Free Forged in the Desert Heat by Maisey Yates Page A

trusted Zafar. The realization was a slightly shocking one, but it was the truth. She might not like it an overabundant amount, but she trusted the core of his character. And that was what counted.
    “Breakfast in the courtyard tomorrow,” she said, because she was sure someone could arrange it. “We’ll talk silverware.”
    “I haven’t had very much in the way of real conversation in the past fifteen years, and you want to talk silverware?”
    “I told you, the art to getting along with people is bland conversation. How much more bland could it get?”
    * * *
    It turned out that nothing with Zafar could feel bland. Especially not since she was sitting with him in a garden that rivaled anything she’d ever seen. Lush green plants and shocking orange blossoms punctuated by dots of pink covered every inch of the wall that protected the palace from the rest of the world.
    The combination of the thick stone wall, the fountains and the shade made the little alcove comfortable, even at midmorning. She had a feeling that by afternoon it would be nearly as unbearable as most other places in Al Sabah, but for now, it was downright pleasant.
    “I ordered you an American breakfast,” she said, putting her napkin in her lap and folding her hands over it. “Bacon and eggs.”
    “Do you think that many politicians will be eating bacon and eggs?”
    “Fact of life, Zafar, everyone likes bacon. Turkey bacon, by the way, in case you have any dietary restrictions.”
    “I am not so devout,” he said.
    It didn’t really surprise her. Zafar seemed to depend only on himself. Though, there were people here in the palace. People who had loyalty to him. People he seemed to care for in a strange way.
    “It has made the paper,” he said.
    “What?”
    “That I threatened Ambassador Rycroft. He said he saw me in person, and that I am clearly a wild man. That when you look in my eyes you see something barely more advanced than a beast. Of course the press was giddy with his description as they would so love to crucify me.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “This means that my presentation is more important. That this project we are conducting is all the more important.”
    She nodded slowly. “I understand.”
    “I have spent too many years alone,” he said, his voice rough.
    “The men that are here,” she said, picking up her fork, “how often did you travel with them?”
    “Once a month we might patrol together, but many of them had home bases, while I felt the need to keep moving. To keep an eye on things.”
    “You said you didn’t make a lot of conversation?”
    “We didn’t. We traveled together, did our best to right the wrongs my uncle was visiting on the desert people. Some of them were men, and the children of men cast out of the palace when my uncle took control. Others, Bedouins who suffered at the hand of the new regime. We didn’t get involved in deep talks.”
    “Why is that?”
    “Someone had to keep watch. And I was always happy to let my men rest. Though we did spend time telling stories.”
    “Stories?”
    “Morality tales, of one sort or another. A tradition in our culture. A truth wrapped in a tale.”
    She’d heard him do that. Weave reality into a story. Blanketing it so it was more comfortable to hear.
    “So you were an army unto yourselves? Out there in the desert?”
    “Nothing half so romantic. We were burdened with the need to protect because our people were under siege. It was all born of necessity. Of loss.”
    “If your people had any idea of what you’d done for them...they would embrace you as their ruler. I know they would.”
    “Perhaps. Or perhaps what happened in a desert out beyond the borders of the city will make no difference. Perhaps they will only remember what happened here.”
    “What happened here?”
    Zafar gritted his teeth. He hated to speak of it. Of the day his parents died. The day he and his people lost everything.
    He hated even more to speak of his role in it, but he