Desert Orchid: The Desert Princes: Book 1 (4 page)

Prince Khalid El Haribe leapt out of the helicopter, closely followed by Omar, along with four close protection officers belonging to his father’s guard.

He glanced at the tribes gathered around their tents.

Men, lean and mean, with guns and ammunition strapped across their chests and dressed in loose black robes, watched him through dark eyes filled to the brim with suspicion. While dusty haired toddlers clung to their older brothers and sisters.

No sign of the women.

No sign of a welcome either.

And again Khalid asked himself what the hell he was doing.

The dry heat was brutal.

Add in the stirring scent of camel dung, unwashed flesh, and his delicate stomach lurched.

The crisp collar of his white cotton shirt felt too tight, like a noose, around his neck. He couldn’t remember the last time he'd worn a monkey suit. This one was black silk with a black tie, all by Armani.

Eyes narrowed behind dark glasses, he surveyed his new home, The White Palace. 

He'd read up about it. Built fifty years ago from granite blasted from a quarry near Aberdeen in Scotland, the palace was an unforgiving structure designed by an architect who'd rigorously followed minimalist principles. Behind walls three feet thick, the imposing structure glistened and gleamed under a merciless sun. It should have looked incongruous, perched on the edge of a mountain in the middle of the desert, but it blended seamlessly into the harsh and unforgiving landscape.

As they approached, monumental entrance gates, which appeared to be constructed of a heavy metal painted silver, swung open with a smooth movement that told him they were electronically operated. Then he spotted what appeared to be a huge field of solar panels following the path of the sun.

Interesting.

But he had no time to dwell on modern technology as a welcoming committee descended upon him consisting of a dozen men wearing a
thwab
and a ceremonial
besht
denoting high status.

Omar moved to Khalid's left side while his brother stood to his right.

Sarif was here for moral support and to help him settle into his kingly duties, which was just as well because he didn’t have a clue how to run a meeting never mind an entire country.

Once the bowing and scraping of the ceremonial duties were over, the senior ministers of his small government led the way into a wide and open courtyard constructed of sandstone.

The hair on the back of Khalid’s neck prickled.

Looking up he spotted a woman standing on a top floor balcony watching him. She wore a white prayer
burka
.

Probably his soon-to-be-wife.

Khalid's stomach lurched.

Two days without alcohol and although he wasn't exactly suffering, the heat made him thirst for a beer.

They entered a stunning entrance hall the size of a cathedral. Wide double staircases flowed away to the right and to the left, up to the higher levels for at least four floors.

Good God, it climbed right up the middle of the mountain and was open to the elements, which made it amazingly cool and airy. The wind made an unusual whispering sound. It wasn’t quite a moan and it gave the place an otherworldly, almost ethereal feel.

A wave of dizziness washed over Khalid, and he wondered if it was the altitude.

His pulse kicked as perspiration beaded on his top lip.

Invited to sit, he thankfully accepted refreshments as Sarif addressed the Sheiks in the local dialect. He spoke on behalf of his father, King Abdullah, who was recovering from minor heart surgery, an event with which his youngest son had not been acquainted. Khalid was not fluent in khaliji Arabic and had difficulty following what was being said.

Yet another obstacle to overcome.

Again he wondered what the hell he was doing?

Why had he agreed to this fiasco?

Because, the little voice in his head told him he needed to atone, to make amends to his family, and this was the first chance he’d had in over six years to do so.

He needed to do his duty, and get on with it, so he forced himself to pay attention.

Two hours later Khalid's head was pounding.

He was taken to what, he assumed, was his late uncle’s extensive library. It smelled of old books, incense and had a strangely spiritual feel.

It was a room that had belonged to a scholar.

He didn’t belong here. He was way out of his element and he knew it. And looking at the men who were watching him like black crows sitting on a tree branch, they knew it, too.

Witnessed by his brother and the Sheiks of eight tribes, Prince Khalid El Haribe signed away his freedom and life as he knew it.

In return he was a King of a tiny state peopled by nomads whose way of life hadn’t changed for hundreds of years. Listening to the sonorous tones of his Prime Minister, Khalid realised these men were looking to him to bring Onuur into the twenty-first century and prosperity.

Well, God help them.

And God help him.

Six hours later, the inside of Khalid’s skull was threatening to split wide open.

His hand shook as he poured himself yet another glass of water.

What a time to go on the wagon.

The lecture from his father still rang in his ears. Family honour, his duty to the people of Onuur and his duty to its Queen, which apparently including producing an heir ASAP, made him wonder if he’d lost his fucking mind.

He had no idea what the Queen looked like, or even how old she was.

Considering his uncle had died at the relatively young age of sixty-five, he imagined she must be in her late thirties or early forties. The information he’d managed to glean was the couple had been married for six blissfully happy years. Apparently, his future wife was a modest and devout woman who’d been devoted to his uncle. She never travelled outside the country and was,
‘A little eccentric.’
And,
‘Fond of animals and children.’

He could only hope to hell she had all her own teeth.

Now he frowned.

She might sound like a saint, but today he'd learned something very interesting about his future wife. And now he wondered how she was going to explain to him why she had millions of dollars deposited in her name in Swiss banks. It looked like the queen that everyone was so fond of had feet of clay. And that was a complication he could do without.

