Zahir sighed. ‘The palace is full of beautiful artefacts. You may tell her that you and your colleague are doing an inventory of the most valuable ones for me … as you did for Mrs Hussein’s books.’
‘I will do it because you ask me to, but I want you to know that I’m not comfortable with lying.’
To Gina’s alarm, Zahir came closer. Her space was suddenly disturbingly invaded by the subtle but intoxicating scent of a cologne with hints of sandalwood and agarwood. She knew that particular essential oil was highly prized in the region.
Reaching out, he lightly curled his fingers round the tops of her arms. ‘When I first saw you peeping out from behind the leaves of that jasmine I believed that you were a trusting innocent, incapable of deceit or subterfuge. To my bitter cost I have since learned that is not true. Apart from your undoubted beauty, Gina, there is nothing about you that could elicit my attention or regard again. You may as well tell me if there has been any other man in your life since we last met, seeing as it hardly matters to me now.’
‘I told you the truth—there’s been nobody else.’ Her answer was as direct as the challenging look she gave him. ‘And neither am I interested in another man. A relationship isn’t my focus. I prefer to devote my time and attention to my work. Sometimes the paths it leads me down don’t deliver exactly what I expect, but … unlike most men … it never disappoints me.’
Suddenly the grip on her arms grew tighter, and Gina bit back a gasp. ‘When did I disappoint you? When I took you to bed? I have a photographic memory, rohi. I easily recall how incredibly responsive and eager you were in my arms that night. Yes, eager … even though you were untouched. Did you not think I’d realised that? Tell me, has there ever been another man in your life who has pleasured you longer or more ardently?’
Even though shock and embarrassment flooded her, she took heart at the distinct jealousy in Zahir’s tone. He’d said she would never elicit his attention or regard again, but something in his possessive and furious manner told her that that might not be entirely true. Her senses clamoured and her pulses raced at the idea there might be a chance—even if that chance hung by the slimmest thread—that she could make things right between them.
Holding his hot and angry gaze, she breathed out slowly. ‘You just told me you knew I was untouched when we went to bed … so the answer is no, Zahir. There has never been another man who has made me feel like you did that night.’
He abruptly released her. Dark eyes glittering, he silently surveyed her. ‘For now, even though it is a hard thing for me to do, I will have to take your word on that. Tomorrow I will hear your presentation on the jewel, so please be well prepared. Goodnight, Dr Collins. I will see you in the morning.’
She stood frozen as he spun on his heel and exited the room, fervently wishing she had a magic spell to make him look at her fondly again instead of disparagingly …
Zahir’s eyes burned from lack of sleep. When he had managed to doze a little, in his vast bed with its black silk sheets, he’d been tormented by only too real images of an alluring blonde angel with eyes bluer than a clear desert sky. He couldn’t seem to get the scent of her out of his blood, either.
Frustrated beyond endurance, he dressed and went outside. In the sultry stillness of the perfumed night his footsteps led him to his own private garden—a sanctuary where the only other person allowed to enter was his gardener. Arriving at the Bedouin tent that was always kept ready for his use, Zahir took off his boots and unwound his broad leather belt. He laid a match to the dry tinder of the cooking fire and, sitting cross-legged before the flickering flames, placed the waiting coffee pot in the centre. As the tempting, comforting aroma of delicious Arabian coffee filled the night, Zahir rubbed the back of his hand across his tired eyes and stared out into the distance.
Apart from the crescent moon and its accompanying tapestry of bright stars the night was deep as an ocean and blacker than the wing of a raven … But he never at any time found it threatening. On many sleepless nights he had come out here to his private sanctuary and found that the enfolding darkness acted as a balm for the sorrow he’d endured daily since the death of his parents and since Farida had lost Azhar. He’d also sought solace from the knifing hurt Gina had caused when she’d told him she wasn’t returning.
Stoking the fire a little with a stick, he watched the sparks crackle and spit, erupting into the air like tiny fireworks. Gina … He couldn’t even erase her name from his mind, let alone her taunting image. Seeing her standing there in her bathrobe, all flushed skin and tousled golden hair, had been the most colossal temptation. He’d burned to hold her close again—so much so that his body had all but vibrated just because she was in the same vicinity.
For the past three years he had tormented himself almost beyond bearing that she was with another man. Had she thought him a fool for trusting her so implicitly? For believing she would love him and only him for ever? The thought had him gritting his teeth and clenching his jaw. Could anyone blame him for believing a part of her very being would always be his when it was to him that she’d given the gift of her innocence that night? It was true what he had told her—he had known she was a virgin. A fact that had made their instant passionate connection all the more sacred and special. At least that was what he’d thought then.
The Heart of Courage’s taunting prophecy had not proved true in his case, Zahir reflected bitterly. The sooner he was rid of that blasted jewel the better … Before he started to believe its prophecy had some hold over his heart, too.
Reaching for the nearby folded checked cloth that lay in the sand, he wrapped it round the handle of the coffee pot and poured some of the rich aromatic brew into a waiting cup. Then, turning carefully, he crawled into the entrance of the large cloth tent and sat just inside, staring out at the fire’s dancing kaleidoscope of flame as he thoughtfully sipped his drink.
Later—much later—he lay down on the silk cushions and woven rugs and slept a little. But not before seeing the spectacular rays of the dawn seep through the intricate weave of the dwelling’s fabric-made walls.
Jake and Gina were having their breakfast on a canopied covered mosaic terrace. In the distance the sound of someone playing the oud—a stringed instrument that produced a haunting sound not unlike a Spanish guitar—floated hypnotically on the air.
The two colleagues were not alone. Jamal appeared at regular intervals, issuing curt instructions to two young housemaids to frequently hand round dishes piled high with fresh chunks of khubuz—the local bread—earthenware bowls of fat glistening black and green olives and dishes of labneh—a strained cream cheese that resembled yoghurt.
At the same time as Gina carefully opened the stopper on a slim bottle of olive oil, to drizzle it on her bread, she sensed a warm bead of perspiration sluggishly meander down her back. The sun was already high and hot in the azure sky, and the thin full-length yellow and gold kaftan she was wearing felt more like a winter coat beneath such unforgiving heat. She hadn’t been able to resist sitting outside—not after enduring one of the longest and bitterest winters back home—but she was far from at ease. How could she be at ease after the way Zahir had left her last night?
He’d been so accusing and angry … a million miles away from the tender, beguiling man who had so easily swept her off her feet at first sight. Again, her heart ached to make things right between them, but how?
Adjusting her sunglasses, she watched Jake lift a generous chunk of bread that he’d liberally covered in slices of cucumber and wedges of dazzling red tomato to his lips and take a large bite. When he’d chewed and swallowed the food, Gina smiled.
