Page 45 of The Devil Wears Orange
When did it become our horse? I wonder, and I like the idea of it.Ourhorse passes, and I lean over the railing, pump my fists in the air. “Come on!” One by one, other horses passThe Girl, each slowly comes up alongside her, and then passes, leaving her behind. The distance between her and the one closest to her grows. It seems Rashid and I are the poor horse’s only cheerleaders as it huffs into last place.
“Well,” Rashid says, appearing unbothered by the outcome, “horses aren’t my passion.”
“What is?”
Looking directly at me, he says, “Beauty.”
My face flushes, surprised by the flirtation and by how deeply he looks at me. It’s so easy to lose focus, which may be his intention. I force myself to look away, say something about nothing, and hope Rashid doesn’t notice my unintelligible musings. Plus, I can’t believe I let a line like that sink me. Maybe I am sixteen, after all.
“My cousin owns the winning horse. Come, we should congratulate him.”
Rashid leads the way towards a group of men wearing the traditionaldishdashaand introduces me to several of them. We nod and shake hands before moving through the crowd, swept up in the sea of patrons in a celebratory mood.
With Rashid by my side, I find myself in a line to meet the Sheikh. I turn to escape but get jostled by those behind me. It would be too awkward if I step out of line now. How does a foreigner greet his...Holiness? Oh no, that’s the Pope.Do I refer to him asHis Highness?Do I kiss his hand? His ring? Or is that the Pope again?
The Sheikh appears older than the mid-sixties I suspected from afar. His eyebrows are dark and bushy, his mustache and beard trimmed on a pudgy face. Rashid has nothing in common with his father except for those mesmerizing eyes. In Arabic, Rashid says something to his father, who furrows his brow, nods, then turns to me. When presented, I do the only thing that seems logical – I curtsy. The expressions on the faces of those around me indicate this is the wrong thing to do. Finally, the Sheikh smiles; more words are spoken in Arabic, and then Rashid places his hand on my shoulder and leads me away.
A middle-aged woman near the Sheik stares at me. I turn away, and when I bring my gaze back, there are now three middle-aged women staring at me.
“Why are those women giving me the evil eye?”
Rashid follows my gaze. “They each have daughters they wish me to marry.”
“You’re engaged?” I exclaim. The news shocks and upsets me. Though I’m not supposed to care about his personal life, I couldn’t help notice his interactions with me have been quite flirtatious this evening.
“Not yet. I had hoped your presence would stave off my father’s intentions for the evening. He’s quite perturbed I brought you.”
“Doesn’t he know I work for you?”
Rashid says, “He’s under the impression you’re my betrothed.”
“How did he get that impression?”
His hand touches the small of my back. “From me. The older I get, the more intolerant and contemptuous I am of his plans for my future and for one night, I’d like a reprieve from all his nonsense. I apologize. I shouldn’t use you as a pawn in this game with my father.”
I lean into him ever so slightly. Two can play at this flirtatious game. Besides, I wouldn’t mind a reprieve, too, from this spy game I’m playing. “That’s fine, though I suppose those mothers may put a hit on me. I’ll need protection,” I say, my eyes drift along his body.
I look back to the women who are now surrounded by what must be their daughters. They are all stunning. I whistle. “Wow. I would not turn them down.”
My comment has Rashid take a second look. What am I doing putting ideas into his head?
“Not for me. Besides,” he continues, “these rigid, old-fashioned ideas end with my father’s generation. Certainly, my children won’t be subjected to the same upbringing I endured.” When he says this, he turns back to his father, and I detect a note of resentment in his tone.
“Was it that bad?”
“When you’re on the outside looking in, all you see are the homes and jewelry and private planes, and it becomes hard for people to see how we’re trapped within a gilded cage, or to understand our loss of freedom.”
“Can’t you make a royal exit?”
“Working on it,” he mumbles.
“You mentioned children. You want them?”
Of my last six boyfriends, not one wanted a family. I was beginning to believe men no longer wanted what I did.
“A strong want,” he says, his eyes look at me intensely.Damn, everything about him is intense. “With an equal partner, not a girl who thinks she must obey me.”
“I had a boyfriend once who couldn’t make a decision on his own. I suppose he was my submissive.”
