The Sheikh’s Disobedient Bride
Jane Porter

MILLS & BOON

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For Lee Hyatt and all readers

who love sheikh stories.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

TALLY heard the guttural shouts seconds before the gunfire. Dropping to her stomach, she hugged her camera and struggled to protect her head.

“Soussi al-Kebir,” her guide screamed as he ran from her.

Soussi al-Kebir? Tally pressed her forearm to her face, struggling to make sense of the words with the little Arabic she knew.

Soussi were Berbers from the south, those that lived close to the desert. And al-Kebir was big or great. But Soussi al-Kebir?

More gunfire rang in the small town square, the rat-a-tat of machine gunfire and the hard clattering of horses’ hooves.

Was this an ambush? Robbery? What?

Heart racing, Tally hugged the cobblestones closer, her camera gripped tightly in the crook of her arm, certain any moment a whizzing bullet would hit her.

Not far from her a man screamed and fell. She heard him hit the ground, the heavy thud of body against stone. Moments later red liquid ran toward her, inches from her face and she recoiled, lifting her head to avoid the blood.

It was then a shadow stretched long above her, the shadow enormous, blocking the intense Barakan sun.

Fear melted Tally’s heart. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut but fear wouldn’t let her. She wanted to be brave and bold, but fear wouldn’t let her. Instead she huddled there, eyes riveted to the shadow and the foot frighteningly close to her head.

The foot was big and covered in pale suede. The soft leather boot the type desert tribesmen wore, they were made of the softest, most supple leather to protect from the heat of the sand and yet light to make walking in the soft surface easier. White fabric brushed the top of his boot. It was the hem of his robe.

Soussi, she thought, putting it together. The huge shadow. The suede boot. Soussi al-Kebir. Chief of the Desert.

Hands encircled Tally’s upper arms and she was hauled to her feet. The same hands ripped her camera away from her even as a dark rough fabric jerked down over her head, turning day to night.

Tally screamed as everything went black, but it wasn’t the dark fabric that upset her. It was the loss of her camera. Her camera and camera bag were her world, her livelihood, her identity. Without her camera and film, she had no way to pay her bills. No way to survive.

“Give me back my camera!” she demanded, voice muffled by the coarse fabric.

“Quiet!” A harsh male voice commanded.

Suddenly she was lifted, tossed high onto the back of a horse and someone leaped behind her, settling onto the blanket and seizing the reins. Heels kicked at the horse’s flanks and they were off, galloping away from the town’s medina, down the narrow cobbled street into the desert beyond.

Panicked, Tally struggled in the saddle, battling to pull the fabric off her head but it’d been pulled low and it was tied somehow, anchored around her shoulders.

“Ash bhiti?” She choked in broken Barakan Arabic. What do you want?

The only response was an arm pulling her closer, holding her more firmly, the arm thickly muscled, very hard, drawing her against an even thicker, harder torso.

“I have money,” she added frantically, growing hotter by the second inside the dark fabric. “I’ll give you money. Everything I have. Just go with me to my hotel—”

“Shhal?” he grunted, interrupting her. How much?

“Nearly five hundred American dollars.”

He said nothing and Tally tried not to squirm even though the fabric was oppressive, suffocating. She had to stay calm, strike a bargain. “I can get more.”

“Shhal?” he repeated. He wanted to know how much more she could get.

It was at that point Tally realized she was dealing with a mercenary. “A thousand dollars. Maybe two thousand.”

“Not enough,” he dismissed, and the arm around her tightened yet again.

“What do you want then?”

“For you to be quiet.”

“I—”

“Enough!”

Fear made Tally silent. Fear made her hold her breath, air bottled inside. She’d read about kidnappings in the Middle East. So now instead of fighting further, she told herself not to scream, or thrash. She wouldn’t do anything to provoke him, or his men, into doing something that would later be regretted.

Instead she told herself that if she stayed calm, she’d get out of this. If she stayed calm, things might turn out okay.

Not every hostage was punished. Some were released.

That’s what she wanted. That’s what she’d work to do.

Cooperate. Prove herself trustworthy. Get set free.

To help stay focused, she went over her day, thinking about the way it began, and it began like any other day. She’d loaded her camera with film, put a loose scarf over her head and set out to take her pictures.

She never traveled alone, had learned the value of hiring escorts and guides, bodyguards and translators when necessary. She knew how to slip a few coins into the right hands to get what she wanted.

In remote parts of the world, her native guides and escorts allowed her access to places she normally couldn’t visit—temples, mosques, holy cemeteries, inaccessible mountain towns. She’d been warned that being a female would put her in danger, but on the contrary, people were curious and realized quickly she wasn’t threatening. Even the most difficult situations she’d encountered were smoothed by slipping a few more coins into a few more hands. It wasn’t bribery. It was gratitude. And who couldn’t use money?

She’d thought this desert town was no different from the others she’d visited and this morning when she crouched by the medina’s well, she’d heard only the bray of donkeys and bleating of goats and sheep. It was market day and the medina was already crowded, shoppers out early to beat the scorching heat.

There’d been no danger. No warning of anything bad to come.

