The Sheikh's Secret Son (5 page)

“Ben—I mean, Your Highness?” Eden said, her voice clouded by concern. “You—you aren't going to fire the man or anything like that? Anything
worse
than that? I mean, you have absolute power, don't you? I'm sure I read that somewhere in my notes.”

Ben stood as Eden did, motioned for her to follow Haskim into the dining room. “You overreact, Eden. I have a call coming from Kharmistan precisely at seven, and it is nearing that hour now. When I have completed my conversation with my minister of water and power, I shall join you. All right?”

“But I can see how angry you are, Ben. Like that day I was nearly run down by a horse-drawn carriage as we walked through Paris. Your eyes are all dark, the way they were then, and I can see a vein pulsing at the side of your throat. Please, don't do anything rash. What's done is done, and I'm sure
your advisor had very good reasons for disobeying you. You said that, didn't you? That he must have had the best interests of Kharmistan in mind?”

“You are much more forgiving than I am, Eden,” Ben said, pushing his temper back under his usual tight control, trying once more to remember his father's words. He had suspected so earlier, but it was only Eden's honesty tonight that finally convinced him that Nadim had disobeyed his direct orders. “There will be a punishment, I assure you, but I will listen first, then act. And I must act, Eden, as any show of weakness in one's sheikh is reason to believe in one's own ambitions. Nadim would expect no less from me. Is that all right with you?”

Eden licked at her lips, eyed him nervously. “I— I suppose so, Ben. And you'll join me shortly? After your phone call?”

Another servant entered the room, carrying a portable phone on a lace doily placed in the center of a silver tray. Ben picked up the phone, nodded to Eden, then turned his back to her, speaking a fast and fluent Arabic into the phone.

M
y son cannot live in Ben's world.
Eden's head hurt as the message repeated itself in her brain. Her stomach had turned to stone, her appetite gone. All she could do was sit in the dining room chair, her hands folded tightly in her lap, while her mind began to scream,
Run away, run away, run away.

She could run to the ends of the earth. But this time, Ben would come after her. Ben would find her. If he knew about Sawyer, he would find her.

She might have told Ben Ramsey about his son, about Sawyer. She could have seen herself doing just that, had imagined the scenario many times over the years.

“We may not have done anything else right, Ben,” she would have said to him, “but, between us, we created one terrific kid. You have a right to know that.”

She could have said that to Ben Ramsey, if he'd shown up on her doorstep one day, if she'd known where to look to find him.

But she could not tell Sheikh Barakah Karif Ra
mir that he had a young prince residing in San Antonio, going to preschool three mornings a week; that his favorite pastime was watching a television show featuring talking locomotive engines, that he slept with his thumb in his mouth and a bear named Fred clutched in his arms.

She could not tell this prince, this sheikh, this omnipotent king, that he had sired a sweet, wonderful, normal little boy who spoke with a slow Texas drawl.

Eden kept her eyes downcast, very much aware that the servant, Haskim, remained in the dining room, watching her as if she might be contemplating secretly pocketing the solid silver utensils on either side of her plate.

And she continued to think, continued to panic.

What would Sawyer look like in one of those headdresses, one of those colorful robes?

God. He'd look just like his father, that's what he'd look like. A miniature of his father, complete with princely bearing.

She'd lose Sawyer. If Ben found out about their son, he would demand the child be taken to Kharmistan, educated in Kharmistan, prepared for the day he would replace his father as sheikh.

Her little boy. Her sweet, wonderful, innocent little baby. A pawn in a political game played in a
very political country. A hostage to fortune, cementing Ben's rule, securing the succession.

She couldn't tell Ben. She had to hide Sawyer, hide him until Ben left the country. There was no other way.

And she had to hide herself, as well. She couldn't let him too close, couldn't let him see how much his reentry into her life had shaken her, had started her dreaming foolish, romantic dreams she'd thought long ago left behind her in Paris.

Her head came up with a jerk as Haskim bowed from the waist, signaling that Ben had entered the room. Eden blinked back frightened tears and looked at him, looked at Sawyer's father.

She had tried to forget him. She had tried to forget how much she had loved him.

She might love him still, she most probably would always love him…but now she feared him more.

“Was your phone call successful?” she asked as Haskim held out a chair and Ben sat across from her. “Or perhaps I shouldn't ask?”

“You can ask me anything you want, Eden,” Ben told her as a flurry of servants and serving trays almost magically produced a table heavily laden with a half-dozen different plates holding different Middle Eastern delicacies. “I may not, however,” he added, smiling, “always give you answers. Now, shall we eat?”

