Daughter of the Dragon Page 19

  “Don’t kill him!”Deedee exclaimed.

  “What?” He seemed taken aback. “Kill him? That wasn’t my plan.”

  “You said he wasn’t going to bother us again,” Deedeee pointed out. “What was I supposed to think?”

  He waved a hand at her. “Don’t you worry your little head, mon petite. Just enjoy your dessert, okay?” With a dramatic flair of his hands, he marched out of the door.

  “I hate him and like him at the same time,” Karim muttered under his breath.

  “I get that.” Marc Delacroix, indeed, was both easy to read and an enigma. And she still hadn’t figured out how a Cajun from Louisiana came to New York and somehow ingratiated himself to the Alpha and her father.

  “I’m afraid that one photographer is just a sampling of what we’ll have to endure.” Karim lowered his voice so only she could hear it. “Soon there will be more of them. They will descend on us and …” His eyes flickered toward Amaya, who was happily scooping whipped cream into her mouth. “This is not how I wanted her introduced to the world. I have sheltered her all these years, and now I’ve exposed her.”

  She wanted to reach over and smooth the lines of worry from his face. But that would mean touching him, so instead, she rubbed her hands down her skirt. “Karim, you can’t protect her forever. Surely you don’t mean for her to stay in Zhobghadi her entire life? Unfortunately, the media has gotten worse when it comes to gossip and celebrity worship. She is a princess, and unless you plan to keep her inside the palace forever, she will have to get used to this. Better to teach her how to deal with it now, than later when she’s less resilient.”

  “I never thought of that.” A hand reached out to cover hers. His palm was rough and warm, and memories flooded into her brain. Memories of the palace and his bed. “Thank you for that reminder, Desiree.”

  Despite her brain telling her arm to move her hand away, she didn’t budge. “It’ll be all right. She’s a bright child. But she won’t be one forever.”

  Amaya let out a loud burp. “Excuse me,” she said with a giggle. “That was good, can I have another?”

  Karim checked his watch. “I don’t think so. It’s time to go back to the hotel and go to bed.”

  “But Kariiiiiim!”

  He gave her a warning look. “If you behave and go straight to bed, maybe Desiree would be inclined to spend more time with you tomorrow.”

  How could she say no? Especially when both of them were looking at her expectantly. “What would you like to do, Amaya?”

  “Whatever you want to do, Desiree.” She yawned loudly. “We can go back to the museum again, and you can tell me about the mummies.”

  “I think I’ve had enough mummies,” Karim grumbled.

  An idea popped into her head. “Okay, let me take care of tomorrow. I have an idea, but I have to see if I can pull it off.”

  “Hooray!”

  By the time their plates had been cleared and Karim paid the check, Amaya was heavily drowsy. She was nestled in Karim’s arms as they exited and headed toward the SUV. Jacob, Delacroix, and the rest of the Almoravid were already there, and thankfully, there were no photographers around.

  Karim placed Amaya into the SUV and then said a few words to the driver and guard in the front.

  “Well, I guess this is goodnight—”

  “But our evening isn’t over,” he said.

  “It’s not?” He knocked on the roof and then the vehicle began to pull away. “Karim? What’s going on? Amaya—”

  “Will be fine. She has her nanny with her who will put her to bed.” He motioned behind her. “I want to show you something.”

  Turning around, she saw a sleek black limousine that hadn’t been there earlier. “Karim, I—”

  “Please.”

  The single word seemed to knock down all her objections. When had Karim ever said please? She couldn’t remember. He commanded, not pleaded.

  Oh yes, she did. Only once did those words pass from his lips. When he pleaded for his mother. “All right,” she found herself saying. “But where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise.” A hand on the small of her back led her to the waiting limo, where one of the Almoravid had already opened the door. Before they came in, he turned to Delacroix. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  “Anytime, Your Highness.”

  Jacob flashed a suspicious look at Karim. “We’ll follow you in the car.”

