Midnight in Arabia

“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.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. She could understand that the Bedouin way of life might not work for everyone, but for all of them to turn their backs on thousands of years of tradition seemed wrong somehow.

“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.”

“She did not want to give birth in the encampment.” Genevieve shrugged, the movement exhibiting her Gallic ancestry. “All of her children were born in a Genevan hospital after Asad.”

Despite their past, Iris could not help the rush of pity and understanding she felt for Asad in that moment. She knew exactly how it felt not to be necessary to one’s parents.

Asad shook his head at her. “I know how you are thinking. Stop it. My parents did not abandon me. We continued to see one another often and I always had my grandparents. I had the Sha’b Al’najid. Doing things in such a fashion was necessary. My father did not want the less luxurious life of the Bedouin and my grandfather knew one day I would make an excellent sheikh.”

No arrogance there. Not at all. She almost smiled. “It looks luxurious enough to me.”

“We have satellite access to the internet for four hours in the afternoon only. We do not have modern kitchens, appliances or bathrooms.”

She knew what he meant and shrugged. “I’m sure your facilities are better than what I have on most of my camping field assignments.”

“No doubt.” He smiled as though her words had pleased him, then the smile melted away as if it had never been. “What we have now is beyond what my father experienced in the encampment. Though when he and the others visit, they still find it abysmally rustic.”

“All of them?”

“All but my youngest brother. He was born four years after they moved to Geneva.” Asad’s lips twisted wryly. “An unplanned blessing added to my parent’s family. He has said he plans to make his home here once he finishes university.”

“And your parents are okay with that?”

“Naturally. My father relies on the tribe’s business investments for his income. He knows better than to reject our way of life completely.” So, regardless of how unaffected Asad would like to appear regarding his father’s rejection of his way of life, there was something there.

“He gave up his oldest son to the tribe,” Genevieve chided. “Any parent would feel that was a sufficient sacrifice.”

Iris begged to differ, but she wasn’t about to say so out loud. Her parents would have happily given her up if it meant getting what they wanted. In fact, they had often made the trade-off of time with her for travel on their own. She’d never told Asad that she’d been sent to boarding school at age six, but then the fact had always shamed her.

She’d thought there was something wrong with her that her parents had preferred to have her live with them only on school vacations. And even then, they weren’t always “at home” when she was.

“Perhaps,” Asad replied to his grandmother, not looking particularly convinced. “I do not know how difficult the decision was for them. I know only that they made it, choosing life outside of the encampment rather than living here to raise me.”

Genevieve clicked her tongue twice, as if gently chiding her grandson without saying anything overt.

“You never told me this.” And Iris wasn’t sure that hadn’t been for the best.

She’d been head over heels in love with Asad, but how much worse it would have been for her if she’d believed they had this pain in common and allowed herself to identify with him on such a deep level?

“There was much we did not talk about.”

“True. I didn’t even know you were going to be sheikh one day.” And he knew nothing of her childhood or her parents’ supreme indifference. She’d never told him the story of how she’d lost her virginity. Asad was oh so right; there was a lot they’d never spoken of. “Looking back, I realize I should have guessed based on your bearing alone.”

“I did not mean to hide that from you.”

She believed him. He had been so certain she knew the score, she did not believe he’d meant to hide anything from her. For the first time in six years, she admitted to herself that they’d both been spectacularly wrong in reading the situation between them. Not just her.

That didn’t do a thing to alleviate her current anger with him for manipulating her into coming to Kadar, however.

Genevieve rose gracefully to her feet. “I will refresh the tea.”

Iris went to stand, intent on helping, but the older woman placed a staying hand on her shoulder. “No. Another time, I will teach you to make tea the proper way. Now you must stay here and renew your acquaintance with my grandson. He has so looked forward to seeing you again.”

Nonplussed, Iris could do nothing but nod with as much graciousness as she could muster. She didn’t think it would do her company’s relationship with Kadar a good turn if Iris admitted she would rather renew the acquaintance of the rattlesnake she’d met on her last field survey than Asad’s.

Asad waited until his grandmother had gone to say, “I never lied to you. I thought you knew I was meant to be a sheikh.”

“I heard you the first time.” She glared at him, her current anger sufficient to fuel the nasty look, their past notwithstanding.

“And?”

What? Was he expecting her to congratulate him or something?

“Do you believe me?” he asked with a tinge of frustration in his usually urbane tones.

“Yes.”

“Then why the look when grandmother left us to talk?”

Really? He could not be that dense. “I guess an eidetic memory does not equate to people smarts.”

His eyes narrowed in affront at her sarcasm. “You have changed.”

“Yes.” She was no naive idiot anymore. “But seriously? How could you think knowing you would be a sheikh one day would have made a difference to me back then? I wouldn’t have been any more prepared to be dumped like I was.”

“I did not dump you.”

What happened to that famed honesty of his? “Excuse me, you did.”

“I had obligations, a plan for my life I could not abandon.”

