The figure, backlit, crouched over her and then Zelda felt blessed when cold water started splashing over her face, against her lips.
“Here, drink.”
Zelda obeyed mindlessly, grabbing at the container instinctively when it seemed like it would go away.
“Shh, you need to drink more slowly, or you’ll only throw it up.”
Zelda mumbled something like a denial, and opened her eyes again to argue her case. She saw Zayed’s face, looking down at her, full of concern.
“I’ve got you, Zelda. You’re going to be okay.”
Zelda nodded, accepting it as the gospel truth without even quite understanding the words.
The Sheikh brought the bottle to her lips again and she drank down a little more water before the last of her energy left her and she slumped against Zayed’s strong, warm body, slipping gently into unconsciousness.
TWELVE
Zelda came back to consciousness bit by bit; she became aware of the fact that her headache was gone, that her skin no longer felt drawn and tight on her face and hands. She realized that she wasn’t on the ground; instead, soft blankets covered her and a cushioned surface cradled her underneath. She felt clean, dry—but not uncomfortably so—and better rested than she could remember ever being in her life. Her heart beat steadily without pounding in her ears, and lastly she became aware of the fact that she was incredibly hungry.
She opened her eyes and the first thing she saw was Zayed, seated a few feet away from her, watching her intently. A broader glance around her told Zelda that she was in her bedroom at the Sheikh’s mansion, and that at some point since she had passed out, she’d been brought back, bathed, and cared for. None of the servants seemed to be present.
“Hi,” she said sheepishly, pushing herself up by her elbows.
“Careful,” Zayed said, reaching out to help her pull herself up into a seated position. “Your arm might be a little sore; the doctor said you needed IV fluids.”
Zelda looked down and saw the pristine white square of gauze taped to the crook of her elbow. “I feel pretty great,” she said, smiling shyly. “A little concerned at being much cleaner than I remember.”
“Hadya insisted that since we haven’t yet been married, she should be the one to clean you up,” Zayed admitted, looking amused.
“Well at least that’s one less thing I have to be mortified about,” Zelda grinned. She shook her head, thinking of how incredibly foolish her escape attempt had been—all the things she hadn’t thought of, including the fact that she had no real idea of how to get to the city from Zayed’s compound.
“He said you would probably be hungry when you woke up,” the Sheikh told her, “but that since you’d been through such an ordeal, you should eat fairly lightly at first.”
The words disappointed Zelda, but she kept her face neutral as Zayed stood and walked to the door, opening it to reveal a rolling cart with a tray on top. He wheeled it into the room and positioned it next to her bed before lifting the lid on the tray to reveal a dish of what looked like rice pudding, a selection of fresh fruit, and some of the flatbreads that Zelda had particularly liked in her breakfasts during her first week as the Sheikh’s guest and bride-to-be.
“That looks amazing,” she said, her stomach almost cramping with hunger.
“Here, let me set you up,” Zayed said. He produced another tray with legs on it and settled it over her lap, and Zelda shifted in bed until she was able to reach it properly. Zayed served her, pouring fragrant tea into a beautiful cup, adding a little honey to it, making sure everything was where she could get to it on the bed tray.
Zelda felt almost embarrassed; Zayed had never shown this level of concern, this amount of kindness to her. She’d never seen him show it to anyone, though she reminded herself that she’d only seen him in action for a few weeks. She had to admit that the gentler, caring side of the Sheikh, unexpected as it was, appealed to her much more than the generous entertainer or the charming businessman had.
She began to eat, taking careful bites and chewing as slowly as she could manage. The rice pudding was sweetened with honey and spices—cardamom, cinnamon, and ginger, Zelda noted—and rich with creamy milk, the grains of rice soft without being mushy. The fruit was perfectly ripe, probably from the greenhouse on the property.
As she ate, Zayed watched her—not obtrusive, merely interested—waiting for her to need him or to ask for something.
