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

Iris smiled at the little girl in encouragement, but Asad shook his head. “You will be napping, I am afraid.”

“I’m not tired.” Nawar negated the words almost instantly by rubbing her eye with her small fist. “I want to go.”

Her father pulled Nawar into his lap and kissed her temple. “You need your rest, but be assured Iris will still be here when you wake and for many days after. Won’t you, Iris?”

Iris could do nothing but agree. Asad and his cousin had maneuvered her neatly into a situation she saw no way out of without severe damage to her career.

Genevieve showed Iris to her room while Asad put Nawar down for a nap.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” Both private and luxurious, the apartment was larger than she’d expected.

The bed was ground level and a single, though. Covered in rich silks a deep teal color she’d always loved, it looked very comfortable nonetheless. Graced with fluffy pillows Iris was certain just from looking at them were of the finest down, the bed tempted her to simply sink down and take her own afternoon nap.

Genevieve nodded and smiled. “Asad had someone come in and change the decor to better fit in with the rest of our home after Badra’s death. During their brief marriage, moving this room alone was almost as big of a job as moving the entire encampment.”

“I’m … this used to be the princess’s room?” Iris asked faintly, relieved that while still luxurious, it wasn’t anywhere near as ostentatious as Genevieve implied it had once been.

Though the fact the princess had called it her own would explain the amount of space dedicated to it in a Bedouin tent, regardless of the fact the sheikh’s dwelling was probably one of the largest in the encampment.

“Oh, yes.” Genevieve indicated the fabric wall the bed butted up against. “Asad’s room is just on the other side.”

“But isn’t that … I mean, aren’t the male and female quarters separated?”

“In a traditional tent, yes, but I must admit to making some changes in our home when I married Hanif and Badra made even more. While the receiving room is traditional, the way we divide what used to be considered the women’s space is quite different.”

“I see.” Though honestly, Iris felt very much in the dark.

“Hakim and I have the room at the end, beyond the interior kitchen. Fadwa and Nawar share the room between it and us. And you are correct, in the Bedouin culture, usually a single woman would stay in that room with them, but Asad has decreed you would be more comfortable in Badra’s old lodgings.”

The older woman waited as if expecting Iris to say something, so she said, “Um … I’m sure he’s right.”

Neither woman commented on the fact that the sheikh and his wife had not shared sleeping quarters. But Iris couldn’t help speculating on the why of it. Had the virtuous Badra found the wedding bed too onerous?

Unimaginable. How could any woman not fall under the sensual spell Asad created in the bedroom? When they were together, she’d craved his touch with an intensity that had shamed her after the breakup. At the time though, she’d been enthralled by the beauty and passion of their lovemaking.

It was simply unfathomable to her that another woman would be indifferent to Asad’s sexual prowess.

Needing to redirect her thoughts, Iris reached out to touch the brass pitcher beside a matching basin on top of the single chest of drawers. “This is lovely.”

Decorated with an intricate design surrounding a proud peacock, it was polished to a bright sheen.

“The water in the pitcher is clean. You may drink it, or use it to wash,” Genevieve said. “Someone will come to dispose of the water in the basin for you. It will be used to water my garden in the back, so it is important you only use the soap provided.”

Iris picked up the bar of handmade soap and sniffed. The fragrance of jasmine mixed with sage. “I’ll be happy to. This is wonderful.”

“I am glad you think so.” Something in her tone said that perhaps the perfect princess, Badra, had not. “We make it here in the encampment.”

Iris noted that her case was beside the chest, but she hadn’t seen anyone come in while they were visiting over tea. “Is there another entrance to the tent?”

Genevieve nodded with a warm smile. “Through the kitchen. I will show you the rest of our humble home, if you would like?”

“Oh, yes, please.”

The tent dwelling was anything but humble, the private compartments all endowed with the same level of luxury as Iris’s room, if not a plethora of furniture that might make their twice-a-year resettlement difficult. Or at least, Iris assumed Nawar and Fadwa’s was, but she had been unable to see for herself as the child was settling into her nap.

