Arif was pleased to see all had been arranged—a feast fit for a sultan, the music of his people playing on the stringed oud and a flute. Christine looked as if she belonged, now, in her black thobe and veil. She smoothed the garments and sat on one of the pillows arranged on the rugs inside the tent.
"Thanks for the fresh clothes,” she said. “I was more than sweaty from the heat and the ride."
"All my pleasure." He had left the flap of the tent tied open to allow in the scent of the cooling desert. The sun hung in the western sky like an orange ball. It was not yet late, but in this season, the cool of the evening came early. Mahbouba and Tayr stood nearby, content with their grass and water.
Christine glanced over her shoulder at the horses. "They're like big dogs. Are they housebroken?"
With a grin, Arif poured mint tea into tiny, gold-trimmed glasses. "Never mind the horses. Try this first. And then what is your pleasure?" Christine's cheeks flushed, and Arif smoothly added, "Lamb, chicken, breads, fruits, or something sweeter?"
She took the glass from him. Their fingers brushed, and a small shock traveled up his arm. He wanted to pull her close, lay her back on the pillows, and kiss her. But he could not with black-veiled women moving in and out of the tent to see to their dinner.
"Why does everything you say seem to have a double meaning?" she asked, and then sipped her tea.
"Perhaps because you are looking for something more?" Arif took her free hand and kissed her palm.
Heat flooded through Christine. The sheikh looked up at her from under long, dark lashes. "'To love is to kiss, to touch hand or arm or to send lett
ers whose spells are stronger than witchcraft.'"
Face hot, she pulled her hand away—or tried to. Sheikh Arif wasn't letting go, and short of dumping her tea over his head she couldn’t think what to do. She tried for a prim tone. "The only letters of interest to me are those in the palace archive. Can we start early tomorrow?"
He shook his head and let go of her. Putting a hand to his chest, he quoted, "'I would split open my heart with a knife, place you within and seal my wound, that you might dwell there.'"
Christine laughed. "Okay—now you are laying it on a little thick. Whose poem is that?"
"Ah, you have found me out. Those are ancient Arabic poems. Are you not pleased? What more could a woman ask for—fine food, a perfect afternoon, a man who is laying his heart before you."
"Well…I am impressed. Back home, I'm lucky to even find a guy who likes to read."
Tipping his head to one side, he studied her. "Are the men where you live blind that they do not read and do not appreciate a woman such as you?"
"No, they just prefer a girl who isn't too much of a bookworm. I don't get out much."
"Ah, well, that is because you were fated to be mine." He smiled and turned to select pieces of fruit from the plate.
She frowned. He seemed utterly sincere, but she couldn't help but think maybe this was just a line he used on women to get them into bed.
And would that be so bad?
She knew the answer—it wouldn't be bad at all. She snuck a glance at him—straight nose, strong jaw, those dark eyes and the sweep of black lashes over them. He'd taken off his keffiyeh and his boots. He had strong feet, elegant hands. She liked those long fingers of his and tried not to imagine how they'd feel, stroking over her skin. It wouldn't be at all bad to have a fling with him. The trick would be not losing her heart and her head. How dangerous was it to mix pleasure and the business at hand of getting to the research she needed?
Sheikh Arif offered her a date with his fingers. "Try this. The honey and spices are an old recipe from my great-great-grandmother." He held up the date. She put up her hand to take it, but he pulled back and shook his head. Smiling, she let him pop the date into her mouth. Her tongue slipped over his finger. His eyes darkened, the pupil expanding. Her breath caught. Sweetness exploded in her mouth, but all she could think about was how beautiful he looked.
She swallowed and tried to focus on the feast spread out before them, but the sheikh caught her chin and turned her face to him. For an instant, she couldn't breathe, couldn't move. His eyes held her captive. There seemed to be such need in those depths—such longing. He moved closer, and when his mouth covered hers, Christine closed her eyes.
Chapter Five
Ah, but she was beautiful—his Christine. And such an innocent. Her eyes fluttered closed, but Arif kept his open. He wanted to remember everything about this instant. The way her lashes looked against her pale skin. How she tasted of honey. How her scent—something warm and musky—mixed with the earthy spices of the meal. How she opened to him like a flower to the warmth of spring.
He kept one hand on her chin and the other on the rug to anchor himself. That kiss—something so simple—seemed to set him on fire. He had kissed her last night as a promise. But this was more. He drank her down like a man parched by the desert, exploring her mouth with his tongue, taking his time, drawing a moan from her that had him hard in an instant.
Pulling back, he could see that her breathing had quickened and her pulse beat in her throat. He wanted to press her back against the rug, strip her clothes off one by one and take her here and now. But there were the servers to consider. He would do nothing to embarrass them or his Christine.
Instead, he pulled a ring from his little finger, a square-cut sapphire set flush in gold. He glanced down. His Christine had strong hands—large for her size. He judged the ring would fit. He put it onto her finger—not her ring finger, but the third finger of her right hand. "When you are ready, move this to your left hand, and I will know you are willing to be my wife."
Her cheeks pinked. She touched a finger to the ring. "I couldn't possibly accept this. It's…it must be worth a fortune."
"A prize beyond price for a woman beyond measure. Please, you must. It’s a perfect fit, which is a sign that we are indeed meant to be."