With her camera poised, she’d watched a group of children dart between stalls as veiled women shopped and elderly men smoked. She’d smiled at the antics of the boys, who were tormenting the giggling girls, and she’d just focused her lens when shouts and gunfire filled the square.

Tally wasn’t a war correspondent, had never worked for any of the big papers that splashed war all over the front pages, but she’d been in dangerous situations more than once. She knew to duck and cover, and she did the moment she heard the gunfire. Duck and cover was something all children learned on the West Coast in America, earthquakes a distinct possibility for anyone living on one of the myriad of fault lines.

As she lay next to the well, she’d tried to avoid the bright red liquid running between cobblestones and that’s when the desert bandit seized her.

If she hadn’t looked, maybe the bandit wouldn’t have noticed her…

If she hadn’t moved maybe she’d be safe in town instead of being dragged into the middle of the desert.

Inside the stifling black fabric Tally struggled to breathe. She was beginning to panic despite her efforts to remain calm. Her heart already beat faster. Air came in shallow gasps.

She could feel it coming on. Her asthma. She was going to have an asthma attack.

Tally coughed, and coughed again.

The dust choked her. She couldn’t see, could barely breathe, her throat squeezing closed in protest at the thick clouds of dust and swirling sand kicked up by the wind and the horse’s pounding hooves.

Eyes wet with tears, Tally opened her mouth wider, gasping for breath after breath. She was panicking, knew she was panicking and panicking never helped, certainly not her asthma but it was all beyond her, the heat, the jostle of the saddle, the wind, the dust.

Reaching up, out, her hand flailed for contact, grappling with air before landing against the bandit’s side. He was warm, hard, too hard, but he was the only one who could help her now. She clung convulsively to the fabric of his robe, tugged on it, hand twisting as frantically as her lungs squeezed.

One, two, she tugged violently on the fabric, her hand twisting in, out, pulling down, against the body, anything to express her panic, her desperation.

Can’t breathe…

Can’t breathe…

Can’t…

Tair felt the hand grappling with his shirt, felt the wild frantic motion and then felt her go slack, hand falling away limply.

He whistled to his men even as he reined his horse, drawing to a dramatic pawing stop.

Tair threw the fabric covering off the foreign woman captured in the town square.

She was limp and nearly blue.

He lifted her up in one arm, turned her cheek toward him, listened for air and heard nothing.

Had he killed her?

Tipping her head back, he covered her mouth with his own, pinched her nose closed, blowing air into her lungs, forcing warm air where there had been none.

His men circled him on their horses forming a protective barrier, although they should be safe here. This was his land. His people. His home. But things happened. They knew. He knew.

He felt their silence now, the stillness, the awareness. They wouldn’t judge him, they wouldn’t dream of it. He was their lord, their leader, but no one wanted a death on his hands. Especially not a foreign woman.

Much less a young foreign woman.

Not when Ouaha still fought for full independence. Not when politics and power hung in delicate balance.

He covered her mouth again, forcing air through her once more, narrowed gaze fixed on her chest, watching her small rib cage rise. Come on, he silently willed, come on, Woman, breathe.

Breathe.

And he forced another breath into her, and another silent command. You will breathe. You will live.

You will.

She sputtered. Coughed. Her lashes fluttered, lifted, eyes opening.

Grimly Tair stared down into her face, the pallor giving way to the slightest hint of pink.

Alhumdulillah, he silently muttered. Thanks be to God. He might not be a good man, or a nice man, but he didn’t enjoy killing women.

Her eyes were the palest brown-green, not one color or the other and although her expression was cloudy, unfocused, the color itself was remarkable, the color of a forest glen at dawn, the forest he once knew as a boy when visiting his mother’s people in England.

Her brows suddenly pulled, her entire face tightening, constricting. She wheezed. And wheezed again, lips pursing, eyes fixed on him, widening, eyes filled with alarm.

Her hand lifted, touched her mouth, fingers curving as if to make a shape. Again she put her hand to her mouth, fingers squeezing. “Haler.”

He shook his head, impatient, not understanding, seeing the pink in her skin fade, the pallor return. She wasn’t getting air. She wasn’t breathing again.

Her eyes, wide, frightened, held his and her fear cut him. She was hurt and in pain and he was doing this to her.

“What do you need?” he demanded, switching to English even as he lightly slapped her cheek, trying to get her to focus, communicate. What was wrong? Why couldn’t she breathe?

Her fingers merely curled, reminding him of the letter C from the Western alphabet as she gasped, and he blocked out her frantic gasps of air studying her fingers instead. And then suddenly he knew. Asthma.

“You have asthma,” he said. He was gratified to see her nod. “Where is your inhaler?”

“Cam-ra.”

He lifted a hand, gestured, signaling he wanted it. The bag was handed over immediately.

Tair unzipped the top, rifled through, found the inhaler in a small interior side pocket and shook it before putting it to her mouth. Her hand reached up, released the aerosol, letting it flood her lungs.

Still holding her in the crook of his arm he watched her take another hit, saw her chest rise and fall more slowly, naturally, saw that she was breathing more deeply and he felt a measure of relief. She lived. He hadn’t killed her. Good.

Hard to explain a dead Western woman to the authorities.

Minutes later she stirred again.

