The Desert Bride of Al Zayed / Best Man's Conquest: The Desert Bride of Al Zayed / Best Man's Conquest

She stared at the lean hands on the steering wheel, and a bolt of emotion shot through her. No, it wasn’t better. The cold air did nothing to alleviate her inner tension. She swallowed. “Yes,” she said finally. “It’s cooler.”

A sideways glance revealed a hard, hawkish profile. The white ghutra should have softened his jagged profile; instead it added to the mystique and ruthlessness of the man. Her gaze lingered on the black agal—the cords that wound twice around his headdress and hung down his back. Beside his mouth, the deep, scored lines showed the strain he was under. Tariq must be terribly worried about his father…and then there was this situation that Ali and Mahood had created. She had to remember that if she felt tense, he was under infinitely more stress. Finally she turned her head away and tipped her head back again, closing her eyes, and tried to doze.

Jayne woke suddenly to find that several hours had passed and she was chilled. The desert sun had vanished and a white blanket of cloud stretched across the sky. The air-conditioning was chilly enough to have Jayne reaching into her bag for a lightweight merino cardigan.

“Cold?” Tariq fiddled with the air-conditioning controls, and the rush of cool air slowed.

“A little. Despite the heat that is probably out there.” She gestured to the desert that stretched out, bleak and inhospitable, in every direction.

“The cloud cover makes today cooler than normal.” Tariq dipped his head and glanced up through the windshield. “I don’t like the look of them, they’ve been gathering over the last hour.” He slowed and examined a gadget that had to be a GPS.

Four-wheel-drive. GPS. What was she worried about? This was the twenty-first century. The desert was not as alien and threatening as she imagined. She was overreacting, allowing her dislike and resentment of Zayed to get to her. Jayne laughed. “Rain? Little chance of that out here.”

“The desert does get storms, not often but they happen. They can be devastating because the desert does not absorb the water. So it gathers on the surface until there is sufficient for floods.”

“Floods?” Jayne stared at the barren landscape and her apprehension crept back. Just enough to make prickles rise at her the base of her neck. “Hard to imagine.”

“Believe it. As much as water brings life, rain can wreak havoc.”

“Will we be able to reach Aziz before the rain comes?”

“Maybe. If it comes at all. The clouds may dissipate—not uncommon.”

“That would be a relief.” The prospect of a desert storm did not thrill Jayne. She stared out of the window at the clouds, then at the expanse of stony ground that stretched without end to the horizon. It gave the desert a foreboding feeling, even greater than it already possessed, and Jayne shivered.

Another hour passed. They’d stopped briefly to eat pita rounds filled with shredded lamb and lettuce and tomato and drink bottles of mineral water, before setting off again. Since the meal, Tariq had been silent, but Jayne thought that they’d picked up speed. The banks of cloud had been rolling, piling high into stacks that made Jayne’s insides twist.

“I hate this place.” Jayne’s tension spilled over. “I really do.”

“I know.” Tariq’s voice held a bleak quality that made Jayne give him a quick glance.

“You shouldn’t have made me come back to Zayed.”

“I needed you.”

Her heart missed a beat. In the past she would have killed for an admission like that. But Tariq had been more focused on his father, on the good of Zayed than on her. She’d been lonely, her heart bruised by his lack of care.

“To convince your father that you will be settled after his death?”

“In my country it is believed if a man has given all his children in marriage through the course of his lifetime, then he has successfully fulfilled the duty of his life. Our marriage is not what my father considers a real marriage, so he considers that he has failed to fulfill the duty of his life. He wants me to be happily married. He believes it is time for me to have a family, children.” Tariq sighed. “He’s even tried to use a go-between to offer a bride price…he’s been plotting to find me a second wife.”

Second wife. She should’ve expected this. But still her heart plummeted at the news. Tariq with a family. With children. Once upon a time that had been her dream. “He can’t do that,” she said. “Our marriage contract—”

“Forbids that. I know. And I have advised my father that we added a clause that I may not marry another woman while married to you.”

Jayne had insisted on it. Even young and desperately in love, she hadn’t been able to overcome her greatest fear: that one day her gorgeous Zayedi husband would find a more beautiful, more accomplished wife and wish to marry a second time. Not even the status of being the senior wife would have made up for that. She’d wanted to be his only love. Forever.

