The Desert Bride of Al Zayed / Best Man's Conquest: The Desert Bride of Al Zayed / Best Man's Conquest. Michelle Celmer

      A little way on they turned down a track and the village came into view. A group of children were huddled around a bicycle that leaned against a scrawny tree and they all turned to stare curiously at the approaching vehicle.

      Once they had stopped, Jayne descended from the vehicle and followed the men. Carpets in shades of ruby, garnet and topaz were spread out in the patchy sunlight, and a dozen or more women sat around weaving. Jayne caught her breath at vivid designs and colours. “They are beautiful.”

      One of the women gave her a gentle smile.

      “How long does it take you to make such a rug?” Jayne asked, bending down to touch the design.

      The woman looked at the men, a frown pleating her forehead.

      “She does not speak any English,” Tariq said, and rattled off in Arabic. The woman nodded and said something. “She says it depends on how many women are working on the design,” Tariq translated.

      “They must do well out of such rugs. The craftsmanship is wonderful.”

      “Not yet. The project has only been going for a couple of years. It’s supposed to be self-driven by the village women, so it has taken some time for the women to get it off the ground.”

      “That’s heartbreaking. The rugs are so amazing. I can think of people in Auckland who would pay a fortune for such finery.” She thought of Neil, of his home in Remuera with the collection of fine furniture and antique books.

      “There is no question of their talent, or their entrepreneurial skills. But some of the women are reticent. They are used to the men running things. But they are insistent that this is their project. They’ve had a lot to learn. Accounts. Running a business. Distribution.”

      “And a lot of us can’t read or write, which makes it much harder,” Matra said softly from behind Jayne’s shoulder.

      Jayne knew she shouldn’t be surprised. But somehow she was. “I thought Zayed was progressive country, that a lot of the wealth from the oil fields is poured into education and development.”

      “It is,” Tariq said levelly, and Jayne realised he’d taken her words as criticism. “But there are a lot of nomadic tribes in Zayed, too.”

      “And some of us are too old to learn,” Matra said, her expression showing that it took a lot of bravery to converse with Tariq.

      Jayne considered her. “No one is ever too old to learn.”

      The daylight waned quickly as they returned to the camp. Night fell like a cloak over the desert, and Jayne found herself shivering as the temperature plummeted. Dark clouds swarmed overhead, but the rain that had threatened did not come, much to the glee of their hosts.

      The Bedu had prepared an outdoor feast to celebrate their arrival. A fire had been lit and everyone sat around the flames.

      An hour later Jayne sat back replete, and weariness seeped through her. She watched as the men seated around the fire clamoured for Tariq’s attention. He listened, nodded, spoke a few words, then turned to the next person.

      Matra came toward her carrying a copper pot with a long spout and murmured something Jayne did not understand. So she smiled and spread her hands helplessly.

      “What is that?”

      Before Matra could reply, Tariq was at her side. “Matra is offering you coffee.”

      Jayne nodded enthusiastically. “Coffee would be lovely.”

      Matra put the coffeepot down and disappeared.

      “It’s Bedu coffee,” Tariq warned. “Strong and bitter. The coffee beans are roasted on a long shovel and then ground with a mortar before being brewed for several hours.”

      The other woman returned with a tray of tiny handleless cups and filled them from the coffeepot and handed one to Jayne who eyed the greenish-brown liquid with suspicion. “It’s not as dark as normal coffee.”

      “That’s the cardamom. You drink the whole cup down in one sip.”

      “O-kay.” Jayne took a deep breath and gulped, then almost choked as the bitterness hit her throat. “At least these cups only hold a sip or two,” she murmured. “Otherwise I might have to develop a coffee allergy.”

      Tariq threw his head back and laughed. Jayne stared. How long had it been since he had laughed like that? When she’d first known him, his infectious laughter, his joie de vivre, had been one of the first things to attract her. Tariq had loved life—and lived it joyously.

      She hadn’t realised how much she had missed his good humour. Until now.

      Matra was back offering the tray again. Tariq took another cup and smiled at the woman, who lowered her eyes. Sucking in a deep breath, Jayne reached for another cup.

      “How am I going to drink this?”

      “Slowly,” Tariq responded, but his eyes danced.

      She took a tiny sip and pulled a surreptitious face.

      “Here, give it to me.”

      “It’s okay, I don’t want to be rude.”

      His hand closed around hers. He brought the cup up to his mouth. Under the pressure of his hand, she tipped the cup. He sipped. This close the gold eyes gleamed like burnished bronze. Caught in the snare of his gaze, she stared at him, suddenly breathless.

      His lips lifted off the rim of the minute cup. “There is one last sip. For you.”

      His hands still cupping hers, she placed her lips against the opposite rim from where he had drunk. The cup tilted. She drank.

      “How does it taste now?” His voice was husky. “Still bitter?”

      She licked her lips clean of the last smears of coffee. As her tongue tip skimmed across her bottom lip, his eyes flared to the colour of midnight. The shock of the change from gold to dark sent a bolt of sensation through her.

      She hurriedly retracted her tongue, swallowed and realised that the bitter taste had gone. All that remained was the distinctive flavour of cardamom. “No, not bitter.”

      How had this happened?

      How had she become so aware of him standing so close to her, to his hand still grasping hers?

      Jayne pulled away…and found Matra at her elbow. Jayne looked at the cups of coffee, glanced at Tariq and knew he, too, was supremely conscious of the heat that sizzled between them.

      “Accepting a third cup means that you consider yourself one of the family. If you deliberately refuse this cup…it will be considered rude,” he murmured softly.

      Quickly she nodded to Marta. And so did Tariq. Following his lead, she tossed it back, trying very hard not to grimace and set the empty cup on the tray.

      “Now you can refuse the next cup. Because after three cups it is considered rude to take another.”

      “Thank goodness,” she murmured.

      “You did fine. Come, it is time to say good-night.”

      A fine quivering sensation started deep in her stomach as they walked across the shadowed camp to their tent, the indigo night sky arching overhead. Jayne was aware of the darkness that stretched into the desert beyond their tent. The vast emptiness that surrounded them, broken only by the soft conversation of the Bedouin still gathered around the fire.

      Their tent glowed inside, the soft light of candles diffusing against the drapes in a warm pattern.

      “In the sleeping area there is a bath ready for you,” Tariq said. “Matra arranged it.”

      “Oh.” Jayne felt suddenly breathless. “I had thought there might be a washroom nearby.”

      “There is—with communal baths. No doubt Matra thought you would prefer to bathe in private.”