Читать книгу Midnight in Arabia: Heart of a Desert Warrior / The Sheikh's Last Gamble / The Sheikh's Jewel - Люси Монро, Trish Morey, Люси Монро - Страница 10

“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.

“It is. Though my family has made its home in Switzerland for nearly two centuries. My husband found me when we were both attending university in Paris and convinced me to leave all I knew to share his life here among his Bedouin tribe.” She smiled as she set the tea tray on one of the low tables. “I have never regretted it. The Sha’b Al’najid soon became my people.”

“And Grandmother became the favorite lady to them in generations.”

Iris smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Genevieve.”

“Come, sit.” The older woman indicated the cushions on the floor with a flick of her elegant wrist. “It is always a pleasure to meet an old friend of my grandson.”

About to deny the classification, Iris thought better of it. She suspected that the Lady bin Hanif was the type of woman who would demand an explanation.

“We knew each other only for a few short months at university,” she said to downplay the relationship as much as possible.

Genevieve poured tea into fine china cups painted with Arabic design. “And yet those short months were particularly impacting for my grandson, I believe.”

Iris turned to glare in shock at Asad. He’d told his grandparents about their affair? Heat crawled into her cheeks while her stomach rolled in humiliation.

Asad’s eyes widened at her glare and then narrowed in what seemed like comprehension. He shook his head just slightly, as if saying he had not told them the intimate details of the friendship.

“Oh my, yes. Our boy, he spoke of hardly anyone from his university days. But Iris, the budding geologist? We heard much of her academic and career exploits.” Genevieve serenely sipped her tea. “His late wife did not enjoy Asad’s university reminiscences, I think. She had attended only a year of finishing school in Europe you see.”

Completely flabbergasted by the idea that Asad had kept track of her like he claimed, Iris could think of no other response than to nod and sip her own tea. Hot, very strong and almost equally sweet, it had a smoky flavor something like Earl Grey and yet not. There was almost a flavor of sage in the blend, as well.

“This is delicious. I can see why the Bedouin tea is so famous.”

“Yes. There is a knack to making it. You must brew it over a wood fire, not on the hob.”

Iris’s gaze flicked to the silk divider. There was a wood fire burning behind that, inside the goat hair dwelling?

“Not to worry, the cooking fire is under the open awning behind our tent,” Asad said, showing more disconcerting proof that he could still read her all too well.

When they had been together, he had known her better than anyone else, though she’d kept her secret shame to herself and never admitted to him the extent of her parents’ indifference.

Genevieve smiled and reached out to pat Iris’s arm. “Do not worry. You will soon grow accustomed to our ways.”

“My favorite mentor always said that one of the marks of a good field geologist is the ability to acclimate to different surroundings so nothing can get in the way of accuracy in one’s fieldwork.”

“A wise man,” Asad said, “was Professor Lester.”

“How did you know I was talking about.” Iris let her voice trail off as Genevieve laughed softly.

“Oh, my grandson, he remembers everything, does he not?”

“Yes.” Asad’s eidetic memory was one of the reasons they’d had as much time together as they did.

When he had almost perfect recall of everything he heard, read and saw, the need to study for tests or reread information for papers was severely mitigated. He’d even helped Iris study for her own exams.

Genevieve’s eyes glowed with pride as she looked at her grandson. “It makes him a very good sheikh and political advisor to my great-nephew, Hakim, ruler over all Kadar.”

“You’re one of Sheikh Hakim’s official advisors?” Iris asked Asad, storing the information on their actual family relationship for future reference.

He merely nodded before taking a drink of tea.

But Genevieve was more forthcoming. “Of course, they are family. However, Asad has proven himself wise in the ways of our people and the modern world we must live in, as well. Hakim listens with a bent ear to our Asad. It was his idea, after all, to get your company to do the mineral survey and to request you be the on-site geologist.”

Asad’s jaw tautened, as if he was trying not to frown, but the look he gave his grandmother was tinged with something that looked very much like exasperation.

“You’re the reason I wasn’t given the option of refusing this assignment?” Iris demanded, catching on quickly even if her memory wasn’t precisely eidetic.

Asad shrugged.

She opened her mouth to tell him that wasn’t a good enough answer. Not this time, but his grandmother forestalled Iris. “But why should you wish to?”

And Iris remembered where she was and why she was here, despite the helpless fury burning in her chest. “I have yet to do any survey work in the Middle East. Another geologist would have been a better choice.”

