Sweet Revenge Page 5

  force, Adrianne stepped between him and her brother. “It belongs to me. I gave it to him.”

  She braced for the blow, but it never came. Rather than fury, she confronted ice. Adrianne learned that cold disinterest could be the most painful of punishments. Her eyes had filled, but facing her father, she fought back the tears. He wanted her to cry, she felt it. If dry eyes were her only defense, then hers would remain dry.

  “So you would corrupt my son? Give him Christian symbols in the guise of a toy? I should have expected treachery from such as you.” He flung the ball against the wall, shattering it. Terrified, Fahid clung to Adrianne’s legs. “Go back to the women, where you belong. From this moment you are forbidden to care for Fahid.”

  He snatched up his son and turned away. Fahid, his face wet and swollen, reached out for her and called her name.

  Chapter Five

  Disgrace made her strong. It made her silent. It made her proud. Over the months that followed, Phoebe worried about Adrianne. For years Phoebe had lived with her own unhappiness, using it like a crutch because she saw no choice. Her American way of life had ended when she had stepped onto the soil of her husband’s country. From the beginning, the laws and traditions of Jaquir had been against her. She was a woman, and as such, despite her own beliefs, despite her own desires, she was forced to conform.

  Over the years Phoebe had found one comfort to ease her imprisonment. In her eyes Adrianne had been content, even suited to the life in Jaquir. She had a heritage, a title, a position even the king’s disfavor couldn’t take from her. She had family, playmates. She had security.

  Phoebe knew that Westerners were beginning to come in droves to Jaquir and the Middle East, lured by oil. And because of this new state of affairs she saw reporters again and played the role of the fairy-tale desert queen. Abdu wanted the money and technology the West would bring, even while he detested Westerners for providing them. With Westerners pouring into Jaquir, there would be progress. In time there even might be liberation. She was clinging to that—not for herself any longer, but for Adrianne. As the months went by, she began to see that if new freedoms did come to Jaquir, they would arrive too late to benefit her daughter.

  Adrianne was quietly obedient but no longer happy. She played games with the other girls and listened to her grandmother’s stories, but she was no longer young. Phoebe began to long for home more fiercely than ever before. She began to dream of going back, taking Adrianne, of showing her daughter a world beyond the laws and limitations of Jaquir.

  But even as she dreamed, she didn’t believe it possible. So she took her escape where she could find it, in tranquilizers and forbidden liquor.

  She was not a sophisticated woman. In spite of her rise in the glittery world of entertainment, she had remained very much the naive girl from the small farm in Nebraska. In her days in movie making, she had seen drinking and drug use. But in a way that was innate to her, she passed over what was unpleasant and believed in illusions.

  In Jaquir she became an addict, though she was ignorant of it. Drugs made the days bearable and blurred the nights. She had lived in the Middle East almost as long as she had lived in California, but with drugs she blissfully lost track of time and of the fact that she had become as much of an illusion here as the women she had played on the screen.

  To be called to Abdu’s apartments filled Phoebe with fear. They never spoke privately now. In public, when he wished it, they portrayed themselves as a couple from a romance. The breathtaking movie star and the elegant king. Though Abdu detested cameras, he allowed the press to photograph them together. He trod a delicate line between the traditional leader of his culture and the symbol of progress. But dollars, deutsche marks, and yen were flowing into his country as oil flowed out.

  He was a man who had been educated in the West and who could dine with presidents and prime ministers, leaving them with the impression of a brilliant and open mind. He had been raised in Jaquir, bred on Islam. In his youth he had believed there could be a merging. Now he saw the West only as a threat, even an abomination to Allah. Those beliefs had crystallized because of Phoebe. She was his symbol of the corruption and the dishonor.

  He looked at her now as she stood before him in a black dress that covered her from neck to ankle. Her hair was bound in a scarf so that not a hint of fire showed. Her skin was pale, not as creamy as it once had been, and her eyes were dull.

