Accidentally the Sheikh's Wife / Marrying the Scarred Sheikh: Accidentally the Sheikh's Wife
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“That would be nice. So do we change the charade now that we both know your mother doesn’t like me?”
“My mother does not dictate my life. She is annoyed I didn’t bring Haile tonight. She was instrumental in making that arrangement.”
“It’s more than that. She doesn’t like me. Not just because I’m not Haile, but because of who I am,” Bethanne said. She didn’t need everyone in the world to like her, but she was a bit hurt Rashid’s mother found her wanting.
“It’s of no account,” he said.
Of course not. This wasn’t real. It was make-believe—until he had his huge deal signed and sealed. Then she’d be on the next plane to Texas and his life would resume its normal course. Gossip would be quelled. He’d get his way and his mother would be very relieved.
“Her home was lovely,” she said, looking for conversation. “Did you grow up there?”
“There and here and other places.”
He looked out at the garden, visible now by the discreet lighting illuminating paths and special plants. He could hear the soft sound of the sea, noticeably different from faint traffic noise. “My flat today is not as pretty as this estate. It’s downtown, not far from Mother’s. I like living there yet I had almost forgotten how enjoyable this place is.”
“Well, I appreciate being allowed to stay here. It’s so much better than a hotel.”
“I’m sure my grandmother would have been delighted to have visitors enjoy her home. She spent several months a year here. But had other property, as well.”
Well, duh, Bethanne thought. His family probably had two dozen residences among them. She wondered idly if there were enough bedrooms among all the residences for him to sleep in a different one each night of the month. What must that feel like?
She had a sudden longing for her small apartment, with its familiar furnishings and photos. It might be fun to consider being Cinderella, but at the end of it all, wasn’t she happier in her own home?
As Bethanne prepared for bed some time later, she thought about the evening. It would not have been better for Rashid’s mother to welcome her into the family. She was not truly involved. And if the woman had liked her, she would have been disappointed when the charade was exposed.
Talking with Rashid on the veranda had given her a glimpse of what life married to him could be like. Only—there was no good-night kiss. She sighed softly. Was she going to be disappointed with no kiss before returning home? Yes. Yet she wasn’t bold enough to kiss him.
Before turning off the lights, she opened the French doors to let the sea breeze sweep in. The light curtains billowed. The scents and fragrances from the garden were a delight. She slipped between cool sheets and lay down.
An hour later Bethanne was still wide awake. She’d tried lying on one side then the other, then flat on her back. Nothing worked. If she had a book or magazine to read, it might lead to sleep. She considered the situation, then sighed and got up. She had not brought a robe, thinking she’d be alone in a hotel room and not need one. Quietly she dressed in her slacks and shirt. Bare feet would be okay, she was sure. It was unlikely she’d run into anyone. It was after eleven. Surely all the staff had retired for the night.
She opened the door and stuck her head out, struck suddenly with the romantic-comedy picture that flashed into her mind. People sneaking from one room to another, peering into the hall to make sure the coast was clear. She planned nothing of the sort and stepped boldly out. She walked down the stairs, surprised when she reached the foyer to see a light coming from the library.
Silently she walked to the doorway. When she was within hearing distance she heard a phone. It was answered before the second ring.
The words were in Arabic, but she recognized Rashid’s voice. She thought he had left long ago. When he’d bid her good-night, he said he had to pick up something from the library.
He was still here, and the phone call wasn’t going well—not if the terse tone was anything to go by. She hesitated at the doorway, not wishing to interrupt, but still wanting something to read. She’d come this far; she’d wait for the conclusion of the call and then step in to find a book.
The conversation didn’t take as long as she’d expected before a harsh word was sounded, then a string of them. She wondered what was going on. He sounded angry. Sudden silence ended the call.
When the silence had lasted several minutes, she took a breath and stepped closer, knocking slightly on the door frame. She saw him standing by open French doors. His back was ramrod straight. His body seemed to radiate strong emotion in contrast to the stillness with which he held himself.
