The Sheikh's Reluctant American (The Adjalane Sheikhs #3) (4 page)

Malid pushed down the urge to ask about that. His father would admit to nothing, and that was not the purpose of this call. “I need to bring Michaels into Al-Sarid.” He intentionally did not say which Michaels. “I need a few days.”

Silence stretched out, and then Nimr said, “Very well. I will ensure you are not bothered.”

Wetting his lips, Malid wondered what else he should say. He could think of nothing, so he asked, “How is she? How is mother?” He smoothed his tie. He felt like cursing his father, but he had to admit he had brought this on himself. He had been the one who had wanted Al-Hilah back at any cost. Bitterness rose in his throat. He pulled in a breath and said, “Give mother my best and tell her I will see her shortly.” He cut off the call before Nimr could.

Outside, Fadin
stood waiting next to the SUV.
“Everything you asked for is in order. Did you speak with your father to clear the path?”

“I did.” Malid stuffed his hands into his pockets. “That man would keep me from seeing my mother before she dies.”

“Are you so sure she is that ill? Nimr, as you know better than most, is a master at deception—who else taught you to lie if you must, so long as you do not lose control?”

Malid frowned. Had his father really taught him that? Or was that something he had learned on his own? As the eldest of three boys, Malid had grown up competing for attention—to be the best. It had become an obsession, Malid knew, and now he wondered if perhaps he had learned the wrong lessons from his father. He shook his head. “I cannot lose focus. Gordon Michaels decided to come look over his daughter’s shoulder—and he is an American version of my father—arrogant, stubborn, certain his way is the only way.” A grin spread across Fadin’s face, and Malid demanded, “Why do you smile?”

“Forgive me, but it sounds as if you describe yourself. And now…what are you going to do with this American woman for three days?”

Malid smiled. “I am going to drag out negotiations until I get what I want, of course.”

Nigella was having the time of her life. Malid had taken care of everything, food—they ate a lovely picnic lunch on the road—water, and traditional clothing waiting for her when they reached the border of Al-Sarid. From there, they had driven for well over an hour before coming to a small, Bedouin encampment where several tents had been set up. Malid spoke to the nomads, and then told Nigella he had asked the two women to accompany Nigella and help her figure out traditional dress.

“It may seem strange to you, but I promise you will be more comfortable,” he’d told her.

She’d been amused, and had jokingly whispered to him that he could have helped her. His response still echoed in her ears. “Nigella, when I help you remove your clothing, it will not be to immediately put different ones back on your person.”

Face hot, she’d hurried into the tent, grateful the women helping her hadn’t understood any of the English—or so she hoped. The Bedouin in their black robes helped her remove her clothing, insisting she also remove her undergarments with their gestures and fast Arabic. She had tried to wave them off, but the older of the two women had scolded her in terms that were clear in any language and pushed the clothes into Nigella’s hands.

Reluctantly, Nigella had taken the light, cotton garments and quickly changed. The cropped shift and a pair of boy’s briefs hung loosely on her, and were immediately cooler than her western underwear. She would need to do some shopping if she was going to spend more time in this region.

They handed her a thin pair of loose trousers, a long-sleeve shirt of lightweight linen and several other layers. She had thought the black robes would be heavy and hot, but instead they seemed light and somehow managed to catch any breeze and allow it to slip onto her skin. Finally, they insisted she done a head scarf. She tried to resist, but the women wouldn’t let her out without the scarf. When it was done, the two women giggled and clapped their hands, then threw back the tent flap and gestured for her to follow. Nigella wondered what Malid would think of her new look.

She stepped from the tent, and he turned, his eyes brightening. He took her hand. “You are more beautiful than I could have hoped for.”

“Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

Malid had changed as well, into the black tunic, loose trousers and robes of a nomad. The scarf that covered his head fell down to his waist. He tugged at her head scarf, arranging the folds of fabric around her shoulders and told her, “The length of the sides can be used to shield your face and mouth should it become necessary in case of sandstorms. We are going to be travelling by camel. Keep your hands and face covered as much as possible to shield your skin.”

