Page 27 of Queen of Barrakesch
“Don’t leave before we get a chance to talk again.”
“Pardon my rudeness. Congratulations on your engagement,” Heath said, looking between them.
“Thank you,” they both replied, as Imani’s heart twisted a little painfully on the inside.
Wasim gave her another wry smile before leaving with the Australian.
Imani stared after him. Then she glanced at the glass of water he left behind. There was the faintest imprint of his lips at the rim, and she quickly looked away, embarrassed at the direction of her thoughts.
She shouldn’t have kissed him that night, because almost every day since then she’d had some variation on that thought—I shouldn’t have kissed him. Her cheeks heated as she quietly admitted that she wanted to place her mouth in that exact spot where he’d placed his. For a little taste, no matter how minor.
Imani abruptly stood and abandoned the table, going back to mingle among the crowd. Time was counting down, not only on King Khalid’s life, but on her stay in Barrakesch. Her stomach turned in distress. The whole ruse was a bad idea and she wished she’d never suggested it.
The relationship may not be real, but these feelings she had for Wasim—these feelings were definitely real. True enough, she’d miss this country—the food, the people, the culture—her home for the past six years.
But deep down she knew she would miss Wasim most of all.
* * *
Wasim listened absentmindedlyto the owner of a Brazilian tech firm who’d been talking to him for the past five minutes. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to Imani again since they spoke earlier, and he longed to break away from this conversation and spend a few minutes with her so he could decompress.
He finally located her in the room, talking to one of the few women attendees. Looking regal. Talking passionately about some topic as the woman nodded constantly. He shouldn’t be surprised that she’d picked a woman to engage in conversation. By the end of the night, Imani would probably have a plan whereby the woman could compete on equal footing with the men while doubling her revenue.
The smile that had taken over his face slowly died when Wasim saw one of his father’s messengers approach. With a sickening lurch, he guessed why the man had come. As he told Imani, his father had not been doing well, and he knew this was more bad news.
The man dipped his head in respect to Wasim. “Your Royal Highness, your father has requested your presence at The Grand White Palace. He is not well.”
All along he’d known that at some point in the near future he would no longer have his father, and that sobering thought remained at the back of his mind as he worked tirelessly day and night and spent time with his father to learn as much as he could. It was a bittersweet time, one that he both appreciated and dreaded.
“Excuse me, I have to go,” he said to the Brazilian, and took off toward Imani.
As he approached, perhaps sensing he was on his way to her, she looked in his direction. Everything he felt must have been in his face, because she excused herself from the conversation and came toward him.
Her beautiful brown eyes that normally contained a teasing light were darkened with worry. “It’s King Khalid?”
Wasim nodded, his heart heavy and fear blocking his throat. She lifted her hands toward him and then clasped them together. He wanted to touch her, too. To pull her into his arms and seek the comfort he craved.
“I’ll say a prayer for him, for all of you tonight,” she said.
“Thank you.”
With a curt nod, Wasim hurried from the room with his bodyguards. The few remaining attendees stared after them as they rushed past, but all he could think about was getting to his father’s side.
11
He’d prayed often during the past two days.
Wearing a whitedishdashaand whitetaqiyahon his head, Wasim lowered to his knees in the dimly lit prayer room and touched his forehead to the prayer mat. He remained still, only his lips moving as he uttered more prayers.
The doctors were with his father now, who earlier this evening had taken a turn for the worst since the night of the expo reception. No one was surprised, as he’d done little more than drink water the past couple of days. He’d lost his appetite and spent most of his time half-reclined out on the balcony where he could look out at the sea.
Wasim had lost his appetite, too, and worry remained an unwelcome burden in his stomach, but he did his best to hide his fears and appear strong for his father’s sake. He, his siblings, and King Khalid’s wives spent more time with his father the past couple of days—talking and laughing, reminiscing about holidays, birthday celebrations, and other events in the past. They reviewed old photos to refresh their memories and pretended that these happy moments could delay the inevitable.
His prayers completed, Wasim lifted from the floor and exited the prayer room. One of his father’s aides stood outside.
“It’s time, Prince Wasim,” he said, his voice filled with the pain they all carried.
Wasim walked briskly with him through the palace to his father’s bedroom. King Khalid lay prone on the bed, eyes closed, face pale. Two of his closest aides, three doctors, and Wasim’s brothers surrounded him. The youngest son—a teenager—had tears running down his face, while Akmal and the other three remained stoic with somber faces.