Sadly, she’d never considered requesting a clause that allowed her to divorce her husband without his consent. If she had, she’d never have needed to return to Zayed. Back then, lighthearted with love, she’d thought that her marriage would last longer than the sands of the desert.

“Your father couldn’t have been pleased.” Jayne guessed that was an understatement. The Emir would’ve been enraged. Why hadn’t he demanded that Tariq divorce her?

Immediately.

“No, he wasn’t.” Tariq’s reply held a certain wryness. “But at least it appeared to put a stop to his quest to find me a second wife although certain…complications…were caused by his enthusiastic matchmaking.”

“Serves him right! He never approved of our marriage. So don’t expect me to be a hypocrite and stay for the funeral after he—” she swallowed “—dies.”

“Why would I want you to stay for my father’s funeral?” Tariq looked away from the road ahead. The eyes that met hers were full of turmoil. “You’re not—”

The ring of a cell phone rent the air, interrupting what he’d been about to say. He hit the button where the phone rested in its housing on the dashboard. “Yes?” Tariq demanded tersely.

Jayne was relieved. There had been something in his eyes…

She suspected she wasn’t ready to hear what he’d wanted to say. Not here stuck out in the middle of this inhospitable terrain with nowhere to run.

When he ended the call, he said, “There is concern about the weather. We will stop at a Bedu camp not far from here to take shelter from the cloudburst that the meteorologists are predicting.”

Five

As they approached the Bedouin camp, Jayne stared with interest at the tents that nestled at the base of a rocky rise.

“These are Bedu tribal lands,” Tariq told her as he headed the SUV for a huddle of tents. “You can’t see it clearly from here, but on the other side of the ridge there is a village with a school and a clinic, and in the surrounding area efforts are being made at de-desertification.”

“What do you mean?” Jayne turned to look at him and couldn’t help noticing how he speeded up his speech, how his eyes sparkled as he spoke. He loved the desert and its people as much as she hated it.

“There are olive groves planted in the desert.”

“But who looks after them?” She stared at their surroundings. “Aren’t the Bedu nomads, always on the move?”

“In the past, yes, but things change…although some still follow the old ways, others are setting down roots.”

Jayne gestured to the array of tents. “Some of those tents are huge. But are you saying there are brick-and-mortar dwellings?”

“Yes, over the rise.”

“I think I prefer the idea of tents. I always wanted to stay in a Bedouin camp,” she said a little dreamily.

“I remember.” He gave a laugh.

“But we didn’t find a Bedouin tent that time…although I did get to ride into the desert on a camel and camp in the tent you put up.” Jayne thought back to that disastrous trip.

Seconds later Tariq pulled up to where a group of men sat outside in the thin shade of a tamarisk tree playing cards. They looked up. All play stopped.

One of the men jumped to his feet and came to shake Tariq’s hand. “Excellency, we did not know you were visiting. We welcome you.”

Tariq flung an arm to the overcast sky. “The weather has forced us on you, and we would be grateful for your hospitality for a night.”

“Only a pleasure, Excellency. You are welcome for more than one miserable night. My residence is not far from here. It is new and you will not lack for luxury.”

A smile played around Tariq’s mouth. “I thank you for your offer. But the sheikhah has a fancy to stay in a tent—if that is not too much for us to ask.”

The headman, whom Tariq introduced as Ghayth, looked at Jayne as if she were touched by the moon, then glanced at the sky. “But, Excellency, if the rain comes, the area outside the tent will be a mudbath.”

Tariq raised an eyebrow at Jayne. “The tents themselves won’t leak, they’re constructed to withstand the elements, sun, wind, sandstorms. But are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay under a solid roof?”

“As long as it’s not going to cause problems for our hosts or uncomfortable flooding for you if the rains come, I’d rather stay in a Bedouin tent. It sounds like an experience of a lifetime.” She was touched that he was trying to accommodate her quirky dreams, rather than practicalities. She gave him a small smile. “Thank you, Tariq.”

The tent to which they were led was far larger than she had expected—and far more luxurious than the shelters on the outskirts of the encampment. Inside it was divided with drapes into two separate areas.

