dropped into a chair next to her. “There’s no way you could fade into the background no matter what you wore.” His gaze ran around the room appraisingly. “This is quite an unusual place. Do you come here often?”
Honey shook her head, her own eyes following his about the room. “It’s not my kind of scene,” she answered. “But I thought you might find it amusing.” She smiled impishly. “And you certainly won’t run into the governor or the mayor here.”
“No?” Rubinoff asked quizzically, and looked about him with renewed interest. “Have you brought us to a den of iniquity? It appears fairly innocuous.”
The Starburst was a disco whose decor and loud, pulsating music fully lived up to its name. The only illumination in the large room was provided by the elaborate pyrotechnics beneath the clear plastic panels of the dance floor. The brilliant center ball of scarlet was constantly exploding into starlike fragments and then reforming once again into its shimmering, pulsing core. When combined with the throbbing music and intimate darkness, the atmosphere was curiously erotic.
“It’s not that bad,” Honey said absently. “It’s just a meat market.” A frown clouded her face as her gaze anxiously circled the room. “Where is Alex? I thought he was right behind us.”
“He stopped in the lobby to make a phone call. Don’t worry, no one’s kidnapping him from beneath your eagle eye. What’s a meat market?”
Honey felt the tension gripping her relax, and she leaned back in her chair with a little sigh of relief. “You haven’t heard that particular bit of slang before?” she asked. “It refers to a bar or disco whose patrons are a trifle overly aggressive in their pursuit of the opposite sex.”
“Very descriptive,” Rubinoff said idly, watching the gyrating couples. “I gather that there are more moves on the sidelines than on the dance floor?”
“Exactly,” Honey said with a grin. “I thought you’d feel right at home here.” She tilted her head and gazed at him curiously. “That’s the first time you’ve asked me to explain the meaning of any colloquialism. Your grasp of the vernacular is really exceptional. Both you and Alex sound like born and bred Americans.”
“Alex and I were practically raised by a Texas oil roughneck by the name of Clancy Donahue,” Rubinoff explained with a reminiscent smile. “And his colloquialisms were often a good deal bluer than yours, sweetheart.”
“Wasn’t that a rather unusual choice of tutor for a royal prince and the heir-apparent to a sheikdom?” Honey asked, leaning forward, her face alight with interest.
“Not if you knew Karim Ben Raschid, Alex’s grandfather,” Rubinoff said dryly. “He’s a wily old cutthroat with a healthy respect for American know-how and a fierce determination to keep what’s his. Not an easy task, when the plum’s as rich as Sedikhan. There have been border skirmishes there as long as I can remember, and the diplomatic maneuverings can be more dangerous than the battles themselves. Clancy was a mercenary, a smuggler, and God knows what else, before he turned up in one of Karim’s oil fields twenty years ago. Karim turned us over to his tender mercies when Alex was twelve and I was ten, with instructions to do whatever was necessary to turn us from boys into men.” His eyes were dancing. “Clancy’s methods were a trifle unorthodox for princely training, but that suited Karim. He taught us everything from guerilla warfare to the art of bringing in a gusher. I went on my first full-fledged border battle when I was fourteen. Clancy certainly made things interesting.”
“Didn’t your own parents have anything to say about that?” Honey asked. “I would have thought that they would object to Karim’s putting you in danger.”
His lips curled in a cynical smile. “Tamrovia needed oil, like every other country. Karim knew just how to pull the right strings to get what he wanted, and
Honey shook her head, her own eyes following his about the room. “It’s not my kind of scene,” she answered. “But I thought you might find it amusing.” She smiled impishly. “And you certainly won’t run into the governor or the mayor here.”
“No?” Rubinoff asked quizzically, and looked about him with renewed interest. “Have you brought us to a den of iniquity? It appears fairly innocuous.”
The Starburst was a disco whose decor and loud, pulsating music fully lived up to its name. The only illumination in the large room was provided by the elaborate pyrotechnics beneath the clear plastic panels of the dance floor. The brilliant center ball of scarlet was constantly exploding into starlike fragments and then reforming once again into its shimmering, pulsing core. When combined with the throbbing music and intimate darkness, the atmosphere was curiously erotic.
“It’s not that bad,” Honey said absently. “It’s just a meat market.” A frown clouded her face as her gaze anxiously circled the room. “Where is Alex? I thought he was right behind us.”
“He stopped in the lobby to make a phone call. Don’t worry, no one’s kidnapping him from beneath your eagle eye. What’s a meat market?”
Honey felt the tension gripping her relax, and she leaned back in her chair with a little sigh of relief. “You haven’t heard that particular bit of slang before?” she asked. “It refers to a bar or disco whose patrons are a trifle overly aggressive in their pursuit of the opposite sex.”
“Very descriptive,” Rubinoff said idly, watching the gyrating couples. “I gather that there are more moves on the sidelines than on the dance floor?”
“Exactly,” Honey said with a grin. “I thought you’d feel right at home here.” She tilted her head and gazed at him curiously. “That’s the first time you’ve asked me to explain the meaning of any colloquialism. Your grasp of the vernacular is really exceptional. Both you and Alex sound like born and bred Americans.”
“Alex and I were practically raised by a Texas oil roughneck by the name of Clancy Donahue,” Rubinoff explained with a reminiscent smile. “And his colloquialisms were often a good deal bluer than yours, sweetheart.”
“Wasn’t that a rather unusual choice of tutor for a royal prince and the heir-apparent to a sheikdom?” Honey asked, leaning forward, her face alight with interest.
“Not if you knew Karim Ben Raschid, Alex’s grandfather,” Rubinoff said dryly. “He’s a wily old cutthroat with a healthy respect for American know-how and a fierce determination to keep what’s his. Not an easy task, when the plum’s as rich as Sedikhan. There have been border skirmishes there as long as I can remember, and the diplomatic maneuverings can be more dangerous than the battles themselves. Clancy was a mercenary, a smuggler, and God knows what else, before he turned up in one of Karim’s oil fields twenty years ago. Karim turned us over to his tender mercies when Alex was twelve and I was ten, with instructions to do whatever was necessary to turn us from boys into men.” His eyes were dancing. “Clancy’s methods were a trifle unorthodox for princely training, but that suited Karim. He taught us everything from guerilla warfare to the art of bringing in a gusher. I went on my first full-fledged border battle when I was fourteen. Clancy certainly made things interesting.”
“Didn’t your own parents have anything to say about that?” Honey asked. “I would have thought that they would object to Karim’s putting you in danger.”
His lips curled in a cynical smile. “Tamrovia needed oil, like every other country. Karim knew just how to pull the right strings to get what he wanted, and