Heather Graham (13 page)

She bit her lip softly as the two began to exchange a few words in Arabic. It was true, she had to admit grudgingly, that they both seemed concerned for her. Yes, she even had to give that credit to D’Alesio.

“I am sorry,” the sheikh apologized quickly. “There are some things that only make sense in one language, you understand.”

“Certainly,” Alex murmured, sweeping her lashes over her eyes. Certainly, my foot! she thought. She had seen a soft smile creep onto Ali’s lips, and she knew that he was aware of exactly how she had come into his camp, and that he found the entire incident amusing.

She never remembered hating any male with such venom before in her life as she did D’Alesio, even when she had fought to keep her head above water in her profession.

The sheikh rose. Alex’s interview was at an end and there wasn’t a thing in the world she could do about it. She offered her hand to the sheikh, and he accepted it. “We will speak again in the morning,” he promised her.

“Thank you,” Alex said dispiritedly.

D’Alesio’s hand was upon her arm again, and she accepted it with weary resignation. Maybe in the morning. …

The tent was a blur to her as she left it, fighting tears. She had come through all this to finally meet Sheriff—only to be packed up and sent off as if she were a statue herself. Not that either Sheriff or D’Alesio could force her to go home. They could, perhaps, force her out of the United Arab Emirates, but she would go on to Egypt, and they couldn’t stop her. If the answer to her father’s disappearance lay with Haman, she couldn’t—absolutely couldn’t—leave. It was all so unfair! Just because she was an unattached woman. …

Bile rose in her stomach, and for a moment her hate extended to her ex-husband. If he had only been there when she had needed him, she wouldn’t be alone and unattached now.

“Here we are, Doctor,” Daniel D’Alesio said, and Alex realized she had walked blindly with him back to her own tent. She had barely even noted that Abbott and Costello were still standing sentinel outside the flap. But they were still there and she had known they would be.

“Why are those two goons still standing there?” she demanded sharply.

“For your own safety,” Dan replied firmly, adding casually, “Have a nice sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Sleep?” she murmured vaguely, wondering herself at first why she was staring at him so peculiarly. “I slept all afternoon. It’s early.”

D’Alesio shrugged. “Well, you can sleep or twiddle your thumbs. I’d try to entertain you, but I promised Ali a poker game—he picked up a real penchant for poker at Yale.”

“I thought Muslims were not allowed to gamble.”

“We don’t gamble; we play for matchsticks.”

She was still staring at him, slowly realizing that an embryo of an idea was growing within her. He frowned suddenly, and she was treated to the sharpening of his jet eyes and the wary knitting of his brows.

“D’Alesio …” she murmured slowly, despising herself for what she was about to request. It was still too easy to remember how he had grappled with her, abducted her, and taunted her. And held her. Mesmerized her with that electric power. His touch was quicksand; he was terrifying. He was the enemy, but he was also the only friend she had.

“What?” he demanded impatiently.

Alex swallowed, not allowing herself to clear her throat. Her palms felt clammy and her mouth dry. She tried to sound entirely casual. “You’re not married, are you?”

“What’s that got to do with—oh, no!” His teeth flashed white across his mocking features as he laughed dryly. “Oh, no, Doctor! I have no intention of marrying you merely to keep a time bomb around!”

“It wouldn’t be for real!” Alex protested. “Lord knows, I despise you! And it’s my own neck—”

“Leave it to a woman who would break into a man’s bathroom to demand that he marry her while informing him she despises him!”

“I’m sorry …”

“Forget it.”

“I can’t!”

Something of her determination sounded through the two simple words. Dan crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back slightly, watching her with an amused and mocking curiosity.

“Sorry,” he said again softly. “I never make a deal that doesn’t hold some benefit for me. This one spells only one thing: trouble.”

He turned and started walking out of the tent.

“Wait!” Alex pleaded.

He stopped and turned to her with arched brows.

“At least tell me you’ll think about it.”

His answer was not long in coming.

“No,” he said firmly. “I will
not
think about it.” He chuckled suddenly, leaving Alex with no idea of whether he next was speaking seriously or merely tauntingly, as if daring her, calling her bluff.

