CHAPTER FOUR

      “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