Tally didn’t know at exactly what moment she realized she was lying in the barbarian’s arms, her legs over his, her body in his lap, but once she knew where she was, and how he held her, she jerked upright.

She wrenched free, attempted to jump from the horse but instead fell to the ground, tumbling in a heap at everyone’s feet.

She groaned inwardly, thinking she was getting too old for dramatic leaps and falls. Tally rose, straightening her white cotton shirt and brushing her khaki trousers smooth. “Who are you?” she demanded.

The man on the horse adjusted his headcovering, shifting the dark fabric to conceal all of his face but his eyes and bridge of nose. Face covered, he just looked at her, as did the others, and there were about a half dozen of them altogether.

“What do you want with me?” she persisted.

“We will talk later.”

“I want to talk now.”

He shrugged. “You can talk but I will not answer.”

Tally inhaled, felt the hot still air slide into her lungs. She couldn’t believe this was happening. It made no sense. Nothing about this made sense. She’d been kidnapped from the medina, taken right from the market by a group of masked men. But why?

Who were they?

Her gaze settled on the soft suede boot in front of her, the color light, cream, just slightly darker than the white robe. Her gaze rose, lifting from the pale suede boot which covered from foot to calf, up over his knee, to the horse’s ornate saddle and bridle. Both were made from pounded silver, heavily decorated with bits of onyx and blue stone, finished with colorful woolen tassels. The bridle’s decorative leather curved protectively around the neck, nearly covered the ears, shielding the eyes. More silver and leatherwork ran across the front of the horse to match the saddle.

Tally’s gaze lifted higher, moving from horse to man. He, in comparison, was dressed simply. White pants and robe, and a dark headcloth that wrapped around the neck, covered the head, and cloaked his face from nose to throat.

His eyes she could see. And they were dark, fixed, penetrating, nearly as strong as the bridge of his nose.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“We will talk later,” he said, and turning slightly in his silver and gold embroidered blanket that served as a saddle, gestured to his men. “We go.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You nearly killed me!” Her voice was deep, raspier than usual.

He shrugged. “Fortunately I also saved you.”

“And you what? Expect thanks?”

“Indeed. If it weren’t for me, you would have died.”

“If it weren’t for you, I’d still be in town. Safe.”

“It’s a moot point. You’re here now.” He shifted on the embroidered blanket, reins loose in his palm as his gaze swept the barren landscape. “And this is where you want to stay? In the middle of the desert, on your own?”

Tally glanced right, left, saw only sand and pale dunes, the world a stunning ivory and gold vista in every direction. “We’re just hours from the nearest town.”

“Hours by horse.” His head cocked and he studied her curiously, black eyebrows flat above intense eyes. “Do you have a horse?”

She felt her spine stiffen, her teeth clamping tight in the back of her jaw. “Not unless you kidnapped one for me.”

“I’m afraid I did not.”

“Right. Well, then, no horse.”

He leaned down, out of his saddle so that his face loomed above hers. “I guess you’ll be coming with me.” And before she could protest, he swept her into his arm and deposited her on the saddle in front of him, back onto his lap from where she’d only just escaped.

Tally grunted as she dropped onto his lap. Damn. His lap was big, hard, just like the rest of him. Soussi al-Kebir. Chief of the Desert, indeed. “What group are you part of?” she asked, unable to remain silent despite her best intentions. She needed to know the worst.

“Group?” her captor grunted, even as he resettled her more firmly into his lap, his left arm slung around her, holding her against his hips.

She squirmed inwardly at the contact. “Who are you with?”

“With?”

If ever there was a time to be sensitive—diplomatic—this was it. But it wasn’t easy finding the right words, or the right tone. “You must be part of a group, a tribe maybe?”

She felt him exhale. “You talk too much,” he said exasperatedly even as he urged his horse into a canter. “Practice silence.”

They rode the rest of the day in virtual silence, traveling deep into the desert, racing across the sand for what seemed like hours. Tally had given up sneaking glances at her watch. Time no longer mattered. They weren’t close to anybody or anyplace that could help her. There was no one here to intercede on her behalf. The only thing she could do was stay alert, try to keep her wits about her, see if she couldn’t find a way out.

Just before twilight they slowed, horses trotting as they reached the bandits’ camp city, an oasis of tents and camels in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere.

At the camp, the men dismounted quickly. Tally’s bandit jumped from his horse but when he reached for her, Tally squirmed away and dismounted without his help. She’d had enough of his company and wanted nothing more to do with him. But of course her captor had other plans for her.

“Come,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Follow me.”

He led her past a group of men sitting on the ground, and then past another group of men cleaning guns. She gave the second group of men a long, hard look. Guns were not good. This situation was not good.

Her bandit stopped walking, gestured to a tent on his left. “You’ll go there,” he said.

She looked at the tent and then the tribesman. “It’s a tent.”

“Of course it’s a tent,” he answered impatiently. “This is where we live.”

She looked back to the tent, the fear returning, squeezing her insides, making it hard to breathe. “Is this a temporary stopping point?”

“Temporary, how? What are you asking?”

“Are we traveling on tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Then what are we doing here?”

“Stopping.” He gestured to the tent. “Go inside. Dinner will be brought to you.”

