1
Professor Janice Johansen. It sounded nice, didn’t it? Much better than the cumbersome Associate Professor or the lame-ass Assistant Professor or the mortifying title of Lecturer, which pretty much meant you were never going to get tenure.
Not that Jan had gotten that coveted tenured title yet. Yes, all indications were that the board would vote to grant her tenure at the end of the year, but it was never a sure thing. After all American universities waived the retirement age, tenured positions were hard to come by. You pretty much had to wait for one of the old guard to actually die at his desk for a spot to open up!
“This is your year, Jan,” she said to herself as she checked her look in her iPhone camera. “This research you’re doing will be the jewel in your crown, and when it’s published, they’ll be begging you to accept tenure out of fear of losing you to one of those fancy Ivy League schools.”
Not that she wanted to leave the University of Pittsburgh. Jan was a Pennsylvania girl: Dutch, German, and maybe some Cherokee mixed in. Who knew. Who cared. She’d never been particularly curious about her ethnicity, never wanted to do those in-vogue ancestry tests. Genetics wasn’t her thing, even though her PhD was in Biology and she’d been hired into the Biology Department. Her research interests had trended more towards sociology—how people lived together in societies large and small, ancient and modern, past and present. How they lived together, and how they . . . well, how they . . .
“Good morning, I’m Dr. Janice Johansen from the University of Pittsburgh,” she said in the privacy of the single-person restroom she’d found somewhere in the maze of hallways that crisscrossed the conference wing of the Dubai Metropolitan Palace Hotel in the heart of the United Arab Emirates. “And I’m studying alternative marital structures and socio-sexual arrangements in modern societies, contrasting and comparing them with our primitive ancestors, who lived in small hunter-gatherer tribes in which most adults practiced shared sexual relationships as a way to strengthen the bonds between . . .” She trailed off and shook her head when she considered that the men and women at the conference—assuming there would even be any women in the room—were mostly wealthy Arabs, all of them millionaires, several of them billionaires, and some of them straight-up, honest-to-goodness royalty. Most of them would be followers of conservative Islam, but they weren’t uneducated fools. Many of the younger Arabs had spent time in the West, studying or partying or doing multi-million-dollar business deals. They were used to Americans trying to make things sound more important and serious than they were, and they’d immediately see through her well-rehearsed academic nonsense.
“Maybe it’s better to just say it in plain English,” she muttered as she dabbed at a smudge on her lipstick, wondering why she was doing her face on her iPhone camera when there was a mirror in front of her. Perhaps it was because she had the camera permanently switched to the soft light effect, which smoothed out her skin and made her look younger. All those late nights studying in college, six years in grad school, and then another God-knows-how-many years at Pitt teaching and doing research had taken a toll on Jan, as her mother always pointed out.
“You should have started with the deep-wrinkle treatment in your twenties,” Mother Johansen had said the previous Christmas when she’d inspected Jan’s face with a frown, running her bony finger along Jan’s forehead and then tapping her twice between the eyes like she was trying to release an evil spirit who was causing wrinkles to appear. “You can’t suddenly decide to start taking care of your skin when you’re in your thirties and expect to look presentable.”
“Wait, are you saying I’m so wrinkled that I’m not presentable?” Jan had snapped, every tiny muscle in her face tensing up as it occurred to her that ninety-percent of the few wrinkles she had were the result of the two weeks a year she spent with Mom. “Should I sit at the table with a bag over my head? Or maybe I just stay in the kitchen while your presentable friends gather around the tree and Botox each other into oblivion.”
Mom’s expression would have changed if not for the recent Botox session, and Jan had smirked and shaken her head and pushed her glasses firmly up against her nose. Jan knew Mom hated the fact that she wore glasses. Maybe that’s why she’d never switched to contacts. Who knew.
“Firstly,” Mom had said curtly. “They’re not friends, they’re family. My family and your family.”
Jan had taken a breath and turned away. The “family” Mom was talking about were the step-kids of her third husband, with whom she’d eloped, which meant Jan hadn’t been invited to the wedding, which meant there wasn’t really a wedding, as far as Jan was concerned. And the step-kids? Well, they weren’t “kids.” They were all in their thirties and some had step-kids of their own. So with all of that, Jan couldn’t keep it straight and didn’t really want to. And no, the irony didn’t escape her that now she was somehow fascinated with studying “alternative” family and marital structures across the world when she could write a goddamn book about the nonsense going on in her own mother’s kitchen.
