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

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.”

“But—”

“It is your favorite color.” He reached out and tweaked his daughter’s hair. “Nawar is partial to that shade of blue, as well. It is no wonder she chose this dress.”

“I like purple best, though,” Nawar said with a smile for her father.

“I know you do, little jewel.” He met Iris’s gaze then, his own somewhat rueful but unmovable. “It would be an insult to my grandmother to refuse to wear the galabia she offered you.”

Knowing she wasn’t about to win that particular argument, Iris gave in gracefully and smiled at Genevieve. “Peacocks are my favorite bird. It isn’t just the color. Thank you for letting me wear this beautiful garment.”

“No thanks are necessary. You must keep it if you like it,” Genevieve said firmly. “I would have given it to Badra long ago, but she preferred Western dress.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t take it.” Particularly not a dress that was to have been passed down from Genevieve to the woman who had wed her grandson.

“But you must. You will offend my wife if you do not,” the old sheikh said with that all-too-familiar arrogance.

Like grandfather, like grandson. Iris found herself amused instead of annoyed by the overt manipulations. Particularly when she saw the look Asad gave the old sheikh.

For whatever reason, it appeared he felt like he was being maneuvered just as neatly as she was. That couldn’t help but make it easier for her to accept his grandmother’s generosity.

Iris found herself grinning and winked at the old man. “We can’t have that, can we? I would be honored to accept such a lovely gift,” she said to Genevieve.

“Your old college friend is impertinent, Asad. Did you see her wink at this old man?” Hanif asked.

“I saw,” Asad said with one of his infrequent smiles. “Grandmother will have to keep her eyes open at tonight’s feast.”

“Oh, you.” Genevieve slapped her grandson’s arm lightly. “Don’t encourage him. He’ll be flirting with the tourists again.”

“The tourists love me. A desert sheikh of the old ways.” Hanif pointed at himself importantly.

“I’m sure they do,” Iris said with a smile, letting her gaze slide to Asad.

She imagined the tourists loved him as well, especially the women. Did he flirt with them like his grandfather? If Asad did, it wouldn’t be innocent fun like with the old man—of that Iris was certain.

Realizing she really didn’t want to think about Asad flirting with and conducting liaisons with the tourists, or anyone else for that matter, Iris forced all thoughts of the like from her mind.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE feast was far more than a simple dinner, just as Asad had said it would be.

Platter after platter of food came in from the outdoor kitchens—far more than the ones Iris had helped Genevieve and the cook prepare the other night. The other women in the courtyard had all been cooking as well, but Iris hadn’t known it had been for the feast.

They ate in the public receiving area of Asad’s tent, the large room filled with his family and guests who Iris learned were all related to him, if distantly.

Russell, who had been seated at a different table from the immediate family, didn’t seem in the least offended, but appeared to be enjoying himself every bit as much as Iris was.

After everyone had eaten, the men played their instruments and sang traditional songs, some stories of love and romance, other songs Nawar told Iris were for the camels.

“It helps them to be strong and carry heavy burdens,” the small girl explained very seriously.

Iris nodded her understanding, though she found the idea fanciful.

Even Asad joined in the singing, his deep masculine voice making the song of love lost he’d chosen to share unexpectedly poignant. Then he sang a song in a dialect Iris did not understand, but the cadence of the song and tone of his voice made her thighs quiver with unwanted longing.

Her discomfort only increased when several of the guests gave her assessing glances. She tried looking everywhere but at Asad. Only his voice inexorably drew her gaze back to him.

He met her eyes, singing the last stanza in a low, melodic tone that brought moisture to her eyes, which she did her best to blink away.

“You enjoyed my humble efforts?” he asked Iris as he allowed Nawar to climb into his lap and rest against his chest.

The small girl had been allowed to stay up past her bedtime and looked ready to fall asleep right where she was.

Iris caught herself staring at the charming domestic picture they made as she answered, “Just as I’m sure everyone does who hears you. You’re a man of many talents.”

Iris’s desire to be part of that scene was so strong, her chest ached with it. Though she knew there was no hope of that ever happening. She wasn’t Asad’s future.

No doubt there was another perfect princess in store for him, hopefully one with a stronger character than the deceased Badra.

“I am glad to hear you say so.”

“I’m sure you hear it often enough.”

“Perhaps.”

She huffed out a small laugh at his arrogance. “You don’t lack confidence, that’s for sure.”

“And do you think there is a reason why I should?”

“No, Asad, you are everything a desert sheikh should be.”

“My daddy is the bestest sheikh ever,” Nawar said, her tiredness showing in the childish pattern of speech so rarely exhibited by the young girl.

“Even better than Sheikh Hakim?” Iris teased. “After all, he is king over all of Kadar.”

“Daddy is sheikh to the Sha’b Al’najid,” Nawar said around a yawn. “That’s bestest.”

“I suppose it is, sweetheart.”

The little girl’s eyelids drooped.

“So, why is the peacock the symbol for your house when your tribe is called the people of the lion?” Iris asked Asad.

