British and American programs are very popular.” His shrug said some things must change, but others would remain the same. “I confess to a craving for Law & Order when I returned home six years ago.”
They’d used to watch it together. He’d called the crime drama his weekly mindless entertainment. She never quite got that, but she’d suffered through the program’s dark plots and emotional angst for the sake of spending that time with him.
“Do you still watch it?” he asked.
“No.”
“It was never your favorite.”
“No.” Though she hadn’t stopped watching until the series was canceled.
“Yet you watched it, for me.”
This trip down memory lane was getting distinctly uncomfortable.
“I’ll admit this is not what I expected.” She waved her hand, indicating the encampment around her.
“You had expectations?”
“Naturally. It’s a poor geologist who doesn’t do her homework on the area she’ll be surveying.”
“But you had no idea you would be coming to a Bedouin encampment.”
“You never know.” It was not quite a lie, but not the admission he was looking for, either.
“This is true. Six years ago, neither of us would have suspected you would be here.”
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.”
“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