He spun around, glaring at her for a second. Then he quickly adjusted his expression to reveal nothing.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“I was going to ask you the same thing. I thought you left a while ago.”
“I did. Then I remembered a file I had left and returned for it. I was about to leave when I got a phone call on my mobile phone.” He still held it in his hand.
“I heard. Not that I understood a word, but it didn’t sound like a very friendly call.”
“It was from al Benqura. He found out about Haile. She contacted him. He was angry with me for not letting him know.”
“How awkward that would have been.”
Rashid sighed and walked back to the desk, leaning against it and nodding. “Awkward for him. He’s threatening to end the deal. I told him in no uncertain terms that would not be acceptable unless he never wanted dealings with anyone in Quishari again.”
Bethanne could empathize with the father whose daughter had run away and put him in a difficult situation. She watched as Rashid gradually relaxed. He was quick to anger, but also quick to regain his equilibrium. She saw when his curiosity was piqued by her arrival.
“What are you doing here?” His gaze dropped to her bare feet. His lips curved in a slight smile.
“I came for a book to read. I can’t seem to sleep. You said you had some English books—I thought I’d get one of those.”
He nodded and gestured to the shelving on the left. “English books on that wall. My grandmother used to entertain several friends from Great Britain. She has an assortment. The mysteries are on the lower shelves.”
She crossed, conscious of his regard, and began to scan the titles. Finding a couple that sounded promising, she drew them from the shelf. Had Rashid read them? Could they discuss them after she finished?
Deciding to take both, she hugged them to her chest as she turned to face him.
“Now what?” she asked.
“You read them and fall asleep?” he asked.
“I mean with our charade. Did the phone call help or change things?”
“We continue. Whichever way the winds blow, we will adapt.”
CHAPTER THREE
“I DON’T mean to intrude. But if you need someone to talk to, I could listen.” She wished she’d had someone to listen to her when her father’s disappearance became known. Her mother had long ago divorced herself from Hank Pendarvis—both legally and emotionally. She and Bethanne’s stepfather had a loving and happy marriage from which Bethanne had often felt excluded. Plus, they never had a kind word to say about her father. Bethanne wished she could have him give her one of his bear hugs again. Did Haile’s father feel that way?
“Did he hear from Haile?” she asked.
“He did. And is furious with her and with me.”
“You’re the injured party—why is he angry with you?”
“He believes I should have told him immediately. He could have taken steps. He overrates his power. By the time I found out, Haile had had hours to flee Morocco. She and her lover were married in Marseilles that very day. My telling him would not have prevented that.”
“Will he tell others? Your minister?”
“Not if he wants this deal to go through.”
He pushed away from the desk. “I have my folder. I won’t keep you up any longer.”
He looked at her slacks and T-shirt.
“Was sleeping attire not included in the clothes I ordered?”
“Yes, but no robe. I didn’t know whom I might see if I came down for books.”
“I shall remedy that in the morning.”
“Please, I’m fine. Next time I’ll take a book up with me. You’ve been more than generous. I don’t need anything else.”
“I thought all women loved beautiful things.”
“I expect we do. But we don’t have to own everything we see. Good night, Rashid.”
Reaching her room a minute later, she softly closed the door and flung herself on the bed, the books falling on the mattress beside her. She had not expected to see him again tonight. He’d looked tired and somewhat discouraged. Not the best way to end a day. She hoped the deal would be signed soon. There was nothing else she could do but go along and hope in some small part she’d contribute to a satisfactory conclusion to their negotiations.
Trying to settle into a fictitious mystery when she had a real-life scenario in her own life was difficult. Murder was not involved in her case, but finding clues was. She tried to glean ideas from the book, but her mind turned time and time again to Rashid.
She knew he believed Hank to be a thief, but wouldn’t he still want answers? Letting the book fall onto her chest, she gazed at the dark night beyond the billowing curtains. The man at the airport had said the son had no idea why her father took the plane. Didn’t he want to know? She couldn’t picture Rashid ignoring the situation. He’d push until he got answers.