One thing she did note was that the single women’s quarters that housed Asad’s daughter and distant cousin were actually smaller than the apartment Badra had commandeered for her own use and that Iris would now use.

When she said as much to Genevieve, the other woman shrugged. “Perhaps when Asad marries again, his wife will reapportion the sleeping quarters again. So long as she does not attempt to change my and Hanif’s room, I will be content.”

“Is he thinking of remarrying then?” The thought of Asad taking another wife sent a shard of pain that absolutely should not be possible straight through Iris’s heart.

“But naturally. Though he has not set his sights on any woman in particular.” Genevieve led the way through the inner kitchen and outside. “Enough time has passed since Badra’s death though, I think.”

“How did she die?”

“In a plane crash with her lover,” Asad said with brutal starkness from behind Iris.

His arrival taking her by surprise, she jumped and spun to see him standing with an old familiar arrogance, but an only recently familiar harsh cast to his features.

Genevieve tutted at her grandson. “Really, Asad, you needn’t announce it in such a manner.”

“You think I should dress it up? Pretend she was simply vacationing with friends as the papers reported?”

“For the sake of your daughter, yes, I do.”

Asad inclined his head. In agreement? Perhaps, but the man wasn’t giving anything away with his expression.

“What do you think of my home?” he asked, dismissing the topic of his unfaithful wife in a way that shocked Iris.

The Asad she had known at university would never have been so pragmatic about such a betrayal.

Forcing her own mind to make the ruthless mental adjustment of topics, she said rather faintly, “It’s fantastic.”

“You like your room?” he asked, the stern lines of his face relaxing somewhat.

She tried to keep the hesitation she was feeling from her tone. “Yes.”

“But?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Didn’t you?” Asad’s tone was borderline cutting.

“It’s just that, well … it’s kind of big for just me, isn’t it? I mean, it’s gorgeous, but I could set my lab up in the room and still have plenty of room to spare.” She felt guilty about that fact, though she wasn’t sure why.

Not to mention, it was right next to Asad’s room. That in itself was enough to cause immeasurable anxiety and probably sleeplessness on her part.

One of his now rare but gorgeous smiles transformed Asad’s features. “That will not be necessary. You and your coworker have already been assigned quarters for your tests.”

“Thank you.” What else could she say?

“I will do all that I can to make your stay here a pleasant one.” The words were right, but the look that accompanied them sent an atavistic shiver down Iris’s spine.

She turned to take in the charming courtyard created by the surrounding tents. Jasmine and herbs in pots decorated with bright mosaics made the space seem anything but desert austere. Despite the heat, other women cooked over open campfires, their curious gazes sliding between their sheikh’s guest and the watch they kept over children playing in the communal area.

“I had read that the tents are grouped by family ties. Is that true here among the Sha’b Al’najid?” Iris asked.

“It is,” Asad answered while his grandmother conferred with the woman cooking what Iris assumed was to be their dinner. “The dwellings around us are those of the family closest to my grandfather’s predecessor. Had my grandparents had more children, it would be their tents that occupied these spots around the sheikh’s home.”

It must have been a great disappointment to the elder couple to have only had one child, but Iris kept her lips clamped over the much too personal thought.

“Come.” Asad took Iris’s hand and placed it on his arm. “I will show you the rest of our city of tents.”

“Do you have the time, really?” she asked, trying to tug her hand away to no avail.

His other hand held it implacably in place and his dark gaze told her he wasn’t about to let go. “I have made time. The law of hospitality is very important among the Bedouin. Not to show you proper consideration as a guest in my home would be unacceptable.”

“There’s that word again.”

A tiny lift at the corner of Asad’s lips could have been a smile of amusement, but he was such a serious man now. She could not be sure.

“The way of life among my people is thousands of years old. Some things are considered absolute.”

“Like hospitality,” she guessed.

“Yes.”

