Desert Orchid: The Desert Princes: Book 1 (2 page)

Immaculate in a black suit, white shirt and black tie, Omar snapped to attention. He resembled a bulldog. And had a shaved flat head along with a face that bore the marks of a pugilist. Trained never to show emotion, a muscle jerking in Omar’s wide jaw was the only outward sign that Sarif’s unexpected arrival caused dismay. Perhaps it was the small bird like eyes but something about the man always made Sarif uneasy and looking at him now that feeling returned times ten.

Omar gave a jerky bow from the neck, turned and ran up the wide marble staircase. For a big man, he was pretty nimble footed.

Sarif couldn’t say he was looking forward to the meeting with his younger sibling. He should be in his own country, Quaram, dealing with his own issues rather than bringing a wild and out of control puppy to heel. It had been a while, months, since he’d seen his brother and their last conversation had not been a happy one.

Strolling into an airy room that on a good day would be an opulent drawing room, he studied the evidence of a sybaritic lifestyle. His eyes narrowing in distaste on a couple of empty champagne bottles. Khalid certainly enjoyed the high life. And the British and European tabloids were happy to document every single second of his partying and womanising.

The toe of Sarif’s polished shoe, hand-crafted in Italy, nudged an absurd fragment of acid pink silk, a thong. A matching padded bra hung on a table lampshade made of the finest silk. Knowing his brother, he’d probably paid for the impressive breasts that filled the bra, too. Then he studied another bra tossed on a low sofa, black silk this time, and revulsion fanned the flame of disgust deep in his belly.

In many ways it was unfortunate that his brother had been blessed with the face of a pagan god and the body of a top athlete. Which just went to show that looks were deceptive, since Khalid wouldn’t know one end of a gym from the other. Considering the amount of booze he put away, how he’d kept his looks was nothing short of a miracle. According to their American mother, he and Khalid had been blessed with good genes, which accounted for the height, the broad shoulders, and the raw bone structure of their faces. Faces, if his mother was to be believed, that came from an Apache Indian in the eighteenth century. Something she never failed to mention whenever she got the chance.

A soft knock at the door and Omar entered, bowed his head.

"My Lord, His Highness will be but a moment." The high voice didn’t quite fit with the physical picture Omar presented to the world. Idly, Sarif wondered if that was why he found the man utterly repulsive?

The bodyguard kept his head bowed.

"How many?" Sarif wanted to know.

Standing on a plush Persian carpet Omar kept his eyes glued to his shiny shoes.

"Two, my Lord."

Beady eyes, black as jet, flicked to his and Sarif’s unremitting stare had the man swallow audibly.

Sarif kept his voice silky soft as a flick of his wrist indicated the discarded clothes, "Return these items to the, er...ladies."

Omar scrambled around the room picking up underwear, scraps of fabric purporting to be dresses, along with two pairs of killer heels, before bowing as he backed out of the room.

The double doors closed behind him with a soft click.

Sarif moved to the bar, poured himself a soft drink in a heavy glass of Edinburgh crystal and a very large brandy for his brother. He would need it after he broke the news. All good things must come to an end. And he wondered how Khalid would take it, no more parties, no more whoring, and no more freedom.

The doors opened and he turned just as a voice hoarse from sleep demanded,

"You can't just waltz into my home without notice, Sarif. What the hell do you want?"

The slow Texan drawl reminded Sarif forcibly of their American mother. Sipping his drink, he turned and met Prince Khalid El Haribe’s grey eyes with a bland stare. Studying his younger brother over the rim of the crystal glass, Sarif's eyes narrowed now both at the insolent tone and the appalling decline in his brother's physical condition. The last six months had not been good to him.

Khalid flushed under his scrutiny.

His eyes were bloodshot and underlined with dark circles. Deep lines of dissipation ran down either side of his mouth. Black hair, damp with sweat, curled over his ears, brushing his shoulders. The hair cried out for a cut and the gaunt face required a shave. Khalid wore soft denim jeans, which were white at the knees and seams and sat too loose on his narrow hips.

There were times when deep brotherly affection battled through anger and a desperate sadness that their relationship had deteriorated to the point where they barely tolerated each other these days, and this was one of those times. God, Khalid had lost too much weight, his stomach was concave and he could see his ribs. Loathing the feeling of utter helplessness, Sarif finished his drink and turned to place the glass on the bar to hide the swift shaft of anxiety that fisted in his gut.

He took a breath and turned back to find his brother tugging a tatty black T-shirt over his head, which told the world
'Elvis Had Left The Building.'

Khalid ran a shaky hand through his hair.

Since he hadn't been invited to sit, Sarif made himself comfortable on a plush couch of ivory silk. And decided that his brother's manners were absolutely deplorable.

"If you spoke to me like that in my kingdom you would lose your tongue, little brother," he reprimanded in a voice as soft as silk.

Heat rose over Khalid’s high cheekbones as he gave him an
'Aw, shucks,'
grimace.

"Sorry, had a bit too much bubbly tonight." He gave a jerky shrug. "You know how it is."

"I know how it is with you," Sarif drawled, then held up a hand as his brother's eyes flashed with a temper that was always too near the surface. "Trust me, I've better things to do than to interrupt your busy evening. However, I've brought news. Sad news, from home."

Alarm flared in Khalid's grey eyes. And Sarif was very pleased to see it. Perhaps there was hope for his brother after all.

"Father? Mother?"

"No. They are well." Sarif paused as the butler entered carrying an ornate gold tray holding tiny cups of aromatic thick black coffee and refreshments. He waited until they were served and the door closed before he continued, "Our uncle, King Asim of Onuur, died this morning. He was sixty-five. A heart attack."

Khalid blinked, shrugged once and then helped himself to a coffee and sweetmeat.

