on making the fruit go down. He watched her intently, then his gaze slid back down to the diamond ring poking out of her splint.
“Who’s the guy?”
Dalilah swallowed her mouthful of apple. He was probably thinking about the fact she’d kissed him back while she was promised to another man.
“Sheik Haroun Hassan of Sa’ud,” she said.
His eyes flashed up to hers.
“The Kingdom of Sa’ud?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened and he leaned back into the driver’s seat, facing the front. He stared at the churning river as he spun a can of ravioli round and round in his hands.
“You have an issue with the Kingdom of Sa’ud?” she said quietly, watching his profile, the tension in his hands.
“I know the House of Sa’ud is stinking oil-rich.” His words were abrupt, and he didn’t look at her when he spoke. “I also know the Sa’ud royal family is fiercely traditional, and that the old king is not expected to live long. It’s creating some uncertainty in the Middle East.”
She nodded. “Haroun is his only son. He’ll be king soon.”
“And then you’ll be queen.” His tone was matter-of-fact, yet spiced with distaste.
“And you disapprove.”
He just snorted.
“Brandt—what is it?”
“Two years ago,” he said quietly, watching the water, “there was a big to-do in the news about a sheik from the House of Sa’ud. He was accused of having his fiancée murdered while she was visiting Dubai. The king used his influence, made the charges go away.”
Dalilah swallowed, the apple sticking in her craw. “Yes,” she said quietly. “The sheik was—is—a very distant cousin of Haroun’s. But the Dubai incident had nothing to do with Haroun.”
He spun suddenly to face her. “The woman was his fiancée, Dalilah.”
“She was killed by two Egyptians. It was a robbery gone wrong in her hotel room. The Egyptians were caught.”
“The BBC claimed the Egyptians were hit men—”
“There was no proof, no evidence. No—”
“There were rumors the hit men were hired after the Sa’ud sheik found his fiancée was cheating on him, that it was an honor killing, because she was unfaithful, tainted goods.” He turned to face her and his ice eyes were suddenly ice-cold and fierce under the white light of the Petzl lamp above.
A chill sunk into Dalilah. She held the half-eaten apple in her lap, her own insecurities about the case welling inside her again.
“Do you believe everything you read?” she said.
“I believe in this case, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
“The truth is not always what it seems at first blush, you know. This guy—Haroun’s cousin—was prejudged because of his culture, because he’s a wealthy oil sheik.”
“Is that what you think this is? Prejudice?”
“Yeah, I do. Just like you prejudged me for being royalty.”
He glared at her, a muscle working along his jaw.
Dalilah pushed a fall of hair off her brow, self-conscious now. And she realized her hair was thick with mud, and that she was too darn tired to argue or explain anything. Or even think about how Haroun had sidestepped the issue when she’d tried to discuss the case with him last year. She put her head back, the unfinished apple resting uneaten in her hand.
“So, when is the wedding?”
She looked away. So far away, it all seemed. She got a sinking, claustrophobic feeling in her chest at the thought of it all.
“Nineteen months.”
“You’ll get married in Sa’ud?”
She nodded.
He blew out a breath.
Dalilah turned her head toward him. “What exactly is it that you don’t you approve of, Brandt? It’s not like you’re getting married—my choice has nothing to do with you.”
He met her eyes. “You’re right, it doesn’t.”
Guilt sliced through her—she’d kissed him. And a need rose in Dalilah to make him understand that she wasn’t a cheat, that she had values. That this momentary indiscretion was bothering her intensely.
“Tradition decrees we marry in his kingdom,” she explained.
Several beats of silence filled the space between them, and his gaze lowered slowly to her lips. Dalilah swallowed.
“I suppose,” he said slowly, still focused on her mouth, “that your guest list reads like a United Nations who’s who. I mean, who doesn’t want to rub shoulders with Sa’ud royalty, in spite of who they are. Did you send an invite to the White House, too?”
“You do have a problem.”
“Lady, I’ve got a lot of problems. Acquired over a lot of years. You don’t even want to go there. Let’s just deal with what’s at hand, okay. Why don’t you lean your back against the door, get your feet up on the seat here so I can lace