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Adilan poured her lemonade from a glass carafe. He held up what looked like a small pastry made of layers of flaky dough and smelling of honey. “This is a specialty of Al-Sarid. You must try it.”
She didn’t see any way to take the pastry from him, so she let him put it in her mouth. Her lips closed over his fingers and her tongue brushed his fingertip. His eyes darkened. She swallowed the morsel of sweetness. “What is it?”
“Dates, honey—and spices. The recipe is known only to three cooks in Al-Sarid, and each bakery claims to have invented the dish. Try the lamb now.” He wrapped a small chunk of meat in the flat bread and held it up for her to take it from his fingers.
“Uh, I can manage,” she told him.
He shook his head. “It is custom to feed a guest. In turn, you may choose to feed me.”
She bit down on her lower lip. She wasn’t sure if he was feeding her a line more than any food, but she glanced over and saw one of the robed women watching them. The woman rolled her eyes, a giggle was smothered, and Michelle straightened. She wasn’t letting anyone think she was some stupid American who couldn’t adopt local customs.
Leaning forward, she parted her lips. Adilan placed the lamb on her tongue, and whispered, “Savor it.”
She let the meat linger on her tongue. Spices exploded in her mouth—a mix of mint, thyme, something sweet, and something a little tart. The bread seemed to melt away, and the lamb—she’d never had anything so good.
Glancing over at the women serving them, she saw expectation in the woman’s dark eyes. Michelle scooted a little closer to Adilan. She swept up one of the honey dates with her fingers—there were no forks, not even so much as a napkin—and held it up for him. Green eyes dancing, Adilan opened his lips. She fed him the date, and his mouth closed on her thumb and fore finger.
His tongue darted out, licking the last touch of sweetness from her thumb. Shock darted up her hand to her heart, sending it skidding fast. She licked her lips.
Adilan leaned even closer. She could smell his scent, something musky and warm. “I have a surprise for you.” Standing, he held out his hand to her. She put her hand in his and he pulled her to her feet.
He kept her hand as he walked her to the front of the tent. There stood a tan camel—the kind with one hump. A tasseled saddle sat on the animal’s back and a matching tasseled bridle wrapped around its head. The camel turned and stared at Michelle with dark eyes and the most ridiculously long eye lashes. Then it gave a belch that smelled like something fermenting and a loud, grumbling complaint.
Michelle eased closer to Adilan. “I don’t think it likes me.”
“She.” He stepped forward and held out a date that the camel quickly found and ate. “This is Dena. And we are going to see the Zia oasis from her back.
Chapter 8
Michelle gave him a sideways glance and stepped back. “Adilan, I don’t even know how to ride a horse.”
It was the first time she had used his name. A surprising touch of something wrapped around his heart. He frowned. He did not know why it should matter to him how—or even if—she spoke his name, but suddenly he wanted to hear her say it again.
He put a hand on her waist. “Never fear, we will be riding tandem.”
She gave him another look that made him want to laugh—she was so suspicious, his American. Giving orders, he had soft boots brought to Michelle and for himself—good desert boots made of goatskin. He took the reins and stick from the boy who had brought Dena to the tent and he tapped the camel on her leg to ask her to lie down so they could mount.
Dena complained as always, but it was a good sign that she had not spit at Michelle. Settling Michelle in front, Adilan swung his leg over the camel’s back, and gave Dena the command to stand. She did so, lurching up in front and then behind. Michelle gave a gasp, then a giggle.
Adilan tapped Dena on the shoulder and then on the haunch and he steered her away from the tent.
“You sure she’s safe?” Michelle asked.
“More so than any car. She is a ship of the desert.” He set off to show Michelle the land.
He wasn’t sure what part of good sense had come into play when he’d decided to take Miche
lle for a camel ride. She was sitting in front of him, her nicely rounded ass pressing against his groin. The rocking of the camel forced her against him and then away—all too stimulating a move.
He wrapped his arms around Michelle so he could guide Dena, and that put him into even closer proximity to her. If he turned his head a fraction, he could nuzzle her ear, licking the skin beneath her earlobe.
Ah, but he was playing with fire. With the fire in her hair, and in her eyes. He wanted her—but he was the one who was supposed to seduce her into doing his bidding. Instead, all he could think of was how to make her smile again. How to make her laugh—and how to make her say his name again.
They spent a half hour touring the Zia oasis. He spoke of the dates palms that produced the sweetest fruit in all Al-Sarid, of the sweetness of the water. “There is a legend that if you bath in these waters, you will have great health, a long live, happiness, and true love.”
Michelle gave a laugh and glanced back at him. “Very romantic, but I’m not certain how water could do all that. And, what, no wealth?”
“In Al-Sarid, if a man has all the other things, he is considered very wealthy indeed. Do you care to put the legend to a test?”