“Change the proposal to a proposition, Doctor, and we might be in business. I’m not the marrying kind, but even for a proposition, you’d have to be very, very persuasive.” He cocked a brow with a dry humor that left her staring at him blankly at first, incredulous, and then ready to hurtle herself at him again in blind fury.

“Get out of here, you—”

He laughed easily. “I’m going, Doctor. Good night.”

He exited the tent to head back for his poker game.

Alex spent the next several minutes trying to cool her temper, and then she spent the next several hours staring at the silk billowing from the canopy over her bed.

Somewhere stars were shining over an Arabian night.

To Alex, darkness had never been more bleak.

I
T WAS POSSIBLE TO KNOCK
at a tent flap.

Alex woke with little disorientation to hear a soft rapping against the tent. She shot up from the silken cocoon of the bed, gazing about for a quick covering to slip over the very sheer nightgown she had discovered the night before, then reached for the light silk morning robe someone had thoughtfully left at the foot of her bed. She automatically smoothed back her hair while walking toward the flap.

Her early-morning visitor was none other than the sheikh. He entered with a wide smile and a cheerful good morning, and clapped his hands lightly so that his entrance was immediately followed by that of the young Arab woman she had seen the previous day. The girl carried a silver tray with various covered dishes.

“I have brought you some breakfast,” Ali Sur Sheriff announced politely. His smile became deeper, and Alex was impressed with the nonchalance of his natural charm. “It is not the custom within our tribe to dine with our women, but since you have so obligingly accustomed yourself to our world, I shall accustom myself to yours. Besides, that is one pleasure I miss when I am not in the West—that of breakfasting with a beautiful face before me.”

Alex grinned at his compliment without demurring. Though the sheikh might be faithful to his four wives, he was a man with a natural way with women. For a man of his religion and race, he had a strangely respectful and gentle attitude. “Thank you,” she murmured as the tray was set down and the inevitable Arabian coffee was set to heat by the young woman. Alex was next offered a steaming and fragrant cloth to cleanse her face and hands. She murmured a
Min fadlak
, and the lovely Arabian smiled brightly beneath her veil.

Sheriff caught the girl’s hand when she would have quietly departed. “Dr. Randall, you must formally meet Shahalla. She is my number-one wife.”

The girl flushed and shyly lowered her head. “How do you do, Shahalla,” Alex murmured, aware that the girl spoke no English but assuming she would recognize the tone of greeting. She wondered with an edge of rebellion if Shahalla shouldn’t be offended. The sheikh was breakfasting with her, when he wouldn’t do so with his own wife.

But Alex couldn’t afford to be offended herself, or to say anything about women’s rights. It was not the time or place, and she needed to wedge her own way into Ali Sur Sheriff’s good graces. Somehow she had to convince him that she should stay!

The girl said something back in Arabic, smiled at Sheriff, and continued on out of the tent.

“She is a very beautiful girl,” Alex told Sheriff, “with a lovely name.”

“Yes,” Sheriff said, taking his place on the Persian rug. “Shahalla is a blessing from Allah.” He glanced up at Alex. “You will join me, please.”

Alex quickly sat in front of him. The sheikh began to prepare her a plate. “Here … we have traditional ‘fool.’ You know what this is?”

“Black beans, I believe,” Alex murmured.

“Yes!” Sheriff seemed pleased with her knowledge. “And, of course, a serving of our white cheeses … some halava—a sugary type of confection—and some of the very best falafel you will ever taste! Shahalla is an excellent cook.”

Alex accepted the plate. She had seen the Arabic dishes listed on many menus before, but she had always opted for the security of the bacon and eggs offered by the various Egyptian hotels she had stayed in—hotels that catered to tourists. Smiling at Sheriff, she decided to test her stomach on the falafel first.

It was excellent—crispy, delicious. Surprise must have registered on her face because Sheriff laughed and said proudly, “Dr. Randall, I told you Shahalla was one of the finest cooks in the world!”

Alex flushed, then laughed along with him. “I must admit, Sheikh Sheriff, that for all my time in Egypt, I have neglected to allow my taste buds to explore. This is wonderful. What is it?”

“Falafel is merely fool, ground and fried. It is the spices and care in preparation that make it so palatable.”