The three Bedouin men led two, single-humped camels to them, and Nigella slipped a little bit behind Malid. The animals seemed dangerously tall and didn’t look at all friendly. “I’ve heard they spit,” she said.

Malid grinned. “Yes. So don’t stand in front of them. They also have terrible breath and can go for days without water. Is there a problem?”

She didn’t want to ruin the excursion, but common sense and self-preservation had gone to high alert. “I don’t think I can ride one of those things by myself.”

“Of course you can. But would you feel better if we rode tandem?”

Relief swept into her. It would be just her luck to get the bad-tempered beast and have it run off with her. If Malid was driving, she was not going to end up looking like a silly, screaming girl.

Malid turned and gave instructions to the camel handlers, who shrugged and swapped saddles.

Several satchels were fasted to the second camel, and when Nigella asked about that, Malid told her, “Supplies. I intend for us to reach our destination around dusk, but one never travels in the desert without survival in mind.”

“Uh, maybe we should just take a vehicle?”

“Nonsense. Wheels more easily become stuck in sand. And I want you to experience my country in all of its glory. This is the best way to do that—you cannot know the land without becoming one with nature. Now, let me assist you up and I will follow.”

Malid tapped the camel’s front leg. It let out a donkey-like bray but went down on its knees and lay down. The camel had rich, long lashes over big, dark eyes, but Nigella wasn’t fooled. The beast was chewing something and kept giving her sideways glances, as if just looking for an opportunity to purse its thick lips and spit at her.

She scrambled onto the saddle, which seemed more like a large pillow with a wooden frame and railings, or a sideways couch. Malid climbed up behind her, pulling her back against him to sit in the cradle of his thighs. She could smell the spicy cologne he used, and a hint of pure, male musk. Her pulse kicked up and she started rethinking the wisdom of this adventure—but she was committed.

“Relax,” he said, and his breath brushed her cheek. “I’ll keep you safe.” He tapped the camel again with the long stick that seemed made for this purpose. It rose—front first then the hind end coming up. Nigella clung to the wood in front of her. Her heart was pounding now, and she swallowed hard. She did not want to look weak, but right now that helicopter was sounding pretty good.

Malid took up the reins in one hand and wrapped his other arm around her waist. “Hold on.” Suddenly, everything was shifting, and the camel was moving, and Nigella wondered if she could possibly turn and simply bury her face in Malid’s broad chest. Instead she closed her eyes and the camel lurched forward into a bouncing trot.

***

Malid could feel the tension in Nigella’s slim shoulders. Gradually, it eased. The Bedouin encampment became a dot on the horizon and the desert began to work its magic. The sounds of the city had long ago vanished. The distant cry of a hawk hunting a meal carried to them. A light breeze brought the dry smells of the desert plants—faint aromas that promised an oasis ahead. The mountains—purple and jagged—rose before them, still distant but in the desert one could see for miles. The ground shifted from rocky to sandy, but Malid knew this track well, even though it was poorly marked.

This was his homeland, and it was as beautiful as it was dangerous, which was probably why it appealed so much to him. The rocking gait of the camel meant Nigella had to lean against him—he liked the motion, and the feel of her body against his. In general, he did not care to mix business with complications—however, Nigella seemed to him an exception to any rule. The truth was he wanted her—and he saw no reason they could not make the next few days a pleasure. And she might also then be more willing to make a deal that pleased him fully.

Leaning forward, he asked Nigella. “Well, what do you think?”

Nigella turned her head slightly and met his eyes. “This is all…just—”

“New? Exciting? Exhilarating?” Malid gave her a grin. “You smell as sweet as an oasis, you know.” He used the arm around her waist to pull her closer to himself. “Look to your left.”

A plateau rose up from
the small rolling hills around them.
“There are many parts of the desert that are nothing but dunes, but in this part of Al-Sarid, the land varies.”

“How do you navigate all this?” She waved a hand at the open space around them—at the rocks and sands and distant hills.

“You should learn land marks—that plateau, the sun’s position, where the moon rises. The day’s heat is fading and the stars will help as well.”

“Just where are we headed? I mean, we’re not going to spend the night under the stars, are we?” Nigella asked.

He heard the slight quiver in her voice and frowned. “What—you would miss having a bed and a four-star hotel?”

