Читать книгу Midnight in Arabia - Люси Монро, Trish Morey, Люси Монро - Страница 12

“I WOULD be more comfortable staying in another tent.” Iris knew this was her only chance to argue her viewpoint and she should not have wasted time discussing their past.

“Would you really?”

“Yes.”

“You wish to stay with strangers?” he asked in a tone that said he knew she would not.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“But that is the only other option.”

“Well then, maybe it would be best.” As much as she hated the idea, it was better than living in his home.

“No.”

Typical Asad-like response. He didn’t bother to justify, or excuse; he simply denied.

“You’ve gotten even bossier since university,” she accused him.

Though back then, his bossiness had not bothered her. He’d convinced her to try things she never would have otherwise, like the ballroom dancing class they’d taken together a month after they’d met, or attending parties she wouldn’t have been invited to on her own and learning to dance to modern music amidst a group of her peers.

She’d suppressed so many of the good memories from their time together and now they were slipping their leash in her mind.

He did not look particularly bothered by her indictment. “Perhaps.”

“There is no perhaps about it.”

“And you are surprised? I am a sheikh, Iris. Bossiness is in the job description.” He sounded far too amused for her liking.

“Asad, you’ve got to be reasonable.”

“I assure you, I am eminently reasonable.”

“You’re stubborn as a goat.”

“Are goats so stubborn then?”

“You know they are.”

“I would know this how?” he asked in an odd tone.

She rolled her eyes. “Because everybody does.”

He nodded, tension seeming to leave his shoulders, though she had no clue what had caused it. “You will stay here.”

“You’re a CD with a skip in it on this.”

“First a goat, now broken sound equipment. What will you liken me to next?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“There is nothing further to discuss in it.”

She opened her mouth to tell him just how much more there was to discuss when a flurry at the door covering caught Iris’s attention. A second later a small girl with long black hair came rushing into the tent and threw herself at Asad’s legs. “Papa!”

He leaned down and picked her up, giving her a warm hug and kiss on her cheek. “My little jewel, have you had a good morning?”

Other than the coloring, Iris did not see the family resemblance. The little girl must take after her mother. The observation made Iris’s heart twinge.

“I missed you, Papa, so much. I even cried.”

“Did you?”

She nodded solemnly. “Grandmother said I needed to be strong, but I did not want to be strong. Why didn’t you take me with you, Papa?”

Asad winced as if regretting his decision to leave his daughter behind. “I should have.”

“Yes. I like playing at the palace with my cousins.”

“I know you do.”

“Next time, I must go.”

“I will consider it.”

“Papa!”

“Stop, you are being very rude. There is someone here for you to meet and you have spent all this time haranguing me.”

Watching the two together caused that same delight tinged with pain she felt around Catherine and Sheikh Hakim. It was so clear that Asad loved his daughter and that pleased Iris because it meant she had not been entirely wrong about this man six years ago. She’d thought he would make a wonderful father and she’d been right, but knowing he’d had his child with another woman sent salt into old wounds.

“Oh, I am sorry.” The little girl looked around and locked gazes with Iris, her dark eyes widening. “Who are you?”

“Nawar,” Genevieve chided, coming back into the room with a laden tray the cousin jumped forward to relieve her of.

It was clear from the extra cups and amount of food that Genevieve had expected the child’s return with her minder, a woman about fifteen years Asad’s senior with soft brown eyes.

The little girl looked properly chastised, her expression going contrite. “I did not mean to offend.” She put out her little hand from her position in her father’s arms. “I am Nawar bin Asad Al’najid.”

She sounded just like a miniature grown-up and Iris was charmed. She took the little girl’s hand and shook gently. “My name is Iris Carpenter. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bin’asad.”

“Thank you. Why do you call me Miss Bin’asad?”

“Iris is being polite,” Asad answered before Iris could.

“Oh. But I want her to call me Nawar. It is my name.”

Iris had spent very little time around small children, but she thought Nawar must be exceptional. “I will be honored to call you Nawar and you may call me Iris.”

“Really?” the girl asked. She looked to her grandmother. “It is all right?”

“If she gives you permission to do so, yes,” the older woman said with firm certainty.

“Iris is a pretty name,” Nawar offered.

“Thank you. It is my mother’s favorite flower.” She’d decided her mother chose the name so she would not forget it as easily as she and Iris’s father forgot their only child. “Nawar is lovely, as well. Do you know what it means?”

“It means flower. Papa named me.”

Iris did not know why Asad had named his daughter rather than his wife doing so; perhaps it was a Bedouin tradition, though that sounded rather odd considering the other cultural norms she had read about among his nomadic people.

It was those norms that made it possible for Iris to stay in Asad’s familial tent, but would have made it impossible if he did not live with his grandparents. She could wish he’d broken more cultural norms and moved into his own dwelling, so she didn’t have to.

“Your papa is very good at naming little girls, I think.”

“I do, too.” Nawar smiled shyly. “What is haranguing? Do you know?”

Asad huffed something that could have been a laugh.

Iris stifled her own humor and answered, “It’s like nagging.”

Nawar turned her head to glare at her father. “I don’t nag, Papa.”

“Sometimes, little jewel, you do.”

The little girl sniffed and it was all Iris could do not to burst out laughing. An urge Iris surprisingly felt several times over the next hour, while sharing more tea and refreshments with Asad’s family. His grandfather joined them not long after Nawar had arrived, evincing the same pleasure in Iris’s presence as Genevieve had done.

Iris expected Russell to arrive any minute, but the minutes ticked by and he didn’t. When she asked, Iris was told he had been given a tour of the encampment by one of Asad’s tourist liaisons.

She couldn’t quite suppress her disappointment at the news. “Oh, I would have liked to have joined him.”

“I am glad to hear you say so. I planned to give you a tour later,” Asad said with satisfaction.

Iris just stopped herself from gaping and said, “I wouldn’t want to take up more of your valuable time as sheikh.”

The man was relentless. He wanted to renew their friendship and he would make that happen. One way or another. Maybe he did regret the way things had happened between them and this was his attempt at making up for it, but still … she hadn’t imagined that predatory look in his eyes, either.

He probably saw nothing wrong with adding sex to their friendship. He’d done it once before, after all.

“Nonsense, you are a guest in our home. Asad would not dream of neglecting you while you are here,” his grandfather said with finality.

Iris thought she knew where the younger sheikh had gotten his arrogance, and it wasn’t from a stranger. But the older man’s point about the Bedouin tradition of hospitality could not be ignored, either. From what she had read, it was not a matter of pride, but one of honor.

And honor could not be dismissed.

“May I go, Papa?” Nawar asked.

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.