Bedded By The Desert King

The lanterns hanging from the main frame of the temporary structure cast a soft light over the tent’s interior and there was another lamp in one corner by what looked like a bed. She inhaled the faint scent of sandalwood appreciatively and found the warmth reassuringly cosy after almost freezing to death on the dunes.

When he offered her a dainty coffee cup full of dark, steaming liquid she was careful not to touch his hand. Taking it, she sipped cautiously. The delicious taste reminded her of rich dark chocolate. She drained it to the dregs.

‘More?’ he invited.

As he spoke he was unwinding the coils of protective headgear. Zara watched in fascination as a head of hair, thick, black and glossy was revealed. She had to wonder what it would feel like beneath her hands. Jet-black curls caressed his neck and some of the waves had fallen over his forehead so that the hair caught on his lashes. He was an incredible-looking man and the expression in his eyes was both compelling and dangerous; it took all she’d got to look away.

As he refilled her coffee cup and their eyes met she saw a world of experience reflected in his gaze. She found a face so strong it frightened her arousing? Maybe that was because his lips in contrast to his fierce expression were lush and curved with sensual beauty. He was considerably older than she was, perhaps thirty-five, and it only made him seem all the more desirable. Back home she would have been blushing by now and would have looked away, but here the situation was so unreal she felt no such restrictions and stared back boldly.

She had read that the Zaddaran Bedouins were so close to the earth, so in tune with the planet, that they never travelled aimlessly but returned each year to the same locations, using the stars to guide them as well as stone markers they left behind them on a previous trail. They could tell from the few shrubs in the desert when it had last rained and how much rain had fallen, and could find water, recognising by sight and smell whether it was toxic or brackish or safe to drink. What did this man know about her? Anything was possible. As she sipped the hot, dark liquid in her cup a dangerous fantasy swept over her where his strong arms had claimed her, and his fierce, sensual mouth…

‘More coffee?’

‘Yes, please…’ She started out of the reverie with relief. This wasn’t a story to which she could dictate some fuzzy romantic ending. She was here with an older man from a very different culture who, fortunately for her, was bound by centuries of tradition that demanded he treat her well. That was the only reason she was here drinking coffee with him, and that was why she would have to leave the very first chance she got.

‘Would you care for a bath?’

‘A bath?’ Zara’s mouth fell open as he gestured towards the rear of the tent.

‘Another custom…’ His eyes were shaded. ‘Water is the greatest luxury we have to offer our guests in the desert.’

What he said made sense, but was she running the risk that he was simply adding ever more fantastic ‘traditions’ to his list?

‘Aban heated the water for me before he left. You would be quite private behind that curtain, and I’m sure I could find you a clean robe to wear…’

Zara glanced down. She was extremely grubby. It had been a long drive and then a long wait to capture the images she wanted in the freezing desert dawn. She was still chilled through and uncomfortably gritty in all the wrong places, but that was no reason to behave rashly. ‘That’s very kind of you, but I couldn’t possibly—’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, I…’ She floundered for a moment. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

He made the typical Arabian salutation, touching his forehead and then his chest in what she thought was a slightly mocking gesture.

‘I am a simple Bedouin.’

Which was true, Shahin reflected. All Bedouin were equal according to their custom. Leaders of his people were chosen for their wisdom and judgement, as well as their ability to tread a wary path amidst a society peopled by hard, ambitious men. ‘As bathing is considered a great luxury in the desert,’ he went on, ‘and is one of our most cherished traditions, it would be considered an insult to refuse…’

Maybe that was stretching it a bit, but his bath was going to waste. And maybe he had resented her intrusion to begin with, but she was mature and self-possessed in a way he suspected very few people in her situation would be. And now she was here…

‘Your tradition?’ Zara racked her brain, but she was certain she had read nothing about baths being offered to guests of the Bedouin. She would have been surprised if she had. If water were so precious they would hardly waste it on bathing. But if this man were a tribal leader, perhaps he had his own set of rules. ‘You mean this is a tradition of your tribe?’

‘My tribe…?’ He leaned back so she couldn’t see his expression in the shadows.

‘I understand if it is…’ And then another thought occurred to her. ‘But surely your traditions don’t prevent you from telling me your name?’

She might be young, but she was shrewd, and he would have to handle her with care. ‘My name is unimportant.’ He made a closing gesture with his hands.

‘To me, it is important. I have to call you something.’

He could hardly believe she was still harassing him. ‘You may call me Abbas—’ The name flew from his lips before caution could stop him. Abbas had been his mother’s name for him. ‘It means lion,’ he started to explain.

‘Of the desert?’ she interrupted him lightly. Then, seeing his expression, she dropped her gaze.

But he was under no illusion that she was frightened of him. She wasn’t afraid of him, except in a primitive way like any woman who knew a man wanted her in his bed. She feared his masculinity, but she wanted her share of it. She feared him as a man, not as a leader of men. The realisation made him harden instantly. ‘The water is warm,’ he murmured persuasively.

‘And scented with sandalwood?’

He inclined his head.

CHAPTER TWO

YES, all right, this was crazy, Zara fired back at her inner voice. Sinking deeper beneath the scented water naked while her Bedouin was only a few yards away behind a curtain…She would never, never behave like this under normal circumstances. But she had been so grubby and uncomfortable, and his promise of fresh warm water on a day when nothing was normal had tipped the balance. Trouble was, she could talk it through inwardly all she liked but that didn’t stop her heart racing out of control.

‘Are you all right in there?’

Zara hurtled upright at the sound of the deep male voice. The chance she was taking seemed a whole lot bigger suddenly. ‘Yes, thank you, I’m fine…’ Her voice sounded strained. And where were the clothes he’d promised? What was she supposed to do now? How long could she reasonably remain submerged in rapidly cooling bathwater? Was this Abbas’s idea of a joke? Or was he preparing her for—? She gasped as a hand appeared around the curtain.

‘Here are a couple of towels for you…’

‘Thank you…’ She could hear another voice now…Zara tensed, listening. It was an older man! What on earth had she got herself into?

Springing out of the bath, she seized the towels and flung them around her, securing them firmly. Once she was decent, she put her ear to the curtain, which was all that divided her from the two men. They were talking in the husky Zaddaran dialect and she could tell little from their tone of voice.

‘Here…’

She started back as Abbas’s bronzed hand appeared around the curtain holding some sort of flimsy robe.

‘Well, take it…’ he instructed impatiently.

‘What is it?’

‘Something for you to wear?’ he suggested bitingly.

Zara watched in fascination as the hand stretched out a little more, revealing a wrist shaded with dark hair. Having located the wooden stand, he let the robe fall over it.

‘And here’s a veil to go with it…’

Having disappeared again behind the curtain, the hand came back and this time she got a good look at the powerful forearm attached to it…A robe and a veil? What did Abbas think this was—his harem?

‘You’ll need some fresh clothes,’ he pointed out, anticipating her concern. ‘Unless you’re going to come out of there wrapped in towels, of course.’

‘Thank you…’ The robe was lovely…pure silk, Zara found on closer inspection. In the softest shade of sky-blue, it was heavily embroidered with the tiniest silver cross-stitch she had ever seen. The matching veil was as light as air, the merest wisp of silk chiffon in the same delicate shade…

‘Get dressed quickly,’ Abbas instructed. ‘I have allowed a man to shelter inside Aban’s tent until the storm has passed. I don’t want you scaring him half to death—’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you…The man’s a silk trader, hence your new robe, but the sight of you wearing it would alarm him. Women in the desert usually have more discretion and never appear in public dressed in such a manner.’