Fire and Desire. Brenda Jackson

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      Rasheed stood in front of the window in his Washington, D.C., apartment watching the rain. In Mowaiti, the rain was always welcomed. His people needed it for the growth of their crops. For the past few years, occasional drought had ravished the lands, making it harder for the people to earn a living, and making it harder still for them to feed their families. These things seemed to worry him more than they did his father, whose only concern was with gaining allies to keep the country safe. He had closed his eyes to the bleak circumstances surrounding his people. If it continued, Mowaiti would no longer exist as a country.

      The soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. A few minutes later, Swalar, his valet, announced the arrival of Yasir Bedouins, a man who had been his father's adviser and close confidant for a number of years. Rasheed had once loved this man like a father because when his own parents hadn't had the time to listen to his youthful woes, Yasir had. But because of Yasir's close relationship with Sheikh Amin Valdemon, and his strong sense of dedication and loyalty to him, their once-close relationship was no more, especially now since he was no longer a child, but a man with his own views and a mind to express them. Rasheed regretted that, like his father, Yasir's ambition in life was not in making Mowaiti a stronger and powerful nation, but in keeping it safe and preserving its present state of existence.

      “Yasir, to what do I owe this visit? Is something wrong with Father?” he asked with genuine concern in his voice when the older man entered his office. Even with their differences, he loved his father deeply.

      “No, your father is fine. A little tired tonight more than usual, but he's fine.”

      At that moment, efficient as ever, Swalar brought in coffee. And as Swalar went about pouring the brew in each of their cups, Rasheed studied Yasir, trying to decipher his mood and most importantly the reason for his visit. However, no words were spoken until after Swalar had finished his task and left the room, closing the door behind him.

      “How long has he been serving you?” Yasir asked before taking a sip of the coffee.

      Rasheed frowned. “Who? Swalar?”

      At Yasir's nod, he answered, “Since I was thirteen years old. Why?”

      “I think he's getting too old for the task. You need a younger, more able-bodied man to—”

      “I don't want anyone else,” Rasheed interrupted. “I like Swalar just fine, and he still serves my needs extremely well.” He took a sip of his own coffee before adding, “He and I understand each other.”

      Yasir lifted a brow. “In other words, he's still very efficient in keeping your secrets.”

      Rasheed knew better than to play cat-and-mouse games with Yasir. The man was too sharp-witted for that. But tonight, just to humor him, he would make an exception. “I suppose he's as efficient at keeping my secrets as you are in keeping my father's. Should I try and guess why he's so tired tonight?”

      Yasir met his gaze directly and unswervingly. “Your father has special needs.”

      Rasheed smiled faintly. “Evidently. But isn't it enough that he has a harem full of women back home in our country. Does he have to create another one here in this country, as well?”

      Yasir shrugged. “The American women are willing enough, and he's not hurting anyone.”

      Rasheed snorted. “No one but himself. He turns sixty-one this year. How many women a night is he up to now? Last count it was five.”

      Yasir shifted in his seat, not out of mortification or disgrace, Rasheed concluded, but merely to find a more comfortable position. “I don't keep tabs on such matters,” he replied gruffly.

      “Maybe you should. He's not immune to AIDS you know. And I love my mother very much. I wouldn't want my father's private, sordid affairs to ever cause harm to her health.”

      “I take care of such matters.”