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Iris hadn’t been a virgin, but she’d been honest, loyal and surprisingly innocent. He’d believed Badra untouched, but that had been a lie of monumental proportions, as was so much about her. The woman who had considered herself too good for a Bedouin sheikh had traded on deceit and Asad had not even had a glimmer until their wedding night.
Even so, his anger at Badra had muted over time to be replaced with indifference. So that when she had died all he had felt was relief to be free of her, only marginally tinged by sadness for their daughter, who saw less of her mother than the Parisian clothiers Badra favored.
Once married, he’d been unable to keep thoughts of Iris completely banked. Though that surprised him, he chalked it up to the fact that they had been even better friends than they were lovers. He’d kept up with her academic and work career, but had stayed away from her personally. He was not Badra. Asad did not cheat.
He did not understand this passionate fury barely contained in Iris, not after so much time. He slid a glance at her only to find her looking out the window of the helicopter, her eyes too unfocused to be seeing anything of real interest in the desert below.
Her body and attention turned from him, but he would change that. It had been six years. Two years since his wife’s death. Enough time for all that he had planned. He would wait no longer.
The low mountains loomed much closer than at the palace when the helicopter made its descent for landing.
“Hey, where are the camels?” Russell asked as he climbed out of the helicopter right after the pilot.
Asad did not answer. He had not liked the way the field assistant referred to Iris proprietarily, and with such familiarity, the night before. Though he doubted very much that the two shared a relationship outside of work, Asad felt possessive of the friendship that had not been allowed to flourish by his marriage.
He offered his hand to help Iris alight. After a moment of inaction while she stared at his hand as if it were a snake set to strike, she very clearly gritted her teeth and then reached out to take it.
He smiled into her lovely sky-blue eyes, carefully blanked of emotion. “Welcome to the Bedouin of the twenty-first century.”
Iris looked around them at the landing pad and the SUV parked on its edge. “I understand camels are not quite the mode of transport they once were.” She met his gaze again and choked out a laugh which he enjoyed hearing very much. “But a Hummer?”
He shrugged. “What can I say? Our tribe is more affluent than most.”
“Why is that?”
“My great-grandfather purchased land rights in three adjoining countries along our usual travel route so our tribe would always have a place to camp. At the time, political unrest dictated the move, but we rarely avail ourselves of that land for encampment anywhere but in Kadar.”
“But the land in the other countries, it’s making money for you?”
“It is.” The once-beautiful landscape was marred by oil rigging that pounded away with a noise that others might learn to sleep through.
He never would. “Oil.”
“Lucky you.”
“Some might say so.”
“I think pretty much everyone would say so.”
He didn’t reply, but turned to give instructions to the tribesmen waiting for them to move the geologists’ luggage and equipment to the Hummer. Asad made sure Russell ended up in the other SUV for the drive.
The Sha’b Al’najid encampment was nothing like Iris expected. Erected in the shadows of the small mountain range in the southernmost part of Kadar, it truly looked like the “city of tents” Catherine had referred to.
“You must have high-producing wells.”
“They are sufficient as a base for our needs.”
“A base?”
“My grandfather invested intelligently if modestly on behalf of our people. I have continued that tradition, though perhaps not as modestly.” Satisfaction glowed in Asad’s dark gaze. “We continue to do what we are best at as a people, as well.”
“What’s that?” she asked, her curiosity stronger than her desire to avoid conversation with him.
“The Bedouin are known for their hospitality. Our tribe offers the opportunity to live the Bedouin life for tourists from the cities of Kadar and abroad. The Sha’b Al’najid still run trading caravans across the desert and for a sufficient fee, one may join in this venture, also.”
“Like a Dude Ranch?” she asked in disbelief.
“I have never been to a Dude Ranch, but I believe the intent is similar. Others of my brethren tribes do this, as well. It provides our people the opportunity to continue with millennia of cultural and living traditions while others are afforded the opportunity to experience this unique way of life.”
“You sound like a travel brochure.”
“I have written more than one of them.”
A grin sneaked up on her, despite her feelings toward him. “It can’t be too traditional with Hummers instead of camels.”
“We still have many camels, I assure you.”
“Do you still move camp?”
“Twice a year, rather than seasonally, but yes.”
“Do you stay in Kadar?”
“We do. This too is different, but preferable to other tribes who have settled permanently on lands granted by the government.”
“I see.” Though she wasn’t really sure she did and was afraid he could hear it in the uncertainty of her tone.
“Within our encampment you will find modernizations mixed with traditions that are thousands of years old.” And he was clearly proud of that fact.
“Are those electric cords?” she asked in shock as she noticed the thick black rubber-coated cords snaking through the sand.
“They are. We have a bank of solar panels strategically placed five hundred yards in that direction.” He pointed away from the mountains to a spot that was no doubt ideal for sun exposure.
Incredible. “So, I can use my laptop?”