“You didn’t want to abandon it. You didn’t leave me out of duty—you left because you never wanted me for a lifetime. I was just stupid enough to believe you did. That’s all.” And equally painful, she’d lost her best friend.

“I am sorry.”

He had said that six years ago too, with pity in his eyes. But not regret. If there was regret there now, she wouldn’t let herself see it.

“It’s in the past.”

“Yet I still see pain in your eyes when you talk about it.”

She couldn’t deny it, but she sure wasn’t going to admit to it, either. She’d had all the pity she could stand from this man when she’d been that foolishly naive nineteen-year-old. Besides, she had something much more recent to deal with.

“I can’t believe you engineered me coming to Kadar.” She made zero effort to hide how much knowledge of his manipulation infuriated her.

He looked shocked by her anger. “I was doing you a good turn, making up for my abrupt departure from your life, if you will.”

“You have absolutely got to be kidding me. You think being forced to work in close proximity to you is in some way a good thing?”

“I am no monster. You used to enjoy my company very much, and I do not just mean in the bedroom.”

“We were friends. We aren’t anymore!” She swallowed her next words and fought for control of her vocal cords. The last thing she wanted was for Genevieve to return to Iris shouting at the man she was beginning to realize was more dense than metamorphic rock.

“We could be again.”

“Why?” Why would he want to be?

“I missed you. You missed me.”

And to him, it was that simple. Never mind the fact she’d been so totally in love with him that she’d felt like her heart had been ripped from her chest when he left. “You could have just called.”

“You needed the Middle East experience to move forward with your career.”

“Just how close tabs have you been keeping?” she demanded.

“Close enough.”

“So, you thought you’d do me a favor?” Why did she think it hadn’t all been altruism on his part? Oh, yes, because she no longer trusted him and never would again. “Didn’t it occur to you that not coming to the Middle East had been my decision?”

“No.”

She dropped her head in her hands and groaned, her fury losing its heat. The man just had no clue, none whatsoever.

And there was no point in continuing this discussion. He was never going to get it, but he wasn’t going to drop the subject unless she did.

So she observed, “You said you share this tent with your family.”

“I do.”

“Where is everyone else?” Were the tent walls so thick, they would mask the sounds of a child?

It was surprisingly quiet, no sounds from outside filtering through, nor from any other part of the tent.

“My grandfather spends this time each day with the other old men, drinking coffee and telling stories. No doubt he would have stayed to meet your arrival, but my grandmother knows how to get her way and she wanted to meet you first,” Asad revealed in a fond tone.

“Where is your daughter? In school?” Iris guessed.

He shook his head. “She will be playing with other small children under the watchful eye of my cousin.”

Since, presumably, if his grandparents had more children than Asad’s father, the barbaric bargain would not have been made, he didn’t mean cousin literally, but referred to a female relative. “She’s not old enough for school?”

“We do not run a school precisely, though the concept is similar. We train our children in every aspect of life, not merely to read, write and cipher, though we do not neglect their book learning. Some will want to attend university one day.” He reached out as if to touch Iris and let his hand fall, an unreadable expression in his dark eyes. “But you are right, my daughter is too young for any formalized training.”

“Does your grandmother have someone to help her with …” She let her voice trail off, not knowing the child’s name.

“Nawar. My daughter’s name is Nawar and she is four. My grandmother and cousin help me with Nawar, but she is my daughter.”

“That is a commendable attitude to take,” she grudgingly admitted. “But I would have thought that since you’re the sheikh, you’d be too busy for full-time parenting.”

“Is it so unusual for a father to have a career? I do not think so. I spend as much time with Nawar as possible.”

Once again, Iris believed him, but wished she didn’t. It would be a lot easier on her if she could simply see him as a complete and utter bastard. Instead, he made himself all too human. If they did not have the shared past they did, she would not only respect him, but she might even like him, as well.

Something she simply could not afford to let herself do.

CHAPTER FOUR

“I WOULD be more comfortable staying in another tent.” Iris knew this was her only chance to argue her viewpoint and she should not have wasted time discussing their past.

“Would you really?”

“Yes.”

“You wish to stay with strangers?” he asked in a tone that said he knew she would not.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“But that is the only other option.”

“Well then, maybe it would be best.” As much as she hated the idea, it was better than living in his home.

“No.”

Typical Asad-like response. He didn’t bother to justify, or excuse; he simply denied.

“You’ve gotten even bossier since university,” she accused him.

Though back then, his bossiness had not bothered her. He’d convinced her to try things she never would have otherwise, like the ballroom dancing class they’d taken together a month after they’d met, or attending parties she wouldn’t have been invited to on her own and learning to dance to modern music amidst a group of her peers.

She’d suppressed so many of the good memories from their time together and now they were slipping their leash in her mind.

He did not look particularly bothered by her indictment. “Perhaps.”

“There is no perhaps about it.”

“And you are surprised? I am a sheikh, Iris. Bossiness is in the job description.” He sounded far too amused for her liking.

“Asad, you’ve got to be reasonable.”

“I assure you, I am eminently reasonable.”

