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Arif sent Nasim a harsh glance—and Nasim could believe it was his cousin saying he'd told Nasim this day would be a disaster. Damn the fellow for being proved right. With a word to his wife, Arif followed Sheikh Ahmad out of the room. Christine glanced around, eyes wide, and Nasim could well imagine she had no idea what to do—she was an academic, not a politician.
The remaining guests—members of the extended royal family, the wealthy and influential of Zahkim—seemed more than able to smell a scandal brewing. Murmured excuses began along with an exodus. Christine fled after the last guest with a muttered, "I'll get Arif."
But what could Arif or anyone else do? Nasim looked around the empty room, empty of everyone except the servers, who lined the walls trying hard not to look at Nasim or his bride, and the musicians whose song had trailed off.
Ginni let out a sigh. "Think he needs time to cool off?"
Nasim barked out a laugh. "A thousand lifetimes will not be enough cooling-off time for Ahmad—the man carries grudges the way a camel carries water."
Heading over to one of the buffet tables, Ginni grabbed a drink, threw it back and pulled a face. "Lemonade? Times like these call for something stronger." She turned to Nasim. "I'm sorry if I've ruined your party. It was looking like fun."
He glanced around the room, with its round tables draped in white and gold, the lavish buffet that had barely been touched, and the musicians still waiting for orders. He waved at them to carry on and held out a hand to Ginni.
"May I have this dance?"
She grinned. "Not sure I know how to move to that beat they had going."
"It's not your four-four time, but let's see how you manage." He pulled her into his arms and swung her onto the dance floor. The musicians smoothed their way into a cover of one of Tess Angel's pop songs. Ginni's curves fit well into his arms, she moved her hips in a way that roused his interest, and she still smelled like candy. Nasim decided if this did not make up for the disappointment of this disastrous day, at least it was some consolation.
Meeting his gaze, she asked, "Think the sheikh will take a call from me so I can try another apology?"
"Doubtful. Perhaps you should get Jasmine to try."
She rolled her eyes. "To quote Dorothy Parker, 'you can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think.' Not that Jasmine's really a whore, but she was known at college as the easiest girl who'd put out on campus. Eric's the only guy I've ever seen curb that tendency in her. And when she's got her mind on herself, not much else can get into that head of hers."
Nasim drew back, a shock jolting through him. "Perhaps you saved me from an unfaithful wife."
"Don't know ’bout that, but I did kill the party." Her gaze slipped around the room. "Too bad. You've got a spread Daddy would approve of, and no bon temps to go with."
Despite the disaster the day had become, Nasim smiled. "My cousin Tarek hosts a dozen galas every year. Truthfully, they’re tedious affairs, but one must do one’s duty. Just as I have."
"Family business. Yeah, don't I just know about that. But I ain't done trying to patch things over."
He studied the girl—woman really. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, and he wondered how much influence she had with her father. Aldrich Leeland's name, and his company, carried a great deal of influence in any part of the world. Nasim had always resisted any deals with the man, since Leeland had a reputation of starting off with a handshake, moving to investments, and ending up with takeovers. But maybe his daughter would prove more…amiable and biddable.
"We should not waste all this wonderful food." Grabbing her hand, he led her from the dance floor to the buffet. Silver trays on the white linen offered up traditional dishes. He handed her a china plate trimmed in gold.
Holding the plate like a shield, she asked, "Smells good, but anything here gonna be staring up at me, like maybe sheep eyes?"
"No, but we have roast camel and goat, and my favorite: lgeimat." As soon as she parted her lips to ask what that might be, he popped a ball of the saffron-soaked dessert into her mouth.
She bit down, chewed and smiled. "Almost like a beignet from back home. That cinnamon I'm tastin'?"
"And cardamom."
"Why are we starting with dessert?"
He shrugged. "Has anything else gone right today?"
Tipping her head to one side, she said, "Well, I got to meet you."
He glanced at her, uncertain if she was serious with her flattery or simply trying to placate him. Deciding it didn't matter, he filled her plate with the other desserts—bastani or rose water ice cream, which she pulled a face over, and faloodeh.
"I like the noodly thing," she said, and went back for more.
They moved on to the roast lamb, the goat cooked in garlic, shrimp piled high on saffron rice, and flatbread, and finished with appetizers of hummus, baba ghanoush, falafel, and the salads. He had to admit it was a pleasure to see a woman eat with such gusto. Did she approach all of life with such passion?
Despite her asking about sheep eyes, she tasted everything and admitted, "Back home, Daddy loves nothing better than a boucherie, which means a huge get together, with a pig roast and hogshead cheese, which are all the bits I do not want to eat, like the lips."