  Drugs, Abdu thought with disgust. He knew about them but chose to ignore them.

  He tapped a finger on the edge of his ebony desk, knowing every moment he made her wait her fear increased. “You have been invited to Paris to participate in a charity ball:”

  “Paris?”

  “It appears that there has been a revival of your films. Perhaps people find it amusing to watch the wife of the King of Jaquir expose herself.”

  Her head snapped up. He was smiling at her, waiting for her to protest so that he could crush even that small defiance. But she spoke quietly. “There was a time the King of Jaquir was also pleased to watch Phoebe Spring.”

  His smile faded. He remembered with self-loathing the hours he had spent watching her, desiring her. “It is thought that your presence would be of interest to those who attend this charity affair.”

  Phoebe fought to keep calm, to keep her voice level. “You will permit me to go to Paris?”

  “I have business there. It will be convenient for my American wife to accompany me and show Jaquir’s link with the West. You understand what is expected of you.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” It wouldn’t do to appear too pleased, but she couldn’t prevent a smile. “A ball. In Paris?”

  “A dress is being designed. You will wear The Sun and the Moon and present yourself as expected of the wife of the King of Jaquir. If you cause me shame, you will ‘develop an indisposition’ and be sent back at once.”

  “I understand perfectly.” The idea of Paris, just the idea, made her stronger. “Adrianne—”

  “Arrangements have been made for her,” Abdu interrupted.

  “Arrangements?” She felt the lick of fear at the base of her neck. She should have remembered that whenever Abdu gave with one hand, he took with the other. “What kind of arrangements?”

  “They do not concern you.”

  “Please.” She had to be careful, very careful. “I only want to prepare her, to be certain she is an asset to the House of Jaquir.” Phoebe bowed her head but couldn’t stop her fingers from twisting and knotting together. “I am only a woman, and she is my one child.”

  Abdu lowered himself into the chair behind his desk but didn’t gesture for Phoebe to sit. “She is to go to Germany, to school. We have found this a good arrangement for females of rank before their marriages.”

  “No! Dear God, Abdu, don’t send her to school so far away.” Forgetting pride, forgetting caution, she charged around the desk to drop at his feet. “You can’t take her. She’s all I have. You don’t care what happens to her. It can’t matter to you if she stays with me.”

  He took her hands at the wrists and removed them from where she clutched at his throbe. “She is a member of the House of Jaquir. The fact that your blood runs through her veins is only more reason for her to be separated and properly trained before her betrothal to Kadeem al-Misha.”

  “Betrothal?” Wild with fear, Phoebe clutched at him again. “She’s only a child. Even in Jaquir you don’t marry off children.”

  “She will be married on her fifteenth birthday. The arrangements are nearly complete. Then she will at last be of some use to me as the wife of an ally.” He took Phoebe’s hands again, but this time hauled her against him. “Be grateful that I do not give her to an enemy.”

  She was breathing heavily, her face close to his. For one blinding instant she wanted to kill him with her bare hands, to drag her fingers down his face and watch the blood run. If it would have saved Adrianne, she would have done it. Force would never work, nor would reason. She still had guile
.

  “Forgive me.” She let herself go limp. She let her eyes fill now, let them shimmer. “I’m weak and selfish. I was thinking only of losing my child, not of how generous you are to make a good marriage for her.” She dropped back down to a kneeling position, careful to keep her pose subservient in the extreme, then she wiped her eyes as if coming to her senses. “I am a foolish woman, Abdu, but not so foolish that I cannot be grateful. She will learn to be a proper wife in Germany. I hope you will be proud of her.”

  “I will do my duty by her.” He gestured impatiently for her to stand.

  “Perhaps you would consider allowing her to accompany us to Paris.” Her heart was pounding against her ribs as she folded her hands. “Many men prefer a wife who has traveled, who is able to accompany them on business or pleasure trips and be a help rather than a hindrance. Because of her rank, a great deal will be expected of Adrianne. I wouldn’t want her to cause you embarrassment. The education you received in Europe and the experiences you had there have certainly given you a better understanding of the world and Jaquir’s place in it.”

