Protecting His Princess. C.J. Miller
attend the wedding as a show of respect to the emir. At her aunt’s urging, he’d worn more traditional Qamsarian clothes. It was the first time Laila had seen him dressed in that manner.
Harris wore black trousers and a white dress shirt, the top button open at the neck and the sleeves rolled to his elbow. On his wrist was an expensive-looking watch. A simple, understated look and he owned it.
Their chauffer, provided by the emir, drove the black sedan to the entrance of the compound. The maroon iron gates were secured to a perimeter wall constructed of concrete, painted tan to reflect the rays of the sun. The smoothness of the concrete made it impossible to climb the fifteen-foot wall without ropes. Every ten feet along the top of the wall, a security camera was posted and actively monitored by the emir’s private security staff.
Two security guards stepped out from the gatehouse, guns slung over their shoulders. Their khaki uniforms and patches on their shoulders identified them as the emir’s private guards.
Laila glanced at Harris to gauge his reaction. He appeared unimpressed, though he turned to her and smiled. “Are you nervous about having me meet the rest of your family?”
For a minute she forgot the part she was playing. She focused. His question was a good first-meeting question. “My mother won’t be pleased you’re German.” She gave herself a pat on the back for remembering his cover and playing along as if they were a couple. “But she’ll be happy to learn you’re converting to Islam.” Harris had hoped that part of their cover story would convince her family to accept him. Converting was a coup for her family, at least, if it was reality.
Since agreeing to this mission, she’d been thinking that she could have a life that had previously been an impossible dream. The man who she married needed to be faithful and true, but his religious beliefs weren’t as critical as being a good person, a partner to her. She wanted a man who would treat her as an equal, and with love, respect and fairness. If she married any man her brother had selected for her, she had no doubt those dreams would be out of reach.
The armed guards approached the sedan. This level of security was new. Did the additional measures mean her brother suspected a plot was afoot? Did Mikhail know his relationship with Al-Adel and the Holy Light Brotherhood put him and the people around him in a more dangerous position? Or did the influx of international guests attending the wedding, some who held visible and high-profile positions, call for enhanced security?
If they were turned away at the entrance to the compound, Laila would have fulfilled her part of their agreement and avoided the deception that would follow. It would have been a relief and a disappointment. If Mikhail was working with Al-Adel, he had to be stopped for the good of Qamsar and for the royal family.
Harris’s hand came over hers, his thumb rubbing hers slightly. The chauffeur lowered his driver’s side window.
“Everyone step out of the car,” the guard said.
Laila glanced at Harris, and he nodded. “It’s okay, Laila. These measures are to keep everyone safe.”
To keep everyone safe or to search for a traitor? Laila got out of the car on trembling legs. Her brother and his security team had eyes and ears everywhere. Did they know she had betrayed him? Harris circled to stand next to her, and her uncle took his position on her other side. If Harris’s cover had been blown and her uncle was charged guilty by association, Laila would never forgive herself.
The guards patted down the driver, her uncle and then Harris. They reached for Laila, sliding their hands down her sides and letting them linger on her hips.
“Watch your hands,” Harris said in Arabic, a hint of possessiveness in his voice.
The guards immediately removed their hold on Laila, appearing startled by Harris’s words. Harris didn’t flinch, and his piercing look communicated he was not backing down and might be willing to be more confrontational.
“We need your identification and to search the car and your luggage. Do you have any weapons you need to declare?” one of the guards asked.
“We don’t,” Harris said.
His answer surprised her. He didn’t have a gun with him? She had wondered how he would sneak it into the compound, but walking around unarmed seemed dangerous. What if he was discovered as an American spy? Mikhail did not treat spies or traitors with leniency. He jailed them, or in some cases, they disappeared.
“If you could please stand over here.” The guard gestured to his left.
Harris said he didn’t have a weapon, but had he packed anything else that would get them in trouble? Laila’s mouth went dry. Equipment Harris planned to install inside the compound? Some technical gizmo that would raise questions? The chauffeur popped the trunk, and the guards began their search.
Harris clasped his hands behind his back. He took sunglasses dangling in the front of his shirt and slipped them over his eyes. “It’s hotter than I thought.”
Was that a coded message? He was looking around with a bored expression on his face. How did he manage it? She felt as if she would sweat through her clothes and melt in a puddle of nerves.
Laila fiddled with the ends of her head scarf. Was Harris worried about what the guards would find? After several agonizing minutes, the guards put their luggage back in the trunk and opened their car doors. “Sorry for the delay. Enjoy your visit. As-salaam alaykum.” Peace be upon you.
“Wa alaykum as-salaam,” Harris and her uncle said in reply. And with you peace.
Laila gave Harris extra credit for knowing the proper response. He had indicated to her he’d prepared for this operation. Perhaps he had prepared more than she’d thought.
They climbed into the car and drove through the gate into the emir’s compound. Despite passing the security screening at the gate, Laila didn’t feel relief that the first gauntlet had been passed. They were now in the lion’s den.
* * *
The foyer of the emir’s main house was four stories high, a large aviary filled with colorful birds hung from the ceiling. On ground level, blue marble fountains located on either side of the double mahogany doors of the formal entryway spurted water.
They were greeted by the emir’s head butler who snapped his fingers for an attendant to appear and escort them to their room. Or more precisely, their rooms. Within the walls of the compound, Harris and Laila would not be permitted to spend time together in private without supervision. If they needed to speak alone, they would have to arrange a secret meeting.
With a bid goodbye, Laila’s uncle followed an attendant to his room.
Once she was escorted to her room, another attendant waited at Laila’s door, making it clear he wasn’t leaving her and Harris without a chaperone. Never mind that she’d been living in another country where she might have been alone with a man at any time, in the emir’s home, his rules applied. For that matter, in the emir’s country, his rules applied. She’d grown up with the same rules and restrictions, but in the last couple of years, she’d grown accustomed to freedom. Being here already felt stifling.
She was Qamsarian royalty and with that came intrusions into every aspect of her life. She’d been raised to accept that her life was not her own. Only since the death of her father two years ago and her subsequent time in America had she questioned that eventuality.
“I’ll unpack my things and take a shower. How about we meet in an hour?” Harris asked. “You can show me Qamsar. You’ve spoken so often about the souk, I’d love to see it. Maybe get a gift for your mother.”
She and Harris would be staying in rooms on opposite ends of the guest corridor. Laila wished he could stay closer. At least within shouting distance. She’d never spoken to Harris about the marketplace, but Laila nodded along. If he needed to go to the souk, she’d provide what cover she could.
She closed the door to her suite. What would she do for the next hour? She should call her mother to tell her that she’d arrived. Her mother