“That sounds like I’m a weapon to use—not exactly how I’d like to be perceived.”
Pushing back his chair, he stood and held out a hand. “You do not eat, so let us go and do as my father bids. He said I should show you the beauty of Sharjah, and you may gather more background and shop for your wedding clothes. We are supposed to be setting a date, are we not?”She drank her coffee, put down the cup with a clatter of china and stood. “Great, more background. Where are we going? And can it at least be past where Mehmood lives?”
Taking her hand, he led her toward the front doors. The heat had become oppressive, even in the garden. Sweat struck his shirt to his back—he had worn a loose shirt and Western trousers and boots, and now he could almost wish for the cool robes that were at time a necessity in the desert. But Casey’s fingers felt cool in his hand—and soft. “I’ll tell you on the way.”
“Everything’s a surprise with you, isn’t it?”
“You don’t like surprises? I never really thought about it. But if you agree to go somewhere with him, does it matter so much where we are going?”
“You’re forgetting—reporter here. Asking questions about everything is what I do.”
“Perhaps you can take the day off,” he said, and held the front door open for her.
Khalid had done away with the limo for today. Instead he had his 1950’s Land Rover—his prize possession—waiting for them. Casey glanced at him, eyebrows lifted, but climbed into the vehicle when he held the door for her. He knew the Land Rover was not what she had expected, but there was no better way to get around Sharjah, particularly if you wanted to drive off the main roads.
Today, Khalid took her to several of the main attractions—the bay with its sheer cliffs and sea birds, and then to the mountains that towered above the desert. He offered a trip for her to hand glide, but she turned that down. However, she took photos with her cell phone, kept asking about interviews, and at last he relented and took her into Sharjah’s capital and drove past Mehmood’s high rise. “Mehmood’s family lives in the top floor—the penthouse. And, no, do not even think of trying to get past his security. It is impressive. He keeps a house in the desert as well, but rarely uses it. However, it is possible Fadiyah is there. Or we might find her shopping. I understand she is like most women and amuses herself with buying things.”
Casey turned on him. “Most women? Seriously? And what—I’m not supposed to say, ‘oh, yes, I just love Fifth Avenue.’ You know, you should really try stepping into the current century. Most women is one of those phrases that should be left in the past, and generalities will get you in trouble.”
“Ah, now I’ve offended you. Can I make it up to you with dinner? We have several excellent restaurants in the city.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not dressed for it.” She held up a hand. “And no—that’s not me angling for a new dress.”
He nodded. “Then I know just where to go.” Weaving in and out of traffic, he drove to the parking garage under one of the sultan’s buildings. He left his Land Rover with an attendant. Casey was out of the car before he could open her door or help her from the high vehicle. Taking her hand, he strode down the street. Casey kept pace with him, something that pleased and amused him.
Her eyes widened as they turned down one of the narrow streets in the older part of town. Noise bounced from the hard walls—vendors calling out wares, arguments starting in the coffee shops that lined the streets. With the sun setting, the city cooled, and everyone came out to enjoy the sidewalks and the shops. The aroma of roasting meats—lamb, beef and camel—filled the air, along with spices. Khalid breathed in deeply. It had been too long since he had last been here.
Taking Casey’s hand, he wove through the crowds—men in thobes as well as in Western dress, and women in black robes and hijabs. Reaching his favorite tiny cafe, he ordered for them and brought the plates to a small table. Casey earned a few looks for how she was dressed, but he, too, was glanced at and recognized. He noticed a few bows of respect set his way, which pleased him. He had not been forgotten by his people.
After eating, he took Casey back to the palace. She slipped away to her room before he could even think to kiss her again. A wise woman it seemed—but that only left him more determined to find a way to spend more time with her.
For the next week, he found things to do with her. Trips to the old market, and for that she had to wear a long skirt and at least a scarf over her head. It was a good distraction for her, for he told her she should speak not just with those in power, but with the ordinary people to see what they thought of women’s rights. She certainly got an earful.
The people of Sharjah were traditional—mostly. A few spoke out about better rights for everyone—the right to vote, the removal of old laws that hindered business. But most seemed content that the sultan looked after them, and that in turn allowed each man to look after his family.
Getting some interviews at least seemed to satisfy Casey, but Khalid’s father kept hinting that a wedding date needed to be set. And Khalid was getting nowhere about reversing his father’s opinion. He seemed to be caught—Casey needed the interview with his father that Khalid had
promised, and yet he needed his father to be angry enough to release Khalid from his promise to marry, meaning he needed his father to throw Casey out of the country. There seemed to be no way to accomplish both.
And then Khalid hit upon a new idea—to appeal to his father’s pride and his favorite project. He would take Casey to the Sharjah Desert Reserve, a park established to preserve the animals and local fauna of Sharjah. It took a few days to arrange, but Casey no longer seemed quite so impatient. She admitted as they took the Land Rover out to the park, “I gave my editor, Luke, a deadline. I promised him a story by the end of the month. I’ve also been sending him my background notes—it’s better than nothing.”
Khalid took his eyes off the narrow road that led to the reserve to glance at her. “What happens if you do not make your deadline.”
“Then my job’s dead. It’ll be back to freelancing stories, and I supposed I can get a few months of travel articles out of where we’ve been.” She let out a long breath. “And there goes my Pulitzer.”
“That matters to you so much?” he asked.
She clenched a fist. “Matters? I’ve been trying to grab the brass ring for years. Women may have it rough here, but it’s not exactly smooth in the States, either. If you’re a reporter and pretty, they want to style your hair and put you in front of a camera and have you read from a script. That’s not reporting—at least not the way I learned it. I want a byline—one that means something. For that I need recognition. I’m never going to get that with fluff pieces.”
Frowning, Khalid thought about this, and then asked, “What about a story of ecological dangers in Sharjah. You do know we face the worse of global warming—temperatures rising, meaning possible extinction of animals and plants. And worse—the inability to use the desert as we have for centuries. If the desert dies, my country may die as well.”
Casey shook her head. “It’s not the story my editor wants—but…well, maybe I can do something with it. Maybe it’ll buy me time.”
Khalid gave her a tight smile. “Time is what neither of us have. My father persists in asking us to set a date for the wedding.”
Waving a hand, Casey said, “Tell him—next month. Pick a date. And we’ll either have a huge argument right before the wedding, or…” Her words drifted off.
“Or?” he asked.