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Rolling off her, he gathered her in his arms. “You still have a mind? I have not done my job.”
She gave a low laugh. “Oh, honey, if that’s not the heights of passion, then Texas ain’t a real state. Mind if I just keep floating?”
Her fingers stilled, and Malid heard a call from outside. He stiffened, listened a moment, and then extracted himself from her arms. “Wait.”
Grabbing his trousers, he pulled them on and headed outside. There was no need of more words. He could smell the change in the wind, and sand brushed his cheek. He gave a nod to the man who had called for him, gave orders for the care of the camels, and headed back into the tent to Nigella.
He tossed her the clothes she had discarded earlier. “Get dressed. Quickly.” Pulling on his tunic, he reached for his boots.
Nigella slid off the pillows. She looked ravished—her hair rumpled and her face still flushed. But her eyes were alert. “What’s wrong?”
“Sandstorm. We need to take shelter.”
She glanced around them. “Don’t we have shelter here?”
“Quickly, the storm is almost upon us. I will explain, but later.”
Thank the heavens, she didn’t take time to put everything back on—just the long shift and loose pants. Malid tossed her headdress to her, and she settled it over her tangled hair.
He wrapped his keffiyeh around his own head. The flaps of the tent flew open and wind pushed sand inside.
Leaning close to Nigella, he put an arm around her waist and said, “Keep your nose and mouth closed and covered.” Pulling her with him, they left the smaller tent. Nigella staggered next to him.
Half blind from the sand, he found his way to the largest tent—the one meant for meals and safely. Inside, he had to push past three layers of carpet and coverings to reach the interior. He glanced around, doing a quick head count. The camels were here, sheltered in a corner, munching grass as if wind was not buffeting the tent like a living thing trying to claw its way inside.
Nigella pressed closed to his side—she wasn’t shaking, however. He was proud of her for that. The howls of the wind increased. Malid noticed his people had things well in hand. A fire had been started, mint tea had been set to brew, and the supplies had been brought inside.
Leading Nigella to a pile of pillows, he sat and pulled her down next to him. “We must wait until the wind passes. Close your eyes and try to rest.”
She gave him a look as if he was asking the impossible, but she curled up on the pillows. A short time later, he glanced down and saw she had fallen into a light sleep. He brushed the scarf back from her face, and accepted a cup of mint tea. No one spoke much—they were all listening to see if the wind would tear apart the smaller tents, or if it would grow into a monster that might even bring down this tent.
Gradually, the howl softened and lessened. Everyone waited. Malid dozed a little. Daylight beg
an to slip through the tent opening, and everyone began to stir. Leaning over Nigella, Malid touched her shoulder.
Her eyes opened, she sat up and took a shallow breath. “It is safe. I thought the winds would tear everything apart.”
“The small tents will have to be checked for damage, but the support beams for this one are sunk deep. It would take a much stronger storm to uproot this tent. That is why everyone took refuge here.” Malid tipped her chin up so she had to meet his eyes. “Never go outside during a sandstorm. Ever. The sand can choke you. If you are caught outside, bury yourself against a dune under a rug or next to your camel.”
Nigella nodded. “Trust me, that shouldn’t be a problem.” She yawned and glanced around. “Is that breakfast I smell cooking?” She wrinkled her nose. “Or is it camel.”
He grinned. “You are a woman of appetites. Now, after breakfast would you like another swim or to see more of the countryside?”
She smiled. “I had something else in mind.”
Chapter 8
Malid was no longer certain who was seducing whom. Nigella surprised him. While she was cautious when it came to business, in bed she was demanding, adventurous, and he adored the way she softened to his passions. They spent the morning in the tent, the afternoon touring Al-Sarid, covering miles on camel, discussing terms and possibilities. At those times, Nigella was cool and distant, a hard-headed business woman.
At night they dined outside under the stars and retired to the tent. Malid stripped her bare and got his wish to blindfold her eyes and tie her hands and do what he wanted with her. He tormented her with kisses and touches until she was begging for more and he was shaking with need for her, and then he plunged into her, claiming her again.
The next morning over breakfast, Malid hashed out with the terms he could present to his father—Opell Oil would pay an additional twenty percent for the land. Opell Oil would be deeded the land the pipeline sat upon and a buffer of four feet on either side, but if the company should ever abandon the pipeline—which would include stopping production due to leaks, or the sale of its Middle East operations and holdings—the land would revert back to the ownership of the Adjalane’s. In addition, Opell Oil would give the Adjalane rights to use the land for eternity, and all water rights on the land would remain with the Adjalane family. Malid sweetened the offer with exclusive rights to negotiate with the Adjalane for additional leases to house wind or solar power operations.
Malid was confident his father would accept those terms. The danger had always been that, at some point, Opell Oil would sell off its Middle East holdings, including any land they had purchased in Al-Sarid.
They shook hands on the deal, and it took all of Malid’s will power not to pull Nigella closer for a kiss to seal the deal. The whine of a helicopter, however, interrupted. He stepped outside the tent to see Fadin hunched over as he hurried out from under the blades. When he told Nigella a helicopter had arrived to take them back to the city, she’d smiled but she had also shaken her head.
“Don’t get me wrong, it will be great to get back—but…” She glanced around the oasis. “I’m going to miss this.”
