Chapter 17 #2
Leighton caught Tariq’s hand and hurried him back to the main room. Indicating for him to move near the door, she went to the table and bent over it, as if she were looking for something.
The door opened. “Nour—” Prince Rayan’s eyes darkened as he spotted the new guard. “Madha tafeal huna?” he barked, asking what the guard was doing in here.
Realizing Tariq likely did not know this was a prince, she straightened. “Ah—”
“Sumukam.” Tariq snapped a bow of his head. “Laqad qil li ’an ’ahdur al’amirata.”
Well. She supposed he did know whom he addressed if he called him “Your Highness.” And quite a good ruse, saying he was instructed to bring her down.
“Biwasitat min?”
Tensing as Rayan demanded who sent him to escort her, she resented how he acted like he owned her.
“Almalaku.”
“The king” was the only answer Tariq could’ve given that would stay Rayan’s commanding-but-dour mood, and she was glad the Omen guy knew that.
“Is there a problem?” Nouri asked in Arabic, since that seemed to be the flavor of the day.
Rayan’s gaze finally fixed on her. His gaze swept her from head to toe in slow, ardent appreciation of what he saw. He closed the gap between them, hands extended to her. “You are radiant!”
A blush filled her cheeks. Not at his compliment, but out of concern that Tariq stood there watching. It was humiliating. “Daria chose well,” she said as she forced herself to place her fingers in his hands.
“Indeed!” Rayan laughed. “She has had every detail planned down to the glitter on the banners.”
“No doubt.” She looked down to lift her long abaya, which dusted the carpet, and when she straightened, Rayan moved in.
Planted a kiss on her temple. She drew in a quick breath, feeling a cascade of sickening heat wash down her body at the unwanted gesture.
“Rayan.” Her gaze slid to Tariq, who jerked his gaze away.
“Forgive me, but I could not resist your beauty.”
Uncomfortable, she swallowed. Felt paralyzed.
A thunk behind Rayan drew his attention to Tariq, who had knocked over a small figurine that had been on the side table. “Give care with the princess’s things!”
Leighton nearly smiled—there was no way that was accidental. The piece had been in the center. On a tray. She appreciated his effort to save her from any more awkwardness. Too, nothing in this room was truly hers. The suite had been fully furnished and decorated when Leighton arrived.
“Come.” Rayan moved between her and Tariq, motioning to the door. “Time for the wedding. The Zaffa is done.”
She imagined what it must have been like to see the procession by which the groom and his male attendants marched to the bride’s quarters to claim her.
They left the suite and made their way down the open concourse surrounding the open atrium to the lower level.
A hum of conversation roared through the cavernous space.
The complexity of the Saudi Arabian wedding left her confused, yet in awe.
It was customary for men and women to celebrate separately.
The reception, however, had been adjusted on order of the king to accommodate their many international guests, among which were royalty, nobility, and wealthy alike.
Tonight was a type of wedding reception in the vast hall, festooned with flowers and countless rows of tables, all around a tufted sofa and a gorgeous floral backdrop. “You may go,” Rayan said to Tariq. “I will escort her. Return to your duties.”
Alarmed that she would be separated from Owen’s buddy, she faltered. Scrambled for a way to keep him close.
“The king—”
“Is waiting. You are not needed.” Rayan caught her elbow and pulled her on.
Oh heavens. What was she supposed to do? She glanced back at Tariq, and his expression blazed with anger, but he gave her a grim nod. What did that mean? She could do nothing but keep walking with Rayan.
“I did not like him,” Rayan said as he rounded a corner. “Had a look about him.”
Swallowing her dread, she descended the stairs. Though she would prefer not to touch him again, she was grateful for his hand so she did not slip on the slick marble in the strappy pumps that matched her dress.
Moments later she entered the reception hall filled with a hundred seats or more. Was this the wedding hall? But Rayan moved down the line, hugging person after person. Introducing her as Princess Nouri. Only about halfway down did she realize everyone in here was family.
The crowd parted and she forgot to breathe.
King Faruq stood there in a thobe and bisht with a flowing black overcloak that had a gold band. Sharp, probing eyes razored across her.
This was the first time she had seen him since that day in his hall where he’d asked if Owen was the man who had saved her in Paris. Goodness, that seemed forever ago. She lowered her gaze, not expecting anything from him. Not wanting anything from him.
“Nouri,” he said in a gentle voice. “You are beautiful. So much like your mother.”
Surprise leapt through her that he would mention Ummi. “Th-thank you, Your Majesty.” Heat flushing her face, she touched the abaya. “Princess Daria was very gracious.”
“As she should be.” The king leaned to the side as another man angled in to speak to him. His gaze shifted to the room. “It is time.”
