Hot Arabian Nights. Marguerite Kaye

at the exact same moment. The animal’s ears pricked, its sleek body quivered as it turned towards her. Julia retreated hastily, but even as she tried to create an opening at the base of the tent, the front flap was thrown open and first the hound, and then its owner entered.

      Grabbing the first weapon that came to hand, she turned to confront the intruders. The dog was close enough for her to feel its breath on her bare feet, its hackles raised, teeth bared. ‘Stay where you are,’ Julia ordered, waving her weapon at its master. ‘If you value your life, you will not take a step further.’ She spoke in Italian, the language she had used to communicate with Hanif, for her Turkish and her Arabic were rudimentary at best. Certainly not up to the dire situation she currently found herself in.

      The nomad ignored her and stepped further inside. He had not drawn his sword, but wielded a wicked-looking dagger. Julia’s blood ran cold. He was at least a head taller than her, and at five foot six in her stocking soles, she had been the same height as Daniel. ‘I mean it,’ she said, brandishing her weapon and, in her terror, lapsing into English. ‘If you take one step further, I will...’

      He didn’t take one step, he took several, and all of them so quickly that she had no time to move before he closed the gap between them. A firm hand covered her mouth, preventing her from screaming. A powerful arm clamped around her waist, binding her tight against a hard and unforgiving body. The dagger on the end of that arm looked sharp enough to scythe through metal, to say nothing of clothing or delicate flesh. The hairbrush she had been rather preposterously wielding dropped to the sand as Julia struggled frantically, wriggling and kicking with all her might. The dog barked, but made no attempt to savage her.

      Seemingly utterly indifferent to her efforts to free herself, the man lifted her effortlessly off her feet and held her against his side while he made a quick tour of the tent. Only when he had assured himself that it was empty did he release her, pulling the keffiyeh away from his face and clicking his fingers to send his hound obediently back to guard the doorway of the tent.

      Night-black hair, cut very short, showed his stark bone structure to advantage. A wide brow, high cheekbones, a surprisingly clean-shaven chin with a small cleft in the middle, drawing attention to the perfect symmetry of his face. His thickly lashed eyes were golden-brown in colour, rather like a setting sun. His nose was strong, but the austerity of his countenance was offset by the sensuality of his mouth, which on a less masculine face would have looked too feminine. All of this the artistic part of Julia’s brain absorbed in seconds. He was one of the most striking men she had ever seen. Under different circumstances—very different circumstances—her fingers would have itched to draw him, to capture his potent and haughty demeanour, his languid physical grace.

      He picked up the hairbrush and handed it to her. ‘What were you planning to do with that, comb me to death?’ he demanded with a curt laugh, although his eyes betrayed no sign of amusement. ‘What are you doing here? Why are you alone in the desert?’

      He spoke in perfect English with a soft accent, unmistakably Arabic but equally unmistakably cultured. This man was most definitely not the poor nomad she had taken him to be. Julia took a step back, eyeing the open doorway of the tent.

      ‘I do not recommend it,’ he said. ‘I can easily outrun you. And even if I couldn’t Uday here of a certainty could.’ The hound’s ears pricked up at the mention of his name. ‘Uday means fleet-footed, and he is. Very.’

      The dog bared its teeth, almost as if it were smiling contemptuously at her. He and his master were well matched. Julia moved, not because she doubted that the animal would live up to its name, but because she could think of no other viable course of action.

      Two steps only, she had taken, before he caught her again and set her down well inside the tent. ‘Madam, you will come to a great deal more harm running in the heat of the sun without a hat or shoes or water, than you will endure at my hands.’

      He was right. She hated that he was right. She was not armed, while he was armed to teeth. She couldn’t outrun him, she couldn’t overpower him. She had no option but to somehow brazen it out. What she must not do was show her fear. Clasping her shaking hands tightly together, Julia glared at the man. ‘I have no intentions of running away. I am not the trespasser. This is my tent, my property. You have no right to be here. I demand that you leave. Immediately.’

      He stared at her in astonishment.

      ‘I asked you to leave,’ Julia repeated, this time in Italian.

      Still, he made no move. ‘I heard you,’ he replied in the same language, before reverting to English. ‘This tent may be yours but this kingdom is not. You do not belong here. I repeat: what are you doing here?’

      Julia bristled. ‘That, with respect, is none of your business.’

      A flash of anger illuminated his countenance. ‘Do you have official papers? Who gave you permission to travel here?’

      Though he spoke curtly, he had tucked his dagger back into his belt. Julia’s fear began to recede, allowing indignation to take hold. The arrogance of him! She crossed her arms. ‘Naturally I have papers, and they are in perfect order.’

      ‘Show them to me.’

      He held out a peremptory hand. She was on the brink of informing him that he had no right at all to make such demands when it occurred to her that he could well be some sort of official, and it would not be prudent to antagonise him any further, especially if she wished to ask for his help. ‘If you will give me a moment, I’ll look for them.’

      Thanking the stars that she had had the foresight not to keep her papers with the rest of her valuables in her dressing case, which had of course also been taken, Julia slid her fingers anxiously into the tiny slit cut into the lining of her clothes trunk. To her immense relief, the very slim packet of papers were still there, along with the equally slim stash of bank notes, which she decided to leave in the hiding place for the moment. Smoothing out the creases of her papers, she handed them over. ‘All present and correct and, as I think you’ll agree, in perfect order.’

      The man frowned. ‘These relate to the kingdom of Petrisa.’

      ‘Exactly. Signed by the appropriate authorities,’ Julia agreed, ‘including the British Consul in Damascus.’ Who had recounted, as had Colonel Missett, the Consul-General in Cairo, several hair-raising incidents of robbery and murder designed to deter her from undertaking this journey. As it turned out, their dire warnings had proven to be all too accurate, but they had failed to dissuade her because they had underestimated her overwhelming motivation for accepting the risks—principally because she had chosen not to apprise either of the august gentlemen of the precise nature of her quest. It was her business, not theirs. Her life, not theirs. ‘Well?’ Julia demanded. ‘Satisfied?’

      But the stranger was still frowning. ‘As you said, your papers are in perfect order. There is only one problem, and I’m afraid it’s rather significant. This is not Petrisa. This is the Zazim Oasis, in the kingdom of Qaryma.’

      Julia’s jaw dropped. He was mistaken. Or he was lying, for some reason. Punishing her for being rude, perhaps. ‘Nonsense,’ she said stoutly, ‘I’ve never heard of Ka—Kareem...’

      ‘Qaryma.’

      If he was right, then she was in deep water. She had no valid papers for this place, no permissions, which made her the trespasser, not him. She must not panic. Trespass was only a crime if it was committed deliberately, wasn’t it? Julia cleared her throat. ‘They told me—my dragoman said—are you certain this is not Petrisa?’

      ‘I could not be more certain.’

      His tone was implacable. He was just a touch intimidating, but her instincts told her he was telling the truth. She had no choice but to believe him. She was quite alone, and, through no fault of her own, quite in the wrong. ‘It seems,’ Julia said carefully, ‘that I owe you an apology. I appear to have strayed over the border quite unintentionally.’

      ‘You must have had a guide, a translator, men to pitch your camp. Where are they?’

      His