Accidentally the Sheikh's Wife / Marrying the Scarred Sheikh: Accidentally the Sheikh's Wife
and headed in the direction indicated in the drawing. Where the street intersected another, she peered down the cross streets, seeing more of the same. Archways had decorative Arabic writings. Recessed doorways intrigued, beckoned. For the most part, however, the reddish-brown of sandstone was the same. How did anyone find their own place when they all looked alike? she wondered.
Reaching a square, she was pleased with the wide-open area, filled with colorful awnings sheltering stalls with everything imaginable for sale. There were booths of brass, of glass, of luscious and colorful material and polished wood carvings. Some stalls sold vegetables, others fruit or flowers. Women and children filled the aisles. The sounds of excited chattering rose and fell as she looked around. On the far side, tables at two outside cafés crowded the sidewalk. Men in traditional Arab dishdashahs with white gitrahs covering their hair sat drinking the strong coffee. Others wore European attire. Several women dressed all in black stood near the corner talking, their string bags ladened with fresh produce from the stands in the square. The air was almost festive as shoppers haggled for the best bargain and children ran and played.
Bethanne watched in awe. She was actually here. Looking around, she noticed she was garnering quite a bit of attention. Obviously a curiosity to the daily routine. She approached one of the women and showed her the paper. The woman began talking in Arabic and pointing to a building only a few steps away. Bethanne thanked her, hoped she was pointing out the apartment where her father had lived. She quickly crossed there. No one responded to her knock.
Turning, she explored the square, stopping to ask in several of the stalls if anyone had known Hank Pendarvis, showing the paper the driver had prepared. No success until she came to one of the small sidewalk cafés on the far side of the square. A waiter spoke broken English and indicated Hank had been a frequent customer, years ago. He had met with a friend often in the afternoons. The other man still came sometimes. She tried to find out more, but he had told her all he knew. She had to make do with that. If she got the chance, she’d return another time, to see if her father’s friend was there.
She asked if she could leave a note. When presented with a small piece of paper, she wrote only she was trying to find out information about Hank Pendarvis and would return in three days.
She dare not at this point mention her tenuous relationship to the sheikh. She did not want anyone trying to reach her at the villa. Until she knew more, she had to keep her secret.
Bethanne returned to the car then instructed the driver to take her to the best store in the city. She wanted to search for the perfect outfit to wear to a polo match. She did not need Rashid buying every stitch she wore.
When Bethanne returned to the villa late in the afternoon, the driver must have had some way to notify Fatima. The older woman met her in the lobby, her face disapproving, her tone annoyed as she said something Bethanne didn’t understand. Probably chastising her for leaving her chaperone behind.
To her surprise, Rashid al Harum came from the library.
“Ah, the eternal pastime of women—shopping,” he said, studying the two bags with the shop’s name on the side.
“Your stores had some fabulous sales,” she said. “Wait until you see the dress I bought for the polo match. I hope it’s suitable—the saleswoman said it was.” Conscious of the servants, she smiled brightly and hurried over to him, opening the bag a bit so he could peek in.
He did so and smiled. Glancing at the staff, he stood aside.
“Perhaps you’d join me in the salon.”
“Happy to,” she said.
He spoke to Fatima and the woman came to take Bethanne’s bags, then retreated.
“Is anything wrong?” Bethanne asked once the two of them were alone in the salon.
“Not at all. I have some spare time and came to see if you wanted to have lunch together. I have not forgotten you wanted to see some of my country. Where did you go this morning?”
“To a place in the old town. I walked around a square there, saw a small market. Then went shopping for the dress.”
“I’d be delighted to show you more of the old town, and some of the countryside north of the city, if you’d like.”
“Yes. I would. I probably won’t get the chance to visit Quishari again after I leave.” Especially if she didn’t find her father, or convince Rashid he was innocent.
“And I remember you like exploring new places,” he commented, studying her for a moment.
“I’ll run upstairs and freshen up. I can be ready to leave in ten minutes.”
“There’s no rush.”
She smiled again and dashed up to her room. She should have been better prepared for Rashid, but had not expected him to disregard work to spend time with her. She was delighted, and hoped they’d find mutual interests for conversation. She could, of course, simply stare at him all day—but that would look odd.
Rashid walked to the opened French doors. He gazed out at the gardens, but his thoughts centered on his American visitor. Bethanne fascinated him. Her profession was unusual for a woman. Yet whenever she was around him, she appeared very feminine. He liked looking at her with her fair skin, blue eyes and soft blond hair. Her casual manner could lead some to believe she was flighty—but he’d checked her record and it was spotless. He also found her enthusiasm refreshing after his own rather cynical outlook on life. Was that an American trait? Or her individual personality?
Rashid knew several American businessmen. Had dined with them and their wives over the years. Most of them cultivated the same aloof cosmopolitan air that was so lacking in Bethanne. Maybe it was that difference that had him intrigued.
His mother had called again that morning, bemoaning the fact Bethanne was visiting and that Haile had not come. When he’d told her he was just as well out of the deal, she’d appeared shocked. Questioning him further, she’d become angry when he’d said he wasn’t sure the arrangement had been suitable in the long run. He didn’t come out and tell her of firm plans with Bethanne, but let her believe there was a possibility.
He almost laughed when his mother had tentatively suggested Bethanne wasn’t suitable and he should let her help him find the right bride. He knew he and Bethanne didn’t make a suitable pair. Yet, if he thought about it, she would probably have beautiful children. She was young, healthy, obviously intelligent.
He stopped. It sounded as if he were seriously considering a relationship with her. He was not. His family would never overlook what her father had done. And after the aborted affair with Marguerite, he didn’t fully trust women. He would do better to focus on finalizing the details of the agreement with al Benqura.
His mother had reminded him she expected a different guest, and so would others.
“Until they see Bethanne. Then they’d know why she’s visiting,” he’d said, hoping to fob her off. It would certainly give a shot in the arm to the gossip circulating. And, he hoped, throw off any hint of scandal the minister might try to expose. Animosity ran deep between them. Rashid would not give him anything to fuel their feud.
He’d already invited Bethanne to the polo match. Perhaps a dinner date or two, escorting her to a reception, would give gossips something else to talk about. It would not be a hardship. And al Benqura was in a hurry to finish the deal, as Rashid had suspected. Once the papers were signed, Bethanne would be leaving. Life would return to normal and no one except he and she would know the full circumstances of the charade. The thought was disquieting. Maybe he wouldn’t be in so much of a hurry to finalize everything.
Bethanne took care when freshening up. She brushed her hair until it shone. Tying it back so it wouldn’t get in her face, she refreshed her makeup. She felt like she was on holiday—lazing around, visiting old town, now seeing more of the country. Spending time with a gorgeous man. What was not to like about Quishari?
She was practical enough to know she wasn’t some femme fatale; she’d never wow the sheikh