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Her Desert Knight

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Год написания книги
2018
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“What a shame. I was about to buy it.” He still spoke in English. His features and coloring looked Omani, but his Western clothing and ocean-colored gaze gave him a hint of exoticism. “You were here first.” She shrugged, and tried to look as if she didn’t care.

“I think not. If you knew it was here and were looking for it, clearly you were here first.” Amusement danced in his unusual blue eyes. “Have you read it?”

“Oh, yes. It’s a classic. I’ve read it several times.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s a tragic love story.” How could he not know that? Maybe he didn’t even read Arabic. He had a strange accent. British, maybe.

“Sometimes I think all love stories are tragic. Does anyone really live happily ever after?”

“I don’t know. My own experience hasn’t been very encouraging.” As soon as she spoke she was shocked at herself. She’d resolved to keep her private torments secret.

“Mine, either.” He smiled slightly. “Maybe that’s why we like to read a tragic love story where everyone dies in the end, so our own disastrous efforts seem less awful by comparison.” The light in his eyes was kind, not mocking. “Did you come back here to get away from someone?”

“I did.” She swallowed. “My husband—ex-husband. I hope I never see him again.” She probably shouldn’t reveal so much to a total stranger. Divorce was rare and rather scandalous in Oman.

“Me, too.” His warm smile relaxed her. “I live in the States myself but I come to Oman whenever I need to step off the carousel and feel some firm ground beneath my feet. It’s always reassuring how little has changed here while I’ve been gone.”

“I found that alarming when I first came back. If it wasn’t for the cars and cell phones we could still be in the Dark Ages. My dad and brothers don’t like me leaving the house without a male relative to escort me. What a joke! After I lived in America for nearly nine years.”

He smiled. “The culture shock can be jarring. I’ve been living in L.A. for the last four years. It’s nice to meet someone else who’s in the same predicament. Would you like to go down the road for a coffee?”

She froze. A man asking you out for coffee was a proposition. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not? Do you think your father and brothers would disapprove?”

“I’m sure they would.” Her heart pounded beneath her conservative dress. Some mad reckless part of her wanted to go with him and drink that coffee. Luckily she managed to wrestle the urge under control.

“Let me at least buy you this book.” He turned and headed for the shop owner. She’d forgotten all about him, ensconced in his own world in the farthest corner of the store. He showed no sign of having heard their conversation.

She wanted to protest and insist on buying the book herself, but by the time she pulled herself together the store owner was already wrapping it in brown paper and it would have been awkward. She didn’t want to make a fuss.

“Thank you.” She accepted the package with a pinched smile. “Perhaps I should buy you a coffee to thank you for your generous present.” The book wasn’t cheap. And if she were paying, it wasn’t a date, right? She was twenty-seven years old. Hardly a blushing girl. She could share a coffee with a fellow English speaker to pass a dull afternoon. Her pulse accelerated as she waited for his response, torn between hoping he’d say yes, and praying that he’d say no.

“That would be very kind of you.” His gaze wasn’t very wolfish. He couldn’t help being so handsome. Women probably misinterpreted his perfectly ordinary gestures of friendliness out of wishful thinking. She wasn’t so foolish.

They stepped out into the fierce afternoon sun and walked down a long block to a row of modern shops, including a fairly new café. It had hip westernized décor, which was strangely reassuring and made her feel less like she was about to commit a massive social faux pas.

He pulled out her chair and she settled herself into it, arranging her traditional dress. Then she realized that she didn’t even know his name. She glanced about, wanting to make sure no one could overhear her. The attendant was gathering menus by the bar, far enough away to be out of earshot. “I’m Daniyah....” She hesitated, her ex-husband’s last name—McKay—on the tip of her tongue. She suddenly decided not to use it anymore. But using her father’s last name, Hassan, which she’d given up when she married against his will, didn’t feel right either. “But you can call me Dani.”

“Quasar.” He didn’t say his surname, either. Maybe it was better that way. They were casual acquaintances, nothing more. And he was even more fearfully good-looking in real daylight, with a strong jaw and tousled hair that added to his rakish appearance.

