Daughter of Hassan & Heart of the Desert(44)

‘There’s a note.’ Georgie found it as Ibrahim searched for the staff. ‘At least, I think it’s a note.’

She handed it to him and watched his expression turn to one of incredulity as he read it. ‘Why would Bedra and her husband be out helping with the sick? Their job is to tend to the desert palace—they should be here at all times.’

‘Well, given that she is a doctor, maybe her skills were better needed elsewhere,’ Georgie responded, and then instantly regretted it, because from the frown on his proud features she realized, he didn’t know. Felicity had told her about the secret desert work that she and Karim did for the Bedouins, the mobile clinic they ran, how Bedra was so much more than a maid. She had assumed that even if the king didn’t know, Ibrahim would—he was Karim’s brother after all—but clearly he hadn’t been told.

‘She’s not a doctor,’ Ibrahim said derisively. ‘She’s a housekeeper. She should be here.’

But as they explored the empty tent, clearly there were things that Ibrahim did not know, because beyond the servants’ quarters, where royals would never venture, was a treatment area as well stocked as any modern doctor’s surgery.

‘I’m not sure,’ Georgie could not resist as Ibrahim surveyed it, ‘if you’re naïve or just ignorant.’

She wondered if she had pushed him too far, but he conceded with a slight shrug and a shake of the head. ‘Clearly I’m ignorant,’ he said. ‘She’s really a doctor?’

‘I shouldn’t have said anything. I hope I haven’t got Karim into trouble.’

‘As if I’m going to tell on him. So that’s why he was always out in the desert? I was wondering what his problem was—how much contemplation one man needed?’

He did make her laugh, but it changed into a cough and Ibrahim was still cross with himself for placing her in danger. ‘I checked before we came out…there was no indication of a storm as big as this one. It seems to have come from nowhere.’

‘Are there lots of them?’

Ibrahim nodded. ‘But this is severe.’

‘Could the tent blow away?’

Ibrahim just laughed. ‘They are designed for these conditions.’ And then he went into engineer mode, talking about vents and rigging, but Georgie had other things on her mind.

‘Will Felicity and Karim be all right?’ She thought of them out there and her heart started racing.

‘They will be fine,’ he assured her. ‘Karim will know exactly what to do. They will be waiting it out like us. They just won’t be able to fly back.’

‘Felicity will be frantic.’ Georgie closed her eyes. ‘I should have stayed at the palace and looked after Azizah.’

‘In case her mother got caught in a storm?’ Ibrahim shook his head. ‘You can’t think like that.’ The wind screeched a warning and Ibrahim knew when he was beaten. ‘We will stay till it passes, but I think we are here for the night.’ They headed back out to the lounge area and he stood as she roamed, watched her expression as she looked at the wall hangings and her nosy little fingers picked up priceless heirlooms and weighed them. He would never have planned this. Would never have bought her here if he’d know they would be alone.

Her cheeks were pink from the sun and her arms just a little bit sunburnt. Her clothes were grubby and her hair wild from the sand and the wind. And how he wanted her. Though he would not blatantly defy the desert, he would follow the rules while he was here, but his way.

Ibrahim did not have to chase, all he had was the thrill of the catch. He had never had to want or wait or been said no to—except once.

And here she was.

With him tonight, and now he didn’t want to wait till London.

Tonight he would sample the thrill of the chase; tonight he would make certain that she would not refuse him again. He would romance her, feed her, turn on every ounce of his undeniable charm—he would ripen her with his mind and let her simmer overnight. They would rise early, Ibrahim decided, she could see the sunrise and then he would take her to a hotel and bed her, take her ripe and ready and plump and delicious. And he wouldn’t even need to reach out. She would fall into his hands without plucking.

In fact, he decided with a smile, she would beg.

‘What?’ Georgie asked, seeing a smile pass over his face.

‘I was just thinking. You will have your authentic desert experience. Bedra will have left food, the table is set, we can feast tonight, and tomorrow, and when the storm is past you can rise early and see the sunrise.’ He saw a flicker of a frown on her face, but he moved to relax her. ‘We must have separate rooms. Come, I’ll show you the guest quarters.’

