Chapter One
The light came through the gap in the window curtains and spilled over onto Sheikh Cemal Samara’s eyes. He blinked the early morning sun away and rolled over to his right, grinning to himself when his arm wrapped around the nubile flesh of the young girl he’d brought home last night. To his left, the other girl—her twin—yawned and then nuzzled up against his neck. There were many days when being the sheikh and leader of Jordan was a hard, thankless job. Most of their neighbors were on the perpetual brink of war while he worked tirelessly to bring his nation closer to the Western traditions. Maybe his tendency to be anything but an adherent worked into his desires, but there were few things in life finer than a nice, stiff drink.
One of those few pleasures included women who were not only gorgeous but up for anything.
Still, if the sun had risen, then it was getting close to 7 a.m. in his kingdom. He knew that he would be expected to conduct the usual business meetings. It was Monday after all. Even if he had spent most of the night partying and doing so much more, that was no excuse to shirk his duties. He was no longer as young as he was right out of college, but he still had the same strength and stamina. This allowed him to pull himself together after many long nights of debauchery and enjoyment. He merely needed to make his mouth stop tasting like an ashtray and end the elephant stampede in his head. Then Cemal would be ready to be the titan of industry he was.
Truly.
The twin on his left (was it Anara?) reached lower and stroked his hardness. How generous of her to relieve him of his usual morning trials. Grinning, he lowered his hand under the comforter in order to trace his fingers over the soft skin of her eager arm.
“You are a goddess, my dear.”
“And you, my son, are a hedonist!” his mother called as she stormed into the room.
Darjeela Samara had been the fiercest and most commanding sheikha in her time as co-ruler of Jordan, and she was no less strict as a mother. No, scratch that. Darjeela was definitely tougher on him as a mother than she’d ever been as a ruler, even on the biggest criminals and troublemakers in their nation. It was as if her ruling duties had been nothing more than preparation to handle and control him.
She eyed him and the two shrieking girls but continued on her path to throw open the curtains, forcing so much light into the room that his eyes hurt. Dear Allah, now it was a full circus banging around in his head. He was going to have to down half a bottle of aspirin to banish the aftereffects of his impromptu party last night.
“Mother,” he groaned, even as the twins scurried out from under his covers and out of the room. At least he was given a final glimpse of the round cheeks of their rears as they ran. They were some of the finest specimens of womanhood that Jordan had to offer. Not that he couldn’t easily find more tomorrow or the night after. Yes, in some ways, it was good to be the ruler. “You couldn’t have waited ten more minutes?”
“I thought I’d make an impression,” she said, sitting down at a sedan chair in the corner of the room. Her long, greying hair was swept up in a bun, but her eyes had already been lined with fine traces of kohl this morning. It was enough to highlight her eyes, to make her gaze that much more piercing. “Some of the ministers have mentioned you seem ‘rundown’ lately.”
He glared back at his mother and pulled his comforter up to his neck. “I always make the most of my days. Our country is safe, our citizens well cared for, and our oil company and fortune managed exactly. Nothing is lacking.”
“You do look tired every day. We can all see the circles upon circles under your eyes, my son,” she said.
How could she cram so much condescension into her tone? Was that some gift that only his mother possessed? She had the perfect ability to make him feel sixteen all over again. Tough, he was thirty-five (almost), and he didn’t need her guilt trips. He would not be brought low by anyone, let alone a woman. It was one of the few points of view he shared with his late father.
Men were supposed to be men, damn it.
“Mother, you tread on far too dangerous ground; you are easing onto a pit of quicksand and you do not even realize it.”
She narrowed her eyes back at him and shook her head. “I know everything about you, child, and you cannot intimidate me. Besides, your father never could either.”
“It’s because of the wild infidel blood within you,” he said, grinning for his mother.
“Yes, it’s all those strong Western ideals from my mother, as well.”
His grandmother had been French. Maybe that was what had made both him and his mother so headstrong. Maybe it was what had made his father stay distanced from him.
Some days, even Cemal didn’t know.
“Still, you cannot yell at me enough to make me leave. You are not living up to your full duties as the sheikh of Jordan and the current heir to the throne, and you know this.”
“Because I haven’t settled down yet? I have time,” he groused, crossing his arms over his chest. Granted, it would have had more of an effect, if he wasn’t as naked as the day he’d been born under his blanket.
“Yes. The biggest duty of any king is to ensure that the family line continues. The Samara dynasty has ruled these lands for—”
“Five hundred years. I’m well aware,” he said, sighing. “They’ll continue to rule them for five hundred more. I simply am not ready to tie myself to one woman.”
“You need to. Each day is a gift. You never know when you might be taken from this earth. Your father didn’t.”
“And I am not my father, but I don’t need to ruin my fun.”
