The Desert Princes. Jackie Braun
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taking hold of Raffa’s hand because she wanted to and taking hold of it because she had to, because without his help she was stranded on the sand?
This was not a time to get philosophical, Casey concluded as he looked at her impatiently.
She made a grab for it, and screamed as Raffa dragged her with him in a pell-mell race down the sand dune. He swung her into his arms at the bottom of it so she wouldn’t fall over.
‘You brute,’ she exclaimed, laughing as she tried to catch her breath. ‘You really scared me.’
‘Did I?’
He was wholly unrepentant, and the children were laughing, forming a circle around them. Impulsively, Casey reached for one small hand and Raffa reached for another, and before they knew it there was one big circle and they were dancing round and round beneath a rising crescent moon—for no other reason than they were all so happy.
The children led them deeper into the encampment, where everything was orderly and looked so permanent Casey had to remind herself that appearances could be deceptive. Her gaze strayed to Raffa at this point, who always managed to look like the baddest man on the planet, but who right now was listening to a little girl read her favourite book.
The Bedouin would be moving on soon, she realised, taking the moon and the sun as their guide and accepting no boundaries other than those raised by nature. It was a privilege to be able to spend time with them. It was a gift from Raffa, and the only gift she wanted.
Having this chance to visit the community the auction had helped, to see the travelling school and the medical facilities, made everything clearer to Casey. Minor niggles in her own life were suddenly immaterial. Anything she could do would never be enough to repay the friendship of these people. As the children led her by the hand to show her their prized pencils and blocks of writing paper, she felt humbled, and in that moment determined to open her eyes and see what else there was in the big, complex world she inhabited, outside her own small corner of it.
‘HUNGRY?’ Raffa queried when they had completed their tour of the camp.
‘Starving,’ Casey admitted.
‘Shall we make some food together?”
She took a step back and then realised he was serious. ‘Okay…but no sheep’s eyes.’ Remembering Raffa’s humour, she wasn’t taking any chances.
‘No sheep’s eyes,’ he conceded dryly, wiping his face on the unwound black cloth of the howlis he was now wearing slung around his neck.
So he was gorgeous, she accepted, taking in the luminous black gaze and thick, inky-black hair. Super-gorgeous, she amended when he smiled.
‘Is this your tent?’ she asked as he led her towards one of the larger pavilions.
Ruffling his wild hair, Raffa shook his head. ‘I don’t own anything in the desert. Think of it as the ocean,’ he said, ducking his head to lift the flap away from the entrance for her. ‘Like all other the voyagers in this vast wilderness, I use what I need and pass on what is left. I add what I can for the next traveler.’
‘You make it sound like a guardian angel system,’ Casey observed.
‘That’s exactly what it is.’
Where was her guardian angel? Casey wondered, hesitating on the threshold of the tent. She needed advice badly. She dearly wanted to find out all she could about A’Qaban’s people and their culture, and she desperately wanted to know everything about Raffa. But now they were alone, if he should…If he…
Wringing her hands in agitation, she knew she’d make a mess of things. She’d spoil things—change everything. She couldn’t have just a night with a man like Raffa and then pick up and carry on as if nothing had happened.
And if he didn’t make a move—
‘Casey?’ he prompted. ‘Are you coming? I want to get on.’
‘Give me a moment…I’m just drinking it all in.’ Not to mention engaging in a war of the worlds with her doubt demons.
As Raffa disappeared inside the tent, Casey thought about him with the little girl—how gentle and tender he’d been as he’d listened to the child reading her story. She thought of the fun they’d both had with the children when they’d first arrived. Raffa wasn’t some unfeeling oaf who would tumble her on the cushions and have his evil way, he was a cultured, confident, caring individual.
So what was she going to do? In the absence of a guardian angel, a decision was required.
‘Come on,’ he called impatiently.
She was still hesitating when he appeared at her elbow. He’d come back for her and he wasn’t about to take no for an answer.
Casey stood entranced inside the Bedouin tent. It was more comfortably furnished than many hotel rooms. Heaps of cushions in rich homespun textures spoke of months of dedicated weaving, while there were hand-woven rugs on the floor and hangings on the walls in muted jewel colours. The space was illuminated by a brass lantern fixed to a central post, and the tempting aroma of hot sweet coffee was in the air, along with some spice—incense, maybe. The actual walls of the pavilion were made of dark, heavy, leathery material.
‘Camel hide,’ Raffa explained, when she stroked her hand across it. ‘Nothing is wasted here.’
‘I can see that,’ she agreed, viewing two horn goblets on a low, gleaming brass table. ‘This is absolutely amazing…just like Aladdin’s cave.’
‘Ah, Ala-ad-din,’ he said. ‘We have that story too.’
‘So you know both versions?’ She turned from her examination of a large, decorative vase, hungry for more knowledge of Raffa.
‘I was brought up and educated in England, but my nanny was careful to introduce me to the culture of both countries.’
Another gem of knowledge she locked away. Some might think Raffa had enjoyed a richer start in life than most, but he had just reminded her that he had known his fair share of tragedy too.
‘So what do you think of A’Qaban now you have left the glamour of the city behind?’ he said, distracting her from her thoughts.
‘I love it. I’m constantly surprised.’
‘Live with us and then judge us?’ he murmured, slanting Casey an amused look. ‘In our language we would say, Ashirna wa akhbirna.’
She tried the unfamiliar words with Raffa’s encouragement, which naturally meant she had to look at his lips. Well, it was important to see the shapes he was making—luscious, all of them.
He turned from her momentarily and grew still. He was listening and evaluating the deeper sound of parents’ voices outside providing a counterpoint to their shrill-voiced children, she realised, and only when he was sure all was well did he relax. The bad-boy sheikh conjured up by the tabloid press was nowhere to be seen. That character was a chimera, a smokescreen for the man Raffa was in private. Raffa was a natural-born protector, not a playboy, and in spite of the vast power and wealth he wielded he was a man of simple tastes; a man so far removed from his public persona it was hard to believe she had ever been gullible enough to judge this particularly interesting book by its cover.
‘Do you recognise these?’ he said, pointing to some cushions.
They were arranged around a low, hammered brass table, and had a familiar pattern. It was the same pattern as her shawl, Casey realised with a thrill of discovery. ‘They’re beautiful,’ she said, ‘just like this.’ As she spoke, she stroked the filmy folds of her shawl. ‘I love my shawl and I won’t be parted from it…’ Let him make what he would out of that.
He handled the revelation Casey had