  Deedee knew there was no use arguing, so she allowed him to assist her inside. The brush of his fingers on hers made her heat shoot across her body. How was it that he could affect her with a simple touch? The entire day, he had been on his best behavior, which she assumed was for Amaya’s benefit. But now they were alone, would he try anything? And would she let him?

  The limo door closed, and soon the vehicle began to move. They headed downtown, then west toward SoHo, until they reached one of the more quiet side streets off Lafayette Street. They slowed down in front of a classic cast-iron building the district was known for.

  The door opened and Karim went out first, then offered his hand to help her out. “What is this place?” She peered through the large windows, into the vast, brightly-lit space inside. “Are we at an art gallery?”

  “Indeed.” He guided her to the front entrance, opening the heavy door for her so she could go inside first. “But this is a special art gallery.”

  Glancing around, she thought it looked like many of the art galleries in New York. “What’s special about it?”

  “The owner of this particular place is an expat from Zhobghadi. Despite the fact that he lives here, we have kept in touch. I make it a point to visit when I’m in New York.”

  “Oh.” Although the place was lit up, there was no one else around them. “Where is everyone?”

  “They’re normally closed at this time, but he’s kept it open just for us.”

  “Your Highness!” An older man with white hair appeared in the doorway on the left, his face all lit up as he approached them. He placed his fist over his heart and bent his head low. “Prince Karim, welcome, it’s wonderful to see you again. How was your trip?” His accent definitely placed him as a Zhobghadian. For a moment, she felt a pang of longing for that palace in the desert.

  Karim acknowledged him with a curt nod. “Good evening, Bashir. Thank you so much for allowing us to come. This,” he gestured to Deedee, “is Professor Desiree Desmond Creed. Desiree, this is Mr. Bashir Dana.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Dana?” She offered her hand which Bashir took graciously.

  “I’m glad to meet you as well, professor. But please call me Bashir.”

  “Then you can call me Deedee.” She looked around. “His Highness tells me that you’re formerly from Zhobghadi. What made you move to New York?”

  “Well, art was my passion,” he said. “While Zhobghadi is a wonderful country and I am missing it every day, I’m afraid my interests were a bit … stifled. I was part of the trade mission here in New York, when I met my now-husband. He’s an artist, too, you see. We fell in love, opened this gallery, and the rest is history.” His eyes narrowed at them and he opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but shut it again.

  Bashir’s knowing look made her feel like she was under a microscope, so she changed the subject. “Do you feature Zhobghadian artists here?”

  “We feature artists from everywhere,” Bashir said, his chest puffing up. “But, yes, we do devote space to Zhobghadian artists. I select the pieces myself. Come,” he motioned toward the next room. “I have some amazing etchings done by a girl from the southern cities.…”

  Bashir proudly showed off his artists, giving them tidbits and insights about each one and their work. Deedee appreciated art as much as the next person, so her eyes glassed over when he went into the minute details of every picture or sculpture, but she did love listening to Bashir talk in his Zhobghadian accent, as well as his enthusiasm for his clients.

  They finished about three-fourths
of the room before Bashir stopped short, his palm going to his forehead. “Oh, excuse my rudeness, I didn’t even offer you any refreshments. I have bread and tea in the back; I’ll bring them along shortly. Please feel free to view any piece you want.” He bowed and scuttled away, disappearing through a doorway in the far-right corner.

  “Interesting man,” she commented. “How did you know about him and his gallery?”

  Karim shook his head. “He’s one of the few expats we have, so we keep tabs on him.”

  “Ah, I see.” To make sure he didn’t say anything about The Great One.

  “He still travels back and forth for business, always trying to find new artists to display here.”

  “He seems like a nice enough man. I—hmmm …” Something on the far side of the gallery, on the last wall whose paintings they hadn’t yet seen, seemed to call to her.

  She walked over to the wall, her eyes narrowing at the painting that caught her eye. As she drew closer, she gasped.

