Heart of a Desert Warrior. Lucy Monroe

      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 low 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.