Midnight in Arabia: Heart of a Desert Warrior / The Sheikh's Last Gamble / The Sheikh's Jewel

Though why she was asking him, instead of just going into her room, she didn’t really know.

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to share mine,” he said in the same teasing tone he used to employ to lighten things when they got too serious when they’d been together.

She’d avoided telling him the truth about her parents because it shamed her to admit she was unloved, but she remembered now the other reason that she’d kept the truth buried. Asad had been so very good at keeping her smiling and happy, she’d been loath to bring the pain of her left-behind childhood into the present.

And, back then, there had still been that tendril of hope that one day her parents were going to realize Iris was someone they could enjoy having in their lives.

She gave him a smile now, not nearly as forced as it should have been. “You’re an idiot.”

She’d said the same words, or something like them, to Russell earlier, and knew it was because, even after everything, part of her still considered Asad to be a friend.

Perhaps, for a woman like her—who trusted with such difficulty—once trust was given, it could never be withdrawn entirely. The ramifications of that possibility were not good for her heart, not at all.

Unaware of her inner turmoil, Asad gave her a lazy smile she hadn’t seen in a very long time. “No, an idiot would let the opportunity slip by.”

For a terrible uncertain moment, Iris was tempted to take him up on the offer. She’d never felt like she belonged anywhere like she did in his bed. It had all been a fantasy, but it had felt real. In his arms, she’d felt like she had a family.

And it had almost killed her to lose him.

She wasn’t setting herself up for that again. She couldn’t.

She didn’t bother to reply, but simply slipped into her room. Tying the cords that would keep the curtain snugly over her doorway while she slept, she ignored the tears tracking down her cheeks.

The next day, as much as she tried to hold herself aloof, Iris found herself falling under the spell of the four-year-old daughter as easily as she had the father six years before. Nawar had spent the entire day, except her nap, acting as Iris’s shadow.

It had been a busy day, filled with preparations for the feast and chatter with Asad’s female relatives.

Iris had enjoyed herself so much that she’d felt guilty for not working, despite the fact a phone call from Sheikh Hakim had made it clear that he did not expect Iris to begin her geological assessment until after she’d been officially welcomed into the city of tents.

Now that the food and party preparations were over, Genevieve had told Iris it was time for their personal preparations. Iris had intended to wear the single dress she’d brought with her for what she’d believed was to be a remote field assignment, but Genevieve would not hear of it.

She and Nawar had made a big production out of choosing a galabia from Genevieve’s wardrobe for Iris to wear to the feast. And the small girl had now appointed herself as Iris’s instructor in the ways of bathing in the communal baths of the Sha’b Al’najid.

They were now soaking in the largest of the pools fed by an underground hot springs in the women’s section of the caves, after a cursory wash with fragrant soap and water left to cool in large bowls near the pools.

“You must rest. No splashing or swimming,” the small girl said with a very serious mien. “After a long time, we wash again with the sand from the bottom of the pool.”

Iris wondered what a long time meant to a small child and smiled. “I bet that makes your skin very soft.”

Nawar gave her a solemn nod. “Grandmother says so.”

“And our hair?” She’d found it odd that they didn’t shampoo before coming into the communal pool of mineral waters.

“We’re supposed to wash it first,” Nawar admitted with a frown.

Oho, the little one didn’t like washing her hair. “Don’t you want your hair soft like your skin and shiny like silk?”

“The soap gets in my eyes.” Nawar gave a childish pout. “It stings.”

“I think I can help you wash your hair without getting soap in your eyes.”

“Fadwa tries, but she says I move too much,” Nawar replied doubtfully.

“You seem very good at staying still now.”

“Thank you.” Nawar gave Iris a guilty look. “I don’t like to wash my hair.”

“So, perhaps you move more when Fadwa is trying to get it clean than you should, hmmm?”

“Maybe.”

Iris nodded. “Well, you will simply have to do better for me, because if I get soap in your eyes it will make me very sad.”

“I don’t want you to be sad.”

“Thank you.”

Iris successfully washed the child’s long dark hair without getting soap or water in her eyes after their soak and then sand scrubbing. Nawar was ecstatic and begged Iris to promise to wash her hair from now on.

“As long as I am here, I will. All right?” More than that, Iris could not promise.

They dressed for the party in the bathing caves after drying and brushing their hair. Genevieve had insisted on lending Iris a sheer silk scarf to be worn over her head and around her shoulders in the traditional manner. It matched exactly the heavily embroidered peacock-blue galabia she’d given Iris to wear earlier.

Walking back to the sheikh’s tent, Iris felt like an Arabian princess.

“I have not seen that galabia in a long time,” Asad’s grandfather said when Iris and Nawar entered the dwelling. “It was always one of my favorites.”

“Oh … I shouldn’t have worn it, but Genevieve insisted,” Iris said, feeling awkward.

“Nonsense.” The old sheikh gave her a rakish smile and Iris could see what had attracted Genevieve all those years ago. “Naturally my wife chose it for you to wear. It is the perfect color to bring out the cream of your skin and that red shine in your hair so uncommon among our people. The other guests will be in awe of the beauty of the women of my house.”

Iris blushed at the praise.

“I agree, Grandfather. The peacock galabia is lovely on Iris.” The words were complimentary, but Asad gave his grandmother what couldn’t be mistaken for anything but an admonishing look.

The older woman returned his gaze, her own serene. “Nawar chose it.”

Asad’s brow rose. “It is the traditional dress of the women of my house.”

It had seemed rather a coincidence that the brightly colored trim around the skirt of Nawar’s little party dress was styled after peacock feathers. And Genevieve’s peach silk galabia had peacocks amidst the intricate gold needlework covering the garment. Even Fadwa’s dress had tiny peacock feathers embroidered along the hem.

Iris’s borrowed galabia was not only the shade of blue in a peacock feather, but had the birds embroidered on either side of the collar with sequins stitched into the tail feathers. More stitching ran around the collar, down the center of the garment and around the hem.

It was one of the most beautiful things Iris had ever worn.

Nevertheless, she should probably go change. “I’m not a member of your house. I shouldn’t be wearing this.”

“You are our guest.” Which seemed to be Asad’s answer to everything. “It is fine.”