Bedded By The Desert King. Susan Stephens
Читать онлайн книгу.
but she couldn’t know that. It pleased his sense of irony to call her by this name. Though she was young she had the assurance of a much older woman. His Adara knew what she wanted, and she knew he could give it to her. There would be no complications; she was on the same wavelength he was, and it amused him to see how she squared up to him even now. Her face was flushed and he had to wonder how much of that passion would be channelled into their lovemaking. Nothing was a foregone conclusion and he liked that about her. She was cool and self-possessed, but she could be defiant too and he had never encountered disobedience before. Her unpredictability fuelled his appetite, and would certainly stave off boredom while they waited out the storm.
She collected herself quickly, as he had expected, and he was ready for her. As she went to move away to take her seat on the couch again he made sure their fingers brushed—as if by accident. Her swift intake of breath told him everything he needed to know. And as the moment froze he held her gaze.
CHAPTER THREE
‘THE storm is easing…’
As Abbas spoke, Zara watched him move towards the entrance as if the sexual temperature between them had never flickered. Maybe it hadn’t for him. Keenly aware of the progress of the storm outside the tent, maybe he was oblivious to the storm he had whipped up inside it. Or was he toying with her? Which one was it?
‘If the weather is improving I want to leave as soon as I can…’
‘Three days and three nights,’ he said, turning to face her.
So he had remembered. ‘Your custom?’ She raised a brow, wanting him to know she wasn’t convinced.
‘Custom demands that, having sought refuge here, you must remain as my guest for three days and three nights…’ His face told her nothing as he sat down again and arranged his robe around his legs.
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ She had to drag her gaze away and ignore the heavy throb of anticipation in her lower body.
Raising his head, Abbas levelled a stare on her face. ‘I am bound by the customs of my land…’
‘But I am not.’ It was too shadowy to interpret his expression with any confidence, but Abbas’s silence suggested she was mistaken. She didn’t press him, knowing he would probably reply that at this moment she was a guest in his land.
Zara found it hard to relax. Abbas’s commanding manner had aroused her to the degree where his slightest move made her heart race. He made her long for things that had never mattered to her before, forbidden things. She hardly dared to imagine what it might be like to be held by him, to be cradled in his arms, to be touched delicately, persuasively…As he leaned forward to check the coffee she saw the flare of recognition in his eyes and pulled herself round. ‘As soon as the trader leaves, I’m going with him. Even if my Jeep has been lost, it doesn’t matter. I’ll hitch a lift with him.’
‘On his camel? And I think you’ll find that he has already gone.’
‘But the storm has only just died down…’
‘Come with me, Adara…’
When Abbas released the entrance cover Zara uttered a sharp breath of amazement. The desert was peaceful again, but they might have been carried up and brought down in a totally different place. What had happened to the dune where she had been captured, the dune behind which she had sheltered her off-road vehicle? Now all she could see was a flat plain that stretched away into the distance as far as the foothills of the mountains. The sand around the tent had formed into wavelike ripples. The structure was now isolated in a vast expanse of flat featureless nothingness, like a ship floating on a sea of sand…
Looking further, Zara was relieved to see that at least the palm trees clustering round the wadi had survived. But they were bent at such an acute angle their fronds were brushing the water…She found it much easier to walk in the flat sandals Abbas had provided and was suddenly eager to escape the confines of the tent. Hurrying over to the nearest palm, she touched its trunk gently with her hand. ‘Will it recover?’ She glanced at Abbas, who had come to stand by her shoulder.
‘Yes,’ he reassured her. ‘The trunks of the palm are as flexible as the poles used to support the tent and so they will recover, given time.’
Leaving her, he strode towards the second tent, which had also survived the onslaught of the storm. Picking up her skirts, Zara hurried after him.
There was no sign of the trader or his camel. There was nothing to show that he had been there at all other than a bundle hanging from the fronds of a palm. ‘What is it?’ Shading her eyes, she looked up into the branches.
‘I have already told you that hospitality is instilled at birth in the Bedouin, and so is repayment of the debt.’
Was Abbas sending her a hidden message? Zara wondered, pressing him to continue.
‘That cache will contain whatever the trader can safely spare. It is his way of thanking me. But I am honour bound not to touch anything I don’t need, the point being I must consider the needs of others over myself.’
His words sent a shiver tracking her spine. ‘Perhaps I could copy some prints to send to you when I get home…I have taken some good landscapes…’ As she gestured around, Zara felt her offer wasn’t enough. ‘And I’ll send you a cheque too, of course.’ She couldn’t bear freeloaders and didn’t want Abbas mistaking her for one.
‘A cheque?’
‘Money for the time I’ve spent here as your guest…’
‘I do know what a cheque is. I just wondered why you should feel it necessary to send one to me.’
‘To cover the cost of sheltering me, of course,’ she said, frowning.
‘Are you always so scrupulous?’
‘Yes.’ She held his gaze steadily. ‘I never use people and then just walk away.’
‘But you haven’t left yet,’ he pointed out, ‘and I may need to add something to your account.’
Zara’s eyes widened. She didn’t know whether to believe Abbas or not.
He couldn’t resist provoking her just a little more. Three days and nights…It was an outrageous idea, even if he had based his assertion on ancient lore. Traditions such as that had never been meant to apply to a situation like this. But he could hardly blame his ancestors for not factoring into their thinking one reckless young female who had ventured into the desert without a chaperon.
And the storm hadn’t finished with them yet. This was only a lull. What he should do was dispatch her to the spare tent to wait out the weather and then send her on her way with Aban. But he had been a long time alone in the desert and he was only human. The girl was strong and self-assured, mature beyond her years; she knew the score.
He followed her back into the pavilion, noticing how she resented the yards of material flapping round her ankles. Having forgotten to pick up her skirts, she looked like an ungainly fawn as she struggled to cope with the flowing robe. Big brown eyes and that shock of golden hair peeping out beneath the veil only added to the illusion. He liked her in the veil; it suited her—softened her.
‘Is another storm coming?’ she asked anxiously, turning to face him as a gust of wind snatched the veil from her head.
‘I think we should go back inside,’ he advised.
‘If there is another storm, how long do you think it will last?’
For a mischievous moment, as he secured the entrance behind them, he was tempted to leave what he was doing and stride outside to sniff the air. But play-acting wasn’t his thing. The truth was, he didn’t have a clue. They hadn’t taught weather forecasting on his course at Harvard Business School.
‘What shall we do to pass the time?’
The innocent question was negated by the