Eden, believing she would most probably choke on water, spread her hands, indicating the diverse dishes in front of her. “Everything smells delicious, Ben, but I would like you to explain the dishes, if you would?”

“Certainly, although your familiarity with Dolma had me mistakenly believing that you already had a knowledge of my country's food. This,” he said, indicating the large platter just in front of him, “is
Beriani,
a traditional chicken dish made with cloves, cinnamon, rice, potatoes, and a few hard-boiled eggs. There's more to it than that, of course, including many other spices. You may want to give it a small taste before committing yourself to it, unless you enjoy what I believe you call ‘hot' dishes?”

The change of subject gave Eden what she needed, something to hang her mind on so that she would not worry that she'd open her mouth at any moment and blurt out Sawyer's name. “You're speaking to a Texan, born and bred, Ben, remember? I'll pit our salsa against your
Beriani,
and see who's the first to reach for the ice water. Now, what else is here?”

In quick order Ben recited the names of the other dishes. The red lentil soup Haskim placed in front of them both, called
Adas
soup. A second chicken entrée, this one prepared with ginger and garbanzo beans. Stuffed eggplant, which he called
Sheikh
Mehshee.
Eden wrinkled her nose at that one, asking that he not put any of it on her plate, thank you.

There was
Kibbi,
a mixture of bulgur, wheat and lamb. Some was served with the meat raw, some had been formed into patties and cooked to a dark brown. Lastly, an easily recognized leg of lamb, called
Koozy,
also served with rice cooked in Middle Eastern spices, and sprinkled with plump, cooked raisins.

“There's enough food here to feed half of the city,” Eden told him at last, shaking her head.

“Yes, I know,” Ben replied, placing a healthy slice of lamb on her plate. “And I cannot begin to tell you how I long for a fast-food hamburger, some extremely greasy French fries, and perhaps a home-delivered pizza with pepperoni and mushrooms.”

Eden chewed on a piece of meat, amazed at how good it tasted, delighted that she could swallow it. “You're the sheikh, Ben, for crying out loud. Can't you get the limo to stop at The Golden Arches? The limo would be a real hoot at the drive-thru. Or maybe you could order one of your servants to dial the local pizza shop?”

“Eden,” he said rather indulgently, “have you really looked around you? Really seen how I am catered to, fussed over, worried about? Haskim and his staff scoured the city all day yesterday, looking for the correct ingredients for tonight's dinner, hop
ing to prove to me their loyalty, their ingenuity, their worthiness to serve their sheikh. I cannot disappoint them by announcing that I wish for a hot dog. I can, however, ask you if you would be willing to play hooky after tomorrow morning's meeting, so that you can show me your city…and your restaurants.”

“I—I don't know…I mean, there's the meeting…and then all the work back at the office after the meeting, and…well, I don't think I can. And you'll be leaving for Kharmistan very soon after that, won't you?”

Eden closed her eyes, knowing she had just shown herself to be terrified of being in Ben's company. Why hadn't she offered to drive him to his plane, help him board, wave him off? She couldn't have been less subtle.

“Actually, Eden, I will be staying in Texas for some time, perhaps as long as a few weeks,” Ben told her as her smile froze to her face. “I am interested in purchasing a few horses of diverse background and training for my private stable. And, of course, I am looking forward to spending more time with you, if you will agree. So you see, I have combined this business visit with my own pleasure.”

“Oh. That's nice,” Eden said weakly, poking her fork into a single plump raisin, then raising it to her mouth. “And yet, sometimes it's safe—er, better to be content with memories, don't you think? And,
besides, I'm beginning a week's vacation on Friday afternoon, and will be visiting my mother, so it will be rather impossible, although I thank you for thinking of me.”

“You are afraid of me.”

Eden realized she hadn't looked directly at Ben since he had served her food. She raised her head, looked at him as levelly as she could muster, and said, “Of course not! I'm not at all afraid of you. What gave you that idea?”

“If not me, Eden, then perhaps you are afraid of you. Is that it? Are the memories crashing in, as they are overtaking me? The need to remember, to hold on to the dream, to test it here in reality?”

Her control snapped. “You abandoned me!”

“You know that is not true.”

“You didn't come to America to look for me.”

“I believed your wishes were that I should not pursue you.”

“But you knew where I was.”

“Yes. Harvard. I knew that much. I could have found you.”

“But you were too gentlemanly to come after me? Too disinterested to come to me, to talk to me, to make me listen to you, understand?”