Hell, he needed a drink.

Two endless days later, Khalid was beginning to get his bearings.

The palace was a vast building that would take weeks to fully explore.

The queen’s domain was strictly off limits to everyone, including him.

She’d asked for time to grieve, to be left alone.

Since Khalid was still drying out and not exactly feeling his best, he’d been more than happy to comply with her wishes.

On the queen’s instructions, he’d been allocated sleeping chambers and a studio for his art at the opposite end of the palace from her quarters. For some reason it stung his pride that it appeared she wanted him as far away from her as physically possible. Okay, he was the first to admit that he might not exactly be cut out to rule a tiny rock in the middle of a desert. But at least he was willing to give the role his best shot. All she had to do was to meet him halfway. Surely that wasn't too much to ask?

Since his art came first with him before any other consideration, including ruling a stinking dust bowl hotter than hell itself, and marrying its elusive queen, Khalid had absolutely no qualms in overruling her orders. He'd discovered the space with the best light was directly below her apartments and he wasted no time in organising his environment to suit his own needs.

The one family member he had met, and already grown fond of, was his elderly aunt Yasmin who joined Sarif and himself at dinner each evening. She made sure they were comfortable and had everything they required. From her he’d learned that Charisse, apparently the name meant Beloved,
yeah right
, was hands-on when it came to educating the populace particularly the women and children. As his aunt droned on, Khalid hid a yawn behind his hand and decided benevolently that he didn’t have an issue with his future wife's little hobbies. He was quite happy to leave her to it. Sarif, however, was vastly intrigued about the educational programmes and was, he said, looking forward to meeting Charisse to discuss how Onuur's syllabuses compared to the systems he’d implemented for his people in Quaram.

At the end of each day, Sarif went through the day's endless events with Khalid, who was instructing his brother on the personalities and politics involved. Sarif would spend three days a week in Onuur as a special advisor to Khalid until the wedding was organised and the couple had returned from their honeymoon.

One thing that continued to elude Khalid was sleep, which was why he was awake and aware enough to hear horses riding out in the early hours every night under a moonlit sky teaming with constellations glittering like diamonds.

During his single visit to the impressively organised and immaculate stables it had been made crystal clear, very politely, that the queen’s horse Diablo was strictly off limits. The black stallion was colossal, at least nineteen hands high. And Khalid couldn’t imagine any woman managing to control the great beast never mind the slight woman he’d spotted on his arrival.

But maybe his eyes had been deceiving him. Maybe Charisse was a woman strong enough, big enough, to handle the stallion. Khalid was six foot three. But the thought of bedding an Amazon with heavy muscled thighs made his mouth go bone dry.

By day five, Khalid had a distinct picture of his wife-to-be in his head.

She was a big-boned woman. Her biological clock was ticking. She was a conservative believer in tradition, seriously devoted to her people. She enjoyed reading and listening to music. And, he thought bitterly, sounded a right barrel of laughs.

Luckily for him he had Omar in his corner.

One of his bodyguard's many skills was that he kept his ear very close to the ground. Therefore he made sure Khalid was kept up to date with the comings and goings in the palace. It was Omar who'd informed him, with great reluctance, that the gossip in the palace was that his future wife was somewhat less than impressed with the choice of her husband-to-be. Apparently, she thought that Sarif would have been more acceptable to her as a husband.

The blow was brutal to his ego, but Khalid was honest enough with himself to admit that he understood where the woman was coming from.

He was also honest enough to admit that Charisse's rumoured low opinion of him, before she'd even met him, stung.

Which was a pity for the future success of their marriage, because Khalid was prone to dark moods.

Always had been.

He wasn't a man who was good with a lot of time on his hands. As the old saying goes,
The Devil finds work for idle hands
. And now he found himself brooding all day over a deepening sense of injustice. As time passed, the sting of that injustice burned too brightly in his belly.

Feeling very hard done by, he was sitting behind an antique desk in the dark cave of the library. His tired brain pondering on how much his life had changed in a matter of days.

He’d cleaned up his act. He even shaved every day. Although he’d drawn a line at cutting his hair. Much to Sarif's disgust, Khalid merely tied his hair back at the neck. What more did his brother want from him?

Glowering at the endless piles of papers on his desk, the brisk knock at the door was a welcome distraction.

Omar entered.

"Miss Arabella Faulkner requests a moment of your time, Highness."

Khalid's dark brows rose into his hairline.

Did this mean a sign of life from Charisse?

At last.

"Show her in."

Khalid knew Arabella was the queen’s bodyguard, companion and friend, and that she was British ex-special forces. He’d expected a woman built like a tank. So the tall, slim woman who entered caught him by surprise.

She bowed her head as Omar closed the door behind her.

Dressed in black military cargo pants, soft boots, black short sleeved T-shirt with a web belt and automatic pistol harness, she was an impressive sight. He gauged she was five foot nine, about one hundred and twenty pounds.

Expression carefully neutral, the bodyguard stood with her feet shoulder-width apart, hands behind her back.

Tough, was Khalid's first thought.

Closely followed by committed, professional, and not impressed.

Not that she showed it.

Most men might not have picked up on her attitude but Khalid was an expert on women, their body language, and he could almost taste her disdain.

Annoyance now joined the injustice burning in his belly.

He narrowed his eyes.