seemed to be interested, too. "They must be very proud that you're marrying so well."
"You're very kind." Libby nodded, although Rasyn doubted that she'd missed the Princess's implication that she came from a low background. "What about you? How many children do you and His Highness have?"
The temperature in the room dropped like a stone. The general's staid, grandmotherly wife actually gasped. It was well-known that the Prince had married the very young Sanurah five years ago in the hopes of getting an heir. It hadn't worked.
The Princess's eyes went dead. "None." Her tone would have made frost shiver.
Apparently, Libby didn't miss the ice. She put her hand to her chest as if trying to keep her heart from pounding.
"Excuse me." Her voice cracked. "I have to go freshen up."
Libby pushed out her chair, crashing into the waiter behind her. Rasyn watched in slow motion as the bowl of seafood bisque that the server had been about to set in front of the Princess plummeted into her lap.
The Princess leapt up, followed by the Prince, red-faced and looking like he might explode in anger. Everyone at the table rose—the general's wife immediately reached for Rasyn's napkin and began to brush the slimy stain on the Princess' dress with it. The waiter dropped to his face on the floor, begging forgiveness as fast as he could.
Libby’s face turned ashen.
“I’m so sorry,” she gasped, reaching for her own napkin to help clean the Princess’s dress. But the group of women hovering around the Princess pushed Libby back and began to lead the Princess toward an exit.
Libby's emerald eyes filled with glossy tears. Rasyn watched, his emotions warring between triumph and guilt, as she hiked up her skirts and ran from the room.
Chapter Six
Where in God's name was her suitcase? Rasyn's apartment blurred in front of her, the tears in her eyes glassing over Libby's vision. She wiped them away, probably smudging her thick mascara across her cheeks.
She just needed her suitcase and her passport. Then she'd be on her way to the U.S. embassy to spend the night before heading to the airport in the morning. She had to get there before the angry mob got to her.
Dammit, her luggage wasn't stowed away with the rows of designer suits in Rasyn's closet, suits that gave off a faint smell of his cologne.
He must be kicking himself now, she thought, with a slight pang. He'd probably be happy to get rid of her. So much for love at first sight. Take a second look, buddy.
Fatigue weighed her body down and she shook off the urge to collapse. She was too tired to find her suitcase. She needed help.
Libby stuck her head out the door, half-expecting to see torches and pitchforks coming toward her. Instead, a petite older woman in a traditional floor-length skirt and a pink hijab headscarf stopped in mid-step and blinked at her. She carried a stack of fresh white towels—reminding Libby of some of her friends from Hotel Scheherazade.
"Can you help me?" Libby fought to keep panic out of her voice. "Please?"
The woman's eyes softened and deep crinkles appeared around her mouth. The kindness and concern Libby saw there made her want to burst into a fit of sobs.
"—- —- —- Ingleesi." Her voice was just as soothing as her eyes, but Libby only caught the last word.
"I don't care if you can't speak English." Libby motioned for the woman to enter. "Please just help me."
Once inside, the woman put the towels on a table inlaid with mother of pearl and took Libby's hand. She felt the night's disasters piling up on her, wanting to come spilling out.
"I’m Libby." She pointed to the other woman's chest. "What's your name?"
"Umm Tariq."
The mother of Tariq. Someone back in New York had told her Arabic parents often defined themselves by their children.
Umm Tariq pointed down. Libby lifted her skirt, revealing one designer shoe and one bare foot.
"Oh, that," she said. "I lost a shoe somewhere. That's not what I need. I can't find my suitcase."
She mimed the actions of packing, finally getting through to Umm Tariq what she needed. Umm Tariq narrowed her eyes suspiciously. She obviously wasn't stupid, and had quickly realized that the sheikh's Western mistress was making an escape attempt.
The maid began to search the rooms, or at least make a show of it, while Libby pulled her clothes from the closet. Some part of her exhausted brain wondered if maybe Umm Tariq was just conspiring to keep her busy