“Nonsense. If Asad believes you will do the best job, then I am quite confident you will. Surely it is time you expanded your vita to include work in the Middle East.”

Iris could not deny it. She would never be promoted to senior geologist while she lacked field experience in the Middle East, which was one of the points her boss had made when insisting Iris take this assignment.

That didn’t make her feel any better about the revelation that Asad was responsible for getting Iris to Kadar. He was a man who always had an agenda. If she had only realized that when they’d been dating, she would not have been so sideswiped by the knowledge he was already practically engaged to the Princess Badra.

What was his plan now?

Iris had the awful feeling it had something to do with her. And since the only thing he’d wanted from her was her body, she didn’t think she was too far outside the realm of probability to believe he had his sights set on renewing their affair.

For a short time anyway.

Why not? She’d fallen into his bed with barely a push back in the day. Practically a virgin, she’d still allowed him to make love … or have sex rather … with her on their first date. She’d been overwhelmed by her reaction to him and thought he felt the same. She knew better now, but wasn’t entirely sure it would make any difference in the outcome.

“Where is your father?” she asked in a desperate attempt to change the subject and get her mind on a different pathway. Why hadn’t he taken over the sheikh role?

And then she considered the possibility that the older man was deceased and wished she could bite the words back. Particularly after her similar faux pas the night before when asking about Asad’s wife. It was too late, however, to do anything but hope she would not be given the same answer.

Thankfully, Asad did not look like he was remembering a traumatic loss. “He does not live with the tribe. He oversees our European interests from his home in Geneva.”

“Your father lives in Switzerland?” Considering they clearly had family there, that was not entirely surprising. Still, it seemed odd that Asad would be sheikh to the nomadic Sha’b Al’najid while his father lived in one of the most sophisticated cities of Europe.

“As do his mother, sister and two brothers.” Genevieve’s tone did not sound altogether pleased by that fact.

Iris gave Asad a look in which she felt incapable of hiding her abject shock. “You have siblings?”

He had never mentioned it, but then he’d left a lot out of their discourse six years ago. So, the fact that none of them lived among the Bedouin tribe was even more surprising to her than their existence.

“It is so.”

“But …”

Genevieve refilled the teacups without asking if Iris or Asad wanted more. Something about the set of her features told Iris this conversation was no easier on her than the earlier topic had been on Iris.

Asad leaned back on the cushion, looking like a pasha and said, “You wonder why they do not live with the Sha’b Al’najid.”

“If your parents live in Geneva, I suppose it’s natural that your sister and brothers would, as well.”

“They are all of an age to make their own decisions about how and where they live.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. She could understand that the Bedouin way of life might not work for everyone, but for all of them to turn their backs on thousands of years of tradition seemed wrong somehow.

“In order to gain permission to leave the tribe, my father had to allow my grandfather to raise me here as his own son to take over leadership of the tribe.” Asad said it so casually, it took a moment for the import of his words to sink in. “It is why I am called bin Hanif instead of bin Marghub. Not that my father uses his tribal name. He goes by Jean Hanif.”

In Western culture such a name similarity would show the family connection, but in Kadar, Asad not carrying his father’s name was as good as disowning him. Though it sounded like the decision had been made for him.

“That’s barbaric.” Iris slapped her hand over her mouth, unable to believe she’d said that out loud, no matter how much she thought it.

She looked askance at the tea; was there something in there that she didn’t know about?

Genevieve smiled reassuringly, clearly having taken no offense. “Jean found much about the Bedouin way of life to be barbaric. He never wished to return from our visits to Geneva to my family. He insisted on attending an American university and ended up married to a European like his father.”

If they no longer lived among the tribe, Iris thought that Western origin could be the only thing Asad’s mother had in common with Genevieve.

“Celeste and Jean came here to live after their marriage, but neither were happy. Eventually, Jean told us that he had no desire to follow his father as sheikh to the Sha’b Al’najid. My husband could have named a cousin or nephew as his successor. It is how he became sheikh himself, but he saw the fire of the Bedouin burning brightly in our grandson and offered the alternative of us raising him here instead.”

“How old were you when your parents left?” Iris asked.

“I was four.”

And they had seen the Bedouin spirit burning bright in him? At such a young age? Iris supposed it was possible, but it was still barbaric. “How old were your siblings?”

