The Bride Wore Size 12

Chapter 3

The door to the hall director’s office is thrown open. Sarah takes one glimpse at “Shiraz,” his biceps nearly bursting out of his camo sports coat, and looks as if she might follow our boss’s example and lose her breakfast.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she says.

“Well, hey there, pretty lady.” The prince lowers his dark, sooty lashes and flashes an even more dazzling smile, the one that’s caused the press to dub him “Rascally Rashid.”

The smile has no effect on Sarah. “What do you want?” she growls.

“Me?”  The  prince  seems  surprised  by  her  hostility.  “I

don’t want anything.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Sarah,” I say in a warning tone, worried about the suspi- cious looks Rashid’s bodyguards are giving her.

While it’s true that most of the New York College com- munity has welcomed Rashid with open arms, a small mi- nority hasn’t been particularly thrilled by the young prince’s enrollment, despite the massive donation his father—His Highness General Sheikh Mohammed bin Zayed Faisal, crown prince and deputy supreme commander of the armed forces of Qalif—made to New York College’s School of Arts and Sciences.

This dislike could have something to do with the fact that Prince Rashid is rumored to have scored pretty dismally on the SATs, well below the already minimal average required for admission to New York College.

But it probably has more to do with the fact that Qalif, though famous for its beautiful beaches and architecture— and prodigious oil production—does not allow freedom of the press or religious expression, and its government (led by Prince Rashid’s father) is said to repress women, homosexu- als, and the poor.

At a supersecret administrative staff meeting—to which Sarah hadn’t been invited because she’s only a graduate stu- dent, not a full-time employee—we’d been told that there’ve been threats on the young prince’s life, some of which may have come from members of the New York College commu- nity, who are calling the money Rashid’s father donated to the school “blood money,” and the school’s president, Phillip Allington, “a traitor to his country” for having accepted it.

Fortunately, protecting visiting royalty falls under the re- sponsibility of the U.S. State Department (thank God. The last thing we need is Pete from campus security thinking it’s his duty to keep the heir to the throne to Qalif safe, in ad- dition to forcing all seven hundred of our residents to sign in their guests to the building), so they’ve set up their office in our conference room.

But all that really means is that if Sarah doesn’t watch out, she’s going to find herself getting arrested by the U.S. Bureau of Diplomatic Security . . . if one of Prince Rashid’s bodyguards doesn’t kill her first.

“I’m here with her.” Rashid points at a young  woman who’s gotten off the elevator along with him.

“Of course you are,” Sarah says with an unpleasant laugh. “You know in this country, unlike yours, Your Highness, women are not legally required to walk behind men.”

Prince Rashid looks even more surprised, and a little hurt. “Miss.” The larger of the two bodyguards narrows his coal- black eyes at Sarah. “Do you have a problem with the prince?” “No,” Sarah says. “I have a problem with his entire coun- try, starting with the way his people treat my people, and by

people I mean the people of Israel—”

As the bodyguard takes a step toward Sarah, I rise from my desk, certain that an international incident is about to occur right in the Fischer Hall director’s office.