of an aristocratic nose, and the hint of a smile tugged at his wide, arrogant-looking mouth. A younger, stupider Dani might have thought he was “cute,” but she was not so foolish now. She braced herself in case he had the nerve to speak to her.
But he didn’t. Slightly deflated, and kicking herself for thinking that anyone would want to speak to her at all, she headed for her familiar pile of books. Only to discover that the one she wanted was missing. She checked the stack twice. Then the piles on either side of it. In the dim, smoky atmosphere, it wasn’t easy to read the faded spines, the gold-leaf embossing worn off by countless eager hands. Maybe she’d missed it.
Or maybe he was reading it.
She glanced over her shoulder, then jerked her head back when she discovered that the strange man was staring right at her. Alarm shot through her. Had he been watching her the whole time? Or had he just turned around at the exact same moment she had? She was annoyed to find her heart pounding beneath the navy fabric of her traditional garb.
“Are you looking for this book?” His low, velvety male voice made her jump, and she cursed herself for being so on edge.
He held out the book she’d been searching for. A 1930s edition of Majnun Layla by Persian poet Nizami Ganjavi, with a faded green leather binding and elaborate gold tooling.
“You speak English.” The first words out of her mouth took her by surprise. She’d intended to say yes, but her brain short-circuited. She hadn’t heard anyone speak English since she’d come back here from New Jersey three months ago. She’d begun to wonder if she’d ever use her hard-won language skills again.
He frowned and smiled at the same time. “Yes. I didn’t even realize I was speaking English. I guess I’ve spent too much time in the States lately. Or maybe my gut instinct told me you speak it, too.”
“I lived in the U.S. for a few years myself.” She felt flustered. His movie-star looks were disconcerting, but she tried not to judge a book by its cover. She cleared her throat. “And yes, I mean, that is the book I was looking for.”
“What a shame. I was about to buy it.” He still spoke in English. His features and coloring looked Omani, but his Western clothing and ocean-colored gaze gave him a hint of exoticism. “You were here first.” She shrugged, and tried to look as if she didn’t care.
“I think not. If you knew it was here and were looking for it, clearly you were here first.” Amusement danced in his unusual blue eyes. “Have you read it?”
“Oh, yes. It’s a classic. I’ve read it several times.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s a tragic love story.” How could he not know that? Maybe he didn’t even read Arabic. He had a strange accent. British, maybe.
“Sometimes I think all love stories are tragic. Does anyone really live happily ever after?”
“I don’t know. My own experience hasn’t been very encouraging.” As soon as she spoke she was shocked at herself. She’d resolved to keep her private torments secret.
“Mine, either.” He smiled slightly. “Maybe that’s why we like to read a tragic love story where everyone dies in the end, so our own disastrous efforts seem less awful by comparison.” The light in his eyes was kind, not mocking. “Did you come back here to get away from someone?”
“I did.” She swallowed. “My husband—ex-husband. I hope I never see him again.” She probably shouldn’t reveal so much to a total stranger. Divorce was rare and rather scandalous in Oman.
“Me, too.” His warm smile relaxed her. “I live in the States myself but I come to Oman whenever I need to step off the carousel and feel some firm ground beneath my feet. It’s always reassuring how little has changed here while I’ve been gone.”
“I found that alarming when I first came back. If it wasn’t for the cars and cell phones we could still be in the Dark Ages. My dad and brothers don’t like me leaving the house without a male relative to escort me. What a joke! After I lived in America for nearly nine years.”
He smiled. “The culture shock can be jarring. I’ve been living in L.A. for the last four years. It’s nice to meet someone else who’s in the same predicament. Would you like to go down the road for a coffee?”
She froze. A man asking you out for coffee was a proposition. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not? Do you think your father and brothers would disapprove?”
“I’m sure they would.” Her heart pounded beneath her conservative dress. Some mad reckless part of her wanted to go with him and drink that coffee. Luckily she managed to wrestle the urge under control.
“Let me at least buy you this book.” He turned and headed for the shop owner. She’d forgotten all about him, ensconced in his own world in the farthest corner of the store. He showed no sign of having heard their conversation.
She wanted to protest and insist on buying the book herself, but by the time she pulled herself together the store owner was already wrapping it in brown paper and it would have been awkward. She didn’t want to make a fuss.
“Thank you.” She accepted the package with a pinched smile. “Perhaps I should buy you a coffee to thank you for your generous present.” The book wasn’t cheap. And if she were paying, it wasn’t a date, right? She was twenty-seven years old. Hardly a blushing girl. She could share a coffee with a fellow English speaker to pass a dull afternoon. Her pulse accelerated as she waited for his response, torn between hoping he’d say yes, and praying that he’d say no.
“That would be very kind of you.” His gaze wasn’t very wolfish. He couldn’t help being so handsome. Women probably misinterpreted his perfectly ordinary gestures of friendliness out of wishful thinking. She wasn’t so foolish.
They stepped out into the fierce afternoon sun and walked down a long block to a row of modern shops, including a fairly new café. It had hip westernized décor, which was strangely reassuring and made her feel less like she was about to commit a massive social faux pas.
He pulled out her chair and she settled herself into it, arranging her traditional dress. Then she realized that she didn’t even know his name. She glanced about, wanting to make sure no one could overhear her. The attendant was gathering menus by the bar, far enough away to be out of earshot. “I’m Daniyah....” She hesitated, her ex-husband’s last name—McKay—on the tip of her tongue. She suddenly decided not to use it anymore. But using her father’s last name, Hassan, which she’d given up when she married against his will, didn’t feel right either. “But you can call me Dani.”
“Quasar.” He didn’t say his surname, either. Maybe it was better that way. They were casual acquaintances, nothing more. And he was even more fearfully good-looking in real daylight, with a strong jaw and tousled hair that added to his rakish appearance.
She glanced away quickly. Her blood heated just looking at this man. “I’ll have a coffee with milk.”
He ordered, in expert Arabic, without looking at the menu. “Me, too. Though I suppose we should be drinking it black, with some dates, now that we’re back in Oman.”
She laughed. There was something about the way he said it that made her feel like his coconspirator. “It’s terrible.
