Читать книгу Bedded By The Desert King - Susan Stephens - Страница 5

SHE was tempted to take more shots, but her spine was tingling. And that wasn’t a good sign when the man she had her camera focused on had a sidekick with a gun slung across his shoulder.

Zara guessed her target had to be one of the local tribal leaders touring the border of his land. But, whoever he was, he was magnificent. Capturing striking images was her stock-in-trade, though wildlife of a different kind had brought her to the wadi—rare desert gazelles and the Arabian oryx, graceful creatures that had been hunted to the point of extinction in some parts of the desert. They had been reintroduced into Zaddara in the early eighties and were said to drink here at dawn. The man was an unexpected bonus.

Zara tensed, realising he had started stripping off his clothes. The temptation to zoom in was irresistible. His torso was hard and tanned an even nutmeg and muscles bulged as he flexed his arms. Discarding his tunic, he let his trousers drop and she gasped as he stepped out of them, completely naked. It was a moment before she realised she hadn’t taken a single shot. She made up for it now.

Wildlife photographer to hot-skin snapper? Zara smiled wryly. There was a whole world of opportunity opening up for her here. But she had no inclination to broaden her horizons in that direction even if she could use some of the images she was capturing now in the exhibition she intended to stage when she got back home…An exhibition that was supposed to contain more than wildlife images, Zara reminded herself. She had been hoping to capture something that would help her to forge a closer link with her late parents, not this incredible specimen…

Burrowing deeper into the sand hollow that served as her ‘hide’, Zara worked as fast as she could, hoping her camera lens wouldn’t catch the sun and give her away. She had a living to earn, as well as a past to understand. And the truth about her past lay here somewhere in Zaddara…

Her parents had lost their lives in an oilfield disaster working as geologists for the late Sheikh. Sheikh Abdullah had been a simple man with a simple goal, and that had been to find oil to bring wealth to his impoverished country. Her parents had helped him to do that and had paid for it with their lives. The kingdom of Zaddara was now one of the major oil-producers in the world thanks to them, but the country had a new sheikh, and Sheikh Shahin was said to be far more ruthless than his father. Her late grandparents had always told her Shahin was responsible for the accident that had killed her parents.

Her jaw clenched as she thought about the blood money paid into her bank account each month. As soon as she was old enough, she had formed a trust to hold the money, then used it to fund the schemes she cared about. Recently she’d given a lump sum to a scheme that reintroduced rare species into their natural habitat. She refused to spend a penny of it on herself and had found solace of a sort from using the Zaddaran money to do some good.

Zara felt a shiver run through her a second time. It was a warning. Something wasn’t right. Where had the bodyguard got to? Lowering the camera, she knew she shouldn’t have allowed herself to become distracted. Capping her lens, she started to shuffle backwards down the slope towards her Jeep.

Shahin’s jaw clenched with anger when he heard Aban’s warning shout. He was poised on the edge of the wadi ready to dive in. He had waited almost a month for this promise of cool relief. He couldn’t believe someone would dare to disturb his privacy now. He was in the middle of the desert. How far must he go to find solitude?

He had chosen the area for his retreat carefully. This place was at least fifty miles from the nearest habitation; only the Bedouin trails of his ancestors, hidden to those unfamiliar with the changing patterns of the desert, passed this way. There shouldn’t have been a chance of him coming into contact with another human being. And now this…

Narrowing his eyes, Shahin shaded them against the first low-slanting rays of the sun. Staring up into the dunes, he could see two dark shapes silhouetted against the threatening red sky where there should only have been one. The area might be remote, but the fact that he hadn’t checked their surroundings personally was a careless mistake. He could afford no more errors.

