by Lucy Monroe
“You sound like a travel brochure.”
“I have written more than one of them.”
A grin sneaked up on her, despite her feelings toward him. “It can’t be too traditional with Hummers instead of camels.”
“We still have many camels, I assure you.”
“Do you still move camp?”
“Twice a year, rather than seasonally, but yes.”
“Do you stay in Kadar?”
“We do. This too is different, but preferable to other tribes who have settled permanently on lands granted by the government.”
“I see.” Though she wasn’t really sure she did and was afraid he could hear it in the uncertainty of her tone.
“Within our encampment you will find modernizations mixed with traditions that are thousands of years old.” And he was clearly proud of that fact.
“Are those electric cords?” she asked in shock as she noticed the thick black rubber-coated cords snaking through the sand.
“They are. We have a bank of solar panels strategically placed five hundred yards in that direction.” He pointed away from the mountains to a spot that was no doubt ideal for sun exposure.
Incredible. “So, I can use my laptop?”
“It is better for you to charge your battery between uses. Our power is limited and certain measures must be taken, but there is even a television in the communal tent.”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing in a Bedouin encampment. I thought most of the socializing happened in individual homes.” Or outside in the courtyard-like areas between the tents.
At least according to the research she’d done on Bedouin living back when she’d thought she’d had a reason to do so.
“The communal tent was created for the tourists to gather in groups, but my people have found they enjoy its use, as well.”
“And its television.”
“Some British and American programs are very popular.” His shrug said some things must change, but others would remain the same. “I confess to a craving for Law & Order when I returned home six years ago.”
They’d used to watch it together. He’d called the crime drama his weekly mindless entertainment. She never quite got that, but she’d suffered through the program’s dark plots and emotional angst for the sake of spending that time with him.
“Do you still watch it?” he asked.
“No.”
“It was never your favorite.”
“No.” Though she hadn’t stopped watching until the series was canceled.
“Yet you watched it, for me.”
This trip down memory lane was getting distinctly uncomfortable.
“I’ll admit this is not what I expected.” She waved her hand, indicating the encampment around her.
“You had expectations?”
“Naturally. It’s a poor geologist who doesn’t do her homework on the area she’ll be surveying.”
“But you had no idea you would be coming to a Bedouin encampment.”
“You never know.” It was not quite a lie, but not the admission he was looking for, either.
“This is true. Six years ago, neither of us would have suspected you would be here.”
Actually, she had…right up until he’d broken up with her. She had no more interest in rehashing that particular bit of history than anything else about the months they’d been together. “You said some things are still traditional?”
“Many things.”
She saw what he meant when they entered a huge tent toward the center of the encampment. A curtain bisected the area horizontally from the entrance. In the center, was a single overlapping panel embroidered with two giant peacocks, their feathers fanned out in a display of the beautiful jeweled tones the birds were known for.
The curtain created the public reception area the Bedouin homes were known for, but it was much larger she was sure than the average tent boasted. With no evidence of the famed television, Iris had to assume this wasn’t the communal tent he’d mentioned earlier.
Rich Persian rugs covered the ground of the main area, but instead of chairs, there were luxurious pillows in silks, velvets and damasks with lots of gold, purple, teal and a dark sapphire blue. Low tables dotted the expansive area and while the outer walls were the typical woven black goat hair, inside the walls were covered in richly colored silks.
“Russell and I are staying here?” she asked with a sense of foreboding.
This was no normal Bedouin tent. Situated where it was in the compound and considering the luxury of the interior, she had no doubts who this particular dwelling belonged to. Sheikh Asad bin Hanif Al’najid.
“You are, yes. Russell will stay in the tent with your equipment.”
“What is this tent, a harem, or something?” she asked in faint hope.
“This is my home.”
CHAPTER THREE
“I’M NOT staying in your tent.”
“It has been arranged. Your accommodations are behind that partition.” He pointed at a blue silk hanging. “My late wife insisted on a nontraditional division of the women’s area of the tent. So, you will have your own room rather than sharing the entire space with the other single women of my family.”
“Other single women?” she asked faintly.
“My daughter and a distant cousin.”
“I can’t stay here with you.”
“I assure you, you can.”
“I’ll share the tent with Russell.”
Oh, Asad did not like that suggestion. Not at all. His expression went very dark very quickly. “You will not.”
“But it makes the most sense.” And might actually save her sanity, not to mention her heart.
“It is not acceptable.”
“You and your cousin, Sheikh Hakim, have an affinity for that word,” she grumbled, feeling like the Persian rug beneath her feet was actually quicksand.
“You will stay here.” There was no give in Asad’s voice or his posture.
“How is it better for me to stay here with you than to share a tent with Russell?”
“As I said, my daughter and cousin share this tent, as well, but so do my grandparents.”
Her whirling brain latched onto the plural grandparents and she asked, “Your grandfather is still alive?”