“My sister was two. Mother was pregnant with my younger brother, as well.”

“She did not want to give birth in the encampment.” Genevieve shrugged, the movement exhibiting her Gallic ancestry. “All of her children were born in a Genevan hospital after Asad.”

Despite their past, Iris could not help the rush of pity and understanding she felt for Asad in that moment. She knew exactly how it felt not to be necessary to one’s parents.

Asad shook his head at her. “I know how you are thinking. Stop it. My parents did not abandon me. We continued to see one another often and I always had my grandparents. I had the Sha’b Al’najid. Doing things in such a fashion was necessary. My father did not want the less luxurious life of the Bedouin and my grandfather knew one day I would make an excellent sheikh.”

No arrogance there. Not at all. She almost smiled. “It looks luxurious enough to me.”

“We have satellite access to the internet for four hours in the afternoon only. We do not have modern kitchens, appliances or bathrooms.”

She knew what he meant and shrugged. “I’m sure your facilities are better than what I have on most of my camping field assignments.”

“No doubt.” He smiled as though her words had pleased him, then the smile melted away as if it had never been. “What we have now is beyond what my father experienced in the encampment. Though when he and the others visit, they still find it abysmally rustic.”

“All of them?”

“All but my youngest brother. He was born four years after they moved to Geneva.” Asad’s lips twisted wryly. “An unplanned blessing added to my parent’s family. He has said he plans to make his home here once he finishes university.”

“And your parents are okay with that?”

“Naturally. My father relies on the tribe’s business investments for his income. He knows better than to reject our way of life completely.” So, regardless of how unaffected Asad would like to appear regarding his father’s rejection of his way of life, there was something there.

“He gave up his oldest son to the tribe,” Genevieve chided. “Any parent would feel that was a sufficient sacrifice.”

Iris begged to differ, but she wasn’t about to say so out loud. Her parents would have happily given her up if it meant getting what they wanted. In fact, they had often made the trade-off of time with her for travel on their own. She’d never told Asad that she’d been sent to boarding school at age six, but then the fact had always shamed her.

She’d thought there was something wrong with her that her parents had preferred to have her live with them only on school vacations. And even then, they weren’t always “at home” when she was.

“Perhaps,” Asad replied to his grandmother, not looking particularly convinced. “I do not know how difficult the decision was for them. I know only that they made it, choosing life outside of the encampment rather than living here to raise me.”

Genevieve clicked her tongue twice, as if gently chiding her grandson without saying anything overt.

“You never told me this.” And Iris wasn’t sure that hadn’t been for the best.

She’d been head over heels in love with Asad, but how much worse it would have been for her if she’d believed they had this pain in common and allowed herself to identify with him on such a deep level?

“There was much we did not talk about.”

“True. I didn’t even know you were going to be sheikh one day.” And he knew nothing of her childhood or her parents’ supreme indifference. She’d never told him the story of how she’d lost her virginity. Asad was oh so right; there was a lot they’d never spoken of. “Looking back, I realize I should have guessed based on your bearing alone.”

“I did not mean to hide that from you.”

She believed him. He had been so certain she knew the score, she did not believe he’d meant to hide anything from her. For the first time in six years, she admitted to herself that they’d both been spectacularly wrong in reading the situation between them. Not just her.

That didn’t do a thing to alleviate her current anger with him for manipulating her into coming to Kadar, however.

Genevieve rose gracefully to her feet. “I will refresh the tea.”

Iris went to stand, intent on helping, but the older woman placed a staying hand on her shoulder. “No. Another time, I will teach you to make tea the proper way. Now you must stay here and renew your acquaintance with my grandson. He has so looked forward to seeing you again.”

Nonplussed, Iris could do nothing but nod with as much graciousness as she could muster. She didn’t think it would do her company’s relationship with Kadar a good turn if Iris admitted she would rather renew the acquaintance of the rattlesnake she’d met on her last field survey than Asad’s.

Asad waited until his grandmother had gone to say, “I never lied to you. I thought you knew I was meant to be a sheikh.”

“I heard you the first time.” She glared at him, her current anger sufficient to fuel the nasty look, their past notwithstanding.

“And?”

What? Was he expecting her to congratulate him or something?

“Do you believe me?” he asked with a tinge of frustration in his usually urbane tones.

“Yes.”

“Then why the look when grandmother left us to talk?”