“It’s just…well, okay, I have to admit I ended up getting lost in Jamaica for a couple of days.”

He gave a laugh. “That doesn’t sound a hardship.”

She stiffened and slanted a glare at him. “It is if it’s jungle, wet, horribly humid with very large bugs. I’m still sure some kind of big cat was looking to make a meal of me.”

“And where was your father?” Malid asked. “Hunting for you and worried?”

Nigella let out a breath that was more of sigh. “In negotiations. He was trying to mix a vacation for me with work, and my nanny at the time quit without notice. I got bored and started chasing butterflies and succeeded in getting utterly lost.”

“Ah, then you should like the desert. The sky is always visible and can always guide you safely. But since you have told me your dark secret, I will tell you mine—my father intentionally took me into the desert when I was eight to teach me the old ways, and on the fourth morning I woke to find myself alone with a tent, two skins of water and a knife.”

Nigella turned halfway around to face him. “Oh, my god—how long were you out there?”

“Three of the longest days of my life. But I never forgot the lessons I learned during those three days—never to trust my father again and that I could handle whatever was thrown at me. The desert became my sanctuary.”

She shifted in the saddle, her hips rubbing against him in a distracting way. He glanced at her, but she was staring out at the horizon now, where the sun was starting to dip behind the mountains. “Myself, I was left with a profound desire to stay far from any jungle. That’s a huge advantage you have here. And is that…okay, is that a real oasis or a desert mirage.”

He leaned closer. “That, Nigella, is one of the many blessings of Al-Sarid. We have springs across much of the land—including several that would be near where your pipeline would be built. These are what make travel in Al-Sarid possible.”

The camel seemed to know they were nearing water, for it quickened its speed. Malid let the camel—and the second one whose reins were tied to back of the saddle—pick up speed. As per his orders, tents had been made ready for their arrival. An older man in traditional garb, but in loose white robes—met them, taking charge of the camels and unloading their supplies.

Malid offered up greetings, and he could smell a meal cooking. Malid turned to escort Nigella to their tent, only to find that she had wandered off. She was ambling around the spring that watered the date palms here and the grasses.

He followed her, watching as she gently touched a flower petal, and bent to smell their fragrance.

She must have heard his boots on the sand, for she turned and smiled. “This place is like paradise. Why would you ever leave here to live in a city?”

Malid shook his head. “You are seeing it at the perfect time of day—with the cool of evening and a full moon. But in sandstorm season, it is not so pleasant.” He took her hand. “Now, do you want to stay to admire the night or would you prefer to dine?”

Dinner was amazing—lamb and goat roasted over a fire. Dates, honey, and vegetables mixed with spices and cooked in a clay pot. Flatbread still warm from baking. Malid insisted on feeding her small bites of everything, and smiled when her lips or tongue would touch his fingers. They ate with their hands—after washing with water poured from a metal pitcher into a metal basin. Afterwards, mint tea was brewed and served—strong and sweet.

They’d eaten outside the main tent, sitting on pillows on a thick, wool carpet that gave the setting a sense of decadence. Nigella had eaten at the best restaurants in New York and across all of Europe. She’d been to Texas barbeques where sides of beef were severed on platters that you had to hold with two hands with beans and cornbread. But never had anything tasted as good as food from Malid’s fingers. She hadn’t had a drop of alcohol, but she felt tipsy just on the experience.

As the night fell, turning the sky a deep purple with stars spread over the darkness in a wash of light, Malid pointed out the various constellations and cardinal navigation points. She decided she could listen to that deep, sexy voice of his all night.

And then he asked, “Would you care for a swim in the oasis?”

She glanced at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

“That is the best bath you will have. Won’t it feel good to rinse away the sweat of the day?”

She looked over to the darkness of the water. A fire burned in front of them within a circle of rocks, but beyond the small glow of bright flame, the night seemed almost black. The others who had prepared dinner and waited on them had gone into one of the smaller tents, and Nigella could hear the quite hum of conversation in Arabic, and someone seemed to be tuning a stringed instrument. She glanced again at Malid. “We’ll, I used to go skinny-dipping back in Texas. I suppose this won’t be much different.”