They walked through the lounge, the air thick and warm, and she glimpsed a large curtained area with a bed so high and deep you would almost need stairs and a springboard to dive into it. The room was heavy with scent—musky, exotic oils that aroused, to ensure future generations, and the bed throbbed with colour, drapes and cushions. He let her eyes linger for more than a moment, made sure she had seen it, and then gently he took her elbow.

‘That is mine. Your room is over here.’

It was thirty-four steps away, she knew because she counted the distance between their rooms. Ibrahim knew she would be counting them again in her head later, for though hers was absolutely beautiful, for royal guest, not a princess, and just that tiny bat of her eyelashes told him she knew.

‘It’s lovely,’ Georgie said, because it was.

It was!

Apart from the palace, it was absolutely the nicest room she had ever been a guest in, and she told herself that again as she enthused and thanked him, but her mind was somehow in his room, with heavy silk spreads and a bed you could drown in. ‘Here.’ Ibrahim was supremely polite. ‘Make use of the guest quarters as you please.’ He pulled back a drape and the space pulsed with colour and rich fabrics.

‘I can’t just wear someone’s things.’

‘These are for guests who arrive unprepared.’ He slowly looked around the room. ‘Nothing changes…’ There was a pensive note to his voice, but he didn’t elaborate. ‘I will leave you to bathe, just help yourself to anything. Perhaps dress for dinner?’

‘Dress?’

‘You wanted an authentic desert experience, well, let me give you one.’ He watched her swallow. ‘I’ll prepare the lounge.’

Despite the ancient ornaments and artefacts, there was every modern convenience and Georgie filled the heavy bath with steaming water and chose from the array of fragrant oils. After several hours in the Jeep and the grit and the sand she had accumulated, it was bliss to stretch out in the warm, scented water. She could have lain for ages, except she really was hungry.

Georgie had had no intention of selecting clothing from the guests’ wardrobe.

A charity cupboard stocked for inappropriate guests she did not need, and she wasn’t keen on the idea of playing dress up. Except maybe she was, because she thought of Ibrahim in his robes in London and there were still angry red marks on her waist where her capri pants had cut into her, and the pale fabric that had looked so cool and elegant on the hanger in the high-street store was now crumpled and rather grubby.

Georgie flicked through the wardrobe: vast kaftans that would swamp her delicate frame. And what was it with Zaqar and shades of yellow? Yet her first brisk hand movements grew slower, her eyes drawn to the intricate beading and embroidery, every piece a work of art. They were in decreasing sizes too, she realised, for there near the end was a slim robe in a dark blood red with small glass beads on the front and a dance of gold leaves around the hem—it was nothing like something she would ever choose for herself, but was perhaps the most beautiful article of clothing she had ever seen.

The fabric slid coolly beneath her fingers, the finest of silks. It beckoned, and she closed her eyes in bliss as she gave in and slid it over her head. It skimmed her body. As she looked in the mirror and saw a different Georgie, her stomach tightened in strange recognition at the woman who met her gaze. Not a girl or a young woman but a woman with all awkwardness gone, and it bewildered her. It was as if the fragrant bath had surgically removed that awkwardness, because she liked what she saw and wanted to enhance it. Her eyes glanced down to the heavy brushes and flat glass containers filled with rich colours to perfume bottles, and she pulled the stopper from one and inhaled the musky scent, she wanted to dress for him. She wanted her night in the desert.

* * *

Ibrahim’s catering skills ran to ringing his favourite restaurant and telling them the number of guests. His kitchen in London was stocked and maintained by his housekeeper. At the palace, occasionally at night he wandered in and chatted to the overnight chef, who would prepare Ibrahim a late-night or rather pre-dawn snack, but here in the desert things were different—here, a young prince was left for a period to fend for himself. Not that he had to this evening, for Bedra was both a doctor and royal housekeeper. When he opened the third fridge, there were platters fit for a king, or should a reprobate prince happen by, and there were jugs too, all lined up and ready, that had herbs measured and prepared. All Ibrahim had to do was add water and carry trays through, but he was pleased with his handiwork. He even lit some candles and incense and turned on some music to soften the noise of the wind. Then he headed to his quarters to bath and change.