Not sure what was happening, she glanced around.
“Stay at my side.” Rayan gave her a nod as they fell in behind the king’s heirs.
In minutes, they were walking into the hall where guests were already seated and waiting.
She was positioned near the front with the other royals, and sandwiched between Rayan and Ghalib.
She despised the latter for his treatment of Owen and avoided eye contact.
Soon, Daria and Hassan entered as husband and wife, walking to the center where they sat on the tufted sofa.
Once the marriage was officially announced by King Faruq, the couple exchanged rings, pictures were taken, and then the festivities began.
Throughout the reception, she scanned the crowd, looking for Tariq. Was he still here? She did not imagine he would leave.
Aliyah sat across from her. “I wish you had come for the Gomrah.” She wagged her henna-tattooed hands. “It was great fun! We laughed and ate so much.”
The spiced coffee served in abundance, along with juices and sodas—after all, alcohol was considered haram—left her bladder quite full. A perfect excuse to get away from the table. Maybe find Tariq. She leaned toward the princess. “I need to use the restroom.”
With a groan, Aliyah sat back. Then harrumphed. “Come. Let us hurry. I do not want to miss dessert.”
Once out of the reception hall, she felt as if her ears popped for the silence that clapped them. She laughed. “It was so loud in there.”
Aliyah wrinkled her nose. “It’s too quiet out here. We are missing the fun!” She hurried down the corridor and around another.
Trailing the princess, Leighton tried hard to remember the route, but lost count of turns.
Finally, she ducked into a bathroom stall and relieved herself.
When she came out to wash her hands, Aliyah was gone.
Was she waiting outside? She stepped into the hall and glanced both ways.
Are you kidding me? Where was the princess?
Had she really left her? How was she supposed to get back to the reception hall?
She turned left, telling herself she could do this. After a few more turns, she felt her confidence growing. Headed down—
Wait. No, this wasn’t right. She backed up.
A door swung open, revealing a long prep table with a tray of carafes. Kitchen? Even as she collided with a man exiting the kitchen, she wondered how she had gotten so far off course. The man was moving so fast that a collision could not be avoided.
Embarrassment flooded her at being caught in the wrong part of the palace and ramming into him. “Oh, ’ana asf,” she apologized and backed up. At least she tried to, but he’d grabbed her shoulders. Startled at his crushing grip, she drew in a breath. Looked up…into malevolent eyes.
Dark, terrible eyes that seemed borne of a storm.
Terror ripped down her spine as she tried to pull away but he held her fast. “Law samahta. Atrukh.” The plea to release her went unanswered. “Law samahta.”
“Eres tú,” he whispered.
Surprised at his words—that wasn’t Arabic—she had a reckoning with the man before her. It was him. The man who hated Navas. The assassin! “Let go!”
“Release her!” A barked voice sent the large man rushing in the opposite direction. “Princess.”
Pulse thundering, legs weak, Leighton stumbled back against the wall and shuddered around a few, heaving breaths.
The man who’d intruded rushed to her in a thobe and ghutra. “Are you okay?”
She waved him off, but only then realized he was speaking English. She glanced up into gray eyes that churned with ferocity. Not like the violence of the Latino man. This man… “You’re American.” Hope leapt through her.
He cast a glance in both directions, then reached under his ghutra and touched his ear. When he withdrew his hand, he held a tiny device. “Put it in your ear.”
Warily, she stared at the thing. “Why…?”
He nodded to the earpiece. “Listen to him. We’re short on time.”
To him? Confused, she reached for it. Tucked it in her ear, listening, her gaze skidding around the narrow passage as a hiss echoed in her ear. “Hello?”
“Leighton.”
Oh sweet mercies. Her heart did a jagged dance in her chest. “Owen.” She straightened, her legs going to putty at the sound of his voice, and turned from the man. Put her face to the wall, fighting tears.
“I can’t be on the floor—they’d recognize me,” he said. “Omen’s in play. Pike thought you’d benefit from hearing from me. The team is working to get you out of there. Tonight.”
Her mind buzzed with his words. But then— “Bruzon’s here.”
“You saw him?” The question came from both Owen and the man before her, Pike.
“Just now.” But she recalled the room, the cups being wiped, and the way Bruzon stared hard at her. “I think he recognized me.”
Pike monitored both ends of the passage.
“Be ready,” Owen said. “When they bring out the cake—ask to use the bathroom again and be ready.”
“For what?”
“Incoming,” Pike muttered, wagging his hand at her.
“Have to go,” she said, reaching for the piece.
“I love you,” Owen said. “Be brave. I’ll see you soon.”
I love you. Had he really said that?
“Now!” Pike barked.
Leighton removed the piece. In her haste, she dropped it.