Sam braced herself with a hand on the dashboard as the ground grew rougher and the car bumped over rocks. “What’s going on?”
“We’re climbing into the foothills.” He kept his eyes forward. “We’re almost there.”
“Where?” Allan spoke for the first time in a while. He sounded nervous.
“My men are setting up an encampment in a well-concealed area. We’ll stay here overnight and be back in Nabattur in plenty of time for you to film the festival tomorrow.”
She couldn’t believe he still sounded so calm after all the suspicion he’d just endured while trying to protect them.
If he was telling the truth, of course. She couldn’t explain why, but she believed him. And not because of his expensive Western education. There was something about Sheikh Osman that inspired confidence and trust.
Or maybe his traffic-stopping good looks had deprived her of her sanity. Allan couldn’t stand him. She could feel him quietly seething behind her in the backseat.
The car drew to a stop, and Osman cut the engine and did something with his gun that made her breath catch.
“What are you doing?”
“Just putting the safety back on.” His smile gleamed in the dark, not entirely reassuring.
“Oh. Good.” Their doors opened at the same time, making her jump, and she recognized the faces of two of the men who’d followed them around all day. They retrieved the bags from the trunk and carried them on their shoulders.
Sam looked for Allan in the dark. “It’s one night. We’ll be back at the festival tomorrow.”
“We hope. Not much we can do about it either way, is there?” She could tell he felt helpless and hated it. Sympathy swelled in her heart.
“All part of the adventure, I’m afraid.”
Allan fiddled with his phone to no avail. “I feel like civilization might be a dream I once had.”
“It is peaceful out here, isn’t it?” She looked around, trying to make out shapes in the darkness. The once-distant mountains now loomed over them like giants. She could still see the walled city of Nabattur far away across the plain, its gleaming torchlight tiny bright dots in the blackness.
“Come this way. We’ll climb to a hidden crevice.”
Sam didn’t much fancy spending a night on the mountainside, but as Allan had observed, they didn’t really have a choice. She followed Osman and his men along a rocky trail that led up the shallow base of the mountain. One by one, they disappeared behind a giant boulder that looked like a huge sugar cube in the moonlight. As she rounded it herself, she felt her jaw drop.
A large tent rose up before her. The open flap ushered them into an enclosed space lit with filigreed lanterns and floored with richly patterned rugs. The tent itself was blue. She could see that much by the light of a big fire that burned outside it, over which the two other men barbequed fragrant meat.
Inside the tent she could also smell coffee, and a smoky brazier of incense thickened the atmosphere. Cushions on the floor and the rich patterns of the rugs made the inside of the tent feel homey and relaxing, even though the whole thing must have been erected while they were still driving.
A nagging thought occurred to her. “Won’t the fires be visible to your enemies?”
Osman shook his head. “The high walls of rock create a visual barrier. If it was daytime, they could see the smoke rising above the crags, but at night we’re well protected here. Our position is easy to defend as well.” He gestured to the two men who’d led them up. Both of them now stood guard near the sugar-cube rock, fearsome semiautomatic weapons crossed over their chests.
For the first time since they’d left Nabattur, she could see Osman clearly. She much preferred to look right into his handsome face, not just see his teeth or eyes gleaming in the dark.
On the other hand, looking at Osman had a very unsettling effect on her. You think she’d be used to him by now. Yes, he was good-looking. So what? She was here on a professional assignment—with her fiancé, no less—and it was entirely inappropriate for her pulse to quicken when he turned those gold-green eyes on her.
“I’m sorry you’re stuck with us for another evening.” She needed to say something. The incense-scented silence was becoming oppressive.
“Your apology implies that our hospitality is not welcoming enough.” His expression was so stern that she couldn’t tell if he was joking. “You should know that your presence brings me great pleasure. Come, sit, take a drink, and my men will bring food when it’s ready.”
Not about to argue with him, Sam lowered herself onto the soft cushions along one wall of the tent. She patted the area next to her and smiled at Allan.
“I’ll stand.” He wore his camera bag on one shoulder and clutched his useless phone.
“All night long?” Osman looked amused.
“If necessary.” Allan looked around the tent suspiciously. “This area has deadly scorpions and snakes.”
Osman chuckled. “My people have lived in tents here for thousands of years. Somehow we’ve managed to survive.”
“Don’t worry, Allan.” It would be embarrassing as heck if he really refused to sit down and accept all the hospitality they’d been offered. “The fire will keep them away.”
Osman nodded sagely.
She almost sighed with relief when Allan lowered himself gingerly to a cushion.
Sam turned her attention to Osman, determined not to let his good looks intimidate her into being rude. “What a lovely tent.”
“Thank you. Tents have fallen into disuse in this region in the last few centuries, but my mother was a Berber from the south. She grew up traveling about the desert in a tent and said she never slept as well inside solid walls.” An odd expression crept into his eyes. “Sleeping in a tent makes me think of her.”
“Does your mother live in the palace?”
“She’s dead. Let me bring water for us to refresh ourselves.”