“This is the meeting area,” Tariq said, waving to the large space around them furnished with several squat square stools covered with woven fabric and a long divan covered with similar material. In the corner stood a round table with four chairs set around it, and the walls and floors were covered with beautifully woven rugs. “Traditionally the curtained-off area is where the women prepare food in the day and where the family sleeps at night. But this tent is more ornate, probably kept for visiting dignitaries, that’s why there are no cooking arrangements. The de-desertification program has been attracting a lot of interest—even from the UN.”

“Oh.” Jayne took in the rugs, the drapes that hung from the roof. “It’s certainly not quite as modest as I expected.”

Tariq pulled back the drapes to reveal a couple of broad low divans draped with rugs. The sleeping quarters. Instantly a subtle tension invaded the room.

“I think I need a wash,” Jayne said, suddenly eager to get out of the tent she’d been so keen to experience. She had a feeling that she was going to be very pleased that the tent was a lot more spacious than she’d anticipated. Perhaps it would’ve been wiser to have accepted the offer of a stay in Ghayth’s house…at least she would’ve had her own bedroom.

“You can bathe later,” Tariq said, “after dinner. For now, use the water in the pitcher on the table to freshen up. Our hosts will be here shortly with our bags. Then we need to see that Noor has been fed and bedded down.”

An hour later the clouds, while still ominous, seemed to have lifted a little. They no longer sagged with moisture overhead. Ghayth, the headman, met Jayne and Tariq as they headed back from feeding Noor, with an offer to show Jayne the nearby village.

Within minutes they’d piled into their host’s very battered four-wheel drive, with the two salukis in the back, and roared down the dirt road that cut across the stony terrain. Tariq sat up front beside Ghayth, and Jayne sat beside his senior wife, Matra, whose name meant “pot that catches the rain,” Jayne discovered as they drove past the olive groves surrounded by desert sand that Tariq had told her about.

From the pointing and the rapid questions he fired at their host, Jayne realised that Tariq was a lot more involved in the program than she’d suspected.

A little way on they turned down a track and the village came into view. A group of children were huddled around a bicycle that leaned against a scrawny tree and they all turned to stare curiously at the approaching vehicle.

Once they had stopped, Jayne descended from the vehicle and followed the men. Carpets in shades of ruby, garnet and topaz were spread out in the patchy sunlight, and a dozen or more women sat around weaving. Jayne caught her breath at vivid designs and colours. “They are beautiful.”

One of the women gave her a gentle smile.

“How long does it take you to make such a rug?” Jayne asked, bending down to touch the design.

The woman looked at the men, a frown pleating her forehead.

“She does not speak any English,” Tariq said, and rattled off in Arabic. The woman nodded and said something. “She says it depends on how many women are working on the design,” Tariq translated.

“They must do well out of such rugs. The craftsmanship is wonderful.”

“Not yet. The project has only been going for a couple of years. It’s supposed to be self-driven by the village women, so it has taken some time for the women to get it off the ground.”

“That’s heartbreaking. The rugs are so amazing. I can think of people in Auckland who would pay a fortune for such finery.” She thought of Neil, of his home in Remuera with the collection of fine furniture and antique books.

“There is no question of their talent, or their entrepreneurial skills. But some of the women are reticent. They are used to the men running things. But they are insistent that this is their project. They’ve had a lot to learn. Accounts. Running a business. Distribution.”

“And a lot of us can’t read or write, which makes it much harder,” Matra said softly from behind Jayne’s shoulder.

Jayne knew she shouldn’t be surprised. But somehow she was. “I thought Zayed was progressive country, that a lot of the wealth from the oil fields is poured into education and development.”

“It is,” Tariq said levelly, and Jayne realised he’d taken her words as criticism. “But there are a lot of nomadic tribes in Zayed, too.”

“And some of us are too old to learn,” Matra said, her expression showing that it took a lot of bravery to converse with Tariq.

Jayne considered her. “No one is ever too old to learn.”

The daylight waned quickly as they returned to the camp. Night fell like a cloak over the desert, and Jayne found herself shivering as the temperature plummeted. Dark clouds swarmed overhead, but the rain that had threatened did not come, much to the glee of their hosts.

The Bedu had prepared an outdoor feast to celebrate their arrival. A fire had been lit and everyone sat around the flames.