  His first thought had been to dismiss the idea out of hand, but her last words hit home. He believed strongly that his time in cities like Paris, London, and New York had made him a better king and a more pure child of Allah.

  “I will consider it.”

  She bit back the urge to beg and bowed her head. “Thank you.”

  Phoebe’s heart was still pounding when she returned to her room. She wanted a drink, a pill, oblivion. Instead, she lay on the bed and forced herself to think.

  All the years wasted, waiting for Abdu to return to the man he had once been, for her life to return. She had remained in Jaquir because he had demanded it, because even if she had somehow managed to escape, he would have taken Adrianne.

  Because she’d been weak, confused, afraid, she had lived almost ten years of her life in bondage. Not Adrianne. Never Adrianne. No matter what she had to do, she wasn’t going to see Adrianne taken away, given to some stranger to live her life out as a virtual prisoner.

  The first step was Paris, she told herself as she wiped a film of sweat from her brow. She would get Adrianne to Paris, and they would never come back.

  “When I go to Paris, I will buy trunkfuls of beautiful clothes.” Duja watched Adrianne slip on a gold bracelet and tried not to be jealous. “My father says we will eat at a place called Maxim’s and that I will have anything I want.”

  Adrianne turned. Her palms were continually damp from nerves, but she was afraid to wipe them on her dress. “I will bring you a present.”

  Jealousy forgotten, Duja grinned. “Only one?”

  “A special one. We are going to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower and to a place where they have thousands of paintings. And then—” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I am sick.”

  “If you are sick, you will not go, so you will not be sick. Leiha is sulking.” She said it only in hopes to make Adrianne feel better. Servants had already taken the bags, so Duja put her arm around Adrianne’s shoulder to lead her out. “She wants to go, but the king takes only you and your mother. Leiha has to be content that she is pregnant again.”

  “If I can buy presents for Fahid and my sisters, you will give them?”

  “I will.” She kissed Adrianne’s cheek. “I will miss you.”

  “We will be back soon.”

  “But you have never gone away before.”

  The harem was filled with women and the excitement of the journey only two would take. There were embraces to be exchanged, and laughter. Phoebe stood in her veil and abaaya, her hands knotted together at her waist, her face impassive. The scents, the dark, smoky scents of the harem weighed down on her until she thought she could almost see them. If there were a God, she would never see these people or this place again. For once she was grateful for the scarves and the veil. It meant she had to control only her eyes.

  The wave of regret surprised her as she kissed her sisters-in-law, her mother-in-law, the cousins by marriage. All the women she had lived with for almost a decade.

  “Adrianne must sit by the window,” Jiddah told Phoebe as she kissed and embraced them both. “So she can look down at Jaquir as the plane rises.” She smiled, pleased that her son was at last showing an interest in the child who was secretly her favorite. “Do not eat too much French cream, my sweet girl.”

  Adrianne grinned and rose on her toes to kiss Jiddah one last time. “I will eat so much that I will get fat. You will not know me when I return.”

  Jiddah laughed, patting Adrianne’s cheek with a hand lavishly decorated with henna. “I will always know you. Go, go now. Come back safe. Inshallah.”

  They walked out of the harem, through the garden and beyond the wall, where a car was waiting. Adrianne’s nerves were too tightly strung for her to notice her mother’s silence. She chattered about the plane ride, Paris, what they would see, what they would buy. She asked a question, then hurried on to another without expecting an answer.

  By the time they reached the airport, Adrianne was sick with excitement. Phoebe was sick with fear.

  Thus far, the coming of Western businessmen had only complicated airport procedure. Planes landed and departed more often, and ground transportation was limited to a smattering of cabs whose drivers spoke no English. The small terminal was already packed; women shuffled to one end, men to the other. Confused Americans and Europeans fought to guard their luggage from overenthusiastic porters while searching desperately for connections often delayed for days. Those czars of capitalism more often than not were stalled, victims of a culture gap that had widened to a chasm over the centuries.