Tally faced the tattered goatskin tent. It was hideous. Stained, patched, and worn. She’d been traveling in Northern Africa and the Middle East for six months now and she’d never seen such a rough encampment before. This was not a friendly camp. This was not a nomadic tribe, either. There were no children here, no women, no elderly people. Just men, and they were heavily armed.

Tally didn’t know who they were and she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out, either. Survival was paramount in her mind at this point.

She turned to look at her captor. He was tall, and hard and very indifferent. She suppressed a wave of emotion. No tears, no distress, no sign of weakness, she reminded herself. “How long will you keep me here?”

“How long will you stay alive?”

A lump filled her throat and she bit her lip, hot, exhausted, grimy. “Do you intend to…kill…me?”

His dark eyes narrowed, and a muscle pulled in his jaw, tightening the weathered skin across his prominent cheekbones. He had a strong nose, broad forehead and no sympathy or tenderness in his expression. “Do you want to die?”

What a question! “No.”

“Then go inside the tent.”

But she didn’t move. She couldn’t. She’d stiffened, her limbs weighted with a curious mixture of fear and dread. While she hated how he snapped his fingers as he ordered her about, it was the cold shivery dread feeling in her belly that made her feel worse.

She hated the dread because it made her feel as if nothing would ever be okay again.

“What do I call you?” she asked, nearly choking on her tongue, a tongue that now felt heavy and numb in her mouth. Tally had been in many dangerous situations but this was by far the worst.

He stared down at her for a long, tense moment. As the silence stretched, Tally looked past him, spotted a group of bearded men still meticulously cleaning their guns.

“Do you have a name?” Her voice sounded faint between them.

“Seeing as you’re from the West, you can call me Tair.”

“Tair?” she repeated puzzled.

He saw her brow crease with bewilderment but didn’t bother to explain his name, seeing no point in telling her that his real name was something altogether different, that he’d been born Zein el-Tayer, and that he was the firstborn of his father’s three sons and the only son still alive. He’d survived the border wars and the past ten years of tensions and skirmishes due to a lethal combination of skill and luck.

In Arabic, Zein or Zain meant “good”, but no one called him Zein even if it was his first name because he wasn’t good. Everyone in Baraka and Ouaha knew who he was, what he was, and that was danger. Destruction.

Tair wasn’t a good man, would never be a good man and maybe that was all his captive needed to know.

“You’ll be fine if you do what you’re told,” he added shortly, thinking he’d already spent far more time conversing than he liked. Talking irked him, it wasted time. Too many words filled the air, cluttering space, confusing the mind. Far better to act. Far better to do what needed to be done.

Like he’d done today.

He’d removed the threat from town, away from his people. He’d keep the woman isolated, too, until he understood what she was doing in his land, and who—or what—had brought her here in the first place.

Single women—and single women with cameras—didn’t just happen upon Ouaha. If Western women visited Ouaha, which didn’t happen very often, they were part of a tour, something that had been organized by a trusted source, and their itinerary was publicized, known.

“How did you get to Ouaha?” he asked abruptly, studying her wan face. She looked tired, but there was nothing defeatist in her expression. Rather she looked fierce. Furious. A wild animal cornered.

“Airplane to Atiq, and then jeep and camel from there.”

“But someone planned your itinerary.”

“I planned it myself. Why?”

The flare of heat in her eyes matched the defiant note in her voice. If she was afraid or worried, she gave no outward appearance. No, she looked ready for battle and that fascinated him. But it wasn’t just her expression that intrigued him. It was her face. Strong through the brow, cheekbone and jaw, and yet surprisingly soft at the mouth with full, rose pink lips. Her gaze was direct, focused, not at all shy.

She had the look of a woman who knew her mind, a woman who wasn’t easily influenced or deceived, which made him wonder about her appearance in Ouaha.

“I’m the one to ask the questions. You’re the one to answer. Go now to your tent. I shall speak with you later.” Tair turned and walked away, but not before he saw her jaw drop and the blaze of fury in her eyes.

This woman didn’t like being told what to do. His lips curved as he returned to his men. She’d learn soon to mask her true feelings or she’d simply continue playing into his hand.

CHAPTER TWO

TALLY watched the bandit—Tair, he’d said his name was—walk away. She noticed he hadn’t even waited for her to respond. He’d ordered her in and then just walked away knowing she had no choice but to obey.

She clutched the tent flap, and stared at his retreating back, watching his white robe flow behind him.

Tally swore silently. Think, she told herself, do something. But what?

She caught the eye of one of the men cleaning guns and his expression was so disapproving that Tally shivered, and swiftly stepped into the tent.

But once inside, Tally didn’t know what she was supposed to do. The tent was crude. There were few furnishings—just a low futonlike bed, a blanket of sorts, a small chest and a couple of pillows on the bed—and nothing remotely decorative. No wardrobe for clothes (not that she had any!), no chair, no mirror, nothing.

It would have been so easy to panic, but Tally resisted falling apart. There was little point in giving way to hysterics. No one even knew she was gone. No one would know she was missing. As far as her family knew, she’d been missing for years.

Sighing, she rubbed her brow, feeling the grit of sand and dust at her temple, against her scalp. Riding across the desert had been an illuminating experience. She could have sworn she ate more sand and dust than what they’d traveled over thanks to the horses’ flying hooves.