  “Desiree?” Karim touched her on the shoulder lightly. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Not a ghost.

  Painted eyes the color of the ocean looked out at her and made gooseflesh rise on her arms.

  She squinted at the painting, her vision blurring temporarily. And when they refocused, she knew she hadn’t been hallucinating.

  This painting, it was unmistakable. Unmistakably Cross.

  It captured him from the waist up, wearing a loose white shirt, his face turned to the viewer. He was standing on top of a cliff of some sort, and behind him was a long, narrow inlet framed by steep cliffs. The painting was done with such detail that she could practically see his long blond hair whipping in the wind. It was uncanny, really.

  “Desiree, are you all right?” Karim’s tone was more forceful.

  “I’m fine,” she said. But how?

  “Your Highness.” Bashir came over to them, tray in hand. “I made these myself. I’m sure Deedee would love to try some of our Zhobghadian bread?”

  “Bashir, what can you tell me about this artist?” Her eyes tracked down to the signature scrawled on the lower left-hand corner. “S. Strohen?”

  The older man’s brows knitted together. “My assistant was supposed to take it down today as we just finished the show. Sold out every piece actually, except this one. It’s an exhibition piece, not meant for sale, and we were to return it tomorrow.”

  “Is the artist from Zhobghadi?”

  “No, from New York actually. Very eccentric.” He shrugged. “I deal mostly with the agent. Strohen’s a recluse, you see. Never does any interviews, media appearances, or promotions of any sort. No presence online. But extremely talented and highly-sought after.” He nodded at the painting. “I mean, just look at it.” He pointed to the figure. “It’s like the entire painting is alive. You can almost smell the freshness of the air or touch the linen on his shirt. And those eyes …”

  She swallowed. The artist had captured the blue-green of his eyes perfectly. How could anyone do that, unless they spent a lot of time staring into them? Deedee had done so herself, and if she had any artistic talent, she was sure she could paint that exact color too. “Is there any way to meet Strohen? I’d like to know more about this painting.”

  Bashir eyes darted around mysteriously. “Um, apologies, I’m afraid the artist is very reclusive and refuses to speak to anyone. I can put you in touch with the agent.”

  “Oh.” The agent probably wouldn’t know anything about how Cross appeared in this painting. Maybe it was just a coincidence. “It’s fine.”

  “I would consider it a personal favor and owe you a debt if you found a way to contact this artist for us,” Karim said.

  The old man looked stunned, but quickly composed himself. “I shall endeavor to do my best, Your Highness. Now,” he lifted the tray in his hands, “let’s have some of these refreshments, shall we?”

  The smell of fresh-baked bread tickled her nostrils, and once again, she was reminded of Zhobghadi. She snuck a peek up at Karim, wondering if this was his plan.

  They sat down at the cafe table set up in the corner, nibbling on bread and drinking tea. She found Bashir utterly charming, and his stories about his life in Zhobghadi and New York were entertaining. Still, her mind kept going back to the painting. And then to Cross. It seemed like forever since she’d thought of him, longer still since she’d seen him.

  When they were done, Bashir walked them back to their limo, thanking them for a lovely visit and telling them to come back any time. After the car pulled away and Deedee waved one last goodbye, she settled into the plush leather seats, her mind going back to Cross once again.

  “Everything all right?” Karim asked in a soft voice. “Is something bothering you? Is it that artist?”

  It was at that moment she realized that Karim was still blissfully unaware of Cross. Of who he was and that he was, inadvertently, the reason she had left New York. She should tell him, right? He should at least know that much.

  But the thought of opening those wounds up again made her hesitate. And seeing that painting, she thought that it would make her long for him again, but surprisingly, she didn’t feel anything more than a slight fondness. She missed Cross, yes, but as her friend. Someone she could always talk to and rely on for support.

  And what was Karim to her? Before everything had turned sour in Zhobghadi, she thought she had fallen for him. Could she trust her confused heart?

  “Desiree?”

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all.”

