4
The view from the podium almost made her choke with nervousness. Jan had spent her career standing in front of groups and speaking with clarity and confidence, but this was different. It was mostly foreign, bearded men in the room, half of them putting on headphones because they didn’t speak English, which meant they wouldn’t be hearing her voice, her intonations, her cheesy one-liners and wise-ass phrasings. The other half were looking at their gold-plated iPhones, and the few men that were paying attention seemed more interested in her legs than the first slide of her presentation up on the big screen.
She took deep breaths and scanned over the crowd as she waited for the host to introduce her in Arabic and then in heavily accented English. The announcer was midway through her qualifications when Jan’s gaze rested on a pair of blazing green eyes that made her heart jump.
Oh, God, it’s him! Sheikh Darius, she thought as she swallowed hard and told herself so what. Pretty much everyone in the hotel was here for the conference. You had to know he’d be in here.
It was almost time for her to start when the thoughts of that unexpected encounter in the restroom came flooding back to her. Now as she stared into his eyes, she suddenly remembered why Noramaar sounded familiar. It was on the banks of the famous Golden Oasis, a massive body of fresh water almost as large as one of the Great Lakes. It was unique in that two kingdoms shared that one oasis: Noramaar and the kingdom of Habeetha, which had been in the news a few years ago for inviting a horde of new immigrants even though the livable land area seemed unable to handle it. The move had invited speculation of a future land-grab by the young, brash, long-haired Sheikh Ephraim, who was known as a renegade in that he’d allowed alcohol to be sold in his kingdom, legalized prostitution, and was openly tolerant of the banned practice of gambling. Habeetha was often called the Las Vegas of Arabia, and so it was no surprise that when Ephraim opened his borders for six months, young men from the more conservative nations of the Arabian Peninsula poured in, happily agreeing to serve five years in the army in return for a lifetime of a monthly stipend and citizenship in Sin City, Arabia!
A round of polite applause rose up as the host finished the introduction, and Jan heard herself start speaking. Years of habit and practice kicked in, and she breezed through her presentation in record time, even drawing a few laughs with her one-liners. The talk had been fairly innocuous—nothing about her racier theories of shared marriages and societies in which they flourished. This wasn’t that kind of conference. She took a few questions and then walked off the stage to the secluded dressing area where she’d prepped earlier. There’d been a pot of tea there, but it had been replaced with an inviting looking glass of lemon-infused water.
“Congratulations on an exceedingly boring lecture, Professor Johansen,” came his voice from behind her as Jan gulped down the tall glass of lemon-water. The tone was flirtatious and teasing. “How did you even get invited to this conference?”
She knew who it was before she even turned. By then she could smell his intoxicating musk, and once again it made her body wake up. Does he feel this magnetism, she wondered as she looked up and met his gaze, his green eyes dancing with spirit as if he was inviting her to get on the dancefloor with him, play whatever game he had in mind.
“I was the only American professor to apply, I believe,” she said licking the tart lemon off her lips and smiling, even though she knew she was setting back feminism about fifty years by even engaging with an entitled chauvinist who’d invaded her space. “And maybe they thought I was a man, since I used Jan Johansen on the application form.”
Darius grunted, frowning as he glanced at her mouth, then her nose. He pulled out a white silk handkerchief from his pocket, and without hesitation reached out and dabbed at her face, just above her lips.
Startled, Jan swiped his hand away and stared at him. “What the hell?” she barked, looking around to see if anyone else was there. They were alone, and she was about to curse at him and then storm off, but then she saw the dots of bright red on his white silk kerchief. “What the hell?” she said again, her head buzzing when she realized it was blood. Her blood. Just a speck, and when she touched her face again there was no more. But it was clearly her blood.
The Sheikh grimaced and looked at his watch, his calm demeanor revealing a crack in it, like he was angry, upset, perhaps at himself. He looked into her eyes again, his own eyes soft with emotion, perhaps an apology. “Ya Allah, it seems mad, but this was the best way. The most honest way. Come, Jan. Lean on me. I do not want you to fall and break your glasses. I am not sure we will have time to have a new pair made before we get to Noramaar, and I would like you to see the Golden Oasis from the plane before we land.”
“What . . . the . . .” she gurgled when she felt her vision start to blur. The Sheikh came close and slid his arm around her waist just as she swooned and collapsed against his hard body. Through the haze she saw that empty tumbler, her lipstick smudge looking red and vibrant against the shimmering glass. She tried to say something again, but only gibberish came out. She looked into his eyes, a moment of clarity coming over her as she clawed at his muscled back while he held her firm. “Poison,” she managed to mutter, clenching her teeth and then absurdly trying to bite at his face as her thoughts slurred along with her words.
“Do not be ridiculous,” he whispered against her hair, and there was that beautiful, intoxicating smell of his body again. “Why would I poison the woman I am planning to marry? It is so much more Sheikh-worthy to simply drug and kidnap you, don’t you agree? Do not worry about the blood. In your drink was aruha, a natural extract from a desert cactus found in Noramaar. In high doses it can dry out the nasal passages very quickly, sometimes causing minor bleeding. Come now. Hold tight and relax. My plane awaits. My head cleric is on board, and your handmaidens are readying your wedding gown. In five hours you will be my wife, and the queen of Noramaar. After that I will explain everything, and then you will have the option of backing out if you so choose.”
“Psycho,” she managed to gurgle as she felt him lead her deeper into the interior of the hotel, down a heavily carpeted hallway, toward a white wooden door, beyond which she thought she could see her own future—a future where she was screaming wildly while still clawing at his muscular back. “Help,” she whispered weakly, wondering if she was walking or being carried, alive or in a dream-state on her way to the land of the dead. “Someone help. Psycho. You’re a goddamn psycho.”
“Perhaps,” he said, kicking open the door and dragging her out into the blinding sunshine, where a black limousine was waiting, its back door wide open, two bearded guards standing watch. “But look at the bright side. You can call your mother and tell her you just married a king. Here. See.”
She was sprawled haphazardly on the red leather backseat of the limousine, for some reason wondering why she wasn’t unconscious yet if she’d been drugged. She watched in semi-disbelief as the Sheikh opened a blue jewelry box, out of which stared a diamond the size of her eyeball, perched atop a ring of shimmering gold.
And then, finally, she passed out, amidst a swirling mental image of piercing green eyes and shining gold.