Heather Graham by Arabian Nights Page A

found it difficult even to conjure Wayne’s face to her mind’s eye.
    “I’m sorry,” Raj said stiffly.
    Alex realized she had been cold and rude and that the cordial Arab youth deserved none of her animosity.
    Only D’Alesio did, who had forced her into a one-day camel ride in a country where just being a female made her a secondary person—and fair game for emirs and sheikhs!
    Alex impulsively took one of the young man’s hands between her own. “Raj, I am sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.” She hesitated for a moment. “Raj,” she said worriedly, “if something should go wrong—if any of these fanatical Bedouins should come around—would you be in danger?”
    “No!” he said quickly. Was it too quickly? He lowered his eyes and stared into his coffee. “No. I am an Arab, and a Muslim. I am safe in this country.”
    “I wouldn’t like to place you in danger,” Alex said softly.
    For the first time in their acquaintance, Raj questioned the wisdom of his friend Dan D’Alesio. What was it he believed this woman was hiding? He kept his long lashes lowered as he took a sip of his coffee, not aware that he was shrugging physically as he was mentally. D’Alesio was an honorable man; he would not hurt the woman. And despite his growing education and association with the many Western foreigners who stayed at the Victoria, Raj was an Arab and a Muslim.
    This sweet and gentle creature with the hidden core of steel was a woman—one who should be cared for by a man. D’Alesio was certainly a man. If he felt the woman must be taught that she could not take the risks her headstrong nature dictated, then she must be taught that lesson.
    He finished his coffee and smiled. “The innkeeper’s number-one wife is preparing a meal for us to take. I believe we need to see if it is ready, and be on our way. Our hour is about up.”
    “Yes, it is,” Alex said eagerly, slipping her linen veil back over the lower portion of her face. Raj started off to find the innkeeper’s number-one wife, and she followed more slowly, muttering. “If I have to get on a damn camel for a day, I might as well get on the damn thing!”
    She started as she saw Raj stare back at her with amazement and disapproval. “Well, I hate camels!” she murmured defensively.
    I must be going nuts, she thought bitterly. I’m paying the man a fortune, then I’m apologizing because I’m cursing—because I’m a woman!
    She ground her teeth, thinking fervently how very, very grateful she was that she hadn’t been born a Muslim in an Arab country. Someone—some man—probably would have shot her by now!
    The sun, the sand and the monotonous and miserable gait of her monotonous and miserable camel seemed endless. She and Raj had given up trying to converse hours ago; the effort was too draining, Alex’s rear section was in a state of pain she had never imagined possible, and she had the feeling her bottom was bruised blue. She felt as if sand were permanently ingrained in every pore of her body. It had permeated her clothing, her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her scalp. The sun was so torturous that she could hardly bear it. There had been moments when she was sure she would start screaming from the never-ending, tedious ride. But she was afraid that if she opened her mouth to scream, her throat would fill with sand. Heat stroke, she thought mournfully as she envisioned a scene in which she ripped off the ridiculous robes she was wearing and plunged into a suddenly available Lake Michigan—one clogged with winter ice.
    Only two things kept her from really going crazy. One was the belief that her father was alive, but that he was in danger. He had told her to get to the sheikh, and so she had to do so. And then there was D’Alesio. She would have walked across the whole desert to shove his words about her back down his throat.
    Alex closed her eyes against the sun. Her camel was following Raj’s camel; it needed no guidance from her.
    Oh, Dad!