Master of the Desert (4 page)

But as she spoke she glimpsed the island behind him. It looked so desolate in the fading light. Did she really want to be stranded there? ‘Just for the record, I really am sorry I made such a mess of things and spilled a drink, but you shouldn’t have leapt out at me.’

The man’s eyes narrowed threateningly.

She tensed and went on, ‘I only brought you a drink because—’

‘You felt guilty?’ He suggested. ‘And I’m guessing that’s a first for you.’

‘You don’t know anything about me.’

‘I know all I want to know.’

‘How can you say that?’ Because he didn’t want to know any more about her, Antonia realised, heating up with embarrassment. ‘What have I ever done to you? Why do you hate me so much?’

‘I don’t hate you,’ he said. ‘I don’t feel anything that requires that much energy. Let me spell it out for you,’ he offered. ‘I have neither the time nor the inclination to deal with spoiled brats who march into danger with their eyes wide open, expecting other people to bail them out.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘How would you describe it?’

For once she was lost for words. ‘I’m going below.’

‘You do that.’

She had never been dismissed by anyone before, and the thought that it was so unjust forced her to turn one last time and confront him. ‘Why should I sleep below deck where it’s hot and stuffy, while you’re up here enjoying the breeze?’

‘Have you never been told “thank you, we’ll call you” after one of your dramatic performances? No, I guess not,’ he said wearily. ‘Well, there’s a first time for everything, I guess. Off you go,’ he prompted with a dismissive gesture.

‘I’m staying right here.’

He shrugged, turned his back and walked away.

H
E WATCHED
her out of the corner of his eye. She sat well away from him, glancing at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. She reminded him of a newly caged animal taking account of its changed circumstances before making any rash moves. When she realised he was watching her, she quickly looked away.

The light had begun to fade, cloaking them in shadows. The yacht was barely moving, and even the waves had grown lazy as they lapped against the side of the boat, as if the ocean was preparing itself for sleep. Night fell quickly in the desert, and he guessed she would want to freshen up before she had something to eat. Although she had annoyed him intensely, he had no intention of starving her. ‘Are you hungry?’

She pretended not to hear him.

She stirred, but refused to look at him. Instead, she stretched out on her back, staring up at the sky, her sunbleached hair dusting the deck. ‘What time is it?’ she said as if they were the best of friends.

‘Time for you to swim and freshen up, and then we’ll eat,’ he told her in a tone of voice that gave her no encouragement.

Putting conditions on her chance to eat grabbed her attention.
She sat bolt upright, still pretending unconcern as she twisted her hair into an expert knot, which she then secured with a band she wore around her wrist.

Her delicate bone-structure held his interest momentarily. ‘Up,’ he commanded, shaking the sight of her long, naked limbs out of his head. ‘You’ve been lazing around long enough. What you need now is exercise.’

‘To get over the shock?’ she challenged him with a glare.

‘To stretch your limbs,’ he countered, refusing to be sucked in by her ‘poor little victim’ act. She had been through a trauma, but it wouldn’t help her to dwell on it—and he suspected she wasn’t as badly affected as she made out, if only because acting was something she could turn on and off at will.

She stood up and stretched. ‘A swim?’ she said, slanting a blue-green gaze at him. ‘I could handle that.’

Shaking his head, he turned away. What was it about this girl that drew him to her? She was a feisty bundle of trouble, and he should know better than to lead her on when he went for mature, gracious women—usually with a title, and always with a keen sense of what was and wasn’t correct. Something told him there was nothing remotely correct about this girl.

He should not have suggested she go for a swim. He could count the mistakes he’d made in his adult life on the fingers of one hand and this was up there with the best. Did he need reminding that the girl who had insisted on scrubbing the whole of his deck after mopping up the original spill, and polishing every surface until it gleamed, had the frame of a young gazelle and the bosom of a centrefold, or that plastic surgery had played no part in her good fortune?

He was on shore, preparing a cooking fire, when she walked out of the sea and strolled towards him looking like a nubile film-star in her too-short shorts and ripped top. He steeled himself not to look, but it was already too late when the image was branded on his mind.

Apparently unaware of the effect she was having on him, she came to stand within splashing distance, and, twisting her hair to get rid of the water before flinging it carelessly back, she demanded, ‘What are you cooking?’

He gave her a look. ‘What does it look like?’

‘Fish?’

‘Well done.’

‘Not too well done, I hope?’ she chipped in cheekily, clearly refreshed by her swim. ‘You don’t like anything about me, do you?’ she protested when he slanted an ironic stare in her direction.

She would wait a long time for him to play along with that line. But, actually, she was growing on him. Apart from her obvious attractions, or perhaps in spite of them, beneath her adolescent quirkiness there was real grit and determination. She was uncompromising, he had concluded, like him, and now he sat back to enjoy the show he was sure was about to begin. He didn’t have to wait long.

