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Malid muttered, “I have no home.”
Fadin glanced at him. “Nimr has not changed. But if something does not change—if you cannot set aside your differences—another banishment or worse would be the only outcome. I am in no hurry to see you face such a thing again. Better perhaps to just live your life on your own terms?”
Looking at Fadin, Malid shook his head and asked, “Better for whom, Fadin? This is better for no one—not for me, for I gave Nigella my word on this deal. And now my father makes me a fool. What game is he playing at?”
***
Nigella stood in the gardens of the Adjalane palace. The morning air was already heating up, but the lush gardens with their fountains and shaded overhangs provided nothing but cool places to sit and flowers that offered a riot of color. She turned and stared up at the building.
A dome rose from the center of the structure, with several small domes to the sides. The white stone walls gleamed in the sunlight, stark against the bl
ue sky. She glanced at the wrought iron table and chairs with cushions and the mint tea left in a silver and gold service with small glasses trimmed in gold. A lovely spot—but why did Sheikh Nimr Adjalane want to see her? Why now? And why wasn’t Malid here?
Nimr came out of the house. She’d seen photos of him, but she was surprised that he looked older in person—more gray in his black hair and beard, more lines around his mouth and face. He wore an Armani suit with a traditional white robe over it—meaning, this must be a formal meeting.
He waved at a chair and she sat. She had the feeling he needed to sit down and he wouldn’t if she stayed standing.
After taking a seat and arranging his robes, he studied her a moment, poured tea, and then asked, “Did you hear that Malid came to the palace last night? We had…words.”
Frowning, she shook her head. “I…I’ve been busy drawing up the papers for our deal.”
A small smile curved his mouth. “Ah, the plans we make, and how so often they fail. I suspect my eldest son hates me at the moment, but the time to smooth that over is not something I have at my disposal. I need results and I need them yesterday.”
She wiggled in her chair, trying to find a more comfortable spot. She’d worn a suit with pants and a silk shirt. It was already starting to feel too hot and confining. “I’m not sure I understand you,” she said.
He sipped the tea and waved at the silver pot and tray. “Are you certain you won’t take tea? This is a lovely hibiscus tea. No? Well, then let us get to matters. My sources say that you and Malid have become…close of late.”
She stiffened. “How is that any of your business?”
Nimr waved a hand. “He is my son—my heir. Everything to do with him is something that affects the family. Let us be frank with one another.” He leaned back. “I need my son where he should be—within the family. I wish him to do what he was raised to do, and I need to be confident that after I am gone, he will do things as I would. His arrogance caused him to betray his brother and almost ruined the relationship between Adilan and Michelle. A fine young woman, even though she is American.”
Nigella bit her lower lip and shook her head. “You thought banishing him would provide what—a wake-up call?”
“Unfortunately, I did not factor in the extent of Malid’s stubborn arrogance.”
She gave him a tight smile. “I’ve heard him say that is a trait he shares with you.”
Nimr’s lips curved. “As you say—but without being tempered, it can prove a most dangerous trait.” Head tipped to one side, he studied her. Nigella resisted the urge to fidget. He put down his tea and cleared his throat. “Do you care for my son?”
“As I said, I don’t believe that is any of your business.”
“Very well, let us talk business. I am willing to accept the deal that is—as you Americans might say—on the table. With one condition. You must help convince Malid to come home. Which would mean he must apologize for his past behavior.”
Nigella suddenly wished she’d had taken that offer of tea—her mouth dried. She folded her hands in front of her and her pulse quickened. Nimr sounded as if he was ready to kill the deal if she didn’t agree to this new term. “You think I have influence over Malid? That we have what…a relationship? We only met a few days ago.”
Shoulders sagging, Nimr looked at her. He took a breath and seemed to shrink in on himself. “I am an old man. I need to know my son is back where he belongs, and that he has become a man others may trust and respect. I think…I see something in you that I believe Malid must see as well.”
Nigella watched him carefully—what she saw was grief in his eyes, regrets. She gave a nod and chose her next words carefully. “You care about your son?”
Picking up his tea, Nimr said, “Bring Malid home—make him see sense. I get what I want, and you will get what you need—a deal that brings you your father’s approval.”
Sucking in a breath, Nigella held still. Nimr knew more than he was willing to say if he had guessed her reasons for being here.
He offered another, small smile, this one touched with something other than humor. “I have been waiting for Malid to come to me—to offer his sorrow for what was done. But he is still the man who must have things his way. I am aware your father is making noises of retiring—which means, this deal is your best chance to prove yourself to him in our world.”
“Our world? What is that supposed to mean?” Nigella asked, wary again. Nimr was now reminding her far too much of Daddy—he was a damn cagey man.
Nimr waved a vague gesture. “The oil industry. A world created for and by men. A world where women are not readily accepted or trusted.”
