Bedded By The Desert King

Aban’s smaller tent was pitched twenty yards or so from his own, but it was also beneath the same sheltering rocks. There was a third tent in the back of the off-road vehicle that Aban could use until it was safe for him to return.

Turning his attention back to the woman, he saw her swallow with apprehension. She had caught the urgency in his words and he felt he should say something to reassure her. ‘The weather is deteriorating, but you’ll be safe here with me. Don’t argue,’ he warned, when she started to protest. ‘You have no alternative but to stay. Aban tells me we have about an hour before the storm hits—and that’s if we’re lucky.’

‘But it only took me two hours to get here from the city—’

Behind the defiance he saw her fear. ‘That was before there were dangerous weather conditions to consider. You can’t outrun the wind,’ he pointed out.

He had no time to waste on persuasion and started off for the temporary structure that had been his home during his retreat, eager to check all the supports and ensure that they would withstand the force of the wind. To his surprise, she ran ahead of him and cut him off.

‘If your man’s leaving now, I want to leave too. We could travel in convoy—’ Her chin tilted at a defiant angle as she held his gaze. ‘And why don’t you come with us? Why stay here if it’s so dangerous?’

Because there were too many memories inside his tent, too many things that had belonged to his parents for him to risk losing them…The tent had been his father Abdullah’s before he had claimed his kingdom. There wasn’t time to dismantle it now, and so he would stay with it. But that wasn’t her business. ‘That just isn’t possible,’ he said coldly. ‘And it’s too risky for Aban to waste time trying to recover your Jeep. If Aban is to remain safe he must leave right away.’ Veering away from her, he walked on.

She chased after him. ‘But why can’t I go with him?’

‘Because Aban won’t wait…’ And because Aban’s traditional values could only be stretched so far. He would be horrified were he to be asked to take charge of the young woman overnight. Aban wouldn’t leave his vantage point until he was sure the storm had passed, and who knew how long that would take? He would not risk both their lives in order to appease this young woman’s somewhat overdue sense of propriety. If she imagined that the desert was some big beach she was about to be cruelly disillusioned. The desert was a sleeping monster which, when awakened, had the power to destroy everything in its path. The only reason his Bedouin ancestors had chosen this site was because the surrounding rocks and fresh water offered them some protection. For now it was better not to alarm her. He didn’t know how she would react if he told her the full extent of their plight. She might panic. She had no idea of the forces involved, or that everything around them was about to undergo the most radical change. He stopped and turned to gaze at the dune. ‘Is your vehicle parked up behind that dune?’

‘Yes, it is…’

She sounded hopeful and he guessed she thought he had changed his mind about letting her go.

‘It’s just over the hill, at the base of the dune.’ There was a hint of impatience in her voice now.

‘On low ground?’

‘Of course, didn’t I just say so?’ Her irritation was mounting. ‘I left it where it would be sheltered by the dune.’

‘Sheltered by the dune?’ A ghost of a smile touched his lips. She didn’t have a clue. The storm that was about to hit them would have no respect for hills made out of sand. ‘Leave it,’ he instructed Aban, seeing the old man’s glance swerve towards the dune. ‘There’s no time for you to climb up there and recover her vehicle. You must get yourself to safety and save our own Jeep.’

Zara wished she could understand the harsh, guttural language. She was way out of her depth. She wanted so badly to leave, but the leader of the two men was planted firmly in her way. Her options were limited. Both of these men walked easily on the sand, whereas the desert boots she had purchased in London gave her no stability at all on a surface she had discovered was as treacherous as ice. They would catch her before she made it to the base of the dune. And if she managed to escape, where would she go? If what this man had said about the storm proved to be right she would have to find shelter. As she gazed around, Zara could only try and visualise the thousands of miles of unseen land that rolled back behind the two men, hostile land with which she was unfamiliar. She had no alternative but to do as he said.

His tent was the size of a small marquee. As they drew closer Zara could see that the sides were made of some heavy woven fabric, which had been dyed a deep red. There was opulent fringing around a tented roof and the fabric was drawn up to a spike in the centre. Missing only a pennant, it reminded her of a medieval pavilion, reinforcing her opinion that she was stepping back in time, with a man who might be dangerous…A very attractive man who might be dangerous. Her heart was thundering—and for all the wrong reasons. She just had to keep telling herself that this was the photo opportunity of a lifetime…

But, as he raised the heavy curtain concealing the entrance to his tent, goose-bumps lifted on her arms. As she hesitated he tipped his chin, indicating that she should enter. The little she could see of his face beneath the folds of black cloth was hardly reassuring. His gaze was as dark and as unbending as iron.

‘Come in,’ he said impatiently. ‘I have no intention of hurting you, if that’s what you are worried about. In my country the safety of a guest is a sacred charge.’

Did that sacred charge extend to young women reckless enough to venture into the desert unaccompanied? Zara wondered. It must do, but she gathered from the hard look in his eyes that the prospect of her stay seemed nothing more than tiresome to him. He jerked his chin again and she got a sense of a man who was accustomed to having his smallest whim accommodated the instant he made it known. ‘Dinosaur,’ she muttered under her breath.

‘What did you say?’

His voice had softened to the point where she had to strain to hear it and she shivered involuntarily to think that all his senses might be so keen. ‘Nothing…’

His eyes challenged her assertion.

