Chapter One
This is not a good day for you to marry. It will be a disaster."
Sheikh Nasim Said glanced at his cousin. "Arif, you may have had an astrologer pluck your wedding date from the stars, but I'd rather just get the ink on this deal. Where is the bloody girl?" He glanced around the palace gardens.
As a member of the royal family of Zahkim, Nasim had to marry in the palace. He'd chosen the huge garden in the center since two of his cousins had already held their ceremonies here. Might as well keep up the tradition. In truth, he'd rather elope—or have a quick civil service. But Jasmine's father—Sheikh Ahmad Hadad of Dijobuli—wanted tradition upheld.
Right ol' geezer, Nasim thought, glancing at the older man. He smiled, however, and gave Sheikh Ahmad a small bow. The sheikh stood in front of the other guests, his trimmed, white beard jutting out, a frown curving his wide mouth under his beak of a nose, and one tapping foot sticking out from his traditional white thobe. Nasim tugged on his tie.
He'd forgone the traditional robes in place of a black suit—tailored for him by Gieves & Hawkes of Savile Row, of course—but he'd given in to Arif's insistence he must at least wear the white keffiyeh of the royal family. The bloody thing had sweat dripping down the back of his neck, but the heat also had something to do with that, and maybe he should have actually consulted a meteorologist for a wedding date. High humidity left him thinking it might rain later in the day, but at the moment it was simply hot, even in the shade of the garden.
And where the bloody hell was Jasmine?
Nasim tugged on his tie again.
Almost two hundred VIPs from Zahkim and Dijobuli, shifted on their feet in the garden, seeming as impatient as Nasim, and their whispers were like the breeze that warned of an impending sandstorm. Garlands of flowers hung from the white marble pillars that bordered the garden. The fountain gurgled away like a drunk, and Nasim started wishing for a cool pint. He kept a stock of Bass ale and Mackeson cooling, a habit he'd picked up from his years at Oxford with Arif and Tarek—in his penthouse in the city. Would this bloody ceremony ever be done with?
His mobile buzzed, and he pulled it from his trouser pocket.
A wedding wasn't the place to answer a call, but Nasim had contractors waiting for word they could begin the pipeline through neighboring Dijobuli, taking Zahkim oil to the coast. Zahkim would save millions in transportation costs. To cement this deal, all that was missing was the bride from Dijobuli.
Nasim frowned—not Jasmine calling, as he had hoped. It was indeed a contractor, so he took the call. He spoke a few curt words to the man to give an update on if they would indeed have access through Dijobuli starting today or not, and rang off.
Next to him, Arif crossed his arms and shook his head. "Are you trying to curse your wedding even more than you have already?"
"This is a bloody business deal."
Arif scowled. When he did that, he looked far too like their cousin Tarek. All three of them shared the black hair common in Zahkim, but Arif had uncommonly pale eyes.
Nasim slapped his cousin's arm. "Stop fretting."
Looking down at his mobile, he started to text Jasmine's number. Arif grabbed the mobile out of Nasim's hand. "No. You are the groom. You will await your bride with dignity as befits the royal family. Tarek isn't here to be head of family, so it's up to me to see that you behave, and I will also caution you that patience is the key to every great treasure. You might want to move slowly with this girl you are marrying."
Stiffening, Nasim swiped his mobile back out of Arif's hand and pocketed it. "Says the man who fell headlong for his new wife in one night. I can handle my own affairs."
Arif's tone sharpened. "This is not another of your casual affairs."
"Is it not? You're sounding an awful lot like Sheikha Amal now. Tarek's grandmother was full of advice, most of it fit for the 1900s."
"She must have heard the same talk I have that Jasmine's not really up for this wedding."
Nasim opened his mouth to tell Arif he could bugger himself. He bit off the words. Heads had turned to the b
ack of the garden. The crowd hushed. His bride—heavily veiled with the niqab and wearing traditional red robes lavishly embroidered with gold thread—had arrived.
Suddenly, he couldn't breathe, his pulse kicked up to a pounding, and more sweat trickled down his spine. He wanted to turn and run. He wanted to tell Arif and anyone within earshot that he wasn't ready to give up his life of women, business, and more women. He didn't think of himself as vain, but he knew his looks—tall at six-three and fit from mountain biking, with a trim beard and mustache, and thick, flat, black eyebrows that gave him a brooding look—drew the women to him. He'd never given it much thought, but he'd enjoyed the attention. It had been in the back of his mind that someday he would marry. He wanted children—eventually. Just not now.
But in those bloody endless meetings with Sheikh Ahmad, as he'd struggled to negotiate access for Zahkim to the coast, the ruler of Dijobuli had brought up his daughter. "She is too wild. I indulged her. Now she wears scandalous clothing from Paris, wants a profession as a journalist of all things, and says she will defy me when it comes to arranging her marriage."
Wild had sounded good to Nasim, and Tarek had already briefed Nasim on how badly Zahkim needed this boost to the economy. So Nasim had jumped in before thinking too much. As usual. Ah, well, it was done—or was about to be done. He'd agreed to this, had signed the contracts, and now he took a long breath and let it out. He repeated the action twice more and settled to his fate.
Tarek had the country to run—and had married. Arif was up to his neck in education reforms and trying to find funding to build a university—and had married. They'd grown up together—thrown together by early loss—and had gone off to Oxford together.
"Why not this?" Nasim muttered. He opened and clenched his hands twice and wished his shirt wasn't stuck to his back.
His bride crossed the distance from the palace to the fountain in the middle of the gardens, her steps only slightly unsteady. Despite what Sheikh Ahmad had said, she kept her eyes downcast and seemed willing to accept this marriage. If she'd balked, Nasim would have called it off. But really, there was no reason they couldn't go on with their own lives once they wed. Royals did that all the time. She could have her clothes from Paris and her profession—he saw no reason she couldn't. Eventually, they'd get around to children. It would all be—civilized. Good business for all.
And bugger what Arif kept saying about how the royals of Zahkim must marry for love or curse the country. They'd be a damn sight more cursed without that pipeline to the coast.
His bride stopped next to him, and Nasim found himself staring down at her. She seemed…taller than he'd expected. Was she wearing heels?
He'd met Jasmine Hadad twice. She'd been pretty, dark haired, with a stubborn mouth, sharp eyes, and a bristling attitude. He'd thought her a spoilt handful and had never thought about marriage to her—until her father had brought it up. Now he wondered if she really did agree to this.
Well, no woman could be forced into a marriage in Zahkim. She had to willingly accept him as her husband.
The imam—a man even older than Sheikh Ahmad, his white beard down to his waist and his white robes shining in the sunlight—stepped forward and began the ceremony. Nasim spoke four languages, but this man's heavily accented Arabic dated to the old days and the desert, and even Nasim had trouble following him.
At last he asked, the words slow and almost as creaking as his joints, “Have you chosen this young woman for your wife?”
Nasim replied in crisp Arabic, “I have."