by Marsh, Susan
It was all she had ever wanted to hear, but Raffa made it sound like a punishment. Still, when you were confidently expecting an airline ticket home, anything else was a reprieve, Casey reminded herself, brushing her clothes down as they left the first aid tent together.
‘I’ll be travelling into the interior after the trophy for this match has been awarded.’
As she exclaimed with pleasure he dampened her enthusiasm. ‘I can make no allowances for the accident, Casey. You do understand that, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she said tensely.
‘The interior of A’Qaban is dangerous territory where shocks are commonplace—’
‘I understand.’ More dangerous than a polo field?
‘Your powers of recovery from this are crucial. If an accident happens in the desert you can’t waste time, you must think immediately: what next?’
That was exactly what she was thinking.
‘So, are you up for it?’
‘You won’t be disappointed. I’ll do everything you expect me to and more.’
‘But …?’ Raffa’s eyes narrowed, sensing there was something else she wanted to say.
Casey drew a deep breath. ‘But I came to apologise … for last night. I read the papers this morning, and—’
‘That’s something I don’t want to discuss with you,’ Raffa said, frowning.
‘But—’
‘No buts. My decisions aren’t up for discussion. You’re still in the running for this job. That’s all you should care about. But only if you can concentrate and be ready to leave your hotel within the hour.’
‘I will be,’ she said steadily.
Raffa arrived at the hotel in a rugged Jeep with no outriders and no bodyguards in attendance—at least none she could see. Casey was waiting on the steps, as instructed, dressed as a storm trooper once more, though not feeling so odd as when she had arrived at A’Qaban airport, because this time she was dressed in a way Raffa approved of for the desert. She had made one change—replacing her ugly hat with the lightweight shawl she’d bought at the auction, wrapping it around her head and shoulders in the A’Qabani fashion. It was a sensible choice, because it gave her the option of drawing it over her nose and mouth if the air grew dusty.
Swinging out of the driver’s seat, he took hold of her backpack. He too was dressed in survival gear, though his clothes looked considerably more worn than hers.
‘Sun cream?’ he rapped.
‘Of course.’
‘I see you’re wearing my atija; that’s a sensible precaution.’
‘Your …?’
‘Atija means gift,’ he explained, opening the door of the Jeep for her. ‘The shawl was my personal gift to the auction. Now, get in.’
She was still fingering the fine material as she absorbed what Raffa had said. Her shawl was his gift to the auction … his small, thoughtful gift to the auction. On top of all the fabulous jewels he had donated, he had given something he liked, something that was representative of the traditional craft of his country. It was everything she had hoped he might do; everything she had so firmly believed he hadn’t done.
‘Come on,’ he said impatiently, bouncing her into action, ‘The people of the desert don’t wait for anyone—they obey nature’s rules, rather than man’s.’
‘Are you Bedouin?’ she asked as she climbed into the Jeep.
‘My mother was a Bedouin princess.’
And that conjured up the most wonderful images. She longed to know more, but there was a reserve in Raffa’s voice that told her to leave it. If Raffa didn’t want to discuss his parents with her, she respected that.
‘There’s a first aid kit here, and water here.’ He pointed them out to her when they were both safely strapped in. ‘And we have a radio as well as a satellite phone, should we need them. There’s also a tracking device on the Jeep, so that we know where we are and my people know too.’
A frisson of fear mixed with Casey’s excitement. Her fantasies were left behind as she faced the realities of the desert. Raffa was warning her that they were going into dangerous terrain where anything could happen. She had prepared well. She had even taken a first aid course before leaving England. She knew how to handle a radio and was ready for anything.
Except for riding on horseback.
‘You’re joking!’ Casey exclaimed when Raffa drew up after an hour of driving.
‘I never joke,’ Raffa informed her. ‘Or at least I don’t employ humour out here, where jokes cost lives.’
A’Qabani handlers were standing by a horse transporter, while two horses were tethered in the shade. The real road had petered out, and in front of them lay miles of unseen desert. Casey gazed down the dusty trail, hardly able to believe she was about to embark on her first real expedition on horseback. When she turned back to Raffa he was winding yards of black cloth around his head.
‘We call it a howlis,’ he explained, throwing the ties over his shoulder.
He looked amazing, with just a slit for his expressive black eyes.
‘The closest word you have to describe it would be a turban. It keeps the sun off my face and the dust out of my eyes, nose, ears and mouth.’
And makes you look stunning along the way, Casey thought, nodding sagely. This was not a turban. A turban was respectable headgear. This was a wild man’s bandanna-cum-scarf that made Raffa look like a brigand. His expression was hidden, which she didn’t like, but his eyes—those she did like. They might have been amused as he stared at, or then again not. She could decide. Her throat dried as she watched him stride towards the horses, and then she saw the men bring out a mule loaded with provisions and her mouth dried a little more. This was going to be some expedition.
Excited as she was, she felt a tremble of alarm. What did it mean, this trek into the desert? She was prepared in the practical sense, but in another, far more personal sense, was she ready for this? Was she ready for the untamed desert with an untamed man? What did she really think was going to happen when she was out there with Raffa, miles away from anyone, and from convention and civilisation?
