Free The Oil Tycoon and Her Sexy Sheikh by Ros Clarke

chattering and gesturing excitedly.
    “It’s just one day. One day doesn’t matter compared to the rest of their lives.”
    “They’ll be telling that story to their children and their grandchildren for the rest of their lives.”
    He made a dismissive noise. He was still terse with her, although he had relaxed while he was talking to the children. She was going to have to work hard to make conversation.
    “That’s pretty.” She pointed toward a white building at the end of the street, topped with a gilded dome and surrounded by high towers.
    “It’s the mosque.”
    “Oh, of course.” She’d heard the prayer call earlier.
    “Would you like to see inside?”
    “Is that allowed?”
    “You’ll need something to cover your hair. And you’ll have to take your shoes off.”
    “I can do that.”
    It was cool inside the mosque and dark after the bright sunlight. She slipped off her sandals and someone handed her a scarf to drape over her head. Khaled indicated the bowl where she should wash her hands.
    “Will I do?” she asked him, checking to make sure she had done everything by the rules.
    Khaled barely glanced at her. “Fine.”
    There were no chairs, just a thin carpet covering the floor. Several men were on their knees, some lying prostrate, all facing in the same direction, and murmuring words she couldn’t hear. She couldn’t see any women, but no one made any objection to her presence. Even so, she didn’t wander far, not wanting to intrude in this holy place.
    The room itself was stunningly beautiful, wholly unlike the plain Scottish Presbyterian church she had attended as a child, with its stark, whitewashed walls and deliberately uncomfortable pews. The rich reds and blues of the geometrical pattern on the carpet in the mosque were picked out in an elaborate mosaic design around the walls. Olivia craned her neck to admire the domed ceiling, painted in pretty blues and creams, with a vast, ornate chandelier hanging from its center. A wooden pulpit near the front of the mosque was practically the only familiar object in the room.
    Khaled touched her arm. “Wait for me,” he mouthed.
    She nodded and watched him go forward, kneel, and reach his arms toward Mecca. Here, in the mosque, he was like every other man, a supplicant on his knees before God. She hoped he would find some respite from his burdens in the act of intercession.
    She shouldn’t be watching him like this. It was too private. She handed back the scarf, reclaimed her shoes, and went outside to wait.
    In the street, a group of scruffy teenage boys were setting up an impromptu football game. Discarded T-shirts were placed to mark the goals , and after a certain amount of bickering they divided into teams. Olivia sat down on a low wall to watch the game. She was no expert, but even she could see that some of the boys were pretty good.
    A few yards away, one of the guards stood, impassively keeping watch over her. The other was, she presumed, still in the mosque with Khaled. This was what it must be like for him all the time. Watched, protected, accompanied. He couldn’t stroll down to the souk alone, nor even go in to pray.
    “I’m sorry I was so long.” Khaled’s shadow fell over her and she got to her feet.
    “You weren’t.”
    “You found some entertainment, I see.”
    “Boys and football. Some things are the same wherever you go in the world.”
    He laughed. “Indeed. And some things are very different.”
    She wanted to ask him about his faith, but feared it might seem like prying into something too personal. In Scotland, she had never considered what it meant to Khaled to be a Muslim, to be the ruler of a Muslim nation. Here, Islam was real and immediate. The public call to prayer of the muezzin punctuated the day, and there were signs everywhere of the practice of their religion. The women had their heads covered with neat scarves, and they wore long dresses or the practical tunic and leggings of the shalwar kameez ,