a fierce gesture to warn his faithful old servant to let her be. Such autocratic gestures didn’t sit easily with him, but if he were to remain anonymous in front of this woman discretion was paramount. ‘She’s not going anywhere,’ he observed, in English this time. ‘Bring her to my tent…’
‘What?’ she exclaimed.
Her incredulity drew a faint smile to his lips as he walked away.
‘Come back here!’ she cried. ‘Who do you think you are, telling me what to do?’
He had to stop, turn around and pacify Aban, before the old man made good the threat he made after this second outburst. It was fortunate for the young woman that she didn’t understand the language! Grit, fire, courage, Shahin thought, noting the way she was glaring back at him. His curiosity deepened, but then Aban started to grumble again and, to defuse the situation, he was forced to point out that she was only armed with a camera.
Still muttering, the old man shook his head.
‘Come with me.’ He addressed her directly, gesturing towards his pavilion. The Bedouin blood running through his veins made hospitality mandatory however unpalatable that might be, and he had vowed to espouse all his father’s values, not just cherry-pick them at will.
This time she made no protest. He was impressed by her self-possession as she walked alongside him, though he could tell Aban was incensed by her easy manner. The old man thought no one should walk next to his king.
The old ways dictated that any guest must be welcomed to his tent for three days and three nights, which wasn’t such a bad option in this instance. The young woman had obviously come to the desert seeking adventure—who was he to disappoint her?
As they drew close he could see that she wanted to take some shots of the Bedouin tent. He had to stop her before she went to work. ‘No photographs,’ he said firmly.
‘What?’ She didn’t believe him at first, but quickly realised he was serious and left the camera to swing on the cord around her neck.
For the first time he had a chance to observe her properly and he could see that, beneath the layer of dirt and grime, she was quite beautiful. Her long hair, caught up in a casual ponytail, was the colour of creamy caramel. There was a hint of gold as well that the dust rising up from the sand couldn’t hide…
Dust that had started to lift all around them, Shahin noted with concern. Staring out towards the horizon, he frowned. The red dawn sky had been an early warning of a storm blowing up. ‘Move the Jeep to higher ground and stay with it,’ he ordered Aban. ‘The tents are secure, and I’ll check them again before the weather worsens.’
Aban’s smaller tent was pitched twenty yards or so from his own, but it was also beneath the same sheltering rocks. There was a third tent in the back of the off-road vehicle that Aban could use until it was safe for him to return.
Turning his attention back to the woman, he saw her swallow with apprehension. She had caught the urgency in his words and he felt he should say something to reassure her. ‘The weather is deteriorating, but you’ll be safe here with me. Don’t argue,’ he warned, when she started to protest. ‘You have no alternative but to stay. Aban tells me we have about an hour before the storm hits—and that’s if we’re lucky.’
‘But it only took me two hours to get here from the city—’
Behind the defiance he saw her fear. ‘That was before there were dangerous weather conditions to consider. You can’t outrun the wind,’ he pointed out.
He had no time to waste on persuasion and started off for the temporary structure that had been his home during his retreat, eager to check all the supports and ensure that they would withstand the force of the wind. To his surprise, she ran ahead of him and cut him off.
‘If your man’s leaving now, I want to leave too. We could travel in convoy—’ Her chin tilted at a defiant angle as she held his gaze. ‘And why don’t you come with us? Why stay here if it’s so dangerous?’
Because there were too many memories inside his tent, too many things that had belonged to his parents for him to risk losing them…The tent had been his father Abdullah’s before he had claimed his kingdom. There wasn’t time to dismantle it now, and so he would stay with it. But that wasn’t her business. ‘That just isn’t possible,’ he said coldly. ‘And it’s too risky for Aban to waste time trying to recover your Jeep. If Aban is to remain safe he must leave right away.’ Veering away from her, he walked on.
She chased after him. ‘But why can’t I go with him?’
‘Because Aban won’t wait…’ And because Aban’s traditional values could only be stretched so far. He would be horrified were he to be asked to take charge of the young woman overnight. Aban wouldn’t leave his vantage point until he was sure the storm had passed, and who knew how long that would take? He would not risk both their lives in order to appease this young woman’s somewhat overdue sense of propriety. If she imagined that the desert was some big beach she was about to be cruelly disillusioned. The desert was a sleeping monster which, when awakened, had the power to destroy everything in its path. The only reason his Bedouin ancestors had chosen this site was because the surrounding rocks and fresh water offered them some protection. For now it was better not to alarm her. He didn’t know how she would react if he told her the full extent of their plight. She might panic. She had no idea of the forces involved, or that everything around them was about to undergo the most radical change. He stopped and turned to gaze at the dune. ‘Is your vehicle parked up behind that dune?’
‘Yes, it is…’
She sounded hopeful and he guessed she thought he had changed his mind about letting her go.
‘It’s just over the hill, at the base of the dune.’ There was a hint of impatience in her voice now.
‘On low ground?’
‘Of course, didn’t I just say so?’ Her irritation was mounting. ‘I left it where it would be sheltered by the dune.’
‘Sheltered by the dune?’ A ghost of a smile touched his lips. She didn’t have a clue. The storm that was about to hit them would have no respect for hills made out of sand. ‘Leave it,’ he instructed Aban, seeing the old man’s glance swerve towards the dune. ‘There’s no time for you to climb up there and recover her vehicle. You must get yourself to safety and save our own Jeep.’
Zara wished she could understand the harsh, guttural language. She was way out of her depth. She wanted so badly to leave, but the leader of the two men was planted firmly in her way. Her options were limited. Both of these men walked easily on the sand, whereas the desert boots she had purchased in London gave her no stability at all on a surface she had discovered was as treacherous as ice. They would catch her before she made it to the base of the dune. And if she managed to escape, where would she go? If what this man had said about the storm proved to be right she would have to find shelter. As she gazed around, Zara could only try and visualise the thousands of miles of unseen land that rolled back behind the two men, hostile land with which she was unfamiliar. She had no alternative but to do as he said.
His tent was the size of a small marquee. As they drew closer Zara could see that the sides were made of some heavy woven fabric, which had been dyed a deep red. There was opulent fringing around a tented roof and the fabric was drawn up to a spike in the centre. Missing only a pennant, it reminded her of a medieval pavilion, reinforcing her opinion that she was stepping back in time, with a man who might be dangerous…A very attractive man who might be dangerous. Her heart was thundering—and for all the wrong reasons. She just had to keep telling herself that this was the photo opportunity of a lifetime…
But, as he raised the heavy curtain concealing the entrance to his tent, goose-bumps lifted on her arms. As she hesitated he tipped his chin, indicating that she should enter. The little she could see of his face beneath the folds of black cloth was hardly reassuring. His gaze was as dark and as unbending as iron.
‘Come in,’ he