  The air roared with the noise of planes, the cacophony of voices in different languages that rose and fell often without understanding. Adrianne saw a woman sitting by a pile of baggage, her face wet with tears and pale with exhaustion. Another rode herd on three young children who stared and pointed at the Arabic women in their black cloaks and veils.

  “There are so many of them,” Adrianne murmured as they were led through the crowd by their bodyguards. “Why do they come?”

  “Money.” Phoebe shifted her eyes right and left. It was hot, so hot she feared she might faint. But her hands were like ice. “Hurry.”

  Taking Adrianne’s hand, she pulled her outside again. Abdu’s gleaming new private plane, recently purchased with oil money, waited.

  Adrianne’s mouth dried up at the sight of it. “It’s very small.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m with you.”

  Inside, the cabin was very plush despite its size. The seats were upholstered in a rich fabric the color of pewter; the carpet was bloodred. The tiny lights bolted near each seat had crystal shades. Wonderfully cool, the air smelted of sandalwood, the king’s preferred scent. Servants, bowing silently, waited to serve from the store of food and drink.

  Abdu was already on board, bent with his secretary over a file of papers. His throbe had been discarded for a suit tailored in London, but he wore it with the headdress of the East. He never glanced up as they climbed in and took their seats. Instead, he gave a careless signal to one of his men. Within moments the engine caught. Adrianne’s stomach did a quick flip when the nose rose into the air.

  “Mama.”

  “Well be over the clouds soon.” Phoebe kept her voice low, grateful that Abdu ignored them. “Just like birds, Addy. Watch.” She rested her cheek against Adrianne’s. “Jaquir is going away.”

  Adrianne wanted to be sick, but was afraid to because her father was with them. Determined, she clenched her teeth, swallowed hard, and watched the world drop away. After a while the churning in her stomach eased. It was Phoebe’s turn to chatter. She did so in a low voice that ultimately lulled Adrianne to sleep. While her daughter dozed on her shoulder, Phoebe stared down at the blue waters of the Mediterranean and prayed.

  Paris was a feast for the senses. Adrianne clung to her mother’s hand and stared at everything as they hurried through the ai
rport. She had always believed that her mother’s stories about other places were no more than fairy tales. She had loved them as such, dreamed of them as such. Now she had stepped through a door into a world that had existed only in her imagination.

  Even her mother was different. She had shed the abaaya and veil. Beneath she wore a trim Western suit the same shade as her eyes. Her hair was loose and free, gloriously red over her shoulders. She had even spoken to a man, a stranger, when they had passed through customs. Adrianne had glanced fearfully up at her father, waiting for punishment. But he had done nothing.

  Women walked here, sometimes alone, sometimes arm in arm with men. They wore skirts and tight pants that showed their legs. They walked with their heads up, their hips swinging, but no one stared at them. To her astonishment, she saw a couple embrace and kiss while others elbowed around them. There were no matawain, with their camel whips and henna-tipped beards, to arrest them.

  The sun was setting when they exited the terminal. Adrianne waited to hear the prayer call sound, but there was nothing. There was confusion here, but it was faster and somehow more organized than the confusion at the airport in Jaquir. People bundled into cabs, men and women together without shame or secrecy. Phoebe had to pull her into the limo as she craned to see more.

  To see Paris at sunset for the first time. Whenever Adrianne thought of the city again, she would remember the magic of that first view, when the light was caught between day and night. The old buildings rose, fussy, somehow feminine, glowing pink and gold and soft white in the dying sun. The big car swooped down the boulevard, driving fast into the heart of the city. But it wasn’t the speed that made her giddy and breathless.

  She thought there would be music. In such a place there had to be music. But she didn’t risk asking permission to lower the window. Instead, she let it play inside her head, grandly, gloriously, as they cruised along the Seine.

  There were couples walking, hand in hand, their hair and the