Her Royal Protector (a Johari Crown Novel) (Entangled Indulgence) (12 page)

It didn’t take a genius to see that Aly Percy had so far met nothing but mules.

Arif’s two very separate goals came together with a crack so loud he looked around for the source before he understood that the sound originated in his own head.

He would reveal Aly to herself, and then she would reveal herself to him. There was perfect symmetry in it.

He considered the problem as he swallowed the perfectly presented gourmet meal. He was not unused to dining alone, but tonight solitude was somehow an irritation. Even excellent food like this was better shared.

The problem was how to get her guard down far enough to get her into bed in the first place. She was not like most of the women he had met, who were only too ready to believe in their own attractions. Aly believed she had nothing to offer. Any time he got near she stiffened in rejection.

“Was anything wrong with the dinner, Sir?” the maitre d’ asked in solicitous alarm. Arif looked down. He had left his entree half-eaten, succulent and delicately flavored as it was.

“Nothing at all,” Arif said. He felt jaded tonight. He would have been better off staying to eat something simple on the yacht.

You would not feel jaded if she were here with you.

Arif pushed the thought away. The point was not his own pleasure.

The dilemma is this—that you will not get near her until she believes that you find her attractive. And whatever you say, she will not accept her beauty until she sees it herself in a mirror.

The maitre d’ gently removed his plate, handed it off to a busboy, and dusted the tablecloth. The sweets menu was presented. Arif lifted a negligent hand in rejection and it disappeared.

“Coffee, perhaps? A brandy?”

“The bill,” Arif said.

As the man moved away to do his bidding, the solution came to him. Like a gift from the air. Arif pulled out his phone and dialed a number.

“Princess?” he said, when a voice answered.

“Arif, hello,” said Shakira. “How are you? What’s the news?”

“Cousin, I come to you in quest of a favor,” he said.

Chapter Twelve

When she looked round and saw him, Arif was standing gazing at her, only yards away from where she relaxed on the low stone wall, her feet up, arms on her knees, her back against the trunk of a tree, watching the world go by. He was so darkly handsome in the black dinner jacket and white shirt that she caught her breath on a tiny moan before involuntarily smiling at him.

He smiled, too, and a moment later he was right in front of her.

“Have you eaten?”

“Chicken kebab and salad in a pitta bread,” she said. “What about you?”

“Delicate curls of sautéed duck breast steeped in a deliciously piquant coulis of ginger and lime,” he recited gravely, “on a bed of brown rice fluffed with a whisper of garlic.”

Aly laughed, as much at his attitude as the pompous silliness of the description itself. “Is that word for word?” she demanded. Arif shrugged and flicked her another smiling look that went right to her toes.

“Close enough.”

“And was it?”

“Deliciously piquant?”

“What else?”

“It would have been better for your presence,” he admitted. “How about the kebab?”

“Snap,” she said, just a little breathlessly.

“And what did you have for dessert?”

“I have been considering whether such a thing as an ice cream van exists in the rarefied atmosphere here.”

“In the highest degree unlikely,” Arif told her, and held out his hand. “Come and we will find something suitably sweet together.”

As far as Aly was concerned, his presence was sweetness enough, and she couldn’t resist the invitation to walk with him. She put her hand into his and swung her legs down from the wall. Just for a moment, as she stood straight, he was close, too close, making her yearn to be even closer. The tree, the stone wall, and Arif—all strong, all real, all sprung from the good earth, she thought with crazy abandon. A powerful current of strength flowed from his hand right into her bones, warming her from the inside. His hand was her sure support.
He’s as trustworthy as tree and stone and I’m a fool to be swayed by Richard’s doubts.

They walked with and through the strolling groups of yachting people and other visitors, stopping once to look in a carpet shop window, but not for long; Arif had something in mind. Somewhere music was playing again, soft and magical.

“Come,” said Arif, and turning, he led her into a half-lit passageway between two dark stone walls. For one wild moment a crazy anticipation fluttered to life in her, her blood hot and honeyed as it pumped from her belly south.
We will find something suitably sweet together.
If he kissed her…

Then she realized that the music was getting louder. A high gate barred the way, but Arif spoke to the young guard in the universal language, and the gate swung open.

