Protecting His Princess. C.J. Miller

forced herself not to turn. Did Mikhail hear it? Her heart beat a nervous staccato. “We can talk about it now if you’d like.” While Harris was close enough to protect her. Did Harris understand enough Arabic to follow their conversation?

      “I have a meeting. I don’t have time. I stopped in because Mother asked me to do so when you arrived.”

      An obligatory visit. “Thank you for saying hello.” Did her voice sound higher than normal, or was it in her head?

      Mikhail looked around the room again. Had he heard Harris in the closet? Would he search the room before he left?

      “As-salaam alaykum,” Mikhail said.

      Laila lowered her eyes to the floor. “Wa alaykum as-salaam.”

      Mikhail left the room, and Laila waited a full minute before she moved. Was he gone? Would he return? Harris stepped out of the closet.

      “That was close,” Harris said and his mouth twitched.

      Was he enjoying this? “Too close. We need to be careful.” Pangs of doubt played on her thoughts. When she had imagined herself speaking to her family, she was a good liar. They believed her. Could she maintain this lie while in front of them? She and her uncle had agreed not to discuss the operation inside the compound walls. She couldn’t speak the truth to anyone and had to maintain her cover at all times. She felt overwhelmed and terrified. “Someone will find out. It’s too suspicious.”

      Harris’s eyebrows furrowed with worry. “Suspicious how?”

      “I’ve never brought a man to meet the family.”

      “You’ve also never been on your own for two years,” Harris said.

      Time in America had changed her, but would her family view the change as too abrupt? “How can I play pretend around-the-clock?” She rubbed her temples where a massive stress headache was forming.

      Harris pressed his lips together. “Let me offer a compromise.” He took a deep breath, and she waited. “When we’re alone in this room, you’ll be you and I’ll be Harris Truman. Anything you need to say to me or get off your chest, you do it here with me. The rest of the time, we stay undercover.”

      A small measure of relief passed over her. She wouldn’t be alone in her room with Harris often, but he was offering her something. If their mission became too much, she had a brief sanctuary from the lies. “Thank you. Yes. Here it will be you and me. Out there,” she said and pointed to the door, “it is Princess Laila and wealthy heir Harris Kuhn.”

      Princess Laila and Harris Kuhn were to be engaged. How would a woman in her position behave toward a man like Harris? Even if her thoughts had changed since living in America, the culture in Qamsar hadn’t moved forward. She had no firsthand experience with men in that way, or in any way, but Laila was curious and hopeful about that part of her life.

      Laila’s gaze traveled to Harris’s mouth. No touches or kisses. It was what a Qamsarian woman expected from a relationship until she was married, but Laila wasn’t sure what she wanted from a relationship. If Laila had a German boyfriend, wouldn’t their relationship be a mixture of the two cultures? She drew in the heavy air, feeling as if there wasn’t enough oxygen in it. It was Harris. That connection, that electricity that never stopped flowing between them was making her think about relationships, desire and lust. Topics she’d put out of her mind, knowing they weren’t available to her.

      Until now.

      Until the possibility of staying in the United States and building a life where she was more than a submissive wife and mother were on the table. The possibility of marrying for love. She could be herself in a relationship. An equal partner.

      “Will your brother stop by to see you often?” Harris asked.

      Though he spoke in Arabic, he had dropped his German accent. Hearing his American accent on the Arabic words for the first time since they’d arrived in Qamsar was startling. “Hard to say. We lived together before I moved in with my aunt and uncle. Mikhail and I have never gotten along,” Laila said.

      “We’ll expect interruptions and be as careful as we can,” Harris said.

      “I was worried the guards would find something when they searched the car and our luggage,” she said.

      “Nothing to find.”

      Laila held her tongue over the barrage of questions. The less she knew, the better. She couldn’t slip up and say anything in front of her family.

      “I was planning to head to the souk and see the sights. Feel like helping me find my way?” Harris asked.

      “We’ll need to find someone to accompany us.” Would that be a problem for him? What did he have planned? “Maybe after we do some shopping, we can have dinner with my mother at our family’s country house?”

      Harris nodded. “No problem. Let’s find out how to get our hands on a car and an escort, and we’ll go.”

      “I presume you’ll leave the way you came in?” she asked.

      He winked at her. “You got it. I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes.” He waited at the balcony door for a few minutes before stepping outside.

      The heat of the day rushed in, and Laila looked out the doors into the lush landscape. The emir’s gardens were beautifully maintained, every walking path clear, the plants shaped and benches clean. Did Mikhail spend much time walking in the gardens as their father had? The emir’s compound was the nicest place in Qamsar, containing the finest luxuries.

      As a child, she had thought of the compound like a castle. Now it was large and foreboding, the last place she wanted to be.

      Laila called her mother, disappointed when she didn’t answer her phone. She left a message, telling her mother she’d arrived safely and would see her soon.

      She checked her appearance again in the mirror. If she was having dinner with her mother, it would be best for her to wear something less wrinkled. She selected a white dress that had the least crumpled fabric and wrapped a navy head scarf around her hair. Her dress was loose and comfortable, and would be cool in the heat of the afternoon.

      After pulling on a pair of flat, plain shoes, she left her room and locked the door behind her. Not that she had any expectation of privacy. Mikhail would make it his business to be aware of everything that went on inside his compound. If he wanted to go into her room, he would.

      Harris was waiting in the lobby for her, leaning against the wall, hands casually in his pockets. He had covered his head with a ghutra. Though it wasn’t expected for him to wear it, it would help him blend. With sunglasses over his eyes, he’d be less identifiable, his blond hair and light skin an obvious difference from most native Qamsarians with their darker skin and hair.

      “Ready?” he asked. The German accent had returned.

      Laila nodded and clasped her hands in front of her. Harris didn’t touch her. Didn’t try to. He followed her to the lobby where Mikhail’s butler explained the car situation. A driver would escort them to the souk and serve as their chaperone and security detail.

      Harris didn’t seem upset by the arrangements. If he was planning to smuggle something into the compound to help them search for Al-Adel or to keep them safe, how would he do so with the driver watching them? The security guards at the front gate would search them and the car again. What was Harris planning? Their mission was to find Al-Adel and alert Harris’s team if they saw him or heard rumors about his arrival. Would Harris need a weapon to protect them if someone uncovered their real objectives for being at the wedding?

      On the drive to the souk, Laila spoke to Harris about her life in Qamsar. Harris asked questions to spur the conversation. To anyone listening, it was a casual getting-to-know-you-better conversation.

      When they arrived at the souk, the driver got out of the car and followed them. His behavior indicated his presence wasn’t a negotiation. Laila and Harris wouldn’t be alone