“Is he also concerned about my brothers?” Imani asked in a saccharine-sweet voice.
“Did you know a woman is born with all the eggs she will ever have?” her mother asked, deftly ignoring the question. She often shared medical facts, as if to remind herself that at one time she had planned to become a doctor, before she dropped out of college and married Imani’s father.
“Yes,” Imani answered dully.
“We are born with millions of eggs but lose approximately 11,000 every month. Your brothers can have children at almost any age. You cannot. You’re twenty-eight years old, my love. You need to find a husband and have some babies before you run out of eggs.”
Imani rolled her eyes.
“Let us see where this will go, okay? Humor me. Can I send you a photo of Kwadzo?”
There was no way she’d marry her parents’ choice. She wouldn’t even entertain him. He would most certainly try to stifle her independence and curtail her work, and she’d be miserable in a marriage like that. “Yes, please, send a photo.”
“Good. Let me know what you think so that I can pass on your thoughts to your father.”
“Will you also pass on my thoughts about how I feel about him setting me up for marriage?”
“Imani…”
She sighed without making a sound. “I’ll talk to you soon, Mama. Unfortunately, I have to go now because I have paperwork to take care of. I love you.”
“All right, my dear. Have a good evening, and let me know what you think when you get the photo.”
Imani disconnected the call and walked over to the window that overlooked the backyard of the two-story home she occupied as the Zamibian ambassador to Barrakesch. From here she could see the full lawn and the decorative tile around the swimming pool. She’d soon be gone and would miss this place. Though she returned to Zamibia from time to time, she had spent most of the past six years in Barrakesch—first as a graduate student and then as an ambassador.
Her phone pinged and she glanced down at it. Her mother had sent a photo of her intended. He was handsome. Older. Distinguished-looking, with dark brown skin, thick eyebrows, and high cheekbones.
She sent a message: He’s handsome.
Benu: I knew you would think so. I will tell your father the good news!
Imani sighed heavily, feeling as if a herd of camels had been deposited on her shoulders. Her mother was right, there were many successful arranged marriages, but there were unhappy ones, as well. Particularly if the couples were mismatched.
She set down the phone and exited the bedroom. Earlier, the scent of cooking lamb signaled that dinner would soon be ready. She couldn’t get enough of Barrakeschi cuisine, and at her request, the chef prepared Zamibian and Barrakeschi food equally. Her chef had his own bzar recipe—a blend of pepper, cardamom, nutmeg, coriander, and ginger—that made the lamb mouthwateringly delicious.
Walking down the hall, her feet tread on the beautiful burgundy and green rug that stretched along the middle of the solid wood floor. As she neared the top of the stairs, she heard feminine laughter which sounded like her house manager, a Filipina woman named Vilma. She listened closely and also heard the low murmurs of a male voice but couldn’t pick out any words. Yet she knew that voice, and the skin on the back of her neck pricked with heat.
She looked down from the top of the stairs, and there was Crown Prince Wasim ibn Khalid al-Hassan talking to Vilma. His unexpected presence sent pleasure coursing through her veins.
The minute he lifted his gaze and saw her, he pressed a finger to his lips, indicating Vilma should be quiet. “Shh, the boss is here,” he said ominously.
Imani placed her hands on her hips. “Very funny. Stop corrupting my housekeeper, please. What brings you by?”
“A special delivery. The approval on the next phase of the oil drilling project.” He held up a folder in his right hand.
“You’re running errands for the Ministry of Oil now?”
“Not at all, but I can’t trust Minister Nair to do a proper review because the poor man has a crush on you, and I’m concerned he’ll give you too much leeway.”
“A crush? On me? You’re being ridiculous. You don’t trust your own minister.”
“I don’t trust you.”
Imani smirked, taking the barb as a compliment.
“Not that I blame Minister Nair, but you have the poor man wrapped around your finger.”
“You’re giving me way too much credit.”
“Hardly, but I have a vested interest in making sure this project goes well because of all the money involved. And this way, I get to spend time with my favorite ambassador.”
The corners of Vilma’s mouth lifted into a little smile, and Imani shook her head as if Wasim were being ridiculous. Still, she blushed. He could be quite the charmer—which made him an excellent emissary when his father called on him to be his representative abroad. She would miss spending time with him when she left.
Imani started slowly down the staircase. “There you go, being all charming again. I’ll take a look at the contract and then you can be on your way.”
“Vilma told me we’re having lamb tonight.”
The closer Imani came to Wasim, the more her stomach tightened. “We? Lamb for me, not for you.”
Hospitality was an important part of Barrakeschi culture. Since Wasim arrived around dinnertime, it was a given that he was invited to join her and it was understood that he would accept. Nonetheless, she liked to tease him and knew he’d play along.
“You wouldn’t be so cruel as to not invite me for dinner. A guest in your home. A prince, no less.” One eyebrow over his brilliant copper-brown eyes arched in question.
Imani stopped several steps above him. Wasim. In Arabic, his name meant “handsome” and “graceful.” He was aptly named.
He wore traditional attire today, and from her position on the staircase she had the height advantage and a clear view of every angle in his handsome face beneath the ghutra that covered his head. The low, neatly trimmed beard couldn’t hide the power of his square chin and jaw, nor could the white dishdasha obscure the width of his shoulders and the fitness of his firm body.
“There’s only enough food for one. Sorry, you should have told me you were coming.” Imani shifted her gaze to Vilma. “We’ll be working in my office.”
“Yes, Ambassador.”
Vilma walked away and Imani preceded Wasim down the hall. On either side were tan walls displaying paintings and photographs of ambassadors who’d lived there before her. “Your visit has really surprised me. I assumed you’d be spending time with your family.” She glanced at him over her shoulder.
His gaze shifted from somewhere below her waistline to her eyes, and a moment of acknowledgement passed between them that heated her cheeks. The loose-fitting black abaya hid her body well, yet she felt unclothed before him. Jittery. Off. He’d always made her feel that way, and she fought those sensations by teasing and joking with him often. But in the past nine months, those sensation had become more pronounced—ever since their unexpected interaction the night of the polo match in Estoria last year.
“I was with my family and friends yesterday in the desert,” he answered smoothly, seemingly unperturbed that she’d caught him looking where he had no business.