“Yes,” he said, the rough edge still sounding in his voice. “We are here.”
She didn’t look at him, pushing the door open and getting out, keeping her face turned away.
Protecting herself.
He badly wanted to take her chin in his fingers, turn her back to face him. Tell her that she didn’t have to protect herself from him. That he would never hurt her. But the way she’d jerked away told him he’d gone as far as he could for now. Pushing her further wouldn’t help.
Letting out a breath, he sat back in his seat, stared out the windscreen.
The desert. The dunes.
That terrible slick feeling coated his fingers. He looked down, but as usual, his hands were clean.
Glancing out the car window, he saw Lily approach the foot of one of the great mountains of golden sand. The memories receded at the sight of her graceful figure. Yes, look at her. Keep thinking about her. Perhaps on the starting blocks, ready to throw herself into the water, power her way to gold. Tall and strong and magnificent.
Pushing open the door, he got out, the sand shifting underneath his desert boots.
Lily’s dark eyes watched him, her expression unreadable. But he knew she’d somehow sensed his tension. That she’d guessed something was wrong.
The words he’d thrown at her came back to haunt him.
You cannot run from it forever . . .
But he wasn’t running, was he? He was here. And those memories no longer had any power over him. He would make sure of it.
“The best view is up there,” he said, pointing to the top of the dune. “It is not an easy climb.”
“I didn’t expect it to be.” She glanced up at where he’d pointed. “I think you should know I find the lack of camels very disappointing.”
The comment was silly and he nearly smiled, reminded at last of who he was supposed to be. “Camels are not as comfortable to ride as you think.”
“Damn sight easier than climbing a hill full of sand.”
“Complaining, Habibti?” The endearment slipped out before he could stop it, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“No, of course not. I’m a gold medal winner after all. Climbing a sand dune is nothing.”
The tightness in his chest began to loosen, the weight of memory easing. “Then, show me, Ms. Harkness. I am keen to see how fast you can get to the top.”
Dark eyes glanced back at him. “Faster than you.”
“Is that a challenge I hear?”
But she’d already gone, climbing up the dune like a mountaineer.
Sand though was different from rock and he soon caught her, cheeks pink, her forehead gleaming with sweat. The sun had descended farther down the horizon, so it wasn’t so hot, but still the heat coming off the sand was enough to make things uncomfortable.
“Do you need help?” he asked.
She frowned. “Do I look like I want help?”
“Truthfully? Yes. You do.” He held out his hand to her.
Her frown deepened. “Nothing worse than smugness, Sheikh.” But she reached out. Took his hand. And he felt everything go still within him, as her fingers closed around his. Somehow, the gesture meant something.
Lily gave him an impatient look. “Come on then. What are you waiting for?”
Ten minutes later, at the top of the dune, he released her hand, and watched the awe cross her face as she stared at the view.
In every direction, stretched the sands, the setting sun painting them a million different shades of pink and red and orange, the sky almost the same color as the dunes themselves.
She collapsed on the dune, out of breath. “It’s so beautiful.”
He wanted to say the obvious thing. That it wasn’t the desert that was beautiful. It was her.
But he didn’t. Instead, Isma’il sat down beside her, watched as the colors of the desert around them turned her skin pink, made gold highlights gleam in the depths of her dark eyes.
Easier to focus on her than the memories the desert conjured up.
The pain of wounds barely healed, sand under his feet as he ran. Ran and ran and ran, on and on into the burning heat. Into the blinding light. Into the silence. Letting the rawness of the desert burn away the sight of the bruises on his father’s face. The cuts across his cheek.
The sight of the blood on the hard leather of his father’s riding crop. His blood. Khalid’s blood . . .
Gold shone beneath the silk of Lily’s headscarf, so much purer than the red that had stained the tiles of the floor where he’d been beaten. He wanted to push away her scarf, see the colors of the sun in her hair, drown the thick red in his memory.
He’d lifted his hand before he was even conscious of doing so, reaching for the scarf and pulling it away. Lily stiffened, turning her head to look at him. She said something, but he didn’t hear.