“Racing?”
“Yes.”
“And did you win?” Imani opened the door to her office.
“I always win.” He followed behind her and left the door open, per the custom when an unmarried woman and man were alone together.
“Such confidence.”
Wasim chuckled and placed the folder on the table in the sitting area. He sat on the cream sofa and stretched an arm across its back, looking perfectly relaxed.
His commanding presence filled a room decorated in neutral colors with splashes of gold and silver. The pillows on the sofa were cream-colored and covered with gold and silver zigzagged lines. The rest of the office was bright and airy, with large windows on each side that she sometimes opened to let in cool air when the weather was pleasant. She did that now, pushing a window outward behind her desk and opening the French doors that led onto the patio.
Imani picked up her reading glasses from the desk—one of several she kept in various rooms around the house so she wouldn’t have to remember to carry them with her at all times.
She walked over to where Wasim sat, feeling his eyes on her every movement. Annoyingly, her heart raced a little. Ever since she had met him through her cousin, Prince Kofi, Wasim had affected her. They had a playful relationship—teasing, flirting, even linking arms or the occasional touch—but outside of Barrakesch. Inside the country, that type of touching was forbidden in public between unmarried members of the opposite sex.
Wasim always shifted easily into the customs once they returned to Barrakesch, but for her, the transition was much harder. It frustrated her that she couldn’t touch him, and that frustration highlighted the fact that her feelings were entering dangerous territory. Part of her wondered what would happen if she took his flirtations seriously and disclosed her feelings. Would he—no point in letting her thoughts go there. They were friends, nothing more. He was next in line to the throne of his country, and she would be leaving Barrakesch very soon.
Imani sat across from Wasim in a thick-cushioned armchair covered in cream and gold fabric and picked up the folder. She perused the document, the words he crossed out, and the comments in the margins. This was her biggest project to date, and one that she was especially proud of. To think, she would be a key player in taking her country’s economy to the next level.
Zamibia had discovered oil off its shores in the Atlantic Ocean, and with help from Barrakesch, who had much more experience in offshore drilling than they did, intended to take advantage of this new means of income for their country.
Imani had been instrumental in arranging an exploratory agreement between the two countries, and she was now working on the final negotiations where they would create a joint venture to extract the oil. When the details were finalized, King Khalid—Wasim’s father—and King Babatunde—her uncle in Zamibia—would sign the agreement.
Billions would pour into Zamibia and remain in the country to boost the economy. She’d already worked on a budget that used a small percentage of that revenue to fund her causes, all geared toward female empowerment through education and entrepreneurship.
Imani tossed the folder on the table. “Looks good so far. I expect to have the final analysis from the environmental commission soon, and then we’ll be able to iron out a final deal.” She could barely contain the excitement in her voice.
Wasim smiled. “I think that’s cause for a celebration, don’t you?”
“Before everything is finalized?”
“Absolutely. We’re nearing the home stretch.”
Imani cocked her head to the side. “What did you have in mind?”
“Oh, I don’t know…stewed lamb?”
She giggled and shook her head. “Did you just invite yourself to dinner, Prince Wasim?”
“Yes, and you better say yes.”
Though he was joking, his voice held an undertone of authority that spiked heat in her blood. “Well, with a command like that, how could I refuse?”
3
Once again, Imani’s chef had outdone himself, and the hearty meal of stewed lamb over rice served with roasted vegetables was quickly consumed on the patio outside her home office.
She had a glass of wine with the meal, which she couldn’t do in restaurants or anywhere else in the country because of the restrictions against the public consumption of alcohol. Wasim didn’t consume alcohol at all, and instead had a glass of jellab in front of him—a drink made of grape molasses and rose water and garnished with pine nuts on top.
During the course of the meal, they discussed the oil drilling project in more detail and touched briefly on other government issues.
After the dishes were cleared away, Wasim poured them both a cup of tea. “Dinner was excellent, as always,” he said.
“I’d be lost without my chef. You, however, have an entire team in your kitchen and yet, here you are, eating my food. It can’t possibly taste better.”
“On the contrary.”
Imani arched an eyebrow.
“It’s the company, you see,” he explained.
“Oh yes. Because you’re in the company of your favorite ambassador.”
“Exactly,” he said.
Imani shook her head as if disgusted, but he knew she enjoyed the compliment, even if she thought he was spewing out empty words. She was adorable and sexy and shared a similar sense of humor to him—an acerbic wit that sometimes had him chuckling to himself long after they’d parted ways because of something she’d said.
But the years since he’d known her had been challenging, to say the least. During this time he’d watched, being a friend, but craving her in a way he hadn’t any other woman. No one knew the restraint he’d exhibited in the face of such temptation.
Lioness Abameha—the honorific bestowed on her by her uncle, the king of Zamibia—Imani Karunzika had come into his life six years ago when she attended the University of Barrakesch to earn a graduate degree in international business. Vivacious and funny, she had a certain determination that intrigued him. And she was a stunning woman with glowing bronze skin, sultry dark eyes fringed by thick lashes, and sexy curves that drew the eye and tempted him to touch. His first sight of her had sent his heart thumping.
But he’d known better than to give in to temptation. His good friend Kofi—her cousin and Crown Prince of Zamibia—had asked him to look out for her, even though she came with a set of bodyguards. They’d seen each other only a handful of times during that two-year period, until she was appointed ambassador to Barrakesch immediately upon graduation—one of the perks of being a member of the royal family. But she was good at her job and worked hard. Sometimes he thought too hard, as if something other than personal goals influenced her work ethic.
They saw each other more frequently once she became an ambassador. They attended many of the same official functions, and so their friendship blossomed and his attraction to her increased. No doubt in his mind that she knew her power over men. Her very bearing suggested that she did, and she wielded her beauty as one of the tools in her vast arsenal of weapons.
Outside of Barrakesch, she was brazen in the way she touched him, and he, too, initiated contact—torturing himself in ways that could only be deemed masochistic. Even he, with his ironclad will, could only handle her in small doses, so he pitied the fools who had crossed her path and been left scarred and broken by her personality and sensual allure.