Seeing that she had failed to provoke him, she upped the ante. ‘I’m just in the way.’ She pulled a broken face. ‘You’d far rather be here on your own.’

‘Without the cabaret?’ He stirred the fire. ‘You’ve got that right.’

While he spoke she was circling him like a young gazelle not quite sure what she was dealing with, until finally curiosity overcame her and she came to peer over his shoulder
at the food he was preparing. ‘It’s got its head on!’ she exclaimed as he impaled on a spit the fish he’d just caught.

‘They grow that way in the Gulf.’

‘Is that the only choice for supper?’

‘Did I forget to give you the menu?’

‘Stop teasing me,’ she protested.

Without any effort on his part a new sense of ease was developing between them. She’d made a bad start, but she had worked really hard since then to make up for it. ‘You don’t have to eat the fish,’ he said, playing along. ‘You don’t have to eat at all. Or, if you want something off the menu, I’m sure there’s plenty more bread in the galley that could do with eating up.’

She scowled at this, but then an uncertain smile lit her face when their glances connected.

They were beginning to get the measure of each other, and both of them liked what they saw, he concluded. He was more relaxed than usual; this was luxury for him, eating simply, cooking the fresh fish he’d caught over an open fire. It gave him a chance to kick back and experience a very different life.

The fish did smell good. And she was ravenous. ‘Can we start over?’ Antonia suggested, knowing there was more at stake than her first proper meal of the day—her voyage to the mainland, for instance, not to mention sharing a meal with a frighteningly attractive man she dared to believe was starting to warm to her.

‘That all depends.’

‘I’ve told you that I’d like to help, and I mean it,’ she said. ‘I can sail—I can help you sail to the mainland.’

‘Help me sail?’ he murmured, skimming a gaze over her tiny frame.

‘Seriously—let me prove it to you. I’m not as useless as I look.’

He stared into the fire to hide his smile.

‘If I knew your name, it would be a start,’ she persisted. ‘Maybe we could relax around each other more if we knew what to call each other.’

‘Wasn’t that my question to you?’

Antonia’s cheeks blazed. How could she be so careless? Wasn’t that the one question she wouldn’t answer? ‘I have to call you something,’ she pressed, getting her question in first.

She had almost given up when he answered, ‘You can call me Saif.’

‘Saif?’ she exclaimed, seizing on the word. ‘Doesn’t that mean sword in Sinnebalese?’ And, without giving him a chance to answer, she rattled on, ‘When I first planned to travel to Sinnebar I studied the language.’

Instead of turning things around as she had hoped, this only provoked one of his dismissive gestures. ‘The name Saif is very popular in Sinnebar,’ he explained, stoking the fire with a very big stick.

‘But it isn’t your real name?’ she said, tearing her gaze away. ‘Saif is just a name you’ve adopted for while you’re here,’ she guessed.

Please, please say something
, she urged him silently. ‘If you don’t want to tell me your real name, that’s all right by me.’

Nothing.

‘We could have a name truce,’ she pressed as another idea occurred to her.

‘What do you mean by that?’

Her confidence grew; imagination was her speciality. ‘Our outside lives can’t touch us here—you can be Saif, and I can be—’

‘I shall call you Tuesday.’

‘Tuesday?’ She frowned.

‘I take it you’ve heard of Man Friday?’

‘Of course I have, but—’

He shrugged. ‘You came on board on a Tuesday.’

They were really communicating, and for the first time since she’d come aboard his yacht she could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Or at least the lighthouse guarding the entrance to the harbour of Sinnebar.

‘Tuesday it is, then,’ she agreed eagerly. ‘Would you like me to fillet the fish for you?’ She wanted to prove she could be helpful in so many ways.

Saif paused, knife suspended. His expression reflected his doubt in her abilities. ‘All right, go ahead,’ he said reluctantly.

And make a mess of it if you dare
, Antonia silently translated.

She swallowed as Saif drew his knife, and took it gingerly from him with the thick, beautifully carved pommel facing towards her hand. ‘This is very nice,’ she said, struggling to wrap her hand around it. ‘Is it an heirloom?’

‘There’s nothing special about it,’ Saif said as he removed the fish from the spit he’d made out of twigs and a piece of twine. ‘It’s a utility item and nothing more.’

‘Well, it’s a very nice utility item.’

Nothing
special
? Apart from the knife’s size, and the fact that it could slice the gizzard out of a shark at a single
stroke, it was the most fearsome weapon she had ever seen. And one she would put to good use. Her juices ran as Saif waved the fish on the stick to cool it, sending mouthwatering aromas her way.