Waiting for a response that wasn’t forthcoming, Sarif ordered himself to be patient.

"Do you remember him?" he wanted to know.

Khalid frowned and yawned hugely. "I met him years ago, before he fell out with papa. Into ancient history, that sort of thing. He was an eccentric, wasn't he?"

"That might account for it," Sarif muttered, his eyes narrowing again as they remained on his brother.

"Account for what?"

"Naming you as his heir, amongst other things." Again he paused, and this time his smile didn't reach his eyes, as he watched the blood drain from Khalid's face. He continued, "Onuur is tiny, but wealthy, with plenty of natural resources that for some reason Asim was reluctant to mine. Something to do with the destruction of the natural flora and fauna, along with temples dating back to a time before Christ. Temples that are now protected as a world heritage site. It's probably too much to expect from you, but if you’ve been following world events, you’d know that our uncle’s death could not have occurred at a worse time. Under the guise of freedom and democracy covetous eyes are watching and waiting to get their sticky fingers on that wealth. Father is in agreement that the strategic advantage of having an El Haribe Prince ruling the Kingdom ensures political stability for the people and the region."

Khalid blinked twice.

"Is this some kind of sick joke?"

If only it was
.

"The King is delighted," Sarif told him. "I've been instructed to bring his prodigal son home. Tonight."

His brother shook his head, even as those bloodshot grey eyes met his. Eyes that were filled to the brim with anxiety and something that looked like fear.

"I’m not King material, Sarif."

Sarif nodded.

Too true.

"Apparently, our late uncle didn’t agree." Watching Khalid very carefully, he took another sip of coffee and delivered the killer blow. "Oh, and you’re to marry his widow, Her Royal Highness, Queen Charisse. The time has come for you to pack away your paint box and sober up."

Unfolding the stiff pages of the letter written by the fragile hand of her late husband, Charisse El Haribe’s fingers shook with the emotion that squeezed her lungs, her throat, and stung her eyes.

She shivered even though the temperature outside the palace, under a relentless sun, scorched the land at a steady forty-two degrees. Asim’s passing had been a blessed release for the ravaged shell of his body. But she still found it hard to believe he was gone. Poor Asim, his had been a life filled with suffering. His heart condition had been congenital, which meant no heir for the kingdom of Onuur. And Asim had borne his infirmity with grace, with a highly developed sense of humour and with fortitude.

As was the custom in her adopted land, Asim had been buried within twenty-four hours of his death.

Now she wondered how she could possibly carry on her life without him? The phrase was a cliché, but it was nevertheless very true that Asim had been her rock. And it wasn’t overly dramatic to say he’d saved her life, her heart and even her soul from certain destruction.

Had it really been six short years since he’d brought her, a traumatised sixteen year old, to this fabulous white palace? The structure had been built with Asim’s needs in mind, two thousand feet above sea level on the top of a mountain where the air was cool and clear, and where clouds sprinted across a magnificent expanse of a sky so blue it hurt the eye.

The faint scent of Asim’s signature cologne clung to the thick papers and his presence returned to her in an instant. With a deep inhale, Charisse pressed the missive to her lips. The scent eased the unremitting agony in her heart. And an extraordinary sense of Asim standing at her shoulder overwhelmed her. Even as the feeling brought her comfort, she knew he would expect her to face an uncertain future with bravery, with dignity. After all that he had suffered, the way he had courageously coped with the personal insults of a body reduced to skin and bone, the memory gave her strength.

Asim used to say that she’d given him extra years of life and Charisse hoped he’d been right. He’d been like a beloved father to her, a teacher, and most important of all, a true and loyal friend. And she’d loved him deeply with all of her fractured heart.

Ever since Charisse had been handed the letter from her darling Asim, by a stern-faced Minister of the Interior, she’d had the distinct sensation of waiting for an axe to fall.

The two women who sat opposite stared at her with eyes filled with grief and concern.

With a snuffle and a deep sigh, Boris’s immense head rested on Charisse's knee. Big hazel eyes locked on her face. They were filled with unconditional love and an intensity that had her press a kiss to his shaggy head of fur the colour of tarnished silver. Charisse raised her index finger. The dog moved with a reluctance that made her bite down hard on her lip to lie on the floor beside his brother Rufus. Her raised brow had Boris hide his face in his paws and heave another great breath from his massive chest. Her Irish Wolfhounds were suffering the loss of Amir, too. She’d take them out for a run later with Diablo. Her stallion needed to vent his excess energy, and it would do her good to escape from the palace for a little while.

Clearing her throat, Charisse blinked to clear her vision and read the letter aloud to her captive audience.

"My darling, Charisse,

I am sorry to leave you. Please find it in your heart to forgive me, but God has need of me in heaven.

You brought joy, laughter, companionship and love to a lonely old man. You opened my eyes and my heart to what is possible for our people and for the future of Onuur. Namely, the children.

It is crucial that you continue your work, Charisse. And you must resume your studies! I know - nag, nag, nag."

Charisse smiled into the swimming eyes of her sister-in-law, Yasmin. And into the brown eyes, sharp with a ruthless intelligence, of Arabella Faulkner, her bodyguard and trusted friend. Then she took a deep steadying breath and continued,

"You cannot return to the land of your birth. HE now wears a cloak of respectability and has become too powerful. You know too much, and that is dangerous. As I await to leave this earth, my greatest fear is that HE will attempt to strike you down. To prevent such an event I have already set in motion plans to secure your future. Plans that even a man such as HE dare not defy.

I have named Prince Khalid El Haribe as my heir. You must marry him within six weeks."

Stunned disbelief had Charisse blink once, twice.

Her heart rammed to an emergency stop then roared too loud in her ears. She shook her head in denial of what she held in her hands written in black ink by that fragile hand.