  The ride continued in silence all the way to her house. When the limo stopped in front of her brownstone, she cleared her throat. “I had a nice time today. Thank you for bringing Amaya out.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed her company. I did it for her, too,” he said sheepishly. “Forgive me for being underhanded.”

  “It was a good kind of underhanded. I’m glad she was able to leave the palace and come out here. I might be able to snag some tickets to the hottest Broadway show for you and Amaya tomorrow. I’ll have them sent to your hotel.” She reached for the door. “I’ll see myself inside, no need to come out.”

  As she exited the limo and climbed out, she couldn’t help feel a small pang of disappointment as Karim just let her walk away. A cold rush of air chilled her, so she picked up her pace as she climbed the stoop steps, fishing her keys from her purse.

  “Desiree.”

  The set of keys in her hand dropped to the ground with an echoing clink. Turning around slowly, she held her breath. Cerulean blue eyes stared at her with such intensity that she wanted to melt into a puddle. “Karim?”

  He took a step forward, crowding her against the door. “I cannot hold this in any longer. They said I shouldn’t say it right away, but I must.”

  “They?”

  “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you listen to what I have to say.” Then he added, “Please.”

  “I …” She nodded anyway, despite the protests of her brain. This close, she could smell his desert-tinged scent.

  “You misunderstood me that morning—” He shook his head. “There was a misunderstanding, and I did not state myself clearly, so it was only logical you came to your conclusions. I was so afraid of …” He stopped again, seemingly to compose himself. “When the Easifat died down, I knew it was time to let you go. But I just couldn’t. At the same time, I couldn’t let the same thing that happened to her happen to you.”

  She heard the hitch in his voice and knew who he was talking about.

  “I was afraid. I’m still afraid now. It’s not easy, this life.” His jaw tensed. “There are duties and consequences. I grew up alone in a palace, surrounded by tutors and servants and guards. It was only until I went to school in England that I’d even spent an extended amount of time with others my age. But that was all right, because all my life, I only knew duty. But my mother she …” He swallowed audibly. “She was not used to it. And it made her bi
tter and unhappy, until she couldn’t take it anymore. My father loved her, but it was not enough. And he loved another, too, after her. In his own way.”

  Deedee bit her lip. “Do you think … he made Amaya’s mother consort to protect her?”

  He nodded. “I believe that he would do such a thing. He just didn’t realize that he was hurting her, too. She died because she didn’t think she had anything to live for, because her husband thought her unworthy.”

  “That poor woman. And Amaya.” So much unnecessary loss and tragedy.

  “You are an archeologist. You study the past. And we are supposed to learn from the past, right? So we do not commit the same mistakes as those before us. But then I realized I was doing the exact same thing as my father did. Making you feel unworthy. You think I thought you unworthy of the position of queen? No, Desiree. It is the position which isn’t worthy of you. It is I who am not worthy.”

  She gasped when he stepped even closer, placing a palm behind her on the door. Their bodies were barely touching, but the heat emanating from him warmed her.

  “I can’t take back what I said, but know that I will do everything to earn your forgiveness, and do what it takes to make you mine.”

  Her mind was spinning, making her dizzy. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I love you, my habibti. My beloved.”

  It was like the entire globe came to a halt. He … loved her?

  They stood there in silence for what seemed like a lifetime, and she saw his face falter for a moment. “If you do not feel—”

  The world began to spin again, and a wave of dizziness made her lean back against the door. “I don’t know how I feel, Karim. It’s just all going so fast.” Days ago, she would have given anything to hear those words from his mouth. Her time in the palace had been like a fairy tale, and she had been caught up in the romance of being in a handsome prince’s arms. But then reality had hit her like a bucket of cold water to the face. Being with him would mean sacrificing a lot, possibly her career, and maybe even her family and her clan. Fairy tales were not real, after all.

  And then, as she’d been reminded tonight, there was Cross. Should she tell Karim about him, the reason she’d been out in the desert in the first place? Did it matter now?