Loosening her ponytail, Tally pulled the elastic from her hair and dragged her fingers through her hair, working the kinks free. What was going to happen now?

What was she supposed to do? Run? Steal a horse? Make vague threats about human rights and government relations?

Lifting the weight of her hair from her neck, she let her nape cool. She felt hot and sticky all over. Hot, sticky and afraid.

Why was she here? Were they going to ransom her? Punish her? What?

What did they want with her?

Reluctantly Tally pictured Tair, the bandit who’d taken her from town, and her stomach did a dramatic free fall all the way to her toes. Tair wasn’t like the others. He was bigger, harder, fiercer. The way he’d held her as they rode today had been possessive, the very way his arm curved around her, his hand against her stomach sent shockwaves of alarm through her. It was as if he’d laid claim to her, a statement of ownership.

But she wasn’t his. She’d never be his.

Her stomach did another nosedive and goose bumps covered her arms. Irritably she rubbed at her arms, trying to ignore the crazy adrenaline ricocheting through her.

He hadn’t let her die in the desert. When she’d had her asthma attack he’d forced air into her lungs and then found her inhaler. He obviously didn’t want her dead. But then what did he want from her? And would anyone back in Seattle care if she never returned?

Don’t be a pessimist, she rebuked herself severely. You’re a freelance photographer, and maybe you’ve never deliberately photographed war, but you knew that life in the desert wasn’t without violence.

For a moment Tally felt calmer, stronger, at least she did until her tent flap snapped open and a dark shadow filled the opening.

Tally’s stomach jumped, her heart plummeted. God help her. The bandit was back.

Dropping her hair, she smoothed her white cotton shirt over the waistband of her khaki slacks and watched as he entered her tent. He had to stoop to get through the covered opening. Once inside he glanced casually around, as if taking stock.

Tally swallowed hard, hands knotted at her sides. “Can you tell me why I’m here?” she asked, trying to sound conversational, not confrontational.

The tent flap swished behind him, allowing in bits of the twilight. He’d changed, and his outer robe hung open over a loose shirt and fitted pants. “You’ve interesting friends,” he said, after a long tense pause.

“I don’t understand. What friends are you talking about?”

“The friends you’ve been traveling with.”

Her forehead furrowed. “I’m on my own. I’ve traveled with no one.”

“You had men with you this morning.”

“Ah.” Her expression cleared. Comprehension, as well as relief swept over her. “Those men worked for me. They’re Barakan. One was my translator. The other a guide.”

He said nothing so she pushed on, praying she sounded confident, reasonable. “I hired them in Atiq and they knew I wanted to visit the kasbahs on the other side of the Atlas Mountains.”

“How much did they pay you?”

Tally felt a prickle behind her eyes, pain that reminded her of the migraines she used to get when she was in college. “They didn’t pay me. I paid them. As I said, I hired them. Their names were given to me by the hotel and they came highly recommended.”

“And did they do what you wanted?”

“Yes. Until this morning there’d been no problem.”

He regarded her for a long silent moment. “Why did you want to come to Ouaha?”

“Is that where I am?”

“Don’t act so surprised.”

“I am surprised. I hadn’t realized we’d left Baraka. There was no border crossing—”

“A desert separates the countries, Woman.”

She flinched at the “woman” but didn’t contradict him. Instead she took a breath, suppressing her aggravation. “There was no plan to come to Ouaha. I merely told my guides what I wanted and they set the course knowing I needed to be in Casablanca by the first of October.”

“Why the first of October?”

“My visa for Baraka ends and I need to be in Morocco by then.”

His thickly fringed eyes narrowed, his angular jaw thickening yet again. “And so what exactly are you doing here, so far from your home?” His voice had dropped, and it was low, low and deadly.

“Nothing. Just sightseeing.”

“With rebels as your guides?”

Her pulse quickened yet again. She pressed her palms together, the skin damp, sticky. “I don’t know their politics. We never discussed—”

“But you paid them.”

“Yes. I needed them. This part of the world is remote, and often inaccessible for women. I needed experienced guides.”

“You’re sure they didn’t pay you?”

Tally would have laughed if the situation weren’t so precarious. “For what?”

He slowly crouched down in front of the bed until he was eye to eye with her. His dark gaze met hers, held, the set of his mouth anything but gentle. “Why don’t you tell me.”

His eyes were so dark, and the expression so intense that Tally felt her heart stutter, not just with fear, but awareness. She knew men and was comfortable with men but Tair wasn’t like men she’d ever known. There was an untamed element to him, a primitive maleness that made her feel increasingly small, fragile, female. And she didn’t like feeling small or fragile, she just wasn’t. Life had toughened her. She didn’t frighten easily.

Swallowing, Tally gathered her courage. “I have no idea what you want from me. I’m just a tourist—”

“Not just a tourist. You’ve spent two weeks with those men. Two weeks photographing, documenting.” His voice dropped even lower, deeper, and the husky ominous pitch slid down Tally’s spine.

“We’ll try this one more time,” he said slowly, quietly, “and I warn you, I’m not a patient man but I’m trying. So don’t test me. Understand?”