Casting another glance into the dunes, Shahin relaxed, seeing his bodyguard Aban had everything under control. The intruder had been apprehended and it would dent the old man’s pride if he were to interfere now. Aban was a good man and he would make sure he retired with honour. The elderly guard had travelled willingly into the wilderness with him to share the privations of a prince. A prince who had for a lifetime cared only for himself, and who must now be a king and father to his people. Only Aban knew the long days and nights of fasting were not just to prepare him to rule, but to drain the pus from a longstanding wound, a wound that even now could make him call out in his sleep and pound the sand with his fists in frustration that the past could not be changed. But if he must live with what he had done, he would learn from it. Diving into the freezing water, he powered across the wadi knowing that when he returned to the capital to be formally recognised by his people as the ruling sheikh of Zaddara he would take on all his father’s responsibilities, however challenging. He was ready now.

Vaulting out of the water after his swim, Shahin grabbed the clean ankle-length thawb along with the flowing robe left for him by Aban. Adding a howlis to protect his head, neck and face from the harsh climate, he deftly fixed the long scarf-like head-covering in place.

A sharp breeze made him turn and in that moment he saw that Aban’s captive was a young woman…Aban was holding her by the arm as they came down the dune together and she seemed none too pleased. Turning his face to the horizon, he shut her out. In his mind’s eye all he could see now was the ruby-red glow enveloping the desert and the mountains in the far distance standing out in sharp black relief against a crimson sky. This was his land, a cruel land, and he loved it. He would allow nothing and no one to divert him from his chosen path.

The sound of the woman’s voice intruded on his contemplation. Her voice was raised in anger and he resented the intrusion. Who was she? What did she want? Belting his robe, he turned to stare as the two figures approached. She was like a young colt walking awkwardly on the sand. Why was she alone in the desert? What type of person took such a risk? Was this journey into one of the most remote regions of the world worth so much to her?

His expression darkened when he saw how poorly she was equipped. Her outfit had no doubt been purchased from some fancy adventure-holiday equipment shop…But where was her survival gear? Where was her water canister? Where was her knife, her rope, her radio alarm…? Where were her flares? Didn’t she know the first thing about the desert? Didn’t she realise that a sandstorm could cut her off from her vehicle in seconds? Did she think she could snap her way out of trouble with that expensive-looking camera she was hanging on to so desperately?

As he strode towards them all these questions and more were beating a path to his eyes. But as the young woman raised a protective arm to her face he halted mid-stride. Did she think he was going to hit her? His expression was enough to make anyone think that, Shahin realised, standing stock still for a moment in silence. The breeze whipped up and took hold of his stark black robe, pressing it against his thighs, thighs that were still burning from his morning exercise. He saw her looking and felt his senses stir.

‘Let her go.’ He issued the command in a low voice, but even though he had spoken in the throaty Zaddaran dialect she immediately caught his meaning and her face lit with anger.

‘I should think so too!’ Furiously she shook herself free from Aban’s grasp.

As Aban moved to catch her again he was forced to make a fierce gesture to warn his faithful old servant to let her be. Such autocratic gestures didn’t sit easily with him, but if he were to remain anonymous in front of this woman discretion was paramount. ‘She’s not going anywhere,’ he observed, in English this time. ‘Bring her to my tent…’

‘What?’ she exclaimed.

Her incredulity drew a faint smile to his lips as he walked away.

‘Come back here!’ she cried. ‘Who do you think you are, telling me what to do?’

He had to stop, turn around and pacify Aban, before the old man made good the threat he made after this second outburst. It was fortunate for the young woman that she didn’t understand the language! Grit, fire, courage, Shahin thought, noting the way she was glaring back at him. His curiosity deepened, but then Aban started to grumble again and, to defuse the situation, he was forced to point out that she was only armed with a camera.

Still muttering, the old man shook his head.

‘Come with me.’ He addressed her directly, gesturing towards his pavilion. The Bedouin blood running through his veins made hospitality mandatory however unpalatable that might be, and he had vowed to espouse all his father’s values, not just cherry-pick them at will.

This time she made no protest. He was impressed by her self-possession as she walked alongside him, though he could tell Aban was incensed by her easy manner. The old man thought no one should walk next to his king.