It was a relief to discover that all the trips to fabulous restaurants with her brother Rigo hadn’t been wasted. Positioning the fish on the large, clean leaf that would act as a plate, she removed the head, skin and bones with a few skilful passes of Saif’s razor-sharp blade. ‘You first,’ she insisted, passing the succulent white morsels of fish to him on their bed of lush emerald-green leaf.

She breathed a sigh of relief when Saif’s lips pressed down with approval and he murmured, ‘Good work.’

‘Thank you.’

‘This is delicious,’ she observed, tucking in with gusto. ‘We make a good team, you and I.’

Careless words, Antonia realised when one arrogant ebony eyebrow peaked. She ate in silence after that, and when they were finished went to rinse her hands in the sea. Sitting down on the sand a safe distance from Saif, she leaned back on her hands to stare at the moon. It wasn’t long before she was longing for things she couldn’t have—a sexy Arabian lover with a body made for non-stop sin, for instance.

Saif turned when she sighed, but what could she do? It was such a romantic evening. There was a smudge of luminous orange at the horizon, and overhead a candystriped canvas of pink and aquamarine remained stubbornly in place as the sky darkened into night. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are living here,’ she murmured. ‘Though they say the ruling Sheikh is—’

‘What?’ Saif demanded sharply. ‘What do they say about the ruling sheikh?’

From the look on his face, she had over-stepped some unseen boundary. Rolling onto her stomach, she laced her hands beneath her chin, sensing diplomacy was urgently required. ‘Surely you know him better than I do?’

‘Maybe,’ he admitted.

‘Aren’t you allowed to be rude about him?’

‘I can be as rude as I like—but I don’t like,’ Saif said pointedly, flashing a warning glance her way.

‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to offend you. I just heard he was fierce, that’s all.’

Rolling onto her back, she hoped she’d done enough to placate him. She really hadn’t meant to offend him. ‘Shall we have pudding now?’ she suggested, hoping to break the sudden tense silence.

‘Pudding?’

She only needed the smallest encouragement. ‘Yes—then it will be like a proper picnic.’ She sprang up and ran back to the boat, emerging minutes later with more blankets under her arm, determinedly swinging the cool box. Smoothing out rugs well clear of the water’s edge, she lifted the lid on her treasure trove—ice-cold drinks, together with fat green olives and the sweet dates she’d found in Saif’s galley. ‘I told you I could be useful,’ she said when he complimented her on the spread.

They ate in silence, but at least it wasn’t a hostile silence. It was more of a rebalancing exercise, Antonia concluded.

‘What are you doing now?’ he demanded as she stared up at the moon.

His voice made her tingle, made her want to stretch out
her hands to feel the cooling surf on her racing pulse. She concluded it was best to tell him the truth—or at least an edited version of it. ‘I was just thinking I’ve had quite a day, what with the pirate attack, swimming through a storm and now you.’

‘I see your point,’ he agreed dryly, but just when she’d been sure they were making real progress he sprang up and walked away.

He had to put distance between them. It had been a long time since he had wanted a woman so badly. In fact, he couldn’t remember wanting anyone as much as this girl. It was the ambience, he reasoned, pausing at the water’s edge. There was nothing like a desert night to stir the senses.

He shook his head with amusement when she called, ‘Wait for me!’

Nothing fazed her. And he wanted to wait for her, which prompted the question: when was the last time he had waited for anyone? ‘I’m going for a swim, Tuesday—you stay here.’ He dipped into the traditional Sinnebalese salutation before wheeling away. But the image of her nibbling dates with her small white teeth was still with him.

She was still feasting on the dates when she caught up with him. There was no artifice about her. She was hungry; they were on a beach, and she was eating to fill her stomach and not to impress him with finicky ways. She had a healthy appetite. He refused to dwell on that thought any longer than was necessary.

‘Sorry,’ she gulped, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘You really shouldn’t swim so soon after eating, Saif.’

She was giving him advice now? ‘Is that so? And what
do you think you are doing now?’ She was staring at the sky and waving her arms around, doing some sort of dance he found both innocent and seductive.

‘I’m invoking the moon.’

‘Of course you are,’ he agreed wryly. ‘And why are you doing that?’

‘Don’t laugh at me, Saif. For all you know, I’m a handmaiden of the moon.’

‘And I’m a camel.
Man jadda wajad wa man zara’a hasad.
’

‘Oh, that’s lovely!’ she exclaimed. ‘What does it mean?’

His gaze slipped to her lips as she repeated the words after him in Sinnebalese. ‘He who perseveres finds,’ he translated. ‘And he who sows harvests—’

‘Perfect,’ she interrupted dreamily. ‘It could have been written for me.’