A moment later they were in a high-walled courtyard, where massed bougainvillea and hibiscus drooped against whitewashed walls and tables were lighted with soft fat bulbs holding tea candles. Thick banks of rose blossom clustered over a high trellis along one wall, the magic scent falling generously down. In a corner, on a tiny stage, a small band played instruments Aly had never seen before. Standing in front of the players, without benefit of a mike, a white-haired woman in shot-gold and turquoise robes was singing in the most haunting, tragic voice Aly had ever been privileged to hear.

Her song ended as they entered, and as they joined in the prolonged applause a French foursome got up to leave. There was a buzz of conversation in the silence. Arif led the way to the table that had just been vacated. He pulled out a chair, and it took Aly a few seconds to realize that he was holding it for her. She wasn’t used to this kind of attention, nor to the look in his eyes as she passed him to sit down. She glanced around: every table was full.

“You’ve got the magic touch,” she murmured, hoping to defuse the mood with the little joke, but her words took on another meaning, which only cranked up the feeling of connection.

“I hope you think so, at any rate,” Arif said into her ear as he sat down at her left. Hot blood rushed into her chest and cheeks. Her breasts ached. It was meaningless, she knew that, just knee-jerk, but he couldn’t know, could he, that she was so unused to sexual banter, and already so foolishly attracted, that the comment had liquefied her bones?

A waiter hurried over to the table and cleared the few glasses. After a short exchange, Arif asked her, “Sherbet, or traditional pastries?”

“Sherbet,” Aly said, not because she wasn’t interested in the local cuisine, but because sherbet might help to cool her blood.

“And coffee?”

She nodded and the waiter disappeared. The band started playing an intro, and after a few moments the old woman opened her throat and began another song.

“
Aiiiiinaaa…”

A collective sigh went up, and every conversation died. Aly glanced around in surprise. Except for one table of obviously foreign tourists, the space was filled with Bagestanis, and all of them had their eyes riveted on the singer with the kind of worshipful gaze normally associated with rock stars.

And now Arif was murmuring in her ear underneath the tender, poignant voice of the singer,

“Where is the Rose?

When will I see her?

The nightingale asks after his Beloved.”

His whisper electrified her senses all the way to her toes. What did he mean? After a moment, Aly exhaled a little puff of scorn for her own foolishness: he was translating the song for her, that was all.

“
He asks the Night

Where is the Rose?

He asks the Moon

Why does she hide herself

From my eyes?”

Her melting was sweet and tender now, soft as liquid honey poured over her heart, warm as tears of joy. An ache of yearning rose up in her, a hopeless hunger for Arif’s words to be for her.

It was a song, nothing more. And she should focus on the singer and stamp hard on that foolish hope, because it was going nowhere. But the song was magic in her ears, strange and haunting and pure, undermining her resistance. No surprise that many eyes were glistening with tears in the candlelight.

“When the incense does not burn

It gives off no perfume

Only those who have been consumed by love

Understand me.”

Consumed by love. What might that feel like, to love so deeply that you burned up your own substance? Was it this feeling that she must lean in to Arif’s strong chest and nestle there all the rest of her life? That she would die if he did not move his arm from the back of her chair to enclose her body in safety forever?

Fool that she was.

“Aiiiinaaa al Warda,”
sang the old woman, but it was not the old woman anymore, it was the song itself that sang, the air that breathed it; and the scent of roses was richer now, as if under the magic of the plaint, the Rose could no longer hide herself from her Beloved.

“Where is the Rose? Where is the Rose?”

Aly’s heart was beating so hard she was going to faint. Oh, let her not be consumed by love for Arif al Najimi! Please let this be just the hunger of physical desire. She could resist that, her recognition of her own impossible shortcomings would protect her there—but love? How much of a fool she could make of herself if she loved him. How her heart would be torn by love’s loss.

“
Haytha al Wardahhh…”
the last notes of the song wailed out.

“Here is the Rose,”
Arif whispered, and then the place erupted with passionate joy, everyone on their feet crying and applauding, to the obvious amazement of the single table of foreigners, who looked around blinking. The old woman, ageless and beautiful in the candlelight that illuminated the courtyard, held up her arms to embrace them all. Aly discovered that she was standing, too. She opened her mouth and shouted, and found that her pent-up feelings were eased by it, and shouted again.

“Suha! Suha!” they cried, and the singer pressed her palms together and bowed. A long white braid fell down over her shoulder almost to the ground. A moment later, she disappeared through a doorway, but the cheering did not stop.

…

“Are you crying?”

