"Tomorrow we will return. See to it that all is in order for Dr. Harper. I have given my promise she will have access."
"And how do you know she won't steal books? Or worse, ruin them! What if she brings her American cola in here and spills one on—"
"Spill a soda?" Christine turned to face Sahl, her voice crackling and her eyes hot. "I will have you know I have reading privileges at the Peterborough and the Bodleian, as well as being responsible for cataloging my father's rather extensive collection. We in New Hampshire love our libraries."
Sahl stiffened, and Arif could see an argument brewing that might well end with Sahl forbidding Christine from setting foot in his domain again—or even worse, the old man might have a stroke. A vein throbbed near his forehead.
He had no idea what the Peterborough was, but the Bodleian—the Bod—had been his stomping grounds at Oxford. He was impressed, even if Sahl wasn't. Arif took hold of Christine's elbow.
"Tomorrow, Sahl. We shall arrive no later than ten in the morning. Please be ready to provide a tour and full access." He stressed the last words and then hurried Christine from the archives before Sahl—or Christine—could protest. Or start a war.
Once outside the sandalwood door, Christine turned on him, her arms crossed and shoulders hunched. "Are you going back on your deal? Was your offer just a…a ploy to get me to stay?"
Arif held up his hands. "Sahl takes his position most seriously. Would you trust a man who was not protective of the treasures of Zahkim?"
Some of the heat left her eyes, and her arms fell to her sides. "Well, when you put it that way…I suppose I could spend the day organizing my research notes."
Arif smiled. "Oh, I have a much better idea."
Christine eyed the horse with about the same level of distrust she thought the horse was giving back. The last time she'd swung a leg over any animal, she'd been eight and had walked her aunt's old mule once around the barn. He'd had two paces—amble and stop. This creature, with her exotic flaxen and red coloring, large brown eyes, arched neck, dainty hooves, and high tail, looked as if she came off a carousel or a wedding cake. Drinkers of the Wind—that was what many Arabs called their horses, and this one looked as if she could not only drink it but fly on it as well. At least the saddle seemed large and safe, with a high front and back. But Christine didn't trust her skills on anything that wasn't automatic.
She glanced over at Sheikh Arif, who stood talking to the grooms closer to the entrance of the barn aisle where they stood. His horse—as black as her mare’s mane and tale were pale—nudged the sheikh, and he absently dug into a pocket and produced a treat for his mount. Christine's heart softened. She looked away. She'd always been a sucker for guys who loved animals, and it seemed Sheikh Arif was loved at least by his horse. Also by his grooms, judging by the way they kept smiling and laughing, sharing a joke of some kind. Her Arabic was good, but the grooms had a local accent and spoke so fast she could only catch one word in three. She hoped they weren't saying something about the Westerner who didn't look as if she knew what to do with a horse.
Holding out a hand to let the mare sniff her fingers, she said, "Make you a deal, I won't make your life hard if you don't make this ride hard for me." The mare blew out her nose and turned aside as if she wasn't offering any promises. Christine gave a sigh. Sheikh Arif stepped away from the grooms and came over to her.
"I will help you mount." It wasn't a question, and before Christine had time to tell him she could manage, he'd gripped her waist and tossed her up onto the saddle. She sat sideways, and Sheikh Arif grinned at her. "I see we need a few lessons. Throw your leg over. Here are your reins, but Tayr will listen better if you talk to her."
She rearranged herself, using his shoulder to keep herself from falling.
"Tayr—bird?" Christine smiled and relaxed a little once she sat astride. "She is like a bird."
She gathered up the leather reins. She'd changed her sandals and trousers for jeans and soft boots and had shoved a cloth boonie on her head, but now she wished she could copy the sheikh's traditional garb of loose white trousers, high black boots, and keffiyeh. They looked far more dashing—or maybe that was just Sheikh Arif.
He walked away and swung up onto his horse. Glancing at her, he smiled. "You are ready?"
"Ready or not," she muttered. She clucked to the mare and dug in her heels. The mare gave a squeal and trotted over to the sheikh's horse, then stopped.
Arif smiled and shook his head. Reaching down, he stroked his horse's neck, but his eyes never left Christine's face. Heat that had nothing to do with the warming day crept into her face. "This is Mahbouba," he said, his voice soft.
Beloved. She translated the word in her head. The way he'd said it, as if the word itself was a caress, had her thinking it was meant for her as well, and not just for his huge black mare. A smile curved his lips as if he knew he'd unsettled her. "She is Tayr's dam—her mother."
Christine sat a little straighter. "Well, perhaps she can tell Tayr to behave and take pity on me. Now where are we going?"
Sheikh Arif put his horse into a slow jog, and Tayr seemed content to follow her mother. Christine was happy about that. The heat hit as soon as they left the thick walls and shade of the barn. Arif urged his horse to a faster pace, and Tayr followed. Christine clutched the saddle but soon relaxed; Tayr was as smooth a ride as any carousel horse. Arif struck out for the desert, following a path between the sand dunes and the rocky areas.
It was better than flying, Christine decided. The horses skimmed over the ground, surefooted and steady. She relaxed and let her body follow Tayr's easy lope. All too soon, Arif slowed the pace to a walk as their horses climbed a hill. They crested the top and the green of date palms and blue of an oasis came into view, water sparkling in the sunlight. Two black tents fluttered in the hot, dry breeze, and black-robed nomads stopped to stare at the riders.
Arif turned in the saddle. "Are you ready for a break? This is the Amin oasis."
Fussing with the reins, she asked, "Aren't we interrupting these people?"
He smiled, white teeth flashing against the black of his beard and mustache. "I've arranged a feast with the nomads of Zahkim. How can you understand the archives of Zahkim if you do not understand our people?"
She stared at him, mouth dry, heart thudding. This was like something from a fairy tale—the exotic sheikh stealing her away to his desert oasis. He looked the part, with his keffiyeh fluttering in the breeze, his easy smile, the sunlight turning his skin bronze. He sat on his horse as if he had been riding all his life, which he must have been.
Christine looked away and told herself not to be foolish. She just wasn't the kind of girl that guys fell for—certainly not instantly. She was too serious. Too focused. And, frankly, too obsessed with history. She usually bored a date to death with facts and trivia, just as she had this morning on the way to the archives. She could have kicked herself for prattling on like she had earlier, telling Arif things he had to already know.
And then Tayr was following Mahbouba down to the oasis, and she had to cling to the saddle as the horse broke into a fast jog.