“Breathe,” she told herself, finally turning to the mirror. She shifted uncomfortably in her skirt-suit, which had become alarmingly tight since she’d last worn it a year earlier. Perhaps it was all that sugary tea and sweet dates she’d been eating while in the Middle East. Or perhaps she was just destined to be fat, she told herself, trying to feel sorry for herself in that perverse way she did sometimes. It didn’t work. Jan had too much of a sense of self-worth to feel down about having a big butt.
Back in those primitive societies a large woman was a coveted prize, she reminded herself. Girth and heft was a signal of health and fertility, not to mention wealth and status. Yes. Tell yourself that, hold your boobs up right, stick your fat ass out like you’re proud, and walk out there with your glasses and your theories. Shake hands with these Sheikhs, and get them to talk about what you’re here to learn about: Polygamy.
Polygamy. The disgusting, misogynistic, oppressive practice of a man taking multiple wives. Sure, a self-proclaimed prophet in Utah could take a hundred wives while these Sheikhs were only allowed four by Islamic law, but these weren’t madmen living on rural farms in the middle of nowhere. And the women weren’t sheltered know-nothings either: Indeed, Jan knew that many western-educated Arab women of royal blood willingly entered into such appalling arrangements even when they had the choice of stepping away from tradition. Was it brainwashing? Abuse? Or was there something deep in human nature that said sharing a spouse is perhaps not as evil as we’d like to think, was perhaps more common in our past than we’d like to admit? That’s what Jan was here to find out. Real interviews. Real data. The old ways were slowly dying out even in the conservative Middle East, she knew, and within a couple of generations the practice of polygamy was destined to be phased out as women became empowered and the younger Sheikhs became modernized. After all, Jan couldn’t help but notice a recent spate of dashing young Sheikhs marrying American women and popping out babies like they were back in the Garden of Eden. She needed to get some insight into this old practice before it was gone and everyone was just in boring, civilized one-on-one marriages!
But how to get one of these Sheikhs to talk openly about what was traditionally a very guarded part of Arab culture? And even if she did get someone to open up, how would she get to what she was really after? The real question: Sex in a shared marriage.
Because that was what intrigued the world most about any marriage that involved more than two people, right? People might not want to admit it, but it’s the first thing that anyone thinks about when they hear of a three or four or five person marriage: How does the sex work? Is there a schedule? A priority? Completely ad hoc? A goddamn orgy every night?! And if she could get some insight into that, it would be new. The research would be important, and it would also be interesting. Maybe a book deal. Real publicity. Not that Jan cared about fame that much, but becoming a celebrity professor with a popular book would certainly grease the skids when it came to tenure.
“Does my face look greasy?” she asked the mirror as she leaned forward and touched her plump cheek and pursed her lips. “Dammit. I thought the desert was a dry heat, so why am I so hot and sweaty?! It must be the humidity in this damn single-person restroom. I should get the hell out—”
She stopped mid-monologue as the dark wooden door to the supposedly locked restroom swung wide open and a tall tuxedo-clad Arabian man strode in like he owned the damned place—restroom, hotel, and perhaps even her. Without flinching he looked her up and down, his eyes flashing green and narrowing slightly as his gaze followed the curve of her breasts down past her strong hourglass shape, all the way through to her thick bare thighs that were a bit spread because she’d been leaning forward to check out her fat greasy face in the mirror.
“Ah, yes, excuse me,” he drawled in a devilishly deep voice, his gaze unwavering, a tingle emerging at the base of Jan’s neck as she realized that holy mother of hell this man was slowly closing the door behind him. “I was looking for my fiancée.”
Jan straightened up and put her legs together, adjusting her glasses while suddenly wishing she’d taken her mother’s advice—all her mother’s advice: wrinkle cream, contact lenses, Botox, fat-loss pills, ass-reduction surgery . . .
“Well, she’s not here,” Jan said hotly, her jaw clenching as she fought the urge to adjust her glasses again. She cocked her head and held her arms out wide. “See? No fiancée. Just me and you in a single-person restroom. Anything wrong with this picture?”
The man smiled, showing beautiful, gleaming white, perfectly aligned, picture-perfect teeth that seemed to say he was perfect so there could be nothing wrong with any picture that had him in it. She blinked and took a quick breath as she noticed the strong line of his jaw highlighted by the manicured, impeccably groomed stubble that looked soft and organized but somehow still wild. His lips were dark red and full, his nose naturally straight and sharp, his dark hair richer and more vibrant than the deep black tuxedo jacket that had clearly been tailored to fit the masculine V of his body.
