Lord of the Desert by Diana Palmer Read Free Book Online Page A

“Whose are they? Do they belong to the man in the beige suit?”
    He pursed his lips amusedly. “Who knows? Perhaps he works for one of the Saudi princes who have estates outside Tangier.”
    â€œThe one the guide pointed out, with the heliport and armed guards at the gate?”
    â€œThat one. They go sightseeing from time to time. Yesterday I saw the ex-president of Spain in town.”
    â€œSo did we! I’ve never met a head of state, former or not.”
    He kept his eyes carefully on the path ahead and didn’t reply.
    â€œThose bodyguards, I guess they have guns?”
    â€œNine millimeter Uzis and they know how to use them.”
    She gasped. “Good Lord. I hope nobody attacks him.”
    â€œNobody knows him,” he said lazily. “Heads of state from the Middle Eastern countries wander around here all the time and are never noticed. They blend in.”
    â€œIf you notice the Sheikh of Qawi, how about pointing him out to me?” she asked facetiously. “Maybe I can throw myself on his mercy before I arrive in his capital city like an unclaimed parcel.”
    He put on his own sunglasses and grinned. “I can promise you, his own subjects wouldn’t know him in a European suit.”
    â€œIs he…perverse?” she asked bluntly, worried in spite of Maggie’s assurances.
    He stopped dead and looked down at her. His eyes, behind the dark lenses, were concealed. “What?” he asked icily.
    She bit her lower lip. “My friend, Maggie, said that there were rumors about him and young women. She said they weren’t true and that he started them himself.”
    â€œHe did,” he said quietly. “I can promise you that you will be in no danger from him. In fact,” he added thoughtfully, “I think you may find yourself pampered as you never expected to be, under his protection.”
    She drew in a breath. “I hope you’re right!” she said fervently. “Oh, look at those shawls!”
    She rushed forward to a display over the doorway of a shop. There was a black shawl with pear-shaped fringe work that took her breath.
    â€œA Moroccan scarf, like those the women wear around their heads when they go out in public,” he said. “In Qawi, we call a head covering a hijab. Do you fancy it?”
    â€œI suppose it’s very expensive,” she said, glaring up at him. “But you’re not buying it. If I can afford it, I’ll buy it for myself.”
    He grinned. “Ah, that American independence asserts itself! Very well.” He spoke to the man in that gutteral tongue she still didn’t recognize and laughed as he glanced down at her. “It is fifty-six dirhams,” he told her.
    â€œFifty-six…!”
    â€œSeven American dollars,” he translated.
    She let out her breath and smiled. “I’ll take it!”
    He helped her find the coins to pay for it and let the man package it for her. He put the parcel under his arm and led her through the maze of other shops where she bargained with delight for a small pair of silver earrings and a worked silver and turquoise bracelet.
    â€œThere,” he said as they went down a long cobblestoned path, “is the palace of the Raissouli.”
    It took her breath away. The tiles, in white and many shades of vibrant blue, were combined in the most beautiful mosaic pattern she could have imagined inside the white, white walls of the exterior. There was little inside to see, but she touched the ceramic tiles with utter fascination.
    â€œAll the tile work is geometric,” she murmured.
    â€œWorshipers of Islam are forbidden from representing anything human or animal in the patterns,” he explained. “Thus the geometric designs.”
    â€œThey’re so beautiful.” She sighed with pleasure. “When I think of our concrete and steel and brick buildings back home…”
    â€œBut you have wooden ones as