Mother flared her nostrils, and Cemal knew he’d stepped in it then. Standing, she began to pace, even as she flung her arms wildly about her. Occasionally, she’d even slip into French—learned at her mother’s knee—and that was how Cemal knew he was truly screwed. His mother cursed in two languages only when she was truly irate. She’d been sitting on these feelings of disappointment with him far longer than he’d realized.
“So taking two girls to bed in one night…sisters, no less, is fun?”
“How did you know?”
“Maleek. Your servant is faithful to the country first, and he tells me when he is worried about you and your conduct. You make a fool of yourself and the family name by carrying on like a college student. You are far from your Harvard days, and you know this. So why must you persist in being so damn irresponsible?”
He wanted to stand, to tower over his mother, and only his current state of undress kept him from doing so. “I wanted to marry a girl once.”
“You were too young then. On that, both her parents and your father and I agreed.”
“But you ask me about fooling around. That’s the truth, Mother. If I can’t have the girl I want, then I should enjoy myself with as many as I can in the meantime. I know how you operate. I know you’ve been talking to the sheikha of Lebanon. One day, I’ll be set up with their eldest daughter for a loveless, political union. You’re so very good at what’s expedient.”
“And you excel at what’s both embarrassing and infantile. Lost love might make for a good story, but you were seventeen and that was a lifetime ago. You have a duty to your people and to your father’s memory,” she said, crossing to his closet and gathering up an indiscriminate bunch of clothes. She stormed to his bed and tossed the associated shirt and tie and other accoutrements in his face. “Now, go and get the day started, and try and grow up. Either you find a wife soon, or I will find one for you.”
***
“Maleek?” he said, closing his laptop and looking back at his servant.
The other man seemed to shake where he stood, even the hair of his long goatee seemed to stand on end. Fair enough. Sheikh Cemal could cut an imposing figure when he wanted to. It was more than deserved, too. He didn’t appreciate his closest servant expressing so-called concerns to his mother. He didn’t need to be mollycoddled or watched. He was a sheikh, damn it, and no matter what his mother droned on about, Cemal would do as he pleased.
“Sire?” his servant asked, his voice unusually high.
“Do you think I’m an embarrassment to the throne?”
Maleek looked about him and inched closer to the door. “Sire, I didn’t say that exactly. I am worried about you, however, and I needed to let the sheikha know of my concerns. You don’t understand how tired you look.”
He leered at the other man. “It’s called ‘fun,’ Maleek, and I suggest you try it sometime. No, in fact. Consider that an order. I command you to have fun this coming weekend.”
Maleek laughed. “I have three daughters and all of them are under eight, my sheikh. I admit the most fun I have is rewatching Frozen on a loop with my wife until the girls pass out.”
Cemal frowned. He hadn’t known that about his servant. Then again, they didn’t spend much time conversing about their personal lives, either. Maleek, for the longest time, existed to serve him. There was no conversation needed. However, now that he’d crossed that line from servant-master professionalism, Cemal was curious. Besides, he only had business associates. He didn’t have friends. He knew no other men to ask about what marriage was truly like.
“Do you like it?”
“My sheikh? Do you mean working for you?” Maleek asked, bowing low. “It’s a blessing to be able to serve you, someone who has been blessed by Allah himself.”
“No, I don’t mean about working here in the palace.”
Maleek stilled and widened his eyes. “Sire?”
Cemal waved his right hand before him and shook his head. “No, I’m not going to fire you. You’ve been loyal for ten years. I just would appreciate it if you speak to me and not to my mother the next time you’re worried about my energy levels and exhaustion.”
“I promise, my sheikh. But what else did you want to know?”
“Do you like being married?”
“It is hard,” Maleek said, as he furrowed his brows in concentration. “But I love my wife dearly, and I love the life we’ve created with our daughters. It is not the riches of your palace, but there is a treasure with them that cannot be bought.”
“That sounds nice,” he said, drumming his fingers on his desk. “I don’t know if I can trust marriage.”
“Sire, I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps that is a bit too much sharing for now or ever, Maleek,” Cemal said, standing and collecting his phone and his newest report on the drilling out in the Mahala Fields. “I have a dinner engagement with the ambassador from the United States. I should make sure the table is fully prepared.”
“Yes, that would be wise.”
“Great and…” he started, groaning when the lights went out and the emergency alarm blared. “Blast it all!”
This was the fourth time in two weeks that the so-called smart system in the palace had gone haywire. He’d had the local technicians and IT consultants advised by the parent company in Silicon Valley, but nothing had fixed the programming yet. The first time, Cemal had readied his palace guard and assumed that an invasion of his home was imminent. By this point, he merely wanted to bash his head into a wall or, conversely, string up the founder of Simco Systems by their neck.
“Change of plans,” he said, furious that his dinner with the ambassador would have to be moved to a less private restaurant. It was not as ideal for secure discussions as he’d hoped. “Maleek, get the head of Simco on the line now. I need their best programmer from their home office sent here now. I’ll either have it fixed by the expert or tear it out with my bare hands. Their choice.”
“Yes, sire. I’ll get right on it.”