She glanced away quickly. Her blood heated just looking at this man. “I’ll have a coffee with milk.”

He ordered, in expert Arabic, without looking at the menu. “Me, too. Though I suppose we should be drinking it black, with some dates, now that we’re back in Oman.”

She laughed. There was something about the way he said it that made her feel like his coconspirator. “It’s terrible. I find myself longing for a burrito or a foot-long sub.”

“Are you going back to America soon?”

His question took her by surprise. “I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’m doing.” It was a relief to be honest. Maybe because he was a stranger, she felt she could let down her mask a little. “I came here in a hurry and now I seem to be becalmed.”

“Becalmed?” He tilted his head and surveyed her with those striking gray-blue eyes.

“It’s an old-fashioned term for a ship that’s stuck out at sea because there’s no wind to fill her sails.” Maybe Quasar was the wind she’d been waiting for? This afternoon was already the most excitement she’d had since her arrival three months ago.

“So you need a bracing gust to set you on your way again.”

“Something like that.” She let the gleam in his eyes light a little spark of...something in her chest. The way he looked at her suggested that he found her attractive. Was that even possible? People used to tell her she was pretty, but her ex made her feel like the ugliest loser in the world. Right now she felt odd and frumpy in the loose dress and pants she’d worn to look modest and tasteful, but Quasar didn’t even seem to notice it. He related to her as easily as if she were in her familiar jeans and T-shirt. “Why are you here?” she asked.

“Visiting my brother and his family. And trying to reconnect with my culture. I don’t want to stay away too long and have my roots shrivel away.” His wry grin was disarming. Just looking at him, seeing the way his white shirt and jeans showed off a powerful physique, was stirring feelings she’d almost forgotten existed.

“If you want to reconnect with your roots, you should wear a dishdasha.” She could barely picture him in the long, white traditional garment, with its knotted sash and ornamental dagger at the waist.

He raised a brow. “Do you think I’d look better in one?” He was flirting.

She shrugged. “No. I’m only wearing this because I don’t want to scandalize my family. I’ve done that enough already.”

Curiosity flared in his gaze, as she’d predicted. “You don’t look like the type to cause a scandal.”

“Then I guess my disguise is working. I’m trying to fit in and fly under the radar.”

“You’re too beautiful to ever do that.” He spoke softly, so the waiter couldn’t hear him, but his words shocked her. She blinked at his bold flattery.

“Even traditional clothing allows your face to show,” he said. “You’d have to hide that to go unnoticed.”

“Or just never leave the house, which is what my father would prefer. He has no idea I’m out here right now. He thinks I’m at home writing poetry in my childhood bedroom. I’m twenty-seven and divorced, for crying out loud, and I have to sneak around like a naughty teenager.”

Quasar laughed and looked as if he were going to say something, but just then the waiter brought their coffees. Dani watched Quasar’s sensual mouth as he sipped his drink and she cursed the shimmer of heat that flared under her voluminous clothing.

“I think you are ready for that breeze to catch your sails,” he said at last.

“I don’t know what I’m ready for, to be totally honest. My divorce just became final.”

He lifted his coffee cup. “Congratulations.”

She giggled. “That sounds so wrong, but it does feel like something to celebrate.”

“We all make mistakes. I’m thirty-one and I’ve never been married. That has to be a mistake of some kind. At least that’s what my two happily married brothers keep insisting.”

“They think you should find someone and settle down?”

“Absolutely. In fact I’m not sure they’ll let me leave Oman until I’m legally wed.”

She laughed. Since his brothers would not be likely to encourage him to marry a divorcée, this put them on a “friends only” footing that was rather reassuring. She could admire him without worrying that anything could come of it. But sadness trickled through her at the realization that she was damaged goods, and safely off-limits. “How do you feel about the idea?”

“Petrified.” He looked rueful. “If I was cut out for marriage, I’d probably have plunged into it by now.”
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