An hour later Jayne sat back replete, and weariness seeped through her. She watched as the men seated around the fire clamoured for Tariq’s attention. He listened, nodded, spoke a few words, then turned to the next person.

Matra came toward her carrying a copper pot with a long spout and murmured something Jayne did not understand. So she smiled and spread her hands helplessly.

“What is that?”

Before Matra could reply, Tariq was at her side. “Matra is offering you coffee.”

Jayne nodded enthusiastically. “Coffee would be lovely.”

Matra put the coffeepot down and disappeared.

“It’s Bedu coffee,” Tariq warned. “Strong and bitter. The coffee beans are roasted on a long shovel and then ground with a mortar before being brewed for several hours.”

The other woman returned with a tray of tiny handleless cups and filled them from the coffeepot and handed one to Jayne who eyed the greenish-brown liquid with suspicion. “It’s not as dark as normal coffee.”

“That’s the cardamom. You drink the whole cup down in one sip.”

“O-kay.” Jayne took a deep breath and gulped, then almost choked as the bitterness hit her throat. “At least these cups only hold a sip or two,” she murmured. “Otherwise I might have to develop a coffee allergy.”

Tariq threw his head back and laughed. Jayne stared. How long had it been since he had laughed like that? When she’d first known him, his infectious laughter, his joie de vivre, had been one of the first things to attract her. Tariq had loved life—and lived it joyously.

She hadn’t realised how much she had missed his good humour. Until now.

Matra was back offering the tray again. Tariq took another cup and smiled at the woman, who lowered her eyes. Sucking in a deep breath, Jayne reached for another cup.

“How am I going to drink this?”

“Slowly,” Tariq responded, but his eyes danced.

She took a tiny sip and pulled a surreptitious face.

“Here, give it to me.”

“It’s okay, I don’t want to be rude.”

His hand closed around hers. He brought the cup up to his mouth. Under the pressure of his hand, she tipped the cup. He sipped. This close the gold eyes gleamed like burnished bronze. Caught in the snare of his gaze, she stared at him, suddenly breathless.

His lips lifted off the rim of the minute cup. “There is one last sip. For you.”

His hands still cupping hers, she placed her lips against the opposite rim from where he had drunk. The cup tilted. She drank.

“How does it taste now?” His voice was husky. “Still bitter?”

She licked her lips clean of the last smears of coffee. As her tongue tip skimmed across her bottom lip, his eyes flared to the colour of midnight. The shock of the change from gold to dark sent a bolt of sensation through her.

She hurriedly retracted her tongue, swallowed and realised that the bitter taste had gone. All that remained was the distinctive flavour of cardamom. “No, not bitter.”

How had this happened?

How had she become so aware of him standing so close to her, to his hand still grasping hers?

Jayne pulled away…and found Matra at her elbow. Jayne looked at the cups of coffee, glanced at Tariq and knew he, too, was supremely conscious of the heat that sizzled between them.

“Accepting a third cup means that you consider yourself one of the family. If you deliberately refuse this cup…it will be considered rude,” he murmured softly.

Quickly she nodded to Marta. And so did Tariq. Following his lead, she tossed it back, trying very hard not to grimace and set the empty cup on the tray.

“Now you can refuse the next cup. Because after three cups it is considered rude to take another.”

“Thank goodness,” she murmured.

“You did fine. Come, it is time to say good-night.”

A fine quivering sensation started deep in her stomach as they walked across the shadowed camp to their tent, the indigo night sky arching overhead. Jayne was aware of the darkness that stretched into the desert beyond their tent. The vast emptiness that surrounded them, broken only by the soft conversation of the Bedouin still gathered around the fire.

Their tent glowed inside, the soft light of candles diffusing against the drapes in a warm pattern.

“In the sleeping area there is a bath ready for you,” Tariq said. “Matra arranged it.”

“Oh.” Jayne felt suddenly breathless. “I had thought there might be a washroom nearby.”

“There is—with communal baths. No doubt Matra thought you would prefer to bathe in private.”

Private?

With Tariq here?

Dragging her feet, Jayne made her way to where Tariq had pointed. A steaming bath waited, with a high back and a curved lip to rest her head on. After the drive and the long day, it looked too welcoming to refuse. Quickly she shucked off her clothes and stepped in, sinking down into the hot water. Shivers broke across her skin as ripples of heat enfolded her.

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