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Over the past few years, I’d seen her on the beach, around town, having dinner. I never talked to her; never looked twice at her, but I knew who she was. I noticed her because she wasn’t dressed like anyone else; she stood out. I mean, she wasn’t undressed like everyone else.

She was Princess Rania bint Burhani, one of the wives of a Sheik of a small oil rich Middle Eastern country. Claudia St. Germain showed her my home when the Princess bought her own place less than a mile from mine. She was always covered, wearing a head scarf and a long skirt, even on the beach where almost every woman was topless and some completely naked.

One evening as I was having dinner in the beautiful Classic Hotel’s dining room, my waiter came over to me, “Monsieur Tremont, the lady at the table by the window wonders if you might join her.”

“Certainly.” I’d just taken my first sip of champagne.

“Madame, how thoughtful of you,” I said as I reached her table. “Or is it, Princess?”

“No, please call me Rania. I am no longer a Princess. Just Rania.” There were tears in her eyes.

“Is there something wrong, madame?” ...

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