Khalid shrugged. “You cannot yell loud enough for anyone to hear you in another part of the palace, so we have phones. I will be back in an hour. There are a choice of dresses for you in the closet. I picked out what would be suitable for you to wear when you meet my father.”
She frowned. “What’s wrong with my clothes?” His stare traveled over her, and her cheeks heated. “Okay, so I didn’t bring anything formal. Or even half formal. What about my luggage?”
“Already awaits you. Now I see you in an hour, Casey.”
Somehow he made her name into almost an endearment, seeming to caress the vowels, making them longer. Her face heated even more. With one of his slight bows, he closed the door, leaving her alone in what was essentially a private apartment.
“If only Ma could see me now,” Casey muttered, and started poking around.
She had an hour. So twenty minutes for a shower, ten to dress and do makeup—she never put on much. She found a small kitchen, a fridge stocked with coconut water, yogurt and fresh fruit.
Wandering into the bedroom, she glanced around, found the closet and opened it. She had three choices, none of which she’d ever buy for herself. They all looked expensive and she was betting on designer labels. She plucked out a blue gown, long sleeved and almost floor length. Gold embroidery decorated the hem, sleeves and neckline.
“How did I end up in this fantasy world?” she muttered and ran her hand over the silk.
Laying the dress out on the bed, she noticed her lumpy, canvas backpack sitting on the dresser. Her life was inside that bag. Heading over to it, she zipped it open and checked for her passport—missing, meaning Khalid was making sure she couldn’t run out on him, not that she would—and looked for her phone.
It showed missed calls from Luke, but she didn’t bother listening to them. It’d be faster to talk to him.
He answered on the second ring. “Casey?” He sounded like always—out of breath, harried, and impatient. She’d always told him he was going to have a heart attack one of these days, but Luke would probably be around another sixty years, running his magazine—Real News—just as he did now. He was one of the rare publisher/editors around. He could also be a pain in the ass and demanding as hell, but she knew how to deal with him.
“Luke, I only have a few minutes.”
“Where have you been? Don’t tell me jail. Are you in trouble again?”
“It’s a story—not that long, but definitely great.”
“Define great. And what did you do this time?”
“Let’s just say it’s gotten me into the sultan’s palace—and I’m looking at getting an exclusive insider interview.”
“What? With Mohammed Al-Qasimi?”
“The one and only—and with his son, Sheikh Khalid. I’m going to blow open Sharjah’s tradition of arranged marriages, and I’m going to nab an interview with Khalid’s former fiancée.”
Luke laughed. “Former? That’s news right there. Only you, Casey. When you get in, you get in.”
“Go big or go home, right?”
“Well, big has a deadline. Are you going to get me my story in time for the next edition?” Luke asked.
“That’s—” Her phone beeped a warning. “Hey, my phone is about to die and I don’t want to use the palace phones—no telling who’s listening. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can with deadlines.”
“Case, you—”
The phone cut out, which was just as well. Luke was probably going to warn her to be careful, or tell her he wouldn’t bail her out if she ended back in jail, or give her some other sage advice she wouldn’t want to hear and wouldn’t remember to follow.
Pulling out her charger out, she got her phone plugged in.
She was short on time now. Grabbing her toiletry bag, she hurried into the bathroom. She shouldn’t be surprised by more opulence, but really—a standing shower, gold fixtures and the most amazing bathtub that looked large enough for two.
An image flashed of her relaxing in the tub with Khalid.
Frowning, she turned on the water and cleared her mind of that distracting thought. This was about a story for her, and her somehow getting out of his dad’s plans for him.
Hot water washed away the sweat of the two days. The heat also loosened a few over tense muscles. It had not been fun being dragged out of the wedding, and she’d strained a few muscles. Her anxiety about maybe not getting out of this scrape faded, and she started thinking about the story.
What angle should she take? Sultan’s son reforms—changes his mind about arranged marriages? Or should she stick with Fadiyah’s story—how a woman found the courage to walk away from the Sheikh she’d been promised to?