‘Come in, or stay outside,’ he said as if he couldn’t have cared less what she did. ‘Either way, I’m going in, and I’m closing down the entrance while I wait out the storm.’

‘Are you threatening to leave me out here?’

‘Take it any way you want.’

Firmly clenching her jaw, she walked past him into the tent. She saw him staring at her camera and clutched it closer. No way was he taking her camera from her. He might as well have tried to cut off her arm.

She was conscious immediately of the fresh, clean smell inside the tent and the neatness of it all. As she looked around, her eyes found their way back to her host. She noticed he wore a weapon tucked into his belt. She glanced at his face and back again. The long curving dagger looked lethal, but it had a beautifully worked gold hilt and she guessed it was more for ceremonial use than anything sinister. As her heart rate steadied she admired the intricate workmanship and longed to take a photograph of it so she could add it to the record of her trip. Perhaps if she asked politely she might persuade him to let her use her camera for some things in spite of his earlier objections. ‘What do you call that?’ she said, glancing at it again.

‘A khanjar. Tradition demands that I wear it,’ he explained, confirming her first impression. ‘It is meant to represent a Bedouin’s honour and is an indispensable piece of equipment in the desert. You never know when you might need a knife…’ His dark gaze flashed up.

‘Would you object if I take a picture of it?’

‘Of the khanjar, no…’

The expression on his face left her in no doubt that her image must be confined to the dagger. She was careful to show him, as she narrowed her eyes in preparation for taking the shot, that the picture would be in close up and of the dagger and nothing else. She had no idea what else she might find inside the tent and was keen to respect his wishes in the hope of finding more material for her journal of the trip.

She had guts, he’d give her that. The dagger was beautiful and it pleased him to think she’d noticed it. It had been his father’s and he felt Sheikh Abdullah’s presence whenever he wore it. It both comforted him and served as a painful reminder that his work outside Zaddara had kept him away from a man he would have liked to know better. And that now it was too late… ‘That’s enough,’ he said sharply, wheeling away from the probing lens.

His feelings of regret were not something he wished to share with this stranger.

She flinched at his impatience, but lowered the camera. ‘This is what I do,’ she explained with a shrug. ‘It’s all I do. I take pictures…wildlife, indigenous people, unusual rock formations—’ She threw up her hands so the camera swung free on its cord around her neck. ‘I don’t know what you imagine, but I’m no threat to you.’

But was he a threat to her? Zara wondered. In the capital city of Zaddar women were equal to men, but here in the desert different rules applied. She could see that women would be bound by certain restrictions, strength being just one of them. If this man should decide to overpower her…She watched him releasing the bindings that protected the entrance to his tent. Once they were secured inside it, neither one of them would be leaving in a hurry.

It made her angry to think she had got herself into this position. She had researched the trip so thoroughly, reading everything she could lay her hands on, but nothing had prepared her for the vastness of the desert, or the emptiness. Compass, first aid kit, rug and a cold box full of supplies seemed woefully inadequate to her now. But Zaddara was supposed to be completely safe. How was she to know this man would send his armed guard to apprehend her? The thought irked her; his behaviour had been out of all proportion and she decided to challenge him about it. ‘Was it really necessary to send a man with a gun after me?’

‘I didn’t send Aban after you; he took it upon himself to secure the dunes while I was swimming. Would you have me reproach him for doing his job so well?’

‘The gun was unnecessary.’

‘There are poisonous snakes in the desert,’ he countered, ‘if you had bothered to check.’

She had checked. What sort of amateur did he take her for? But she drew the line at carrying a gun. A camera was her weapon of choice, and she used that and the images it produced to challenge the motives of the people who killed the creatures she had made it her life’s work to protect. ‘Nevertheless—’

‘Nevertheless?’

The rejoinder came back sharp as a whip crack. And it was a mistake to hold his gaze. Having never had her blood pressure raised by a man was no preparation for an encounter like this. The Bedouin was unlike any man she had met before. She could usually judge people from their appearance, but this man was an enigma. Tall and powerfully built, he was tanned a deep bronze and his steely eyes were watchful. He had brought her inside his tent only because he had to. She sensed he was a deeply private man who didn’t want her there any more than she wanted to take the risk of being alone with him.

‘It was wrong of you to travel so deep into the desert without a companion—’

‘I didn’t have a companion to bring—’ Zara’s mouth slammed shut. Why had she admitted to being alone? ‘People know I’m here, of course.’

‘Of course,’ he agreed in a way that suggested he didn’t believe her for a moment.

Following him deeper inside, she looked around. As she had first thought, everything was spotlessly clean and orderly and was made comfortable with heaps of intricately embroidered cushions and finely woven rugs. In a variety of rich colours, these were perfectly arranged in piles to relax and recline on. A slender coffee pot made from what looked like beaten silver rested on a simple brazier and the delicious smell made her swallow involuntarily.

‘You are thirsty?’

He had barely any accent at all, she realised now, and the rich baritone strummed something deep inside her. Coffee was a good starting point if she was going to strike up a dialogue with him and get to know more about his land and customs. ‘I’d love a coffee, thank you…’

How many people got the chance to see inside a real Bedouin tent and find out how a man like this lived? Zara wondered as she moved past him to sit on the cushions he indicated. He made her feel tiny and delicate, which she knew was survival of the species at work. However hard she might try to fight it, her female genes craved his masculinity—and she wasn’t fighting nearly hard enough.