She nodded, because she did understand, and she also understood that things weren’t going well and if they didn’t come to some kind of agreement relatively soon, she would be in even greater danger. “Yes.”

“Now tell me about the men you were traveling with.”

“I know very little about them. They were quiet. They kept to themselves quite a bit. I thought they were good men.”

“You’ve been with them two weeks and this is all you can tell me?”

How did he know she’d been traveling for two weeks with the men? He’d either been told, or he’d been watching her. Either way she’d been followed. “I’m sorry,” she said, picking her words with care. If ever there was a time for diplomacy, this was it. “We didn’t speak much. They’re men. I was a foreign woman. There were cultural differences.”

“Cultural differences.”

She flushed, locked her fingers together. “I wish I could tell you more. I hadn’t thought I was doing anything wrong. I’ve always wanted to visit Baraka—”

“But you’re not in Baraka anymore. This is Ouaha. An independent territory, and this is my country, and these are my people and you entered my country with Barakan rebels. Men who have brought violence and destruction to my people.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I arrived in Atiq, hired these men as escorts, and yes, I have been traveling with them but that’s because I’m a tourist, and traveling alone. I needed local guides and they came highly recommended.”

“What about your pictures?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

She paled. “What about them?”

“You were taking pictures for them, weren’t you?”

“No. They were for me. I didn’t work for those men. Those men worked for me. The pictures are for me.”

“Why do you want photographs of a nation so far from your own?”

For a moment Tally didn’t know how to answer. His question had rendered her speechless. Why would she be interested in something so far from her home? Had he no desire to see the world, know something of places foreign to him? Finally she found her voice. “Because I’m curious.”

“Curious about what?”

“Everything. Food, culture, language, lifestyle. I’m fascinated by people, by the differences among us, as well as what we have in common, too.”

He snorted, a deep, rough sound of contempt. “We’ve nothing in common.”

She couldn’t hide her own flash of disdain, her jaw tightening, temper flaring. This is one of the reasons she traveled, as well as one of the reasons she’d left home. She’d abhorred ignorance and control. “Perhaps not. But instead of me staying home and sitting in my living room twiddling my thumbs, I’ve decided to go out and discover the truth for myself.”

“Women belong at home.”

“Maybe in your opinion—”

“Yes. In my culture women have a vital role taking care of the children, watching over the family, making sure her husband is fed and rested. Comfortable.”

“And when does she get to be fed and rested? When is she comfortable?”

“She is comfortable when her family is healthy and at peace.”

“Huh!” Tally scoffed scornfully. “Why do I get the feeling that never happens?”

He swore something in Arabic she couldn’t catch but from his tone she knew it wasn’t kind. She’d angered him. She felt his hostility rolling off him in waves. She also felt his ambivalence. He couldn’t decided what to do with her and Tally bit her lip, knowing she’d pushed him too hard, said too much. She’d never been a big talker but she’d certainly said quite a bit since arriving here.

“I’m sorry,” she said, struggling to be conciliatory. “I’m just a curious person by nature, and I’m here in Baraka—”

“Ouaha.”

“Ouaha,” she amended, not really knowing anything about the territory but anxious to move on, “because I’m curious about your part of the world. I don’t want to be ignorant.”

“So you’re just a tourist.”

He was testing her, she thought, probing for the truth and her insides knotted, twisting with apprehension. No, she wasn’t just a tourist. She was a professional photographer but right now she didn’t think that would go over real well. He already mistrusted her. Would his opinion change when she told him she was in his country taking pictures for a book on children? “Yes, a tourist,” she echoed.

“And that’s the truth?”

She regarded him steadily even as she scrambled to consider all the angles. It wasn’t a complete lie. She was a tourist, and she did love travel and discovering faraway places. Why did he have to know about her work? Why couldn’t she just be a traveler with a camera?

Tally held his gaze. “Yes,” she said, proud that her voice didn’t wobble in the slightest.

“We’ll see, won’t we?” he answered even as a voice sounded from outside the tent.

Her bandit shouted back and the tent flap suddenly lifted and a man entered carrying her camera. The man handed her camera to Tair and then left without once ever looking at her.

As the bandit handled her camera, pulling it from the leather case and turning it over, Tally’s legs went weak. She had a sudden desire to sit. But she didn’t dare move and instead she watched as he pushed buttons, turned the camera on and off, zoomed the telephoto lens out before bringing it back.

It made her nervous, watching him play with her camera. It was a good camera but not the most expensive on the market. However the pictures were important and the memory disk was full. She’d planned on putting in a new disk today, after she left the market.

“Tell me what you’re looking for,” she said now, careful to keep her voice calm, “and I’ll show you.”

He ignored her. Instead he opened the cover and then slid open the memory card slot. She watched as he tapped the small blue memory card, popping it out. Tally dug her nails into her hands. The card was tiny, looked like nothing, and yet it was everything to her. Her work, her life, her future.

“That’s more or less the film,” she said. “It’s a digital camera which means it uses a memory card instead of 35 millimeter film.”

He held the blue card up, twisting it one way and then the other.

Her heart was in her throat. It was as if he held her whole life in his hands. “I know it’s very small, but it holds hundreds of photos.”