The old ways dictated that any guest must be welcomed to his tent for three days and three nights, which wasn’t such a bad option in this instance. The young woman had obviously come to the desert seeking adventure—who was he to disappoint her?

As they drew close he could see that she wanted to take some shots of the Bedouin tent. He had to stop her before she went to work. ‘No photographs,’ he said firmly.

‘What?’ She didn’t believe him at first, but quickly realised he was serious and left the camera to swing on the cord around her neck.

For the first time he had a chance to observe her properly and he could see that, beneath the layer of dirt and grime, she was quite beautiful. Her long hair, caught up in a casual ponytail, was the colour of creamy caramel. There was a hint of gold as well that the dust rising up from the sand couldn’t hide…

Dust that had started to lift all around them, Shahin noted with concern. Staring out towards the horizon, he frowned. The red dawn sky had been an early warning of a storm blowing up. ‘Move the Jeep to higher ground and stay with it,’ he ordered Aban. ‘The tents are secure, and I’ll check them again before the weather worsens.’

Aban’s smaller tent was pitched twenty yards or so from his own, but it was also beneath the same sheltering rocks. There was a third tent in the back of the off-road vehicle that Aban could use until it was safe for him to return.

Turning his attention back to the woman, he saw her swallow with apprehension. She had caught the urgency in his words and he felt he should say something to reassure her. ‘The weather is deteriorating, but you’ll be safe here with me. Don’t argue,’ he warned, when she started to protest. ‘You have no alternative but to stay. Aban tells me we have about an hour before the storm hits—and that’s if we’re lucky.’

‘But it only took me two hours to get here from the city—’

Behind the defiance he saw her fear. ‘That was before there were dangerous weather conditions to consider. You can’t outrun the wind,’ he pointed out.

He had no time to waste on persuasion and started off for the temporary structure that had been his home during his retreat, eager to check all the supports and ensure that they would withstand the force of the wind. To his surprise, she ran ahead of him and cut him off.

‘If your man’s leaving now, I want to leave too. We could travel in convoy—’ Her chin tilted at a defiant angle as she held his gaze. ‘And why don’t you come with us? Why stay here if it’s so dangerous?’

Because there were too many memories inside his tent, too many things that had belonged to his parents for him to risk losing them…The tent had been his father Abdullah’s before he had claimed his kingdom. There wasn’t time to dismantle it now, and so he would stay with it. But that wasn’t her business. ‘That just isn’t possible,’ he said coldly. ‘And it’s too risky for Aban to waste time trying to recover your Jeep. If Aban is to remain safe he must leave right away.’ Veering away from her, he walked on.

She chased after him. ‘But why can’t I go with him?’

‘Because Aban won’t wait…’ And because Aban’s traditional values could only be stretched so far. He would be horrified were he to be asked to take charge of the young woman overnight. Aban wouldn’t leave his vantage point until he was sure the storm had passed, and who knew how long that would take? He would not risk both their lives in order to appease this young woman’s somewhat overdue sense of propriety. If she imagined that the desert was some big beach she was about to be cruelly disillusioned. The desert was a sleeping monster which, when awakened, had the power to destroy everything in its path. The only reason his Bedouin ancestors had chosen this site was because the surrounding rocks and fresh water offered them some protection. For now it was better not to alarm her. He didn’t know how she would react if he told her the full extent of their plight. She might panic. She had no idea of the forces involved, or that everything around them was about to undergo the most radical change. He stopped and turned to gaze at the dune. ‘Is your vehicle parked up behind that dune?’

‘Yes, it is…’

She sounded hopeful and he guessed she thought he had changed his mind about letting her go.

‘It’s just over the hill, at the base of the dune.’ There was a hint of impatience in her voice now.

‘On low ground?’

‘Of course, didn’t I just say so?’ Her irritation was mounting. ‘I left it where it would be sheltered by the dune.’