“But your home is not as traditional as it appears.”

“No.”

“You are not afraid of change.”

“I am not, though I do not seek it for its own sake.”

“You want to keep the Bedouin way of life viable coming into the next generations.”

“You understand me well.” His hand tightened on hers. “You always did.”

“No.” If she’d really understood him six years ago, she never would have deceived herself into believing what they had was permanent.

“Perhaps you understood me better than I did myself.”

“Oh, no. We are not going there.” She tried to yank her hand away again.

But he held on. “Be at peace, aziz. We will shelve the discussion of our past friendship for now.”

If only he was simply talking about friendship. She’d become friends with Russell since he started his internship, but Iris was under no illusions. When he returned to university, if they never spoke again, she would not be devastated.

Not like after she’d lost Asad.

When she’d believed they were far more than friends who had sex. “No. Don’t. You don’t mean that word. Don’t ever use it with me again. I don’t care if you see it as a casual endearment, I do not … I didn’t back then and it hurt more than you’ll ever understand to learn it meant less than nothing to you.”

“What?” He’d stopped with her, his tone filled with genuine incomprehension. “What has you so agitated?”

He really didn’t know and that said it all, didn’t it?

“Aziz. You will not call me that. Do you understand me? If you do it again, I will leave … I promise you.” She knew she didn’t sound superbly rational, or even altogether coherent, but she wasn’t backing down on this.

Shock and disbelief crossed his face before the sheikh mask fell again. “You would compromise your career over a single word?”

“Yes.” And she meant it. She’d tolerate a lot, but not that.

Not ever again. That single word embodied every aspect of pain that had shredded her heart six years ago. It meant beloved, but he didn’t mean it that way. He’d never once told her he loved her, but every time he called her aziz, she’d believed that was his way of doing so.

She’d been so incredibly wrong, but darn it—the word had only one translation that she knew of. Only Asad used the word as flippantly empty as a rapper calling his female flavor of the week “baby.”

Iris and Asad stood in the middle of a walkway between tents, others walking by them, but no one stopped to converse with their sheikh. It was as if they could sense the monumental emotional explosion pressing against the surface of normality she’d been striving for since seeing him at the bottom of the stairs the night before.

“You do not wish me to call you aziz, but surely—”

“No. Promise me, or I’m going to pack my things up right now.”

“Your company would not be pleased.”

“They’ll probably fire me.”

“And yet, you would leave Kadar anyway.” The confusion in his tone hurt as much as his casual use of the word a moment before.

“Yes.” She didn’t care if he understood; she only wanted his compliance. “Are we in agreement?”

After several seconds of charged silence he said, “I will not use the endearment unless you give me leave to do so.”

“It will never happen.” That was one thing she was sure of.

“We shall see.”

“Asad—”

“No. We have had enough emotional turmoil this day. I will show you my desert home and you will fall in love with the Sha’b Al’najid just as so many have before you.”

And then leaving them would break her heart, but that seemed par for the course with this man for her.

She could do nothing but nod. “All right.”

He showed her the communal tent he was so proud of. Even in the middle of the day, it was busy with people, some watching a tennis match on the large projector screen while others occupied themselves more traditionally with a game as old as their lifestyle played with pebbles or seeds.

“So, this is where the tourists congregate?” she asked, doing her best to ignore the effect his nearness had on her body.

After six years and a broken heart, no less. It wasn’t fair. Not one little bit. But he was right; they’d had enough emotional upheaval today and she wasn’t going to invite more by letting herself get lost in her reaction to him.

“Usually, but we have no guests at present.”

“Why not?”

“The most recent group left and the next does not arrive for a few days.”

“You timed it, didn’t you?” She didn’t know why or even how he could have maneuvered her arrival to fit his liking, but she knew he had.

He didn’t even bother to shrug, just gave her a look that she had no hope of reading and wasn’t sure she’d want to if she could.

CHAPTER FIVE

BY THE time they had seen a good deal of the encampment, Iris’s head was spinning with images and thoughts.

