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Silence stretched out, and then Nimr said, “Very well. I will ensure you are not bothered.”
Wetting his lips, Malid wondered what else he should say. He could think of nothing, so he asked, “How is she? How is mother?” He smoothed his tie. He felt like cursing his father, but he had to admit he had brought this on himself. He had been the one who had wanted Al-Hilah back at any cost. Bitterness rose in his throat. He pulled in a breath and said, “Give mother my best and tell her I will see her shortly.” He cut off the call before Nimr could.
Outside, Fadin stood waiting next to the SUV. “Everything you asked for is in order. Did you speak with your father to clear the path?”
“I did.” Malid stuffed his hands into his pockets. “That man would keep me from seeing my mother before she dies.”
“Are you so sure she is that ill? Nimr, as you know better than most, is a master at deception—who else taught you to lie if you must, so long as you do not lose control?”
Malid frowned. Had his father really taught him that? Or was that something he had learned on his own? As the eldest of three boys, Malid had grown up competing for attention—to be the best. It had become an obsession, Malid knew, and now he wondered if perhaps he had learned the wrong lessons from his father. He shook his head. “I cannot lose focus. Gordon Michaels decided to come look over his daughter’s shoulder—and he is an American version of my father—arrogant, stubborn, certain his way is the only way.” A grin spread across Fadin’s face, and Malid demanded, “Why do you smile?”
“Forgive me, but it sounds as if you describe yourself. And now…what are you going to do with this American woman for three days?”
Malid smiled. “I am going to drag out negotiations until I get what I
want, of course.”
Chapter 5
Nigella was having the time of her life. Malid had taken care of everything, food—they ate a lovely picnic lunch on the road—water, and traditional clothing waiting for her when they reached the border of Al-Sarid. From there, they had driven for well over an hour before coming to a small, Bedouin encampment where several tents had been set up. Malid spoke to the nomads, and then told Nigella he had asked the two women to accompany Nigella and help her figure out traditional dress.
“It may seem strange to you, but I promise you will be more comfortable,” he’d told her.
She’d been amused, and had jokingly whispered to him that he could have helped her. His response still echoed in her ears. “Nigella, when I help you remove your clothing, it will not be to immediately put different ones back on your person.”
Face hot, she’d hurried into the tent, grateful the women helping her hadn’t understood any of the English—or so she hoped. The Bedouin in their black robes helped her remove her clothing, insisting she also remove her undergarments with their gestures and fast Arabic. She had tried to wave them off, but the older of the two women had scolded her in terms that were clear in any language and pushed the clothes into Nigella’s hands.
Reluctantly, Nigella had taken the light, cotton garments and quickly changed. The cropped shift and a pair of boy’s briefs hung loosely on her, and were immediately cooler than her western underwear. She would need to do some shopping if she was going to spend more time in this region.
They handed her a thin pair of loose trousers, a long-sleeve shirt of lightweight linen and several other layers. She had thought the black robes would be heavy and hot, but instead they seemed light and somehow managed to catch any breeze and allow it to slip onto her skin. Finally, they insisted she done a head scarf. She tried to resist, but the women wouldn’t let her out without the scarf. When it was done, the two women giggled and clapped their hands, then threw back the tent flap and gestured for her to follow. Nigella wondered what Malid would think of her new look.
She stepped from the tent, and he turned, his eyes brightening. He took her hand. “You are more beautiful than I could have hoped for.”
“Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself.”
Malid had changed as well, into the black tunic, loose trousers and robes of a nomad. The scarf that covered his head fell down to his waist. He tugged at her head scarf, arranging the folds of fabric around her shoulders and told her, “The length of the sides can be used to shield your face and mouth should it become necessary in case of sandstorms. We are going to be travelling by camel. Keep your hands and face covered as much as possible to shield your skin.”
The three Bedouin men led two, single-humped camels to them, and Nigella slipped a little bit behind Malid. The animals seemed dangerously tall and didn’t look at all friendly. “I’ve heard they spit,” she said.
Malid grinned. “Yes. So don’t stand in front of them. They also have terrible breath and can go for days without water. Is there a problem?”
She didn’t want to ruin the excursion, but common sense and self-preservation had gone to high alert. “I don’t think I can ride one of those things by myself.”
“Of course you can. But would you feel better if we rode tandem?”
Relief swept into her. It would be just her luck to get the bad-tempered beast and have it run off with her. If Malid was driving, she was not going to end up looking like a silly, screaming girl.
Malid turned and gave instructions to the camel handlers, who shrugged and swapped saddles.
Several satchels were fasted to the second camel, and when Nigella asked about that, Malid told her, “Supplies. I intend for us to reach our destination around dusk, but one never travels in the desert without survival in mind.”
“Uh, maybe we should just take a vehicle?”
“Nonsense. Wheels more easily become stuck in sand. And I want you to experience my country in all of its glory. This is the best way to do that—you cannot know the land without becoming one with nature. Now, let me assist you up and I will follow.”
Malid tapped the camel’s front leg. It let out a donkey-like bray but went down on its knees and lay down. The camel had rich, long lashes over big, dark eyes, but Nigella wasn’t fooled. The beast was chewing something and kept giving her sideways glances, as if just looking for an opportunity to purse its thick lips and spit at her.
She scrambled onto the saddle, which seemed more like a large pillow with a wooden frame and railings, or a sideways couch. Malid climbed up behind her, pulling her back against him to sit in the cradle of his thighs. She could smell the spicy cologne he used, and a hint of pure, male musk. Her pulse kicked up and she started rethinking the wisdom of this adventure—but she was committed.