“Then you are blessed, Ali Sur Sheriff,” Alex said lightly, “for your wife is beautiful and surely talented.”

He was staring at her with a peculiar twinkle in his eyes. “You are not offended?”

Alex frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Sheriff extended an all-encompassing arm about the tent. “By our life-style.”

“No, of course not. Why would I be?”

“You are an American—and a doctor in a rare field. Surely we seem archaic to you!”

Alex hesitated, forming her reply carefully. “This is, yes, a very different way of life. I could not accept your standards because I was not raised in them. I am my father’s only child. He raised me to believe in myself, and to work for what I wanted out of life. It is hard for an American woman to accept others of her sex being thought of only as second-class citizens. But it is not my right to judge your life—or the lives of your wives. Shahalla appears to be very happy.”

Sheriff thoughtfully chewed upon his falafel and bit down on a soft piece of white cheese before speaking again. “I was married to an American woman once. Perhaps if she had been more like you, my life would now be different. Ah, well, that is all in the past. And now, if you don’t mind, I would like to learn more about Alexandria Crosby Randall. Why are you divorced?”

Alex flushed slightly at the inquisitive and forthright question. Had another man asked her something so personal, she would have been offended. But it was difficult to resent the query from the sheikh with the dark and gentle eyes.

“It is hard to say,” she told him with a grimace and a shrug. “My husband—my ex-husband—is also an Egyptologist. We were married while I was still working toward my doctorate. It’s strange,” Alex mused, casting a wry glance at Sheriff, “but one would have thought we would have been perfect for each other—two people with a passion for a dead and ancient past! But once I graduated and took a position with a museum, things started … they just started going wrong. We quarreled over everything. And—” Alex broke off suddenly, staring at Sheriff. How did one explain to a man with four wives how she had been unable to handle Wayne’s admissions that he had been casually sleeping around.

“Please,” Ali murmured, “go on.”

Alex smiled softly. “You have been around the world, I understand, Ali, so I am sure that you understand we believe in monogamous marriages. My husband told me he had been sleeping with women he had met in various nightclubs—and that he would continue to do so unless I gave up my job and promised that I would—that I would be at home for his convenience at all times.”

Sheriff was laughing. Alex felt a heated anger growing within her, but the sheikh apologized quickly. “I am not laughing at your problem but at your reticence in explaining it to me—and your choice of words!” He moved to pour the coffee, which was well heated by now. “So, your husband was not worth your staying home for?”

Alex sipped her coffee while debating how to answer the question. “Ali, I loved him very much. I still love him. It’s very difficult to explain. I worked very hard for my doctorate, and I care very much about my work. I don’t think that I am a fanatical liberationist—I love keeping a home, and I love to cook. But I am also a trained Egyptologist. To give up my work would be to give up part of myself. Wayne always knew that part of me existed. It’s possible to be so insanely in love that you’ll promise to change anything, but I don’t believe that can really help a relationship. If you try to change too strenuously, you will eventually grow to resent the person who caused you to lose so much. I never worked ridiculous hours, and our home was always a home. Can you understand that I did love Wayne but also knew that a lopsided partnership couldn’t last?”

Sheriff contemplatively stirred more sugar into his coffee.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I can understand that.” He sipped his coffee again, and his expression told Alex that the sugar content was perfect. “I was curious, you see, because our friend Dan mentioned to me over our poker game last night that you asked him to marry you.”

Alex had been sipping her own coffee. To her dismay, she choked and gasped and sprayed the Persian rug with her coffee. She grasped hastily for a napkin to sop up the mess.

Sheriff caught her hand. “Please do not worry—it can be cleaned. I did not mean to startle you so.”

“I—I—” Alex stuttered. “I didn’t believe that Mr. D’Alesio would bring up such a subject.”

“You are not very fond of my friend, are you, Alex?”

“Well—I—I—” What could she say? She needed the sheikh, as she needed Dan. She certainly didn’t want to offend the sheikh by telling him she found D’Alesio to be a royal bastard.

“You are still angry over his charade of yesterday.” Sheriff shrugged. “If we had known you were Jim’s daughter … but we didn’t, and what is done, is done.”