Really? He could not be that dense. “I guess an eidetic memory does not equate to people smarts.”

His eyes narrowed in affront at her sarcasm. “You have changed.”

“Yes.” She was no naive idiot anymore. “But seriously? How could you think knowing you would be a sheikh one day would have made a difference to me back then? I wouldn’t have been any more prepared to be dumped like I was.”

“I did not dump you.”

What happened to that famed honesty of his? “Excuse me, you did.”

“I had obligations, a plan for my life I could not abandon.”

“You didn’t want to abandon it. You didn’t leave me out of duty—you left because you never wanted me for a lifetime. I was just stupid enough to believe you did. That’s all.” And equally painful, she’d lost her best friend.

“I am sorry.”

He had said that six years ago too, with pity in his eyes. But not regret. If there was regret there now, she wouldn’t let herself see it.

“It’s in the past.”

“Yet I still see pain in your eyes when you talk about it.”

She couldn’t deny it, but she sure wasn’t going to admit to it, either. She’d had all the pity she could stand from this man when she’d been that foolishly naive nineteen-year-old. Besides, she had something much more recent to deal with.

“I can’t believe you engineered me coming to Kadar.” She made zero effort to hide how much knowledge of his manipulation infuriated her.

He looked shocked by her anger. “I was doing you a good turn, making up for my abrupt departure from your life, if you will.”

“You have absolutely got to be kidding me. You think being forced to work in close proximity to you is in some way a good thing?”

“I am no monster. You used to enjoy my company very much, and I do not just mean in the bedroom.”

“We were friends. We aren’t anymore!” She swallowed her next words and fought for control of her vocal cords. The last thing she wanted was for Genevieve to return to Iris shouting at the man she was beginning to realize was more dense than metamorphic rock.

“We could be again.”

“Why?” Why would he want to be?

“I missed you. You missed me.”

And to him, it was that simple. Never mind the fact she’d been so totally in love with him that she’d felt like her heart had been ripped from her chest when he left. “You could have just called.”

“You needed the Middle East experience to move forward with your career.”

“Just how close tabs have you been keeping?” she demanded.

“Close enough.”

“So, you thought you’d do me a favor?” Why did she think it hadn’t all been altruism on his part? Oh, yes, because she no longer trusted him and never would again. “Didn’t it occur to you that not coming to the Middle East had been my decision?”

“No.”

She dropped her head in her hands and groaned, her fury losing its heat. The man just had no clue, none whatsoever.

And there was no point in continuing this discussion. He was never going to get it, but he wasn’t going to drop the subject unless she did.

So she observed, “You said you share this tent with your family.”

“I do.”

“Where is everyone else?” Were the tent walls so thick, they would mask the sounds of a child?

It was surprisingly quiet, no sounds from outside filtering through, nor from any other part of the tent.

“My grandfather spends this time each day with the other old men, drinking coffee and telling stories. No doubt he would have stayed to meet your arrival, but my grandmother knows how to get her way and she wanted to meet you first,” Asad revealed in a fond tone.

“Where is your daughter? In school?” Iris guessed.

He shook his head. “She will be playing with other small children under the watchful eye of my cousin.”

Since, presumably, if his grandparents had more children than Asad’s father, the barbaric bargain would not have been made, he didn’t mean cousin literally, but referred to a female relative. “She’s not old enough for school?”

“We do not run a school precisely, though the concept is similar. We train our children in every aspect of life, not merely to read, write and cipher, though we do not neglect their book learning. Some will want to attend university one day.” He reached out as if to touch Iris and let his hand fall, an unreadable expression in his dark eyes. “But you are right, my daughter is too young for any formalized training.”

“Does your grandmother have someone to help her with …” She let her voice trail off, not knowing the child’s name.

“Nawar. My daughter’s name is Nawar and she is four. My grandmother and cousin help me with Nawar, but she is my daughter.”

“That is a commendable attitude to take,” she grudgingly admitted. “But I would have thought that since you’re the sheikh, you’d be too busy for full-time parenting.”

“Is it so unusual for a father to have a career? I do not think so. I spend as much time with Nawar as possible.”

Once again, Iris believed him, but wished she didn’t. It would be a lot easier on her if she could simply see him as a complete and utter bastard. Instead, he made himself all too human. If they did not have the shared past they did, she would not only respect him, but she might even like him, as well.

Something she simply could not afford to let herself do.