She’d met women who spent their days weaving amazing rugs and fabrics, others who beaded jewelry, and some even making the soap Genevieve preferred. A much smellier occupation than the fragrant bar Iris had sniffed earlier might have implied.

She saw much she expected to, traditional Bedouins doing traditional things and she really loved it. Few experiences could live up to imagination, but life here among the Sha’b Al’najid? It absolutely did.

“But where are the herds?” she asked, as they approached a tent that stood off by itself.

It was near his home and where they had started and she knew they were close to the end of the tour. Inexplicably, she was not ready for her time with him to be over. She tried to convince herself that was because she wanted to know more about the Bedouin, but she’d never been very good at lying to herself.

Sheikh Asad bin Hanif Al’najid was every bit as fascinating to her as he had been when he was simply Asad Hanif. If she were honest with herself, he was even more so. She needed to get to work quickly and get her mind occupied elsewhere.

“Herds?” he asked, his tone curiously flat after the animation with which he’d described his home over the past two hours.

“The goats and things. I’d always read that Bedouins kept flocks.” Only the encampment had been surprisingly bereft of animals, except, surprisingly, some peacocks and peahens wandering between the tents, which she assumed they kept as a curiosity for the tourists.

From what she could tell, the birds had free rein of the encampment and were quite friendly. However, they’d been the only evidence of animals she’d seen. Unless others were kept in the courtyards, but there hadn’t been any in the one behind his tent.

“And you thought all Bedouins were goatherds?” he asked with a stark tension she did not understand.

“Don’t be ridiculous—no more than I think everyone living in the Midwest is a farmer, but isn’t herding part of the traditional Bedouin way of life?” Not only would it not make sense for the Sha’b Al’najid to get their meat and fleece elsewhere, considering how independent a people she’d already witnessed they were, but wouldn’t the tourists expect it?

“We do keep herds, rather a lot of them in fact, but they are grazed in the foothills. If they were not, the stench might be too much for our guests.”

“That makes sense.” Though somehow, she wasn’t sure how she felt about them pushing a traditional part of their lifestyle into the outskirts.

He lifted a sardonic brow. “I’m glad you think so.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you.” Wasn’t even sure how she had done so.

Asad shook his head. “You did not. It was an old argument I had with Badra. That is all.”

Surprised again by his candid comment about his deceased wife, Iris nevertheless asked, “Did she think it wrong to cater so carefully to the tourist’s preferences?”

Asad’s laughter sounded more like glass breaking. “Not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. She could not stand the smell and would have preferred we got rid of the herds altogether.”

He’d already alluded to the fact his wife had not been faithful—an eventuality Iris simply could not comprehend. What woman would want another man when she had Asad in her bed? But this latest revelation pointed to only one conclusion: the perfect princess had been a perfect idiot.

Because the woman would have to be absolutely brainless not to realize how foolish it would be to give up the herds of a Bedouin tribe.

“Marrying the virginal princess did not turn out to be all it was cracked up to be, I guess.”

“If that odd English idiom means it was not what I expected it to be, you are correct. Does that please you?” he asked darkly.

“You probably won’t believe me, but no. Losing what I thought I had with you hurt more than I believed anything ever could, but I never wished you ill.” Her own honesty surprised her a little, but with only a couple of glaring exceptions, she’d always found it far too easy to reveal her deepest thoughts and emotions to Asad.

Perhaps because in the past, he’d proven himself a worthy and safe confidant. It was hard to change that viewpoint despite the pain he’d put her through, maybe because he’d walked away and she hadn’t had a chance to shore up her defenses against him in person.

Whenever she’d revealed a fear or disappointment in the past, he did his best to alleviate it. She’d told him she was worried about passing a difficult class and though it was not in his discipline, he’d helped her study and even write one of her papers. She’d admitted to feeling awkward in the way her body moved and he’d talked her into ballroom dancing lessons.