Just before she fell asleep, she pictured herself with Rashid finding her father and finding the reason for the apparent theft. It could be explained away. Then Rashid would look at her with admiration and sweep her into his arms for a kiss…
She stopped herself—she had to stop fantasizing about his kisses!
Once again Minnah woke Bethanne the next morning, bringing a breakfast tray. The hot chocolate was as rich and satisfying as the previous day. The croissants were warm and buttery, melting in her mouth.
She debated going for a swim, but decided she had best set to searching for her father. She wanted to prove to Rashid his belief was misplaced.
“Pardon, I almost forgot,” Minnah said after she opened the French doors and curtains to allow the sunshine to flood the room. “It is a letter from His Excellency. I will return for the tray in a while.” She handed Bethanne an ivory-colored envelope with her name written in a bold script.
She opened it and read the brief note, her heart revving up. It had taken ages to fall asleep and then her dreams about Rashid had been exciting and most certainly not ones she wanted to share with anyone. The best favor she could do herself would be to remember always that this was merely make-believe.
A car will be at your disposal today. The driver will be waiting when you are ready to take you where you wish. He speaks English, and can translate if you wish to stop to shop or have coffee.
Disappointment warred with relief at the missive. What had she expected? A love note? An offer to spend the day with her?
The bold handwriting continued: Saturday I have a polo match, I would like you to attend. Perhaps you’d care to see the horses before the game. If there is not a suitable dress for you to wear, let the maid know and she’ll relay the information and something appropriate will be ordered.
Bethanne was almost giddy with excitement. Trying not to act like a schoolgirl with a major crush, she took a deep breath. Of course someone being in a position of special guest would want to attend the polo match. Mentally she reviewed the new clothes. She wasn’t entirely certain what was suitable for a polo match, but didn’t think any of the lovely dresses were the right kind.
Still, the thought of his buying more clothes caused a pang. He didn’t need to spend so much on this charade.
“Get real,” she said aloud. “He can afford it and the clothes can go to some worthy cause when I leave.”
Pushing the thought of leaving away, she quickly finished breakfast, showered and dressed in a light tan linen skirt and soft yellow cotton blouse. She planned to take advantage of the driver the sheikh offered to see some of the sights of old town this morning. She couldn’t wait to see the ancient buildings, walk where generations past had walked. And maybe find out more about her father.
Then, if time permitted, she’d take advantage of the beauty of the Persian Gulf and laze on the beach until Rashid came after work.
Bethanne was pleased to see the driver at her disposal was the same one she’d asked about her father. She greeted him and told him of her desire to see the old city, and where Hank had lived.
When they arrived, he pulled into the curb and stopped.
“I cannot take the car any farther. The road becomes too narrow. Down there two blocks.” He handed her a sheet of paper with Arabic writing. “I wrote his name and when he lived there and where. Show it to people for information about Hank. Many speak some English. If not, come get me to translate. I will wait with the car.”
“Thank you.”
“You will not get a good reception,” he warned.
“Why not?” That thought had never crossed her mind.
“The old sheikh was well liked. It was not a good thing to steal his plane. Some speculate the pilot’s betrayal caused the heart attack that killed him. The man had flown the sheikh for years. His treachery cut deep.”
Bethanne recognized she was fighting an uphill battle to clear her father’s name. He would not have treated his employer that way—she knew it. His letters and phone calls had been full of admiration and respect for his employer. But how to prove that, and find out what really happened?
When she climbed out of the car, she was instantly in a foreign world. The tall sandstone walls were built closer to each other than most American buildings. Rising fifteen to twenty feet in height, they seemed to encase the street. Archways, windows and doors opened directly onto the narrow sidewalks, most already shuttered against the day’s rising heat.
Bethanne was almost giddy with delight. She’d longed to visit Quishari ever since her father had first spoken about it. He had loved it and she knew she would as well. Savoring every moment, she slowly walked along, imagining she heard the echo of a thousand years. The heat shimmered against the terra cotta–colored walls. Here and there bright colors popped from curtains blowing from windows, or painted shutters closed against the heat.