He disappeared before she could even offer her condolences, sweeping through the door to the outside. He returned a few minutes later with a big bronze bowl etched with intricate patterns. One of the men who’d been cooking carried two plastic gallon jugs of water. Osman set the bowl down, and they each poured a jug of water into its sparkling golden surface.
“Water never looks more beautiful than when you’ve been without it for too long,” he murmured. “Go ahead.” He gestured for her to use the water.
She hesitated for a moment, then dipped her hands into it and began to rub them together. There was no soap.
“Splash some on your face. You’ll feel refreshed.” Osman encouraged her.
She did, and he was right. He offered the same to Allan, who glumly shook his head. If he were a toddler, she’d probably have given him a time out by this point for simple rudeness. He was certainly behaving like one.
She took in a deep breath and tried to dispel her anger toward Allan. He was scared and confused and out of his element. This wasn’t the real Allan. She tried to remember the urbane man who entertained their friends and charmed her parents, who could tell Kenyan coffee from Brazilian just by the smell.
Osman rolled up the sleeves of his robe, revealing muscled forearms that almost made her swoon. His skin was a rich golden brown that contrasted artistically with the sparkling bronze bowl. He splashed his face and head and let the water run over his proud features and drip onto his robe. She tried not to stare too hard. Her whole body grew warm, despite the desert temperature dropping since the sun went down.
“Allow me to wash your feet.” Osman crouched low in front of her.
“What?” She and Allan both exclaimed it at the same time.
Osman turned his head to Allan. “It’s a custom in our lands to greet and settle a guest by washing their feet.”
“How come you didn’t do it yesterday?” asked Allan with narrowed eyes.
“I forgot.”
Osman turned back to her and started to unbuckle her sandals. Sam’s eyes widened at the sight o
f his broad tan fingers, with their clean, pink nails, moving over her feet. She was glad she’d taken the time to paint her toenails a pretty coral. Her feet were awfully sensitive and ticklish, and sensation sparkled through her when his fingertips brushed them even slightly.
Once her sandals were off, he took her right foot in his hand and lowered it gently toward the bowl. She gasped as her skin touched the cool water.
Water still dripped from his face and his almost-shaved scalp, as he smoothed the water over her feet. She did everything in her power to keep her breathing inaudible. Osman exuded masculinity and authority, so to see him perform such a gentle and humble act was literally breathtaking.
And he was so unbelievably gorgeous that it was hard to act normal around him at the best of times.
She managed to look up at Osman and not grin like an idiot. Pleasure crept over her body, and yet it was torture because she couldn’t let either of these men know how much she was enjoying this.
“Really?” Allan sounded exasperated.
“Allan, you really should let him wash your feet. It feels sensational.” She wasn’t sure which of them she wanted to annoy more. Osman was clearly enjoying the power he had over her right now. He rather deserved to have to wash Allan’s long pale feet with their bony toes. And Allan might enjoy watching Sheikh Osman perform the ritual act.
“No, thanks,” he snapped.
Osman caught her eye as if to say, “Thanks a lot.” She wanted to wink, “You’re welcome,” but managed to smile pleasantly instead. When he was done, he dried them with a soft, fine cotton cloth. She didn’t feel like putting her dusty sandals back on again, so she sat barefoot and cross-legged on the cushions, hoping it wasn’t a massive social faux pas.
Dinner was brought to them inside the tent. A large platter of rice, with roasted meat piled in the center and sliced fruit around the outside.
“That smells unbelievable,” she murmured. “I can’t believe you can conjure such luxury in the middle of nowhere at a few moments’ notice.”
“Centuries of experience.” Osman smiled as he watched her help herself to the feast. Even Allan reluctantly piled some food on a plate and perched on the edge of a cushion to eat it. After dinner, the men retrieved the plates and brought a sweet iced drink similar to the mango lassi she’d had at Indian restaurants, but with rose petals in it.
During the meal Osman managed the seemingly impossible feat of engaging Allan in conversation. He started by asking about his films and appeared deeply interested in the one about the lives of the three strippers. He then explained that Nabattur had a red-light district of women who had found themselves outside the conventional bounds of family and society by circumstance or choice. Sam wasn’t sure whether to be horrified or relieved when Allan asked if he could visit it that night.
“Of course. One of my men can escort you and translate for you.”
“Is it safe to wander around the city at night?” Sam didn’t like the idea. And she didn’t want to go. She found Allan’s interest in the sex trade to be rather depressing, despite his insistence that the sale of sexual favors was the oldest profession in the world.
“Nabattur is safer than any city in America. Because it’s small and people know each other there is almost no crime.”
“I won’t be gone long, Sam. It’ll be interesting to get a look at the oldest profession here in an ancient culture.”
She didn’t like the idea at all, but this was the first time since their arduous journey yesterday that Allan had showed any enthusiasm. How ironic that he could be obsessed with the sex trade when he avoided sex with her.
“Your staff will take care of him?” She looked pointedly at Osman.
“I can take care of myself, Sam.” Allan didn’t even look put out. He was already rising to his feet and brushing rice crumbs from his jeans. “I’ll be quite at home in the dark streets of a city at night. Why don’t you come with me?”