“It is better for you to charge your battery between uses. Our power is limited and certain measures must be taken, but there is even a television in the communal tent.”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing in a Bedouin encampment. I thought most of the socializing happened in individual homes.” Or outside in the courtyard-like areas between the tents.
At least according to the research she’d done on Bedouin living back when she’d thought she’d had a reason to do so.
“The communal tent was created for the tourists to gather in groups, but my people have found they enjoy its use, as well.”
“And its television.”
“Some British and American programs are very popular.” His shrug said some things must change, but others would remain the same. “I confess to a craving for Law & Order when I returned home six years ago.”
They’d used to watch it together. He’d called the crime drama his weekly mindless entertainment. She never quite got that, but she’d suffered through the program’s dark plots and emotional angst for the sake of spending that time with him.
“Do you still watch it?” he asked.
“No.”
“It was never your favorite.”
“No.” Though she hadn’t stopped watching until the series was canceled.
“Yet you watched it, for me.”
This trip down memory lane was getting distinctly uncomfortable.
“I’ll admit this is not what I expected.” She waved her hand, indicating the encampment around her.
“You had expectations?”
“Naturally. It’s a poor geologist who doesn’t do her homework on the area she’ll be surveying.”
“But you had no idea you would be coming to a Bedouin encampment.”
“You never know.” It was not quite a lie, but not the admission he was looking for, either.
“This is true. Six years ago, neither of us would have suspected you would be here.”
Actually, she had … right up until he’d broken up with her. She had no more interest in rehashing that particular bit of history than anything else about the months they’d been together. “You said some things are still traditional?”
“Many things.”
She saw what he meant when they entered a huge tent toward the center of the encampment. A curtain bisected the area horizontally from the entrance. In the center, was a single overlapping panel embroidered with two giant peacocks, their feathers fanned out in a display of the beautiful jeweled tones the birds were known for.
The curtain created the public reception area the Bedouin homes were known for, but it was much larger she was sure than the average tent boasted. With no evidence of the famed television, Iris had to assume this wasn’t the communal tent he’d mentioned earlier.
Rich Persian rugs covered the ground of the main area, but instead of chairs, there were luxurious pillows in silks, velvets and damasks with lots of gold, purple, teal and a dark sapphire blue. Low tables dotted the expansive area and while the outer walls were the typical woven black goat hair, inside the walls were covered in richly colored silks.
“Russell and I are staying here?” she asked with a sense of foreboding.
This was no normal Bedouin tent. Situated where it was in the compound and considering the luxury of the interior, she had no doubts who this particular dwelling belonged to. Sheikh Asad bin Hanif Al’najid.
“You are, yes. Russell will stay in the tent with your equipment.”
“What is this tent, a harem, or something?” she asked in faint hope.
“This is my home.”
CHAPTER THREE
“I’M NOT staying in your tent.”
“It has been arranged. Your accommodations are behind that partition.” He pointed at a blue silk hanging. “My late wife insisted on a nontraditional division of the women’s area of the tent. So, you will have your own room rather than sharing the entire space with the other single women of my family.”
“Other single women?” she asked faintly.
“My daughter and a distant cousin.”
“I can’t stay here with you.”
“I assure you, you can.”
“I’ll share the tent with Russell.”
Oh, Asad did not like that suggestion. Not at all. His expression went very dark very quickly. “You will not.”
“But it makes the most sense.” And might actually save her sanity, not to mention her heart.
“It is not acceptable.”
“You and your cousin, Sheikh Hakim, have an affinity for that word,” she grumbled, feeling like the Persian rug beneath her feet was actually quicksand.
“You will stay here.” There was no give in Asad’s voice or his posture.
“How is it better for me to stay here with you than to share a tent with Russell?”
“As I said, my daughter and cousin share this tent, as well, but so do my grandparents.”
Her whirling brain latched onto the plural grandparents and she asked, “Your grandfather is still alive?”
“Of course.”
“But you’re sheikh.”
“What did you think, I had to kill my predecessor to take over for him? It was much more prosaic. He retired and enjoys the increased freedom of his days like any other man who has well earned such.”
“He retired?”
“Yes.”
“That’s just …”
According to what Iris had read, the concept of the next generation taking over the majority of sheikh responsibilities when the current holder of the office became very old was not completely unheard of. But to refer to it as retirement? It was just so, so … modern.
“The way of things.” The words were spoken by an elderly woman carrying a tray with tea things on it as she entered through an opening in the blue silk partition.
Dressed in traditional Bedouin garb, the older woman’s hair peeked from under a heavily embroidered and beaded sheer scarf that did not completely hide the long white tresses. Her face, though showing the wear of sun and years, was still beautiful, though paler than Asad and more Gallic in bone structure.
“Grandmother, may I present Miss Iris Carpenter.” Asad bowed his head toward his grandmother while indicating Iris with his right hand. “Iris, my grandmother, the Lady bin Hanif.”
“You will address me as Genevieve.”
“Thank you. That is French, isn’t it?” Iris asked, pretty sure the woman’s accent was Gallic, as well.