She was terrified, but excited too. She was ready to face most challenges, and Raffa was the biggest challenge of all. He was so much more complex than his forward publicity had suggested. He was also the most rampantly masculine man she had ever encountered, and yet he was so strongly principled she felt safe with him; safer than she had ever felt with a man before. He was a protector and would keep her safe. Virginally safe? She pressed her lips together and sighed; that was an unknown.
‘Are you coming?’ he called, before she could get herself worked up about it.
Raffa was holding her mount and looking her way. She had no idea what he was thinking.
That element of the uncertain, the unknown, that she had always been groping towards, was hers for the taking—if she had the courage. And actually, right at this moment, she was more frightened of the sweet-looking little pony Raffa was patting than Raffa. The last time she had been on a saddle was on a donkey at the beach when she had been a very little girl.
‘Come on, he won’t bite,’ Raffa encouraged.
She had to admit the dapple grey did look kind. The gelding was decked out with a fancy harness and a colourful saddle cloth to protect its sturdy back from her. And at least she didn’t have to ride Raffa’s horse—a jet-black, impatient looking stallion, with a fierce stare like its master. The monster mount was currently tossing its head and chomping at its bit in impatience.
‘Ready?’ Raffa encouraged. ‘How else do you think we’re going to get to our destination?’
She’d rather walk.
‘If you don’t hurry I’ll put you on the mule and tie your backpack to the horse.’
Okay. Deep breath. So she’d ride the horse. How hard could it be?
Very hard.
She fell stiff-legged off her mount the moment they stopped, after what felt like hours of bone-jouncing trekking. They had reached an oasis around which a tented cit
y had formed.
Casey remained where she fell, hugging her knees and silently yowling at the pain in her limbs. At least it gave her chance to admire the scenery, she reasoned as Raffa shook his head, slowly unwinding his howlis as he looked down at her.
She needed some immediate distraction from that sort of wow. Well, there was plenty of distraction around. They were on top of a sand dune, from where they could look down at the rolling desert painted in shades of ochre and umber. The plateau was punctuated by a limpid lilac lake fringed by shades of green. The oasis not only provided a lifeline to the wandering people who used it, but to the local wildlife, Casey saw, spotting desert gazelles grown brave enough to come and drink in the failing light.
Rolling over onto her stomach, she exclaimed softly as she watched them, forgetting her own discomfort. It was just such a magical sight—timid creatures finding courage as she had in the desert, beneath a sky that was slowly turning from palest aqua to midnight-blue, while at the horizon it was shot through with dazzling scarlet.
‘Get up,’ Raffa rapped, putting an end to her idyll. ‘There are scorpions in this area.’
With a shriek, she leapt up, slapping her sides energetically.
‘Remember to check your boots each time you put them on,’ he told her sternly—one instruction she was unlikely to forget.
‘Is this the end of our journey?’ she asked, still shuddering as she hurried after him.
‘It could be—for you.’
‘For me?’
‘If you find a scorpion in your clothes.’
That did it. With a shriek that startled the gazelles, she whacked herself all over while Raffa held the back of his neck, viewing her contortions with a puzzled frown. ‘With all that stuff in your backpack,’ he said, ‘didn’t you remember to bring some bug spray?’
‘I could be dead by the time I find it.’
‘Okay, relax. Even the biggest scorpions you’ll find round here would only sting you like a wasp.’
‘Nice,’ she accused him.
‘Would you like me to search you?’
‘Absolutely not,’ she exclaimed, springing away. ‘So why are we here?’ she demanded, all fired up now.
‘I thought you might like to see how the money you raised will be spent.’
As he walked away she chased after him. ‘Raffa, wait … thank you.’
Out of breath, she rested, hands on knees, at the foot of the next dune.
‘Why are you thanking me?’ His cheek creased attractively as he smiled.
She straightened up. ‘You haven’t even allowed me to apologise to you yet.’
‘For success?’
‘Raffa, wait.’ She gazed up with frustration as his panther stride increased the distance between them. How was it she slipped two steps back for every step she tried to take up the dune?
Thankfully, Raffa had paused on the brow of the hill to stare down at her.
‘I’ll be right there,’ she called up. In maybe a year, the rate she was going.
‘Here, let me help you,’ he said, leaning down. Grabbing her wrist, he pulled her up by sheer brute force. ‘Turn your feet out a little,’ he advised. ‘Think of the sand as snow. You can even side-step if you find that easier.’
‘You ski?’
‘Of course.’
Of course.
And, actually, she rather liked being helpless for once, and having him drag her up.
Close to, the tented city was a revelation. It was laid out neatly around the oasis, which flamed crimson where the grey water had harnessed the last solar gasp of the day. Camels and ponies and mules were gathered in a shady corral, and the voices of children carried shrilly towards them on the night breeze.
‘Come on,’ Raffa said, more relaxed than she’d ever seen him. ‘I want to introduce you.’
Casey stared at his outstretched hand. Was there a difference in 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.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘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 o
f 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.’