‘Sheltered by the dune?’ A ghost of a smile touched his lips. She didn’t have a clue. The storm that was about to hit them would have no respect for hills made out of sand. ‘Leave it,’ he instructed Aban, seeing the old man’s glance swerve towards the dune. ‘There’s no time for you to climb up there and recover her vehicle. You must get yourself to safety and save our own Jeep.’

Zara wished she could understand the harsh, guttural language. She was way out of her depth. She wanted so badly to leave, but the leader of the two men was planted firmly in her way. Her options were limited. Both of these men walked easily on the sand, whereas the desert boots she had purchased in London gave her no stability at all on a surface she had discovered was as treacherous as ice. They would catch her before she made it to the base of the dune. And if she managed to escape, where would she go? If what this man had said about the storm proved to be right she would have to find shelter. As she gazed around, Zara could only try and visualise the thousands of miles of unseen land that rolled back behind the two men, hostile land with which she was unfamiliar. She had no alternative but to do as he said.

His tent was the size of a small marquee. As they drew closer Zara could see that the sides were made of some heavy woven fabric, which had been dyed a deep red. There was opulent fringing around a tented roof and the fabric was drawn up to a spike in the centre. Missing only a pennant, it reminded her of a medieval pavilion, reinforcing her opinion that she was stepping back in time, with a man who might be dangerous…A very attractive man who might be dangerous. Her heart was thundering—and for all the wrong reasons. She just had to keep telling herself that this was the photo opportunity of a lifetime…

But, as he raised the heavy curtain concealing the entrance to his tent, goose-bumps lifted on her arms. As she hesitated he tipped his chin, indicating that she should enter. The little she could see of his face beneath the folds of black cloth was hardly reassuring. His gaze was as dark and as unbending as iron.

‘Come in,’ he said impatiently. ‘I have no intention of hurting you, if that’s what you are worried about. In my country the safety of a guest is a sacred charge.’

Did that sacred charge extend to young women reckless enough to venture into the desert unaccompanied? Zara wondered. It must do, but she gathered from the hard look in his eyes that the prospect of her stay seemed nothing more than tiresome to him. He jerked his chin again and she got a sense of a man who was accustomed to having his smallest whim accommodated the instant he made it known. ‘Dinosaur,’ she muttered under her breath.

‘What did you say?’

His voice had softened to the point where she had to strain to hear it and she shivered involuntarily to think that all his senses might be so keen. ‘Nothing…’

His eyes challenged her assertion.

‘Come in, or stay outside,’ he said as if he couldn’t have cared less what she did. ‘Either way, I’m going in, and I’m closing down the entrance while I wait out the storm.’

‘Are you threatening to leave me out here?’

‘Take it any way you want.’

Firmly clenching her jaw, she walked past him into the tent. She saw him staring at her camera and clutched it closer. No way was he taking her camera from her. He might as well have tried to cut off her arm.

She was conscious immediately of the fresh, clean smell inside the tent and the neatness of it all. As she looked around, her eyes found their way back to her host. She noticed he wore a weapon tucked into his belt. She glanced at his face and back again. The long curving dagger looked lethal, but it had a beautifully worked gold hilt and she guessed it was more for ceremonial use than anything sinister. As her heart rate steadied she admired the intricate workmanship and longed to take a photograph of it so she could add it to the record of her trip. Perhaps if she asked politely she might persuade him to let her use her camera for some things in spite of his earlier objections. ‘What do you call that?’ she said, glancing at it again.

‘A khanjar. Tradition demands that I wear it,’ he explained, confirming her first impression. ‘It is meant to represent a Bedouin’s honour and is an indispensable piece of equipment in the desert. You never know when you might need a knife…’ His dark gaze flashed up.

‘Would you object if I take a picture of it?’

‘Of the khanjar, no…’

The expression on his face left her in no doubt that her image must be confined to the dagger. She was careful to show him, as she narrowed her eyes in preparation for taking the shot, that the picture would be in close up and of the dagger and nothing else. She had no idea what else she might find inside the tent and was keen to respect his wishes in the hope of finding more material for her journal of the trip.

