Page 2 of Seduced By the Sheikh

“The land has been clearly left to Soraiya by her grandmother,” said Mohammed. He’d stated it meekly enough but Soraiya knew Mohammed was in fact reproving her father. Her father had always wanted to keep the land but hadn’t been able to object to the legalities around her grandmother’s will. It had been clear that the land would go to the only daughter of both her father and mother, thus excluding any bastards of her father’s. Her grandmother had been shrewd in the way she’d couched the terms of inheritance.

“Do you agree to marry Sheikh Zakariyya, Sheikha?” asked Mohammed.

She shot him an uncertain smile. He alone of her father’s close advisors had always shown an affection for her which had been lacking in her father.

She lifted her chin. “Yes, of course. Father is correct. I know my duty.” She should. She’d been doing it all her life in her quest for her father’s approval. She’d long ago given up the hope that he’d love her.

Her father nodded his approbation, and walked off without a word. He obviously felt the matter had been dealt with satisfactorily. But Mohammed stayed behind.

“Soraiya,” Mohammed said in a gentle tone. “I am sure you will grow to like Sheikh Zakariyya.”

“He is a playboy, Mohammed. Wherever he goes he leaves a trail of seduced women who like nothing better than to plaster their pictures and stories all over social media.”

He raised a questioning eyebrow, as if wondering how she knew.

“I’ve heard my staff gossip about them,” she added, in her own defense. She shook her head with a concerned frown. “They go into such detail.”

“These stories have been brought to my attention but I found nothing to suggest the women were made unhappy by the experience. He must have some…” He trailed off, shrugged and then smiled. “Charms, should we say.”

She scoffed derisively. “You can say what you like. He has no idea how to behave and has loose morals. All I know is that any charms must be well hidden from public view.”

As she finished speaking, she remembered the very graphic description that one of his discarded lovers had publicized about their intimacy. The lover didn’t appear to have been concerned that she’d been discarded, only anxious to share the lurid details of their coupling as widely as possible. It had been a description which had both alarmed and aroused her and she hadn’t been able to rid her mind of the details. She looked at Mohammed in sudden alarm. Maybe he, too, had read the same piece. His lips quirked and she blushed.

“No doubt, Sheikha, you will find out. And I am hoping, for your sake, that what you discover will be to your liking and that he will charm you, also.”

She shook her head and pursed her lips, willing the blush to fade. “No, he will not. I am impervious to such things. Besides, I do not need to be charmed because I know my duty. And that is to my father, and my country.” She glanced once more at her father who was talking to his favorite assistant—a woman with whom he shamelessly flirted—who had only ever shown approval, not the love she craved. She swallowed. She wanted to go to him, to beg him to allow her to stay to represent the country as she had been doing since her mother’s shameful divorce. Things were not perfect here, but she had a strong suspicion they would be a whole lot worse for her in Sirun — a country she’d never visited but which she knew was far more ancient and traditional than her own. She’d be married to a man about whom she knew nothing except for his prowess in the bedroom, and the frowning glare with which he turned to the world.

She smoothed her white abaya around her, hoping Mohammed wouldn’t notice her trembling fingers, nodded to him, and swept out of the room. She kept her head high as she closed the door behind her and walked along the open corridor from which she could see the blue sea lapping at the beach below. And she kept it high as she turned her back on the beautiful scene which she would soon be leaving.

She refused to allow the world to see she was fearful. She was determined to do her duty as usual, for the sake of her country. Besides, what other choice did she have?

In disgust, Zak pushed away the papers which represented so much that was wrong with his country. He glared at them as they fluttered in the breeze which blew in from the high mountains, bringing welcome relief from the heat of the desert. But the cooling wind did nothing to calm his anger, or ease his sense of frustration. His legendary control was being sorely tested.

He raised his eyes to meet the shifting gazes of his ministers who sat around the ancient, pock-marked table which for hundreds of years had witnessed his country’s governance.

“And why,” he said, pointing to the papers, “do these papers say nothing — absolutely NOTHING — about the true state of my country’s finances? Hey?” He glared at the men in turn but each stared back with the same terrified, glazed look. He’d get nothing from these men who’d been paid off by his mother. “And why are they not computerized yet? I know my brother has instigated a plan. Why has it not been implemented? Do you have people sitting at high desks with quill and ink?”

“No, sir,” said a minister who obviously hadn’t been properly briefed. “I use a fountain pen.”

He cut the man dead with a glare.

“Do I need to explain what’s happening here?” he asked his ministers, eyeing them slowly in turn. “Do I?”

He rose and they all jumped away, as if they expected him to flatten them with a fist. If only. But, he knew from hard-won experience that that would accomplish nothing.

“No, Your Majesty,” a man who he remembered advising his father said. “You do not need to explain. And we are here to support you in whatever way we can…. Going forward,” he added, as if that well-used cliché would give Zak confidence in his abilities.

“And how do you propose to do that?” Zak said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “My father is dead. My brother’s brief reign wasn’t long enough to sort out the country’s finances, which are a mess, and my mother…” He would have to tailor the truth here. He wanted no one to know the full extent of his mother’s betrayal. “And my mother has disappeared. How exactly do you think you can support me, ‘going forward’?”

“There’s your marriage,” suggested a tentative voice. He glared at the man who shrank back. Then he sighed. The man was correct.

“My marriage. Next week. Of course.” He gritted his teeth so hard it would have hurt if it hadn’t been eclipsed by everything else. He forced himself to smile but it held all the life of a corpse’s rictus grin, which was exactly how he felt — as if he were watching life slip away from him. “To…” He flicked open his desktop app. “To Sheikha Soraiya of Ra’nan. Who will bring land which will give access to the sea, a deep-water port and tourism potential.” He finished reading the brief notes attached to her name. He muttered an expletive under his breath which shocked the others. “Wealth indeed. It will transform Sirun. It makes me wonder why she wants to marry me.”

“Because her father, the king, needs us to ensure the long-term security of his country,” offered the same adviser.

“At least we’re good for something — a buffer between him and the rest of the world,” Zak added. “A devil’s pact which I will accept. What does this woman look like anyway?” Yet more papers were shuffled as a clerk tried to find a photo. It only reminded him of the lack of modernization in his country. “Forget it!” He gripped the edge of the table and huffed out a sigh. “It doesn’t matter. Get all this computerized. Send me your top analysts and finally…” He glanced out to the mountains, always his source of inspiration.

“Finally?” prompted the chief adviser.

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