“Are there hundreds of photos here?”

Reluctantly she nodded.

“Do you have other cards?” he asked.

Tally chewed on the inside of her cheek. She didn’t want to tell him that she had months of work on the memory cards, hundreds and hundreds of photos she hadn’t managed to download to her editors in New York or save to CD-ROM yet. Everything she’d done since April was on the memory cards in the camera bag and her hotel room. “Yes.”

“Where are they?”

Oh God. He wasn’t going to take them from her, was he? He wasn’t going to destroy her work? “Why?”

He shrugged. “They’re just pictures. You don’t need them. It’s not why you’re here. You’re a tourist. You’re here for the experience, not photographs.”

She exhaled so hard and sharp it hurt. Her eyes burned. She fought to remain calm. “But the photos are important. They help me remember where I’ve been and what I’ve seen.”

“You seem anxious,” he said, slipping the memory card back into the camera and clicking the card-slot door closed.

She was anxious. She was trembling. “Can I please have my camera back?”

“Maybe. When I’m finished. But you’ll get it back without the memory card.”

“The camera won’t work without it.”

“You can always buy new ones.”

“But I’ll lose everything I’ve done.”

“They sell postcards in town. Buy those on your way home.” He turned to leave but she rushed toward him.

“Please,” she cried, stopping herself from touching him, knowing instinctively that that would be bad. She was already in trouble. She couldn’t risk offending him more than she already had. “Please don’t erase my photos. I’ll show them to you. I’ll explain the camera to you—”

“I haven’t time,” he interrupted turning to walk away. “Dinner will be brought to you soon. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” Tally’s heart raced, fueled by fear and fury. It was a maddening combination and her hands shook from the adrenaline of it. “You’re going to leave me here until tomorrow? And then what happens? Will you give me my camera back then, and the film?”

“Dinner will be brought soon,” he repeated tonelessly.

But Tally wouldn’t simply be dismissed. She didn’t understand what any of this was about. She’d paid her guides good money and yet when the shots rang out in the medina this morning, the men had just left her. They ran. Well, both ran. One was shot. She shivered in remembrance. “What is it that you want with me?”

“We’ll talk after I’ve gone through your pictures.”

“You won’t delete anything, will you?”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“What I find.” His dark head nodded. “Good night.”

Tally threw herself on her low bed, buried her face in the pillow and howled with rage. He could not do this! He could not!

She couldn’t accept it. Wouldn’t. What he did was wrong, and unjust.

In his tent, Tair slouched low in his chair, closed his eyes, doing his best to shut out the American woman ranting in the tent not far from his.

She needed to accept her fate more gracefully. Surrender with dignity. He was almost tempted to tell her so, too, but she might perceive it as some hard won victory and he wouldn’t get her the satisfaction.

First she’d yield.

Then he’d show mercy.

Not the other way around.

Besides, his father had kidnapped his wife—Tair’s own mother—and his father was a good man. Decent. Fair. Well, fair enough.

Eventually the American woman would realize that Tair was just as decent, if not fair.

Tally ended up crying herself to sleep. She didn’t remember falling asleep, just weeping and punching her pillow. But now it was morning and opening her eyes, she stretched.

Her eyes still burned from the tears and it took a moment for her to focus. Tiredly her gaze settled on the small chest at the side of the bed. Oh God. She was still here. The tent. The encampment. Tair’s world.

It wasn’t just a bad dream. It was a bad reality.

Groaning Tally stretched an arm down, reached for the pillow that had fallen from her bed and bunched it under her cheek.

Okay. Last night she’d fallen apart. Today was strategy. Today she’d get her camera and film back. It was hers, after all, not his.

Already dressed in her thin cotton khaki slacks and white shirt, Tally left her tent in search of answers. Like who the hell was in charge of Ouaha.

Stalking out of her tent, she felt the intense desert sun pour over her, blinding her, scorching her almost immediately from head to toe. It was hot. A blistering heat, a heat unlike anything she’d ever known, either, and she’d been in some hot places before. The Brazilian jungle. The Outback in January. Marfa, Texas in July.

“Lady!” An elderly Berber man rushed toward her. He was thin, slight and stooped but he moved quickly. “Lady!” he repeated urgently, gesturing to the tent flap.

Tally felt the corner of her mouth lift in a faint, dry smile. She was supposed to go back inside the tent, sit and wait like a good little girl, wasn’t she?

The corner of her mouth lifted in an even drier smile. Too bad she wasn’t a good little girl anymore.

The old Berber turned and ran, and Tally suspected he’d gone in search of Tair. Good. She wanted to see him.

But as Tally passed one tent, she spotted on a chest outside another tent a leather case that looked suspiciously like her camera bag. Tally glanced around, no one was near by, everyone busy with tasks elsewhere and took several steps closer.

It was her camera bag and it was partially unzipped. She could see her camera tucked inside.

Tally sucked in a breath. The camera was so damn close. She had to get it back. At the very least, she had to get the memory card out before the bandit destroyed any photos.

Crouching down next to the chest, Tally pulled her camera from the bag, opened the card slot, popped the memory card out, closed the slot, dropped the camera back into the bag and stood up to return to her tent.