She got her bearings and headed in the direction indicated in the drawing. Where the street intersected another, she peered down the cross streets, seeing more of the same. Archways had decorative Arabic writings. Recessed doorways intrigued, beckoned. For the most part, however, the reddish-brown of sandstone was the same. How did anyone find their own place when they all looked alike? she wondered.
Reaching a square, she was pleased with the wide-open area, filled with colorful awnings sheltering stalls with everything imaginable for sale. There were booths of brass, of glass, of luscious and colorful material and polished wood carvings. Some stalls sold vegetables, others fruit or flowers. Women and children filled the aisles. The sounds of excited chattering rose and fell as she looked around. On the far side, tables at two outside cafés crowded the sidewalk. Men in traditional Arab dishdashahs with white gitrahs covering their hair sat drinking the strong coffee. Others wore European attire. Several women dressed all in black stood near the corner talking, their string bags ladened with fresh produce from the stands in the square. The air was almost festive as shoppers haggled for the best bargain and children ran and played.
Bethanne watched in awe. She was actually here. Looking around, she noticed she was garnering quite a bit of attention. Obviously a curiosity to the daily routine. She approached one of the women and showed her the paper. The woman began talking in Arabic and pointing to a building only a few steps away. Bethanne thanked her, hoped she was pointing out the apartment where her father had lived. She quickly crossed there. No one responded to her knock.
Turning, she explored the square, stopping to ask in several of the stalls if anyone had known Hank Pendarvis, showing the paper the driver had prepared. No success until she came to one of the small sidewalk cafés on the far side of the square. A waiter spoke broken English and indicated Hank had been a frequent customer, years ago. He had met with a friend often in the afternoons. The other man still came sometimes. She tried to find out more, but he had told her all he knew. She had to make do with that. If she got the chance, she’d return another time, to see if her father’s friend was there.
She asked if she could leave a note. When presented with a small piece of paper, she wrote only she was trying to find out information about Hank Pendarvis and would return in three days.
She dare not at this point mention her tenuous relationship to the sheikh. She did not want anyone trying to reach her at the villa. Until she knew more, she had to keep her secret.
Bethanne returned to the car then instructed the driver to take her to the best store in the city. She wanted to search for the perfect outfit to wear to a polo match. She did not need Rashid buying every stitch she wore.
When Bethanne returned to the villa late in the afternoon, the driver must have had some way to notify Fatima. The older woman met her in the lobby, her face disapproving, her tone annoyed as she said something Bethanne didn’t understand. Probably chastising her for leaving her chaperone behind.
To her surprise, Rashid al Harum came from the library.
“Ah, the eternal pastime of women—shopping,” he said, studying the two bags with the shop’s name on the side.
“Your stores had some fabulous sales,” she said. “Wait until you see the dress I bought for the polo match. I hope it’s suitable—the saleswoman said it was.” Conscious of the servants, she smiled brightly and hurried over to him, opening the bag a bit so he could peek in.
He did so and smiled. Glancing at the staff, he stood aside.
“Perhaps you’d join me in the salon.”
“Happy to,” she said.
He spoke to Fatima and the woman came to take Bethanne’s bags, then retreated.
“Is anything wrong?” Bethanne asked once the two of them were alone in the salon.
“Not at all. I have some spare time and came to see if you wanted to have lunch together. I have not forgotten you wanted to see some of my country. Where did you go this morning?”
“To a place in the old town. I walked around a square there, saw a small market. Then went shopping for the dress.”
“I’d be delighted to show you more of the old town, and some of the countryside north of the city, if you’d like.”
“Yes. I would. I probably won’t get the chance to visit Quishari again after I leave.” Especially if she didn’t find her father, or convince Rashid he was innocent.
“And I remember you like exploring new places,” he commented, studying her for a moment.
“I’ll run upstairs and freshen up. I can be ready to leave in ten minutes.”
“There’s no rush.”
She smiled again and dashed up to her room. She should have been better prepared for Rashid, but had not expected him to disregard work to spend time with her. She was delighted, and hoped they’d find mutual interests for conversation. She could, of course, simply stare at him all day—but that would look odd.
