Susan rose—and Zuwayy looked into the most beautiful, most breathtaking, most alluring face he had ever seen. Her head was veiled, as it should be, but the sheen and luster of her deep black hair underneath could not be concealed. She wore no makeup that Zuwayy could detect, but her lips were deep red, her eyes dark and mesmerizing, her cheekbones high, her mouth perfectly formed. Her skin was perfect, fight brown with slightly darker cheeks from exposure to sun, almost African. She took one look at the Libyan pretender, and even his rock-hard heart began to melt.

She was not African—Zuwayy knew she was an American, bom to southern European emigrants—but this creature was the most beautiful he had ever seen on the planet. She could not be human—she had to be a goddess, or a gift from the loins of Allah himself. He also knew she was much more than just a thing of great beauty. She was once an American air force military officer, rising in the ranks from a lowly security police officer to deputy chief in charge of intelligence for the U.S. Central Command. During the War for the Liberation of Kuwait, what the rest of the world called the Persian Gulf War of 1991, she acted as an intelligence liaison to the Egyptian military, which is how she and Kamal met. Zuwayy had been told that she was a woman of many talents: She could pilot a jet airliner, drive a main battle tank, fire a rifle, and argue both common and Shari’a law in any courtroom in the world in four languages.

Susan Salaam quickly averted her eyes again, not daring—properly—to gaze into the eyes of another man, as was proper Islamic custom. Zuwayy had to force his own eyes from her, realizing—then not caring—that he had let them linger on her too long. She must be a gift from God, Zuwayy told himself again . ..

... a gift for a man blessed enough to have such high favor of Allah. And Salaam was not, could not, be that man. “It is a pleasure to meet you, my child,” Zuwayy said finally, fighting to control his breathing. He did not use the more formal address for a married woman, ya sayyida, but instead the more intimate expression dahab.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Susan said, again letting those beautiful eyes flash up toward his. “May the blessings of the Prophet, praise his holy name, be upon you and all of us today.”

“Insha’allah.” He had to tear himself away from looking at her, so instead concentrated on her husband, looking Kamal Ismail Salaam up and down disapprovingly. Salaam was wearing a simple white and blue traditional headdress, but was otherwise dressed in a conservative gray doublebreasted Western-style business suit, with a single gold chain around his neck. “You do not appear to be prepared for prayer, brother.”