“Of course.”
“But you’re sheikh.”
“What did you think, I had to kill my predecessor to take over for him? It was much more prosaic. He retired and enjoys the increased freedom of his days like any other man who has well earned such.”
“He retired?”
“Yes.”
“That’s just…”
According to what Iris had read, the concept of the next generation taking over the majority of sheikh responsibilities when the current holder of the office became very old was not completely unheard of. But to refer to it as retirement? It was just so, so…modern.
“The way of things.” The words were spoken by an elderly woman carrying a tray with tea things on it as she entered through an opening in the blue silk partition.
Dressed in traditional Bedouin garb, the older woman’s hair peeked from under a heavily embroidered and beaded sheer scarf that did not completely hide the long white tresses. Her face, though showing the wear of sun and years, was still beautiful, though paler than Asad and more Gallic in bone structure.
“Grandmother, may I present Miss Iris Carpenter.” Asad bowed his head toward his grandmother while indicating Iris with his right hand. “Iris, my grandmother, the Lady bin Hanif.”
“You will address me as Genevieve.”
“Thank you. That is French, isn’t it?” Iris asked, pretty sure the woman’s accent was Gallic, as well.
“It is. Though my family has made its home in Switzerland for nearly two centuries. My husband found me when we were both attending university in Paris and convinced me to leave all I knew to share his life here among his Bedouin tribe.” She smiled as she set the tea tray on one of the l
ow tables. “I have never regretted it. The Sha’b Al’najid soon became my people.”
“And Grandmother became the favorite lady to them in generations.”
Iris smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Genevieve.”
“Come, sit.” The older woman indicated the cushions on the floor with a flick of her elegant wrist. “It is always a pleasure to meet an old friend of my grandson.”
About to deny the classification, Iris thought better of it. She suspected that the Lady bin Hanif was the type of woman who would demand an explanation.
“We knew each other only for a few short months at university,” she said to downplay the relationship as much as possible.
Genevieve poured tea into fine china cups painted with Arabic design. “And yet those short months were particularly impacting for my grandson, I believe.”
Iris turned to glare in shock at Asad. He’d told his grandparents about their affair? Heat crawled into her cheeks while her stomach rolled in humiliation.
Asad’s eyes widened at her glare and then narrowed in what seemed like comprehension. He shook his head just slightly, as if saying he had not told them the intimate details of the friendship.
“Oh my, yes. Our boy, he spoke of hardly anyone from his university days. But Iris, the budding geologist? We heard much of her academic and career exploits.” Genevieve serenely sipped her tea. “His late wife did not enjoy Asad’s university reminiscences, I think. She had attended only a year of finishing school in Europe you see.”
Completely flabbergasted by the idea that Asad had kept track of her like he claimed, Iris could think of no other response than to nod and sip her own tea. Hot, very strong and almost equally sweet, it had a smoky flavor something like Earl Grey and yet not. There was almost a flavor of sage in the blend, as well.
“This is delicious. I can see why the Bedouin tea is so famous.”
“Yes. There is a knack to making it. You must brew it over a wood fire, not on the hob.”
Iris’s gaze flicked to the silk divider. There was a wood fire burning behind that, inside the goat hair dwelling?
“Not to worry, the cooking fire is under the open awning behind our tent,” Asad said, showing more disconcerting proof that he could still read her all too well.
When they had been together, he had known her better than anyone else, though she’d kept her secret shame to herself and never admitted to him the extent of her parents’ indifference.
Genevieve smiled and reached out to pat Iris’s arm. “Do not worry. You will soon grow accustomed to our ways.”
“My favorite mentor always said that one of the marks of a good field geologist is the ability to acclimate to different surroundings so nothing can get in the way of accuracy in one’s fieldwork.”
“A wise man,” Asad said, “was Professor Lester.”
“How did you know I was talking about…” Iris let her voice trail off as Genevieve laughed softly.
“Oh, my grandson, he remembers everything, does he not?”
“Yes.” Asad’s eidetic memory was one of the reasons they’d had as much time together as they did.
When he had almost perfect recall of everything he heard, read and saw, the need to study for tests or reread information for papers was severely mitigated. He’d even helped Iris study for her own exams.
Genevieve’s eyes glowed with pride as she looked at her grandson. “It makes him a very good sheikh and political advisor to my great-nephew, Hakim, ruler over all Kadar.”
“You’re one of Sheikh Hakim’s official advisors?” Iris asked Asad, storing the information on their actual family relationship for future reference.
He merely nodded before taking a drink of tea.
But Genevieve was more forthcoming. “Of course, they are family. However, Asad has proven himself wise in the ways of our people and the modern world we must live in, as well. Hakim listens with a bent ear to our Asad. It was his idea, after all, to get your company to do the mineral survey and to request you be the on-site geologist.”