Rashid walked to the opened French doors. He gazed out at the gardens, but his thoughts centered on his American visitor. Bethanne fascinated him. Her profession was unusual for a woman. Yet whenever she was around him, she appeared very feminine. He liked looking at her with her fair skin, blue eyes and soft blond hair. Her casual manner could lead some to believe she was flighty—but he’d checked her record and it was spotless. He also found her enthusiasm refreshing after his own rather cynical outlook on life. Was that an American trait? Or her individual personality?
Rashid knew several American businessmen. Had dined with them and their wives over the years. Most of them cultivated the same aloof cosmopolitan air that was so lacking in Bethanne. Maybe it was that difference that had him intrigued.
His mother had called again that morning, bemoaning the fact Bethanne was visiting and that Haile had not come. When he’d told her he was just as well out of the deal, she’d appeared shocked. Questioning him further, she’d become angry when he’d said he wasn’t sure the arrangement had been suitable in the long run. He didn’t come out and tell her of firm plans with Bethanne, but let her believe there was a possibility.
He almost laughed when his mother had tentatively suggested Bethanne wasn’t suitable and he should let her help him find the right bride. He knew he and Bethanne didn’t make a suitable pair. Yet, if he thought about it, she would probably have beautiful children. She was young, healthy, obviously intelligent.
He stopped. It sounded as if he were seriously considering a relationship with her. He was not. His family would never overlook what her father had done. And after the aborted affair with Marguerite, he didn’t fully trust women. He would do better to focus on finalizing the details of the agreement with al Benqura.
His mother had reminded him she expected a different guest, and so would others.
“Until they see Bethanne. Then they’d know why she’s visiting,” he’d said, hoping to fob her off. It would certainly give a shot in the arm to the gossip circulating. And, he hoped, throw off any hint of scandal the minister might try to expose. Animosity ran deep between them. Rashid would not give him anything to fuel their feud.
He’d already invited Bethanne to the polo match. Perhaps a dinner date or two, escorting her to a reception, would give gossips something else to talk about. It would not be a hardship. And al Benqura was in a hurry to finish the deal, as Rashid had suspected. Once the papers were signed, Bethanne would be leaving. Life would return to normal and no one except he and she would know the full circumstances of the charade. The thought was disquieting. Maybe he wouldn’t be in so much of a hurry to finalize everything.
Bethanne took care when freshening up. She brushed her hair until it shone. Tying it back so it wouldn’t get in her face, she refreshed her makeup. She felt like she was on holiday—lazing around, visiting old town, now seeing more of the country. Spending time with a gorgeous man. What was not to like about Quishari?
She was practical enough to know she wasn’t some femme fatale; she’d never wow the sheikh like some Arabian beauty would. Haile had had that sultry look with the fine features, wide choco-late-brown eyes and beautiful dark hair so many Arab women had. Next to them, she felt like a washed-out watercolor.
Leaving her room, she started down the stairs.
“Prompt as ever,” he said from the bottom.
She glanced down at him, gripping the banister tightly in startled surprise. She could take in how fabulous he looked in a dark suit, white shirt and blue-and-silver tie. His black hair gleamed beneath the chandelier. His deep brown eyes were fixed on her. Taking a breath, she smiled and tried to glide down the stairs. Was this how Cinderella felt going to the ball? She didn’t want midnight to come.
“You look lovely,” he said.
Bethanne smiled at him. “Thank you, kind sir.”
Once seated in the limo, Rashid gave directions to the driver. Bethanne settled back to enjoy being with him.
“So if I’m to watch a polo match on Saturday, maybe I should learn a bit of the finer points of the game,” she said as they pulled away from the villa. “What should I watch for?”
Rashid gave her an overview of the game. Bethanne couldn’t wait to see Rashid on one of the horses he spoke about. She knew he’d looked fabulous. She had to remind herself more than once on the ride—sheikhs didn’t get involved with women from Galveston, Texas.