“You’re stubborn as a goat.”

“Are goats so stubborn then?”

“You know they are.”

“I would know this how?” he asked in an odd tone.

She rolled her eyes. “Because everybody does.”

He nodded, tension seeming to leave his shoulders, though she had no clue what had caused it. “You will stay here.”

“You’re a CD with a skip in it on this.”

“First a goat, now broken sound equipment. What will you liken me to next?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“There is nothing further to discuss in it.”

She opened her mouth to tell him just how much more there was to discuss when a flurry at the door covering caught Iris’s attention. A second later a small girl with long black hair came rushing into the tent and threw herself at Asad’s legs. “Papa!”

He leaned down and picked her up, giving her a warm hug and kiss on her cheek. “My little jewel, have you had a good morning?”

Other than the coloring, Iris did not see the family resemblance. The little girl must take after her mother. The observation made Iris’s heart twinge.

“I missed you, Papa, so much. I even cried.”

“Did you?”

She nodded solemnly. “Grandmother said I needed to be strong, but I did not want to be strong. Why didn’t you take me with you, Papa?”

Asad winced as if regretting his decision to leave his daughter behind. “I should have.”

“Yes. I like playing at the palace with my cousins.”

“I know you do.”

“Next time, I must go.”

“I will consider it.”

“Papa!”

“Stop, you are being very rude. There is someone here for you to meet and you have spent all this time haranguing me.”

Watching the two together caused that same delight tinged with pain she felt around Catherine and Sheikh Hakim. It was so clear that Asad loved his daughter and that pleased Iris because it meant she had not been entirely wrong about this man six years ago. She’d thought he would make a wonderful father and she’d been right, but knowing he’d had his child with another woman sent salt into old wounds.

“Oh, I am sorry.” The little girl looked around and locked gazes with Iris, her dark eyes widening. “Who are you?”

“Nawar,” Genevieve chided, coming back into the room with a laden tray the cousin jumped forward to relieve her of.

It was clear from the extra cups and amount of food that Genevieve had expected the child’s return with her minder, a woman about fifteen years Asad’s senior with soft brown eyes.

The little girl looked properly chastised, her expression going contrite. “I did not mean to offend.” She put out her little hand from her position in her father’s arms. “I am Nawar bin Asad Al’najid.”

She sounded just like a miniature grown-up and Iris was charmed. She took the little girl’s hand and shook gently. “My name is Iris Carpenter. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bin’asad.”

“Thank you. Why do you call me Miss Bin’asad?”

“Iris is being polite,” Asad answered before Iris could.

“Oh. But I want her to call me Nawar. It is my name.”

Iris had spent very little time around small children, but she thought Nawar must be exceptional. “I will be honored to call you Nawar and you may call me Iris.”

“Really?” the girl asked. She looked to her grandmother. “It is all right?”

“If she gives you permission to do so, yes,” the older woman said with firm certainty.

“Iris is a pretty name,” Nawar offered.

“Thank you. It is my mother’s favorite flower.” She’d decided her mother chose the name so she would not forget it as easily as she and Iris’s father forgot their only child. “Nawar is lovely, as well. Do you know what it means?”

“It means flower. Papa named me.”

Iris did not know why Asad had named his daughter rather than his wife doing so; perhaps it was a Bedouin tradition, though that sounded rather odd considering the other cultural norms she had read about among his nomadic people.

It was those norms that made it possible for Iris to stay in Asad’s familial tent, but would have made it impossible if he did not live with his grandparents. She could wish he’d broken more cultural norms and moved into his own dwelling, so she didn’t have to.

“Your papa is very good at naming little girls, I think.”

“I do, too.” Nawar smiled shyly. “What is haranguing? Do you know?”

Asad huffed something that could have been a laugh.

Iris stifled her own humor and answered, “It’s like nagging.”

Nawar turned her head to glare at her father. “I don’t nag, Papa.”

“Sometimes, little jewel, you do.”

The little girl sniffed and it was all Iris could do not to burst out laughing. An urge Iris surprisingly felt several times over the next hour, while sharing more tea and refreshments with Asad’s family. His grandfather joined them not long after Nawar had arrived, evincing the same pleasure in Iris’s presence as Genevieve had done.

Iris expected Russell to arrive any minute, but the minutes ticked by and he didn’t. When she asked, Iris was told he had been given a tour of the encampment by one of Asad’s tourist liaisons.

She couldn’t quite suppress her disappointment at the news. “Oh, I would have liked to have joined him.”

“I am glad to hear you say so. I planned to give you a tour later,” Asad said with satisfaction.

Iris just stopped herself from gaping and said, “I wouldn’t want to take up more of your valuable time as sheikh.”

The man was relentless. He wanted to renew their friendship and he would make that happen. One way or another. Maybe he did regret the way things had happened between them and this was his attempt at making up for it, but still … she hadn’t imagined that predatory look in his eyes, either.

He probably saw nothing wrong with adding sex to their friendship. He’d done it once before, after all.