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Prologue
Tarek Rahim watched as his cousins and friends, Nasim and Arif, leaped with a whoop down the curved steps of the Sheldonian Theatre, their academic gowns flapping behind them. He followed at a more dignified pace.
"We're free, lads!" Nasim shouted.
Tarek shook his head. Happy as he was to have completed his Oxford education, he couldn't quite bring himself to crow. Other graduates laughed and jostled around them, greeting their families, and Tarek pressed his lips together. For a moment, he could only think of his parents. Five years ago, an automobile accident had taken their lives. He wished they could see him now.
Blinking, he pulled himself back to the moment. He could already hear the rattle of shackles coming to bind him to the throne of Zahkim, inherited from his father. His grandmother, Amal, had been acting as regent until he finished his education. Tomorrow he must become Sheikh Tarek of Zahkim, and the thought wasn't appealing.
Nasim jabbed an elbow into his ribs. "We are going to party right up until we have to pour you onto the plane home. Let's get rid of these robes and head to the Sunset Lounge."
Arif chuckled. "You only want to go there because of that bartender who gives you doubles. It's amazing you got your degree, given how much attention you paid to women and drink instead of your studies."
"I had to make up for you," Nasim said, slapping Arif on the back. Tarek smiled. They did tend to give Arif a hard time about his resistance to hedonistic delights.
Tarek thumped his cousin's back as well. "Don't worry, Arif. I'm sure we can find a woman to interest you tonight. It's our last chance in England to live like the English."
An hour later, they crossed the street and headed to the upscale bar they’d made their own over the last four years. Arif had his eyes on his mobile, as usual.
"No phones tonight." Tarek plucked the device from Arif's hand and stuffed it into his own pocket. "Only friends. Who knows when we'll have another chance to do this."
"And no being maudlin," Nasim said.
Tarek straightened into a mock-formal pose. "I am a serious man, Nasim."
Nasim snorted, and Arif said, "Tell that to the first year whose shampoo you replaced with mayonnaise."
They laughed and turned toward the entrance, where chatter and laughter spilled out. The evening was descending, and streetlights flickered on up and down the sidewalk. The peculiar smell of Oxford—something not quite like sour milk—hung in the air. Tarek shivered in a cool gust of wind. He'd never become accustomed to the cold of England. He'd just reached the corner of the building when an old woman stepped from the shadows of an alley and grasped Tarek's wrist.
The woman looked older even than Tarek's grandmother. In the dim light, he couldn't see much but bright blue eyes and wisps of gray hair escaping from the black scarves swathed around her head and shoulders. A baggy dress draped her figure, and she smelled faintly of beer.
"I'll tell your fortune. Such handsome men, such tangled paths…"
"Not tonight, mother." Shaking her off, Tarek reached for his wallet. "No futures. We want only this moment."
But Nasim stepped between Tarek and the old woman. "It's the perfect night—we have only the future ahead of us. Let's hear her out."
Arif frowned and stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. "Do you really want to know? There's more to it than you realize."
Tarek pulled two fifty-pound notes from his wallet and pushed them into the woman's gnarled fist. "Find yourself some food and a place to sleep, mother. I'm not thinking about the future until I must."
She grasped his arm and pulled at him until he had to bend closer. She spoke clearly, but so softly only he could hear. "An angel will fall from the sky and land at your feet, sheikh. She will save your country, but only if you fall at her feet in turn. Trust your instincts, my son."
Tarek stared at her, but she only gave a smile and faded into the gathering night.
Nasim broke the silence with a nervous laugh. "I'm not sure what you just bought."
Tarek hunched a shoulder. How had she known he was a sheikh? Was it a guess because he looked Middle Eastern? What had she meant about sav
ing his country? From what? He shrugged off her words. If his country was on the line, he’d trust his intellect, not his instincts.
Chapter One
Five years later…
Tess coughed, choked, and panicked in that order. She couldn't move. A hammer pounded her left temple. A wave of nausea threw bile into her throat. She swallowed it and pushed both the nausea and the dizziness down. Glancing around, she saw a silver tray canted against a seat, her laptop upside down on the floor—and in two pieces—and all manner of other items scattered around the interior of the plane. The broken computer brought memories rushing back—Phil's voice on the jet's PA telling her to buckle up, the sea of brown, broken by a flash of green, the scream of metal, and impact somewhere in a desert. She'd been reviewing balance sheets and the proposal from Riya about investment in Sharma Entertainment, not paying attention to their route.
Now she was more worried about living to see another day.
She glanced down. Still strapped into the flight attendant's seat, right behind the cockpit, she could hardly move. Where Phil had told her to go—safer than the passenger seats. The straps that had saved her life now held her captive. Her chest ached where she’d jolted against them upon impact. A laugh of relief bubbled up. She released the buckles, stood, and staggered a step. The floor slanted to the right and forward, as if the mid-size jet had buried its nose and wing in the sand.
"Tess?"