Even he had been named for the large predatory animal.

“The peacock is a symbol for the women of my house.”

“But it’s on the panel that leads to the …” And then Iris understood. “It covers the doorway that leads to what is traditionally considered the women’s chamber.”

“Yes.”

“So, how did a bird become the symbol for the women of your house?”

“Many generations ago, one of the first sheikhs of our line, gave a peacock and peahen pair to his bride as a wedding gift. They were very exotic birds, something none of the Bedouin of their tribe had ever seen though as nomadic people they saw more wonders than the settled dwellers of our part of the world.”

“Where did he get the birds?”

“I do not know, but his wife was so taken with them that she embroidered their likeness on all of her clothing.”

Nawar made a soft little snoring sound and Iris couldn’t help smiling. “And it became tradition to do so in the following generations.”

“It did, though not all adhere to this tradition any longer.”

“Why do you?”

“I did not, for a while, but my grandmother finds the birds beautiful, even the less-flamboyant peahen.”

“Badra was not as impressed with the tradition,” Iris guessed.

Asad’s featured turned stern. “She was a princess of a neighboring country, but she preferred Western ways to anything the desert had to offer.”

“Even you.”

“Even me.” Asad’s clenched his jaw and Iris felt badly for reminding him that his marriage had not turned out anything like he’d anticipated when he’d dumped her to marry the virginal princess.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It is the truth.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“Come with me to put her to bed,” he invited, indicating his sleeping daughter.

Iris nodded before her brain could even finish processing the request. She shouldn’t. She knew she shouldn’t. Keeping her distance from him was the only hope she had of keeping her heart intact this time around.

But keeping her distance from his daughter simply wasn’t an option. After the years of rejection at her parents’ hands, Iris did not have it in her to disappoint the child.

Besides, she liked Nawar.

Iris helped Asad undress Nawar and put a nightgown on the sleeping child like she’d done it a hundred times before. It should feel awkward, but it didn’t. Maybe the old saying was true, some things were just like riding a bicycle. You never really forgot how to do them, no matter how young you were when you learned.

While Iris had no experience with children as an adult, in boarding school she had often taken care of the younger ones.

She tucked the little girl into her bed, soothing her back to sleep with a soft lullaby when Nawar started to wake after her father laid her down.

“You’re good with her,” Asad said as they left the room moments later.

“Thank you. I’ve had some experience.”

“I wasn’t aware you had small children in your life.” He talked like he knew a lot more about her life than he possibly could.

“I don’t.”

“But you’ve had experience?” he prompted.

“I learned how to tuck little girls in when I was a child myself.”

“Explain,” he pushed.

“My parents sent me to boarding school when I was six. I was terrified at night without our housekeeper there to tuck me in and tell me a story.”

“I know this is a common practice, sending away one’s children, but not one I could ever approve of for my own.”

She didn’t imagine a man who considered family as important as Asad did would. That knowledge cemented her certainty that his parents’ defection to Geneva had hurt him badly, though he might never acknowledge it.

“It’s actually not as frequent a practice in America as it is in England, particularly not for children as young as I was, but there are some schools who will board their students from the age of six.”

“And your parents saw fit to send you to one of these?”

“Yes.”

“But how does that explain your experience with small children?”

“When I had been there a year, another six-year-old girl came to board, as well. Though I was second youngest of all the boarders, I was seven then and used to the life. The rest of the children in our grades were day schoolers.”

“Day schoolers?”

“They came for the day, not to live.”

“I see.” He stopped her before they returned to the feast. “But you were a night schooler? No that would not be right.”

She smiled at his attempt to get the word right. “I was a resident, or a boarder.”

“Oh, yes, of course. And this little girl …”

“They put her in my room because we were so close in age. I could hear her crying in her bed that first night. She missed her parents terribly.”

“So, you comforted her?”

“I had a little flashlight. I used it to read her a book. Then I sang to her until she fell asleep.” Iris had returned to her own bed after that, more comforted than she had been at bedtime since going to the school.

“It became a routine.”

“Yes. She was only there for a semester. Her parents had been in an accident and couldn’t care for her, but as soon as they could, they came and got her.”

Iris had been without a roommate until the next year, when they’d put the two newest and youngest residents in a room with her again, since she’d been so good with her other roommate. “The girls’ dormitory mother made sure that the youngest residents were always put in my room.”

“Even when you were older? That must have put a cramp in your style.”

Iris laughed. “Not so you would notice. I was a very shy girl, but I knew how to comfort the little ones and help them transition to boarding school life.”

“They were lucky to have you.”

“It was mutual. I would have been very lonely otherwise.”

“Didn’t you have friends?”

“Of course.”

“But not close ones,” he guessed far too perceptively.

“I made the mistake of growing close to a couple of girls in the beginning, but then they left.” And she’d learned not to let people get too close.

They always left. But then Asad had come along and she’d opened her heart again … only, he’d left too.

“And now?”