Asad stopped before they entered the strangely isolated tent and looked down at her. “You are a very different sort of woman, little flower.”

He’d used to call her that, too, a play on her name that was just silly enough to be endearing. Somehow, his using it again didn’t hurt with nearly the pain the betraying aziz had done.

“I don’t think so. When you love someone, you want them to be happy. Even when it’s not with you.” That truth had sustained her through some of the darkest nights of her soul.

He jolted as if she’d hit him with a cattle prod. “You love me?”

“I loved you,” she emphasized.

“And that prevented you from hating me?” he asked in a curious tone. “Even though you considered my leaving a betrayal.”

“It was a betrayal of my love. But no, I don’t hate you.”

She never had, even in her darkest moments of pain. A love as deep as the one she felt for him simply had not allowed for that emotion, no matter how devastated she’d been.

He went as if to touch her face, but then let his hand drop after a quick glance around. They were not alone, though no one was close enough to hear the subject of their conversation. It would not do for him to be seen taking such liberties with a single woman, even one from the West.

The tribe might be part of the small percentage of Bedouins that had not converted to Islam in the seventh century, but that did not mean that such behavior would be any more culturally acceptable in this place.

“Your love for me was true,” he said as if just realizing that.

“And you really didn’t love me. Life is peppered with little inconsistencies like that,” she said with a wry twist to her lips.

She was really proud of the insouciance of her tone and stance. Maybe seeing him again had been for the best. Perhaps once this assignment was over, Iris would be able to move forward with her life … and maybe even fall in love with someone who would return her feelings.

Though trusting someone else with her heart was not something she was sure she ever wanted to do again.

“So, what is this place?” she asked, indicating the isolated tent.

“Let me show you,” he said as he led her inside.

She gasped out in shock as they passed under the heavy tent flap that operated as the door.

The interior of this particular structure was nothing like the others. An undeniably modern office, either side of the main area, was taken up by two desks facing each other, all manned by people clearly at work. In the center, there was even a secretary/receptionist speaking into a headset while typing at a laptop on her desk.

No one sat on cushions on the floor, like in other Bedouin tents. In fact, there were no cushions. They all used leather office chairs and the receptionist had a small grouping of armchairs covered in Turkish damask in front of her desk. The potted plants to either side of her desk looked real and native to the desert, and the desks were made from dark wood with a definite Middle Eastern vibe, but other than that, this room could pass for any office in corporate America or Europe.

The receptionist looked up at their entrance, nodded at Asad in acknowledgment and gave a small smile to Iris, but then went back to her phone conversation. He didn’t seem bothered by the lack of formal greeting.

“What is this? Command central?” Iris asked.

That surprised a laugh out of Asad that sounded quite genuine and she had to stifle her own grin in response.

“I suppose you could call it that. Come.” He led her through the busy room to a curtain similar to that in any other Bedouin tent, except this one had an arched opening cut out in the center that led to a hall.

On the right side, they could see through the opening to a room with a bevy of monitors on one wall. Two men and a woman watched, taking notes and calling out observations to each other, or speaking into headsets as they did so.

“This is where we monitor our caravans, the encampment and other business interests.”

The room to the left proved to be Asad’s office. She had no doubts as to who it belonged as soon as they entered. For one thing, it had the equivalent of a door, heavy fabric that fell into place cutting off the sound of the others working within the tent office.

For another, the space was decorated with dark wood and rich colors similar to those in his home. And it simply felt like it belonged to Asad.

“I thought Bedouin sheikhs conducted business over the campfire,” she remarked, still a little flabbergasted by this modern hive of corporate activity in the midst of a Bedouin camp.

“We are not so primitive, though I still settle most disputes among our people over a traditional cup of tea.”

“That’s good to know. I wouldn’t want to think you’d abandoned your old ways completely.”

“I have not abandoned them at all. I’ve simply made them work in a modern age as you guessed earlier.”

“You’re a very wise man.” She didn’t mind giving the compliment. It was well deserved.