Arif, his own eyes burning, gazed down into Aly’s liquid eyes and touched a tear from her cheek. Foreigners did not often cry at
Aina al Warda
, even when the great Suha herself sang.

She shrugged it off with a little laugh as the audience at last fell silent and seated themselves again. “Why not? Everyone else is.”

The waiter brought their order. Arif took out his wallet and pulled out one of Jafar Hamrahi’s business cards. He penned a quick note on the back of it. “Please pass that to our
Bulbul,
” he murmured in Arabic. “Tell her we would be honored to have her join us.”

“On my eyes,” said the waiter, and disappeared.

“That was wonderful,” Aly said, taking a spoonful of peach sherbet into that rosebud mouth in a move that knotted both heart and groin. Arif tilted his head in agreement, lifted his cup, and sipped the thick dark liquid.

“Is it traditional music?” she pursued.

“You can’t get more traditional than
Bulbuleh Bagestan
singing
Aina al Warda
.”

“That’s her name?” Aly took another mouthful and sighed with pleasure. She took too much delight in so small a stimulus, his animal brain pointed out. Her body must be starved for pleasure. He would enjoy teaching it what real pleasure was.

“It means
Bagestan’s Nightingale
,” he explained. “The great Suhaila was for years the voice of the anti-Ghasib resistance.”

“Oh, I remember. She sang a song that…” She broke off.

“
Aina al Warda,”
Arif supplied.

“That was the song?” she asked in delight. “Oh, no wonder.” She looked around at the people still shell-shocked by what they had just heard. “And she’s singing
here
? There’s room for so few people! Didn’t she used to draw crowds of thousands after the Silk Revolution?”

He was glad she understood. Not every foreigner would have. “And tens of thousands. Suha rarely sings in concert for a mass audience now, however. Such performances ask too much of her at her age. But she was in exile for so many years, unable to sing to her people, that she refuses to retire. So she sings in venues like this around the country. Usually without any advance notice, otherwise somewhere as small as this would be swamped.”

He looked up and smiled, because already at the gate to the courtyard there were people lined up and calling out, “Suha! Suha!”

“And how did you know she was here? Just your magic touch?”

Arif shook his head. “I happened to be talking with Princess Shakira this evening. When she found out where I was she told me Suha was singing here tonight.”

“Princess Shakira? Do you know her?” Aly immediately looked abashed. “Oh, of course you do. Sorry, just two worlds clashing, you know.”

Arif wasn’t surprised at her reaction. Princess Shakira was the darling of the western tabloid press, Bagestan’s favorite royal abroad.

“She is a cousin of sorts,” Arif began, but the sound of applause made him break off and look around. Suha was coming out again, and the audience were all getting to their feet. He stood and waited as Bagestan’s Nightingale smiled and nodded on her way to his table. Aly was standing too, her mouth open with delight and astonishment as Suha approached.

“Suha, may I present Aly Percy?” Arif said in Parvani and then English. “Ms
. Percy is a scientist with the charity that is working to preserve the Johari turtle. Aly, everyone calls Bagestan’s Nightingale Suha. Suha speaks a little English.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, Suha,” she said.

“So. You come to save our heritage,” the great singer said, with help from Arif, when all the assembled had seated themselves again. “You must have a good heart, Miss Percy. I am myself of Johari blood, so I very much appreciate your…” she paused, “your sacrifice.”

“It’s no sacrifice.” Aly smiled self-deprecatingly. “The sea turtle is important to the environment as well as to Johari tradition. It’s one of the few natural predators of the jellyfish, for example.”

“My granddaughter also works for charity, did you know? Good hearts like yours are what keep the world from destruction.”

Aly did not know how to accept the praise, he could see that. And more was to come. “You are like her,” Suha said suddenly in English, with an approving smile. “Beauty like a…like a…a
peri
.”

He did not translate. There was no word in English. Fairy was too limited. Pixie, elf…a peri was all three, and more.

“Beauty!” Aly protested. A little puff of incredulous laughter. “Who, me? A face not even a father could love.”

“Who tells you this lie?” Suha said, in the words that were on Arif’s own tongue. She reached out to stroke the tear-stained cheek, just as his hand yearned to do, then slipped up to catch a lock of the peri’s hair and tuck it behind her ear, revealing the delicate bone structure and an elfin ear.

“
Pericher o peripaykar,”
Suha murmured in Parvani, and commanded, “Tell her what I say.”