She had guts, he’d give her that. The dagger was beautiful and it pleased him to think she’d noticed it. It had been his father’s and he felt Sheikh Abdullah’s presence whenever he wore it. It both comforted him and served as a painful reminder that his work outside Zaddara had kept him away from a man he would have liked to know better. And that now it was too late… ‘That’s enough,’ he said sharply, wheeling away from the probing lens.

His feelings of regret were not something he wished to share with this stranger.

She flinched at his impatience, but lowered the camera. ‘This is what I do,’ she explained with a shrug. ‘It’s all I do. I take pictures…wildlife, indigenous people, unusual rock formations—’ She threw up her hands so the camera swung free on its cord around her neck. ‘I don’t know what you imagine, but I’m no threat to you.’

But was he a threat to her? Zara wondered. In the capital city of Zaddar women were equal to men, but here in the desert different rules applied. She could see that women would be bound by certain restrictions, strength being just one of them. If this man should decide to overpower her…She watched him releasing the bindings that protected the entrance to his tent. Once they were secured inside it, neither one of them would be leaving in a hurry.

It made her angry to think she had got herself into this position. She had researched the trip so thoroughly, reading everything she could lay her hands on, but nothing had prepared her for the vastness of the desert, or the emptiness. Compass, first aid kit, rug and a cold box full of supplies seemed woefully inadequate to her now. But Zaddara was supposed to be completely safe. How was she to know this man would send his armed guard to apprehend her? The thought irked her; his behaviour had been out of all proportion and she decided to challenge him about it. ‘Was it really necessary to send a man with a gun after me?’

‘I didn’t send Aban after you; he took it upon himself to secure the dunes while I was swimming. Would you have me reproach him for doing his job so well?’

‘The gun was unnecessary.’

‘There are poisonous snakes in the desert,’ he countered, ‘if you had bothered to check.’

She had checked. What sort of amateur did he take her for? But she drew the line at carrying a gun. A camera was her weapon of choice, and she used that and the images it produced to challenge the motives of the people who killed the creatures she had made it her life’s work to protect. ‘Nevertheless—’

‘Nevertheless?’

The rejoinder came back sharp as a whip crack. And it was a mistake to hold his gaze. Having never had her blood pressure raised by a man was no preparation for an encounter like this. The Bedouin was unlike any man she had met before. She could usually judge people from their appearance, but this man was an enigma. Tall and powerfully built, he was tanned a deep bronze and his steely eyes were watchful. He had brought her inside his tent only because he had to. She sensed he was a deeply private man who didn’t want her there any more than she wanted to take the risk of being alone with him.

‘It was wrong of you to travel so deep into the desert without a companion—’

‘I didn’t have a companion to bring—’ Zara’s mouth slammed shut. Why had she admitted to being alone? ‘People know I’m here, of course.’

‘Of course,’ he agreed in a way that suggested he didn’t believe her for a moment.

Following him deeper inside, she looked around. As she had first thought, everything was spotlessly clean and orderly and was made comfortable with heaps of intricately embroidered cushions and finely woven rugs. In a variety of rich colours, these were perfectly arranged in piles to relax and recline on. A slender coffee pot made from what looked like beaten silver rested on a simple brazier and the delicious smell made her swallow involuntarily.

‘You are thirsty?’

He had barely any accent at all, she realised now, and the rich baritone strummed something deep inside her. Coffee was a good starting point if she was going to strike up a dialogue with him and get to know more about his land and customs. ‘I’d love a coffee, thank you…’

How many people got the chance to see inside a real Bedouin tent and find out how a man like this lived? Zara wondered as she moved past him to sit on the cushions he indicated. He made her feel tiny and delicate, which she knew was survival of the species at work. However hard she might try to fight it, her female genes craved his masculinity—and she wasn’t fighting nearly hard enough.

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.