guessing since you’re at the exhibition that it’s Templar history?”
Her mood dropped even further when she realized she now had to tell him how boring and prosaic her subjects were. “I specialize in the industrial revolution and the First and Second World Wars.” She let out a resigned breath, convinced they had nothing in common. “What about you?”
“Five years at Harvard. It was useful.”
Hope flared anew. “Harvard. That sounds like law, or business.”
“Business, I’m afraid.”
He sounded almost as apologetic as she had been. Her heart beat faster. Not a bodyguard then, despite the muscle. Perhaps he was one of the sheikh’s financial advisors. She was riveted by the thought that maybe all wasn’t lost.
Just as she was searching for some small talk, two Arabic men in suits joined them. The taller one, carrying a screwdriver, immediately set about refixing the bracket that had held the sword. The other suit, a plump man with a tag that proclaimed he was Tarik ben Abdel, the consulate administration manager, sent her a disapproving glance. He then button-holed Gabe and launched into a tirade in a liquid tongue she recognized as Zahiri.
Gabe cut him off with a flat, soft phrase, although Sarah was distracted from the exchange. Graham had appeared just yards away, head swiveling as if he had finally remembered to search for her. His gaze passed over her then shot back to linger on the hint of cleavage at the V of her dress. When he fished in his pocket for his cell phone and turned away, an irritated look on his face, she realized that, aside from checking out her chest, he had failed to recognize her.
Tarik, with a last disapproving glance at her, marched away, the second suit trailing behind. She noticed that the sword was once again affixed to the display.
Sarah was suddenly blazingly aware that the tall dark man hadn’t left as she had expected him to and that he was studying her with an enigmatic expression, as if he’d logged the exchange with Graham.
Still mortified at the fuss she’d created, she rushed to apologize. “I read the sign. I know I shouldn’t have touched the sword, that artifacts can be vulnerable to skin oils and salts—”
“Tarik wasn’t worried that the sword might be damaged. It survived the Third Crusade, so a fall onto soft carpet is hardly likely to cause harm. He was more concerned about the tradition that goes with the sword.”
Understanding dawned. If there had been a pre-eminent symbol of manhood in the Middle Ages, it had been the sword, and this had been a Templar sword. “Of course, the Templar vow of chastity.”
Amusement gleamed in his gaze. “And a superstition that a woman’s touch would somehow disable a warrior’s potency in battle.”
A curious warmth hummed through her as she realized that, as nerve-racking as the exchange had started out, she was actually enjoying talking to the most dangerously attractive man she had ever met. “Sounds more like a convenient way of shifting blame for a lackluster performance on the battlefield.”
“Possibly.” Gabe’s mouth kicked up at one corner, softening the line of his jaw and revealing the slightest hint of an indentation. “But, back then, on Zahir, if a woman handled a man’s sword, it was also viewed as a declaration of intent.”
Breath held, Sarah found herself waiting for the dimple to be more fully realized. “What if she was simply curious?”
His gaze locked with hers and a tension far more acute than any she had experienced in her dream flared to life. “Then the warrior might demand a forfeit. Although most of the Templars that landed on Zahir eventually gave up their vows.”
“Including the sheikh, who married.”
The cooling of his expression as she mentioned marriage was like a dash of cold water. For the second time she wondered if he was married. Disappointment cascaded through her at the thought. A glance at his left hand confirmed there was no ring, although that meant nothing. He could be married, with children, and never wear a ring.
A faint buzz emanated from his jacket pocket. With a frown that sent a dart of pleasure through her, because it conveyed that he didn’t want to be interrupted, he excused himself and half turned away to take the call.
Unsettled and on edge because she was clearly developing an unhealthy fascination for a complete stranger, Sarah remembered her glass of wine. As she took a steadying sip, her cell phone chimed. Setting the glass back down, she rummaged in her handbag and found the phone and another text from Graham. Although there was nothing romantic or even polite about the words. Where are you?
Annoyed at his blunt irritation, the cavalier way he hadn’t bothered to meet her as they had arranged, Sarah punched the delete key. She might be a victim of the love game, but she would not be a doormat. Temper on a slow simmer, she shoved the phone back in her handbag.
Gabe terminated his call. “Are you with someone? I noticed you came in alone.”
Suddenly the tension was thick enough to cut, although she couldn’t invest the knowledge that he had noticed her entrance with too much importance. She was the only person dressed in red in a sea of black and gray; of course he had noticed her. “Uh, I was supposed to meet someone...”
“A man.”
She crushed the urge to say she wasn’t meeting another man; that would have been a lie. “Yes.”
He nodded, his expression remote, but she was left with the unmistakable impression that if she had said she was alone the evening might have taken a more exciting turn than she could ever expect with Graham.
His expression suddenly neutral, Gabe checked his watch. “If you’ll excuse me. I have a call to make.”
Sarah squashed a plunging sense of disappointment. As he walked away, she forced herself to look around for Graham.
She spotted him across the room involved in an animated discussion with a man wearing a business suit and a kaffiyeh, the traditional Arabic headdress. She studied the Arab man, who she assumed must be the sheikh. She had read a lot about Zahir, but most of it had been history, since Zahir was a small, peaceful country that didn’t normally make the news. She knew that the sheikh was on the elderly side, and that he had married a New Zealander, a woman who had originally come from Wellington, which explained Zahir’s close ties with her country.
She strolled closer just as the man with the kaffiyeh moved away and finally managed to make eye contact with Graham.
The blankness of his expression changed to incredulity. “You.”
Not for the first time Sarah looked at Graham and wondered how such a pleasantly handsome man could inspire little more in her than annoyance. “That’s right, your date.”
He shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “If you’d told me you were going to change your appearance—”
Her jaw locked at Graham’s unflattering response, as if the act of putting on a dress, a little extra makeup and messing with her hair was some kind of disguise. “This is how I look.”
He stared at her mouth, making her wonder if she’d been a little too heavy on the berry lip gloss. “Not usually. If you had, we might have hit it off