“There is nothing wrong with this picture,” he said, letting the door fall shut and standing tall, neither his smile nor his shameless gaze showing any signs of letting up. “Me and you, as you said. Though I believe the grammatically correct phrasing would be ‘You and I.’ Is English not your first language?”
Jan felt herself go bright red, and the tingle that had started at the base of her neck quickly developed into a full-on line of electricity that made her tighten her asscheeks so hard she worried she’d get a cramp and fall down near the toilet, clutching her ass and screaming for help. Then he’d have to massage her rump to save her life, and then . . . wait, no, stop, you moron! Talk like an adult!
“I’m an American professor with a PhD and almost thirty papers published in my name,” she said fiercely, wondering why she was defending herself when he was clearly messing with her. “And tailored tuxedo or not, I think you need to worry about your manners before attempting to correct my grammar.”
The man frowned, touching his chin and looking down at her from his height, which seemed towering in the small enclosed space. He was lean, but still heavily muscled, judging by the outline of his thick pectorals that pushed almost obscenely against the fitted cotton broadcloth of his startlingly white shirt. She should feel threatened, but she didn’t. Uncomfortable, yes. But not uneasy. Oh God, was she actually . . . turned on?
The thought hit her just as the subtle aroma of his cologne rose up around her, a deeply masculine musk of red sage and tobacco leaf, with hints of sandalwood and raw spice. She blinked hard and adjusted her glasses again, wondering if they would fog up in this humid space. Should she just take off those glasses and shake open her hair, like in those cheesy movies where the ugly girl suddenly becomes beautiful when her pigtails come loose? Should she smile coyly and explain that she was conducting a scientific experiment on how sex worked in shared relationships, that she’d love to interview him, that if he’d just take a seat and give her a moment to hoist her butt up beside the sink and cross her legs seductively, they could begin.
“What is wrong with my manners?” he said, breaking her out of the fantasy that had her half-laughing, half-fainting as it occurred to her that either it was in fact very humid in here or there was some other reason she felt wet between the legs. “I did say excuse me, did I not?”
“And then you walked in and closed the door behind you,” said Jan, regaining her senses and crossing her arms under her breasts, pushing them up without thinking even as her nipples stiffened in approval. “Which isn’t just bad manners, but is downright threatening.”
The man’s jaw went tight, his eyes narrowing. He took a step toward her, but she held her ground, wishing she hadn’t when she took in his warm, manly scent again and realized that no, it wasn’t the humidity that was making her panties feel damp.
“So you are feeling threatened, my American professor with a PhD and thirty published papers?” he said slowly, the words oozing out of him with an erotic smoothness that made her want to slap him one moment, let him have his way with her the next. “Threatened by my formidable Arab presence? My dark skin? My foreign accent? My black hair? My exotic, erotic—”
“OK, stop!” she said, pushing past him and pulling open the door. “Are you for real? You walk in here looking for your fiancée, and the next moment you’re all up against me? Have you no shame? Seriously, you’re not helping to offset any of the awful stereotypes about how Arab men interact with women! Disgusting!”
The man stayed calm at her outburst, and he maintained his unflinching, coolly confident demeanor. He watched her with those deep green eyes as she turned in the open doorway to snap at him one last time before heading out of there. But before she got another word out, he spoke.
“Thirty three,” he said calmly, touching his chin again and tilting his head back, showing off the perfect structure of his high cheekbones as the soft yellow light highlighted his face like this was a goddamn studio that he’d designed to make him look like a Greek god. Great genes, she thought absentmindedly, hating herself for thinking it. His children would be beautiful, wouldn’t they? Ohmygod, stop!
“What?” she said, frowning as she wondered why she was still here, pleased that she was still talking in complete sentences. “Thirty three what?”
“Thirty three papers. That is how many you have published under your name. I have read all of them. Some are a bit redundant, but I understand that you have to keep publishing papers to stay relevant in American academia, so you are forgiven.” He smiled and took a step toward her again. “You are also forgiven for calling me disgusting, obscene, threatening, and an Arab stereotype. You are forgiven, because I can tell that you are intrigued by me, mystified by me . . . attracted to me too, I sense.”
She stepped back into the restroom without realizing it as the door slowly swung shut behind her, almost smacking her on the butt as if to tell her she was an idiot and she should turn and run. “What the hell?” she muttered. “What is this? Who are you?”
“Sheikh Darius of the Kingdom of Noramaar,” he said. “And I am the answer to your prayers, just like you are the answer to mine, Professor Johansen.”