“My father was dying, Eden. I believed you had received my letters, my explanations, and determined that my true identity, and my responsibilities,
were too much for you. My heart was divided, as I felt I could persuade you differently, but my mind knew where I was needed most.”

Eden exhaled shakily, dropping her elbow to the tabletop and resting her forehead in her hand. “This is too much. Too much to assimilate, to even begin to understand. You never meant to leave me. You would have followed if I had given a single hint that I wished to be pursued. You married, were widowed. And now you're acting as if we can just pick up where we left off in Paris—as if we've not been living separate lives for more than five years. Dammit, Ben, I feel like I've been beaten with sledgehammers ever since I first saw you this morning.”

Ben spoke again, and she flinched, realizing that he had left his chair, was now standing beside her. “We loved once, Eden, and we lost. Through misunderstanding, through misguided loyalty on the part of my advisor, through my own pride, which is considerable. There is an empty place inside of me, Eden, one that has not been filled since last I saw you, since last I held you, loved you.”

She twisted her head so that her cheek pressed against her palm, and looked up at him, grimaced. “Oh, you're good. I'll give you that, Ben. You don't need the headdress or the robe or the servants or the food. You're really very good, all by yourself.”

“I am also determined, Eden, and I believe you
know that, as well,” he told her, stroking his hand down her cheek, trailing his fingers across her exposed throat. “Now, I shall return to my seat and we will attempt to please my servants by the strength of our appetites. Although you must remember to save some of that appetite for the desserts soon to come. We will have
Klaichah,
delicious cookies stuffed with dates, and sesame cookies, which we call
Semsemia.
And, of course,
Baklava.
You do know
Baklava,
don't you, Eden?”

“I know
Baklava,
Ben,” Eden told him dully, feeling herself drowning in a veritable sea of foreign-sounding names, foreign-tasting foods. “And that's about all I do know right now.”

“That is all either of us has to know, Eden, for now. Tomorrow will arrive soon enough, and with it another chance for us, a chance to begin again. We both deserve that chance, do we not?”

She looked at him, really looked at him. He'd aged a little in the past years, with a few more wrinkles around the outside corners of his eyes, a few new lines bracketing his wide, full lips. There was even the small beginnings of silver at his temples. But he was still Ben. Not her Ben, not the Ben Ramsey she'd known and loved in Paris. But he was still the same man, and held the same attraction she had felt so immediately when they'd met.

“We'll talk more tomorrow, all right? That's all
I can promise,” she said at last, wincing as Haskim placed a small tower of honey-topped, diamond-shaped
Baklava
on the table.

Ben was right. She'd kill for a cheeseburger.

And safety.

Eden knew she wasn't about to get either….

 

“You!”

Ben had been standing in front of the large windows overlooking the city. Waiting. Biding his time. He turned now, at the sound of Eden's voice, bowing as he acknowledged her entrance into the small antechamber adjoining the main meeting room.

He had withdrawn here purposely, giving her time with her colleagues after their early morning meeting, time to collect the signed contracts, time to relax a little, to swallow, and at least partially digest her success before she was given the news that was sure to anger her.

After all, if she had to chase him down, follow him back to his hotel, she might implode before she could explode.

“Eden,” he said smoothly, surprised no smoke was coming out of her ears, wondering how far the fuse of her temper had burned down, how long he would have to wait for the first glimpse of flame. “I believed I had signed everything in all the correct places. Is there something else?”

She raised a hand, wagged a finger at him a time or two, then snapped her mouth shut, shook her head. “Never mind, I'm outta here,” she declared, turning to leave the room once more.

“You spoke with your employer, Attorney Klinger?” Ben goaded, his pride still slightly chafed by her refusal to give him a definitive answer to the questions he had asked her the previous evening.

Sheikh Barakah Karif Ramir was not accustomed to begging. He was accustomed to giving orders, and Attorney Klinger, it seemed, was accustomed to granting favors for those who helped him collect immense fees from his grateful clients.

“Did I speak to Attorney Klinger,” Eden parroted, turning back and slamming her attaché case down on the table as she glared at Ben. “You know damn well I spoke with him. Just like you know damn well that you spoke with him. Threatened him, I'll bet.”

“I never threaten, Eden,” he answered her smoothly. “I have never found threats necessary.”

“No, you wouldn't, would you?” She was all but sneering now, and he longed to pull her into his arms, calm her with kisses. “You don't have to threaten. People just fall over themselves offering you anything you want. Well, don't look now, Ben, but you just met the exception!”