Asad’s jaw tautened, as if he was trying not to frown, but the look he gave his grandmother was tinged with something that looked very much like exasperation.
“You’re the reason I wasn’t given the option of refusing this assignment?” Iris demanded, catching on quickly even if her memory wasn’t precisely eidetic.
Asad shrugged.
She opened her mouth to tell him that wasn’t a good enough answer. Not this time, but his grandmother forestalled Iris. “But why should you wish to?”
And Iris remembered where she was and why she was here, despite the helpless fury burning in her chest. “I have yet to do any survey work in the Middle East. Another geologist would have been a better choice.”
“Nonsense. If Asad believes you will do the best job, then I am quite confident you will. Surely it is time you expanded your vita to include work in the Middle East.”
Iris could not deny it. She would never be promoted to senior geologist while she lacked field experience in the Middle East, which was one of the points her boss had made when insisting Iris take this assignment.
That didn’t make her feel any better about the revelation that Asad was responsible for getting Iris to Kadar. He was a man who always had an agenda. If she had only realized that when they’d been dating, she would not have been so sideswiped by the knowledge he was already practically engaged to the Princess Badra.
What was his plan now?
Iris had the awful feeling it had something to do with her. And since the only thing he’d wanted from her was her body, she didn’t think she was too far outside the realm of probability to believe he had his sights set on renewing their affair.
For a short time anyway.
Why not? She’d fallen into his bed with barely a push back in the day. Practically a virgin, she’d still allowed him to make love…or have sex rather…with her on their first date. She’d been overwhelmed by her reaction to him and thought he felt the same. She knew better now, but wasn’t entirely sure it would make any difference in the outcome.
“Where is your father?” she asked in a desperate attempt to change the subject and get her mind on a different pathway. Why hadn’t he taken over the sheikh role?
And then she considered the possibility that the older man was deceased and wished she could bite the words back. Particularly after her similar faux pas the night before when asking about Asad’s wife. It was too late, however, to do anything but hope she would not be given the same answer.
Thankfully, Asad did not look like he was remembering a traumatic loss. “He does not live with the tribe. He oversees our European interests from his home in Geneva.”
“Your father lives in Switzerland?” Considering they clearly had family there, that was not entirely surprising. Still, it seemed odd that Asad would be sheikh to the nomadic Sha’b Al’najid while his father lived in one of the most sophisticated cities of Europe.
“As do his mother, sister and two brothers.” Genevieve’s tone did not sound altogether pleased by that fact.
Iris gave Asad a look in which she felt incapable of hiding her abject shock. “You have siblings?”
He had never mentioned it, but then he’d left a lot out of their discourse six years ago. So, the fact that none of them lived among the Bedouin tribe was even more surprising to her than their existence.
“It is so.”
“But…”
Genevieve refilled the teacups without asking if Iris or Asad wanted more. Something about the set of her features told Iris this conversation was no easier on her than the earlier topic had been on Iris.
Asad leaned back on the cushion, looking like a pasha and said, “You wonder why they do not live with the Sha’b Al’najid.”
“If your parents live in Geneva, I suppose it’s natural that your sister and brothers would, as well.”
“They are all of an age to make their own decisions about how and where they live.”
“In order to gain permission to leave the tribe, my father had to allow my grandfather to raise me here as his own son to take over leadership of the tribe.” Asad said it so casually, it took a moment for the import of his words to sink in. “It is why I am called bin Hanif instead of bin Marghub. Not that my father uses his tribal name. He goes by Jean Hanif.”
In Western culture such a name similarity would show the family connection, but in Kadar, Asad not carrying his father’s name was as good as disowning him. Though it sounded like the decision had been made for him.
“That’s barbaric.” Iris slapped her hand over her mouth, unable to believe she’d said that out loud, no matter how much she thought it.
She looked askance at the tea; was there something in there that she didn’t know about?
Genevieve smiled reassuringly, clearly having taken no offense. “Jean found much about the Bedouin way of life to be barbaric. He never wished to return from our visits to Geneva to my family. He insisted on attending an American university and ended up married to a European like his father.”
If they no longer lived among the tribe, Iris thought that Western origin could be the only thing Asad’s mother had in common with Genevieve.
“Celeste and Jean came here to live after their marriage, but neither were happy. Eventually, Jean told us that he had no desire to follow his father as sheikh to the Sha’b Al’najid. My husband could have named a cousin or nephew as his successor. It is how he became sheikh himself, but he saw the fire of the Bedouin burning brightly in our grandson and offered the alternative of us raising him here instead.”
“How old were you when your parents left?” Iris asked.
“I was four.”
And they had seen the Bedouin spirit burning bright in him? At such a young age? Iris supposed it was possible, but it was still barbaric. “How old were your siblings?”
“My sister was two. Mother was pregnant with my younger brother, as well.”