. She clung to the railing and looked back up. “I can tell her you have arrived.”

“Please ask her to join me in the salon.”

Rashid waited by one of the French doors. The entire estate was cooler than his flat in the city. He liked living closer to the action, but he had forgotten how much he’d enjoyed visiting when his grandmother was alive. Only a few minutes’ drive from the heart of the capital, yet the estate was serene and lovely, and quite different from the glass and steel of the high-rise where he had his flat.

When he heard the rustle of silk, he turned and watched as Bethanne entered the room. She looked lovely in a rose-colored dress that was most demure. Her hair was done in a neat style, up and off her neck. She wore no jewelry, but her modest attire would please his mother.

“Good evening,” she said with a bright smile. For a moment Rashid wished she meant the smile, that she was actually happy to see him. It was a foolish, fleeting thought.

“You look lovely,” he said.

“Thank you—it’s the dress.” She turned slowly and grinned. “I could get used to dresses like this. Most of the time I wear my uniform or shorts when hanging around at home.”

He’d like to see her in shorts or a bathing suit. Or nothing at all.

Looking away quickly lest he give a hint of his errant thoughts, he walked to one of the chairs and gestured for her to sit in another.

She did so elegantly. What were the odds of having a suitable woman arrive just when Haile disappeared? One who seemed as at home here in his villa as she did behind the controls of the jet?

“So let the inquisition begin,” he said whimsically.

She shrugged. “I looked you up on the Internet. There’s quite a lot written about you and your brother. You have a lot of good press. Is that designed? Or are you genuine?”

“I’d like to say genuine. We are not given to excesses. We enjoy our work and do our best for it.”

“Your brother is harder to find out about, but you are often in the press. But no special woman—hence the arrangement with Miss Haile, I suppose.”

He kept his face without expression. At least the old press about his and Marguerite’s disastrous breakup was old news, probably not in the top articles brought up when his name was entered in a search engine. He had his father to thank for that.

“So I know more about you than this morning. Enough to fool your mother? That I’m not sure. There’s not much personal, like what your favorite food is or if you had a dog when you were a child.”

He relaxed. She was not probing for intimate details, just basic facts.

“My favorite food is candied dates. My brother and I had a wonderful dog when we were children. I miss him to this day. But my life is too busy and hectic to have a pet.”

She settled and began a litany of questions, firing them off as if on an invisible checklist—favorite book, movie, activity, color. Did he consider himself close to his family? Did he have special friends she should know about? A hobby that consumed him? How had he done in school? What did he like about his job and what did he wish to change? Who did he admire most in the world?

It was a novel experience to be so questioned. Not once did she ask about material things.

Finally she stopped. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, looking as if she were about to jump to her feet.

Rashid looked at her. “My turn.”

“I thought you had all you needed from the report Starcraft sent,” she said, looking amused.

“Ah, but I didn’t realize all the nuances of information necessary for an almost-engaged couple’s knowledge bank. I do not know your favorites or your passions.”

“Favorite color—blue. Food, anything with dark chocolate. Passions—flying. I have no boyfriend, which is lucky for you or we couldn’t be doing this stupid charade. I am not close to my mother—nor the man she married after she divorced my father when I was little. I love traveling and seeing the world. I have experience shooting down other aircraft.”

She looked adorable as she recited her list ending proudly with her startling fact. He was fascinated by the play of emotions across her face. Now sitting on the edge of her chair, her animation was a delight. Would his mother like her? What was not to like? As long as she didn’t find out Bethanne’s father’s name.

“I hope there will be no need of the latter while you are in Quishari.”

She laughed aloud. “I should hope never again, but it was training I received and just knowing I could do it improves my confidence. If I get into situations that make me uncomfortable, I remember I could shoot down a plane if needed and probably no one else in the room could.”

“A strange way to improve confidence.”

“It’ll help when meeting your mother.”

He laughed at that. This American woman was intriguing. He had even more reason to thank Haile for fleeing. If nothing else, Rashid planned to enjoy the next few days with Bethanne by his side. Without expectations on either part, they were free to enjoy the other’s company without looking for hidden nuances or motives.

He rose. “Come, we’ll be late if we don’t leave soon. And tardiness is something my mother does not like.”

“Tell me about her—I want her to be satisfied with the story we tell. Will she be hurt when the truth comes out?”

“Why should the truth ever come out?” he asked.

She looked at him in surprise. “Truth always comes out. You just make sure you put the right spin on it so she’s not hurt by your deception.”

“I would do nothing to hurt my mother.”

“Good answer.”

They were soon ensconced in the limo and on their way to the city.

“Where does your mother live?” Bethanne asked.

“In a penthouse apartment near the heart of the city, overlooking parts of the old section. She loves being in the center of things. It helps being close to friends since my father died.”

“The soup is delicious,” Bethanne said later, sipping the savory concoction. “So far I’m really enjoying the food here. I have a real sweet tooth and the candied walnuts really appeal. I shall have to buy a large package to take home when I leave.”

Madame al Harum looked at her.

“And when do you leave?” she asked.

Bethanne smiled and glanced at Rashid. “Not for a long time, I hope.”

She also hoped she was playing the role assigned her to his satisfaction. She’d been as gracious as she knew how when meeting his mother. She could tell at once that Madame al Harum did not like her. For one thing, she seemed to disapprove of tall, willowy blondes. She probably wanted a proper Arab woman for her son.

Then she expressed dismay that Bethanne was a pilot. It was too dangerous and too unseemly for a woman. Bethanne decided not to mention shooting down planes. She knew his mother would not appreciate that tidbit.

Dinner was easier. The food took some attention. She counted the minutes until they could finish and leave.

“And where is home for you?” the older woman asked.

“Galveston, Texas, right on the water. Galveston’s an island that has been home all my life.”

“What does your father do?”

“He’s an antique dealer. But I have to say, history in Texas doesn’t go back as far as here in Quishari. The old part of the capital city is thousands of years old. Texas has only been around for a few hundred years.”

Rashid looked as if he were enjoying the meal. But Bethanne didn’t think she was winning Brownie points with his mother.

“Tell me how you became interested in flying,” Rashid said when the main course was served.

Grateful for the change of topic, Bethanne plunged right in.

“My father loved to fly and took me up in small planes almost as soon as I could sit up by myself.” She smiled in memory. “It seemed logical when I got older that I, too, would love to fly. I actually learned when I was a teenager, to my mother’s dismay. When I was accepted to the Academy, she really flipped. But I think Dad talked her in to letting me choose my own way. Anyway, I learned to fly a variety of aircrafts and here I am.”

“So your father taught you to fly?” Rashid asked.

“No. That I had to do on my own. He was away more than home, actually. Probably why I’m following in his footsteps and seeing the world.” She met his eye, holding it for a moment, silently refuting his ideas about her father.

“And that was your reason for choosing to attend a military academy?”