Sam had accompanied him on one or two depressing ventures into strip clubs during the filming of a previous project. “That’s okay. I’m tired. I’d rather get some sleep.” Allan, bristling with enthusiasm and camera equipment, headed for the car with a man named Rifal.
Sam sipped her coffee and nibbled on a crunchy treat made with sesame seeds and honey. Osman lounged on the cushions opposite her and they talked about the differences between New York and California in what passed for a semi-normal conversation while one of the men hung dividing curtains inside the tent that turned the open space into distinct bedrooms, with cushions now laid out in each in the shape of a bed.
Of course there was only a thin layer of fabric, and about fifteen feet of carpet covered desert floor, between her and the seductive sheikh. This promised to be a rather long night.
“Would you like a massage?” Osman tilted his chin back slightly, as if defying her to refuse.
A very long night.
“No, thanks.” She should probably offer to reciprocate, but she was already pretty revved up and rubbing tension from Sheikh Osman’s many taut muscles was not likely to help matters.
“Can I get you anything?”
A Xanax might be good. She kept the thought to herself. “I’m fine, thanks.”
She went into her “room” and dropped the piece of curtain that was hitched back with a rope tie to serve as a door. She didn’t have a change of clothes. Most of their stuff was still at the palace. Which in retrospect was lucky because if they’d left their bags in the car all day they would be in ashes by now. There were some folded blankets she could wrap herself in, but she’d have to stay dressed.
“Here’s a change of clothes for you. I’m afraid it’s a man’s robe, but better than wearing the same clothes all night.” He stood at the entrance, holding a folded pale blue robe in his hand.
“Thanks.” His uninvited presence in her bedroom did not exactly help relax her. Worse yet, her fingers brushed his as she took the robe. The effect was startling, sending shivers right up her arm.
“You can feel it, too.” He spoke softly, holding her gaze.
“Wha…what do you mean.” She clutched the robe to her chest, where at least it would hide her tightening nipples.”
“The energy passing between us.” His olive-green eyes narrowed slightly, like he was concentrating. “It’s powerful.”
“We’re probably both a bit wound up from all the excitement of the day. Or the danger. Or both.” She was babbling.
“No.” He took a step toward her. “It’s more than that.”
She struggled to stand her ground, lifting her chin to make herself taller. She wished with all her might that he would turn around and leave. But her body was singing an entirely different song, and Osman could hear it because she saw that slow hint of a smile creep over his sensual mouth.
Her insides snarled into knots of anticipation as he took another step forward, cupped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and kissed her full and hard on the mouth.
CHAPTER NINE
Sam’s hands fisted into Osman’s robe as emotion flashed over her. She knew she should resist. She hadn’t flirted with Osman or invited him into her bedroom or given him any hint at all that she was interested in him.
Had she?
She was excited and scared and confused and aroused. Too many feelings for her to process. Her lips pressed against his, and her tongue crept out to explore his mouth as arousal flashed through her like fire in the wind.
How could she do this?
Osman’s big, broad hands held her against him, and the hardness of his body seemed to hold her steady. Even as she thought about how she should tear her lips from his and pull back, she somehow kept pressing herself closer, letting herself fall into his powerful embrace.
She was engaged to another man.
Guilt gnawed at the outer edges of her consciousness. Her body ignored them and reveled in Osman’s passionate touch. His chest rose and fell against hers, and she felt their heart rates quicken in unis
on. Energy, the force of desire, tied them together like rope, pulling them tighter.
This was so wrong.
The scent of his skin filled her nostrils, binding them closer together. She wanted to inhale him all the way down to her core and let him fill her up. The roughness of his chin excited her, along with his hard jaw and the thick, roping muscles of his back. He felt so different from any man she’d ever kissed before: more masculine, more powerful, more demanding—and more giving.
Passion crackled in his touch, and she could hear it in his breath. He was a king—or almost king—with an entire country at his command, and he was totally immersed in kissing her, Samantha Bechtel, mild-mannered producer of public television documentaries who didn’t have a scrap of makeup on and who had been wearing the same easy-care travel attire all day long.
His fingers pressed into the flesh of her hips, and her body responded with a flare of heat at its core. They’d done nothing but kiss yet already she felt thoroughly ravished.
And she wanted more.
The sound of a throat being cleared made her start. Osman eased his lips from hers and looked up.
A man spoke in the local dialect behind her, and Osman nodded and replied something about radio communication.
Samantha wished she could just die right now. Or that the carpet beneath her feet could turn into a magic one and whisk her away to an alternate dimension. Osman’s hands still rested on her hips, warming her skin and claiming her. She couldn’t bear to turn around and acknowledge the presence of the intruder, which was foolish because he’d seen everything.
Her face heated until she was sure it must be the same crimson as the light from the glass lantern in the corner. She heard the man’s footsteps retreat and she summoned all her self-discipline and pulled herself back from Osman.
He let go of her easily enough, though his fingertips did drag reluctantly over her skin as she slid from his grasp. Even the dim light in the tent was bright enough to make her blink. She staggered backward, her legs feeling weak and insubstantial without Osman’s strong body holding her up.
Desert Kings Boxed Set: The Complete Series Books 1-6 Page 11