“Now?”

“Do you have friends now?” he asked in a strangely tense voice.

“Russell.”

“Russell? Your assistant?”

“You say his name like it’s a dirty word. He’s a really great guy.” Iris liked the geological assistant who told corny jokes only another geologist would get.

“Are you attracted to this really great guy?” Asad asked with dangerous quiet. “He is a great deal younger than you.”

A junior at his university, Russell was about as much younger than Iris as she had been than Asad when they were together. “He’s twenty. Anyway, what difference does it make to you?”

“Answer me. Are you two in a relationship?” he said, the last word laced with disgust.

She rolled her eyes. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”

“Who says I am not?”

She laughed, the sound cynical. “Oh, come on, Asad. Like you are going to be jealous of a geeky science boy.”

“Are you attracted to geeky?”

She could have been, she realized. Not Russell, necessarily. He was very much like a younger brother, but maybe to someone else like that. If there hadn’t been Asad to spoil her for others. “You asked me if I had friends, Asad. That’s what he is. My friend.”

And a pretty new one at that.

“Good.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“But you don’t have a lot of friends back home.”

“No.”

“Yet you are a very good friend to have.”

She made a sound of disbelief. If he’d really believed that, he wouldn’t have given her up so easily. Would he?

“You were my friend once. It was only later that I realized what I lost when that friendship had to end.”

“There was no had to, Asad. You were done with me and you dumped me. Stop trying to rewrite history.”

“I am doing no such thing. Do you really think we could have remained friends when I married Badra?”

He had a point. And Iris probably shouldn’t care that he’d missed her friendship, and yet coming to believe it dulled some of the old pain of losing him.

“I would like to be friends again,” he said when she made no reply.

She didn’t believe him. “You want me back in your bed. That’s not friendship.”

“For us it can be.”

“Really? And when I return to the States, what then?”

“I do not intend to eject you from my life again,” he said in a tone that made the words a vow.

It disconcerted her, and frightened her, as well. Because those words were not merely a promise … they were a threat, too. “I don’t think I’m any more prepared to be your friend after leaving here than I was before.”

What she meant, but didn’t say, and hoped he clued into, was that for Iris it had been more than casual sex and friendship. And unfortunately, probably always would be.

“Give it a try. Let us see where it goes.”

It wouldn’t go to the altar; at least this time she knew that. Knowledge of the truth had to make some kind of difference in the outcome, didn’t it?

“You want me in your bed.”

“I do.” At least he admitted it.

“And you want to be my friend.” For now, anyway.

“Yes.”

“What will that make us?” she asked uncertainly.

“Whatever we want it to.”

This time she heard what he said, not what she wanted to hear. He wasn’t making any promises.

She wanted to be his world like he’d been hers, but that was never going to happen. What did she say to this offer, though? She’d missed Asad so much because she’d let him into a place in her heart she’d kept protected from her very earliest childhood.

Now he was offering more than a tumble in the sack. He was offering a renewal of their friendship that supposedly would last into the future.

She wasn’t sure she wanted that to happen, but she was equally unsure if she wanted to hold herself back from him while she was in Kadar. Iris had spent six years avoiding intimacy, taking no other lovers and dreaming of Asad more nights than she cared to count.

Could having what he called a liaison with him help her to let go of him forever? Just being away from him hadn’t done the trick. Psychobabble said people needed closure to move on. If she ever wanted to break the lonely boundaries of her life, Iris had to move forward. She had to take a chance again.

So, maybe that was exactly what she needed … closure on a relationship that was never meant to be in the first place.

One truth she could not escape: Iris had missed this man every day since he had walked away.

Losing him the first time had nearly destroyed her, but maybe being with him again, knowing it was temporary, would help to heal her now. Maybe letting him in again was the only way to break the boundaries she’d set around her lonely life.

She’d like to believe she could refuse him, but recognized that putting it to the test might see her disappointed. Regardless, she realized she didn’t really want to.

Understanding better what had been going through his head six years ago—and realizing how betrayed he’d been by Badra—changed Iris’s view of their shared past. At the very least, it made her realize Asad was not invulnerable to hurt.

Why that should matter, she was not sure, but it did.

And she wanted him, more than she would have believed possible after everything that had happened. But there it was.

She had a choice, one that only she could make. If she got back into Asad’s bed, it would be with her eyes open to both the reality of the past and what the future would hold.

Could she live with that? She thought maybe she really could. She was almost positive she couldn’t live with the other … the not having him and the richness he brought to her life for whatever time available to them.

When the silence stretched between them as her thoughts whirled inside her head, Asad slipped his hand beneath the scarf covering her head and cupped her nape. “It is not in me to lose you again.”

Asad saw the flash of disbelief in Iris’s blue gaze before she pushed the peacock curtain aside to return to the feast.

He wanted to draw her back, demand she acknowledge the truth of his claim, but now was not the time. She was skittish, and perhaps he understood that better now. But he would woo her and convince her that the past’s mistakes could be left there.