“It’s kind of weird sitting here in silence,” Zelda noted eventually; as grateful as she was for the Sheikh’s presence, she felt almost rude, eating in front of him.
“Did you want to talk about something?”
Zelda glanced at the man she had fled just the night before, the man who’d saved her, and she bowed her head, feeling her cheeks heat up. “I wanted to thank you for rescuing me,” she told him. “And…” she put her spoon down for a moment, taking a sip of tea to clear her mouth. “I wanted to apologize for running off on you like that.”
Zayed dismissed the need for an apology with a wave. “I shouldn’t have been surprised,” he said. “I’m just glad that I was able to get to you in time. You wandered quite a way away from anywhere civilized.”
Zelda chuckled ruefully, shaking her head and picking up her spoon once more. “Just how far did I get? I thought I was going in the direction of the city.”
“You were about five miles away from the house,” Zayed told her. “You somehow managed to go northwest, so you were actually going farther and farther away from the city.” His hazel eyes glinted briefly with amusement. “Do you want some more to eat?” He gestured to her tray and Zelda realized she’d already finished all of the food.
“I probably shouldn’t,” she said reluctantly. Her mouth wanted more, but her stomach was already sending signals that it would be a mistake.
Zayed took the tray away, but left the tea within reach, and Zelda sipped at it meditatively, watching as he wheeled the cart back out of the room before returning to her bedside.
It struck her that there were many men in the world who would have left her to her own devices after she’d stood them up for such a crucial event. Even after rescuing her from the desert, Zayed could simply have taken her to a hospital and left her there to sort out her immigration problems as soon as she was no longer in danger of dying. Instead, he had rescued her, seen to her care, and shown her such kindness that she was almost ashamed of the fact that she’d thought to run in the first place.
The Sheikh settled himself in his chair, and Zelda wondered if he’d been in that station ever since he’d brought her back to the house.
Zelda looked at Zayed, trying to discern something of the truth about him. “You’re not really the cool, calm, collected businessman you pretend to be, are you?”
“There’s something I want to know, Zelda,” the Sheikh said, dodging the question. “Why are you always running away?”
“Like last night, you mean?”
He shrugged. “Last night, certainly, but also when you stowed away on my yacht, when you ran away from college and when you ran away from culinary school. I’m curious why that is.”
Zelda found herself surprised at the question; she’d never thought about dropping out of university or culinary school as being a form of running away, but Zayed was right.
“I guess I just feel...trapped, a lot,” she admitted. “I’m not really sure why.”
“If you didn’t want to go through with it, you could have just told me,” Zayed said. “I would not hold it against you, and certainly I wouldn’t have held your status over your head.” He reached out and took her hand in his gently. “When I realized that you had tried to leave on your own—on foot, no less—I was terrified for you. Even people who live in this area avoid walking the desert on their own at night.”
“I didn’t think it would be right; I was confused,” Zelda confessed. “I couldn’t think of any other way to get away, and I felt guilty about abandoning you.”
Z
ayed shook his head and reached with his free hand into his pocket. He withdrew a thin, paper folder splashed with an airline logo. “If you really don’t want to go through with it,” he told her, “then please, please accept this. Don’t go out into the desert again. I can even have Yasin drive you to the airport.”
The Sheikh handed the ticket to Zelda, and she opened up the protective folder to reveal that it was a direct flight, first class, from Murindhi to Miami. Looking at it more closely, Zelda realized that it wasn’t a ticket for a particular flight, but a prepaid voucher, good for whenever she might want to fly out.
“I don’t want you to feel like you have to take your life in your hands in order to do what you think is right,” Zayed added.