But suddenly the old Berber was in front of her, a long cotton gown draped over his arm.

Tally didn’t know what he was saying but once he unfurled the robe she knew he wanted her to cover up.

“No, thank you,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m fine. I’m just going back to my tent now anyway.”

But he insisted and the more he insisted the faster Tally tried to walk, but he wouldn’t stop talking and he was drawing attention to them.

Cheeks burning, Tally finally took the robe and tugged it over her head. “Thank you,” she said stiffly. “Now if I can just go back to my tent?”

But the old man was still talking and gesticulating and Tally clutched the small memory card tighter, her palm beginning to grow damp. She had to get the card hidden before Tair appeared.

Finally she managed to escape, slipping beneath the flap of her tent and diving onto her bed. She was shaking all over. Shaking with fear, shaking with relief. But she had the memory card back. That was the important thing.

But where to hide it? She still hadn’t decided when she heard voices outside her tent. She was out of time. Hastily Tally tucked the memory card under her shirt, inside her bra just as the tent flap flipped over and Tair’s long shadow stretched over the floor, his powerful frame silhouetted by the bright morning sun.

“You lied to me and you stole from me,” his deep voice rasped. “If you were a man I’d cut your tongue out and you’d lose a hand.”

Tally wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging them for protection.

“Where is the memory card?” he demanded.

Tally hugged her knees even tighter. “What are you talking about?”

“You know perfectly well.”

“I don’t.”

He said nothing now, just stared at her, his expression hard, unforgiving, brooding. His eyes were dark like coffee and a deep line seemed permanently etched between his black eyebrows.

He finally spoke. “I saw you. I was watching.”

Tally shuddered. She felt his anger and scorn, it was also there in his eyes and the mocking tilt of his lips but she wouldn’t let him know it bothered her. And she wouldn’t act afraid, or acknowledge that she was stuck here. Stranded and powerless.

“I want it,” he added softly. “Now.”

“It’s mine!” she answered fiercely, even as she bowed her head. She couldn’t give him the memory card, she couldn’t. It was hers, all she had of the past few weeks.

“Before you tell me no again,” he added even more quietly, “before you tell me another lie, know that in my world thieves lose hands. Liars lose tongues. Think for a moment. Decide if your photos are worth it.”

Tally couldn’t look at him now. All thoughts of being tough and strong were crumbling. “Please,” she whispered. “Please let me keep the card. You can have the camera.”

“That’s an odd thing for a tourist to say.”

Slowly Tally lifted her head, swallowing around the lump of fear.

“You told me you were just a tourist,” he added, his dark eyes boring into her, staring so hard, so intently she felt as if he were seeing inside her, all the way to her heart. “You lie. You steal. What else do you do?”

She shook her head, terrified.

“Perhaps you aid the insurgents. Those who want to be rid of us. Those that take our land from us.”

“I help no one—”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I’m not political. Yes, I’m a photographer, but I’m not political, I take no sides, I do not even know the history of these border wars you talk about.”

“Prove it.”

She looked at him for a long unblinking moment. “How?”

“Give me the memory card back. I will look at the photos. I shall see for myself if you tell the truth.”

She couldn’t look away from his dark eyes, or his hard features, each strong, defined—nose, jaw, cheekbone, brow bone. “What if you don’t like my work?”

He shrugged. “I’ll erase it.”

Tears filled her eyes and she hated herself for being weak and emotional but she was in agony. Those photos were months of work, work in nearly unbearable heat, work in wretched conditions, work where she’d sacrificed comfort and her own health to get just the right shots. “Please don’t erase my work. I’ve weeks and weeks of shots on that memory card. I haven’t downloaded anything in ages since I’ve been traveling.”

He was still, very still and his hard gaze reproving. “Why did you lie to me?”

She searched his face, searched for a sign of compassion or comprehension. “I didn’t think you’d understand.”

He stared down at her, expression shuttered, and when he spoke his voice was cold. “No. I don’t understand.” Then he walked out and for a moment Tally did nothing and then leaping from the bed, she chased after him.

“Wait,” she shouted, running to catch up with him. “Wait, please. Please!” She caught his sleeve, tugged on it. Her legs were shaking, her heart pounding and her mouth tasted sandy and dry.

Reaching into her bra, Tally pulled out the memory card and with a trembling hand gave it to him. “Take it. Look at the photos. See what I’ve done, see my work for yourself. If certain pictures offend you, then erase those, but I beg you, please don’t delete everything. Please leave me something.” Her voice cracked, broke. “I’ve spent months here, months in the desert, months away from my family. Please don’t take it all from me.”

Silently he accepted the memory card, his large hand wrapping around the small disk. Tally met his gaze, and blinking back tears she held it, looked him square in the eye, looked without pretense or pride. She was asking him to be fair, that’s all she wanted. For him to be fair.

Legs still shaking, she walked back to her tent, and dropped weakly onto the low bed.

This wasn’t good. So not good.

This is exactly what her mother always warned her about. This was what her friends had predicted. This was what her editor cautioned every time Tally set out on a new expedition. But she’d been a photographer for years and although she’d been in some tight spots, she’d never had serious trouble. She’d been doing so well traveling on her own until now. But this…this…was bad.

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