1
Driving himself to the mosque had been Issam’s first mistake.
Second, really. The first mistake had been allowing himself to get sucked into this little piece of royal family drama.
He had just stepped out of the shower when his phone buzzed on the bathroom counter. He’d picked it up without looking, assuming it was one of his men. Issam was in charge, in one way or another, of hundreds of people. He held responsibility for millions, if you counted every person living in Al-Dashalid, not to mention the royal family. And he relished that responsibility. However, it meant that he answered the phone without looking who it was.
It was not one of his men.
“Issam.” His brother Kyril was the oldest and had stepped neatly into their father’s role. He ruled the country with a deft hand, though Issam had seen him chasing his children through the courtyards with enough abandon that one might think he was only a family man. “I need a favor.”
“I already have a contingency plan for the summit, if that’s what you’re calling about.” Kyril was set to meet with leaders from all the provinces in Al-Dashalid the following week, and it was set to be an excruciatingly boring affair during which tempers might run high.
“That’s not it. I need you to go to the mosque.”
“I was at the mosque yesterday, and—”
“Inan needs to be picked up from his class.”
Inan was Kyril’s first child, and at five years old he had already made an impression on the people of Al-Dashalid. He had an infectious smile and an impish personality.
Issam laughed. “Surely this is a job for our father. He’s the one who’s retired. I have meetings—”
“Spare me one of the meetings, would you?”
Kyril sounded distracted. In the background of the call, Issam heard Hannah, his wife, calling urgently to him, though he couldn’t make out the words.
“Issam, I have a meeting with a Canadian ambassador in thirty minutes, and Hannah—” He cut himself off. “Can you do it or not?”
Issam had agreed, not wanting to waste further time on a pointless argument. He’d ended the call, then checked his phone. A number of messages waited for him, his father’s among them. He’d decided to take Daya, their mother, for an overnight trip to a beach resort up the coast.
That kind of thing never would have happened before Zafir had his heart attack. It had softened him, made him more aware of how quickly the years were flying by, and he’d turned his attention to his wife. It was all very heartwarming.
Except for the part where he laid down his responsibilities as easily as if they were nothing.
Issam had parked half a block away from the mosque. He leaned back in the driver’s seat, scanning the traffic for any sign of a problem. It was a habit ingrained from being in security all these years. Nothing seemed amiss, so he took out his phone.
The documents waited for him, each in their own file, in a special folder on his phone. And that folder was on Issam’s mind frequently. Too frequently.
It was a collection of dossiers on potential wives.
Issam, like his brothers, needed to be married by the age of thirty to keep his position in the royal family. But unlike his brothers, he wasn’t going to choose a bride based on the heat of a one-night stand or a blog post written halfway around the world. No, he would choose his wife based on cold, hard facts. He wanted a wife who was suitable on paper, and nothing more.
Though he had to admit that the pictures did help.
He needed someone who could stay calm. Who could stay the course. Because while no trouble was brewing on the street by the mosque, there was trouble brewing abroad.
Well…it wasn’t exactly abroad.
The tension had arisen over a small strip of land at the northeastern corner of Al-Dashalid. There was nothing there, save for a crumbling, ancient fort that could hold a few troops on its best day, but it was in a sort of no-man’s land between three countries. One one side, Al-Dashalid. On the other, Al-Madiza. And the narrowest part of this tiny piece of land faced Caldad.
Caldad had faced a leadership change in recent years, like Al-Dashalid. The head of the royal family had suffered ill health, and his son Jabbar had come into power at roughly the same time as Kyril.
The two men could not be more different.
Jabbar was irrational and greedy, and he made Issam nervous with all his saber-rattling. He’d sent troops so close
to the border that it was impossible for Al-Dashalid and Al-Madiza to ignore them, and Issam felt a need to occupy that little strip of land and its fort. But that would violate the unspoken agreement with Al-Madiza not to have a military presence there.
It was on his mind while he scrolled through the files. Photo. Bio. Photo. Bio. He didn’t have time to get into an emotional mess like his brothers. He didn’t want anything that looked like love.
Issam glanced up into the traffic again. He especially didn’t want anyone who looked like the brunette waiting for light to change. She was facing him, and even though her hands were firm on the wheel, her expression was set—determined.
So determined it was almost distracted.
She was beautiful, with a little pointed chin that Issam wouldn’t mind brushing his thumb over, and choppy hair in a trendy style. He was sure her outfit would match. But that kind of beauty—no. It would take him far from his responsibilities and then leave him for dead.
Issam’s phone beeped—a warning for the end of Inan’s class. The boy would be walking out at any moment. He dropped the phone into one of the cupholders and looked back up.
The mosque took up most of the block, and the intersection in front of it was busy. The front doors opened, and a crowd of children came out. Ah, yes—there was Inan. Issam watched him as closely as he could as he climbed out of the car. He stopped in front of the mosque on the sidewalk and began digging in his backpack, no doubt looking for the phone his parents had given him to make contact after his class.
A flash of blue caught Issam’s eye, and he whipped his head around.
The brunette’s car was in the middle of the intersection, but there, barreling down on her, a blue car.
It had run the stoplight.
He saw her eyes widen, the jerk of her shoulders.
She must have stomped on the gas, because her little car lurched forward, through the intersection, and into the opposite lane.
But there was nowhere for the car to go.
The lane was full of cars, and she turned again, heading for the sidewalk.
Heading right for Inan.