Zelda considered: with her passport, the ticket, and the preliminary paperwork she’d done as part of the process of getting engaged to Zayed, she should—hopefully—be able to leave the country with no problems. She could go back to the States the same day, and be home to tell her parents what a crazy few weeks she’d had. But the kindness of the gesture, and Zayed’s insistence that he would rather her be safe and happy than fulfill her side of the bargain with him, rebuked her. She didn’t want to be tied to Murindhi indefinitely, but she knew that she’d made a deal with the Sheikh. He had fulfilled his side of things, clearing up her immigration status enough that she could leave the country without risking being imprisoned for entering illegally. She owed it to him to hold up her end of the deal.
“How about this,” she began, looking from the ticket to Zayed. “I’ll go through with the wedding—it seems silly not to, at this point.” She smiled slightly. “That way, we’ve both held up our end of the deal. Then, once the wedding is over, and everything is finalized with your deal, we part ways. I go back to the US, and you go back to your life here.”
Zayed held her gaze for a long moment and Zelda wondered if she had ruined any good faith between them with her escape attempt; if he had simply decided to give up on her for being so ungrateful as to try and flee such a cushy situation.
“It’s a deal,” he said, extracting his hand from hers only to offer it to her again to shake.
Zelda smiled, shook his hand, and put the voucher aside. “We should probably get moving,” she pointed out. “Are we still doing the engagement party, or did I ruin that?”
The Sheikh laughed. “It actually did you a favor in society here,” he told her. “I painted it as you being shy, since you don’t know enough of the language to keep up, and of course you’re so very modest.”
Zelda snickered. “I guess that’s good at least,” she said, shaking her head. “I’d hate to think that I’d humiliated you.”
Zayed smiled slightly. “Mostly I was worried. Hadya came to check on you, with the stylist and her employees, and didn’t find you.” He made a face. “At first I was concerned that you might have been kidnapped or something, but then, of course, I would think that someone would leave a note, or call me, if they were going to ransom you.”
Zelda’s heart fell at the worry that she had caused him. She had thought—tentatively—that the Sheikh was capable of connecting and caring about others, but she hadn’t for a moment believed that she could have qualified for that distinction.
“I guess I didn’t really think it through,” Zelda said self-consciously. “I just felt like it was wrong of me at the time.” She pressed her lips together; no matter how much affection and kindness Zayed had showed her, there were certain aspects of her decision that she still wasn’t comfortable talking about with him.
“Well I’m glad you’ve changed your mind, somewhat at least,” Zayed said. He looked her over briefly. “I should let you rest; the doctor said that your body would probably take some time to fully recover from the ordeal.”
Zelda’s lips twisted into a dry smile. “I feel okay now,” she said. “Just a little weak. I think I want a bath.” Her cheeks warmed at the fact that she’d worried that Zayed had seen her naked.
“I’ll go and meet with some associates while you rest, then,” Zayed said. “I don’t want you to feel crowded, but I was worried for you.”
Zelda patted his hand, shifting slightly in the bed. “I’m sorry I made you worry,” she told him.
Zayed took his leave, and Zelda waited for him to go into the hallway outside before she attempted to climb out of the bed.
Her legs felt wobbly and sore as she stood up, but she reminded herself that she’d had worse muscle soreness in her life. She shook her head, remembering the tree she’d climbed, the fact that she had known, almost as soon as she’d started away from the massive compound, that she’d erred in her judgment.
She shuffled to the bathroom, realizing with a mild shock that her quarters in Zayed’s home had started to take on a familiar, almost comforting feeling to her, after only a week of staying in them. She stroked her fingers over an impossibly soft towel—one of a half-dozen she had now—and shook her head. Towels, sponges, soaps, more toiletries than she could have previously imagined owning; on top of more clothes and accessories than she would ever have bought for herself, all within a week of meeting Zayed. An entire life of luxuries.
She started the taps on the bathtub; she felt perfectly clean, but there was something about taking a bath, soaking in hot, scented water that appealed to her. She sat on the ledge of the tub, thinking about the strange way things had developed; she had to laugh at the fact that she was only just now becoming aware of the depth of luxury in which Zayed lived, the life that he had to offer her as his wife, even if it was a