‘I get you out of the sun only for you to decide it’s time to hug a fence. Can’t I leave you alone for a minute?’
Once again, no answer was required, Casey registered as Raffa’s rough cheek accidentally brushed her face. She sensed he held himself responsible for the accident, and was going to remain in this severe mood for some time. ‘It wasn’t your fault. It was all my fault.’
‘We’ll discuss your part in this later.’
‘Did we win?’
‘We survived,’ he said dryly. Reining in by the first aid tent, he tossed the reins to a waiting stable lad. Swinging down from the saddle, he reached up. ‘Come,’ he said in a suddenly much kinder voice, ‘lean on me …’
He lowered her with infinite care, but as she reached the ground her knees buckled. ‘Watch out!’ Raffa exclaimed, catching hold of her.
‘Sorry …’ She was still faint with shock—but not so faint she didn’t know when the ruler of A’Qaban had swung her into his arms and was carrying her safely the rest of the way.
The nurse pronounced Casey fit and well; Raffa pronounced her fate.
‘As I can’t leave you alone for a minute,’ he said, ‘I’m going to keep you with me while you’re in A’Qaban.’
It was all she had ever wanted to hear, but Raffa made it sound like a punishment. Still, when you were confidently expecting an airline ticket home, anything else was a reprieve, Casey reminded herself, brushing her clothes down as they left the first aid tent together.
‘I’ll be travelling into the interior after the trophy for this match has been awarded.’
As she exclaimed with pleasure he dampened her enthusiasm. ‘I can make no allowances for the accident, Casey. You do understand that, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she said tensely.
‘The interior of A’Qaban is dangerous territory where shocks are commonplace—’
‘I understand.’ More dangerous than a polo field?
‘Your powers of recovery from this are crucial. If an accident happens in the desert you can’t waste time, you must think immediately: what next?’
That was exactly what she was thinking.
‘So, are you up for it?’
‘You won’t be disappointed. I’ll do everything you expect me to and more.’
‘But …?’ Raffa’s eyes narrowed, sensing there was something else she wanted to say.
Casey drew a deep breath. ‘But I came to apologise … for last night. I read the papers this morning, and—’
‘That’s something I don’t want to discuss with you,’ Raffa said, frowning.
‘But—’
‘No buts. My decisions aren’t up for discussion. You’re still in the running for this job. That’s all you should care about. But only if you can concentrate and be ready to leave your hotel within the hour.’
‘I will be,’ she said steadily.
Raffa arrived at the hotel in a rugged Jeep with no outriders and no bodyguards in attendance—at least none she could see. Casey was waiting on the steps, as instructed, dressed as a storm trooper once more, though not feeling so odd as when she had arrived at A’Qaban airport, because this time she was dressed in a way Raffa approved of for the desert. She had made one change—replacing her ugly hat with the lightweight shawl she’d bought at the auction, wrapping it around her head and shoulders in the A’Qabani fashion. It was a sensible choice, because it gave her the option of drawing it over her nose and mouth if the air grew dusty.
Swinging out of the driver’s seat, he took hold of her backpack. He too was dressed in survival gear, though his clothes looked considerably more worn than hers.
‘Sun cream?’ he rapped.
‘Of course.’
‘I see you’re wearing my atija; that’s a sensible precaution.’
‘Your …?’
‘Atija means gift,’ he explained, opening the door of the Jeep for her. ‘The shawl was my personal gift to the auction. Now, get in.’
She was still fingering the fine material as she absorbed what Raffa had said. Her shawl was his gift to the auction … his small, thoughtful gift to the auction. On top of all the fabulous jewels he had donated, he had given something he liked, something that was representative of the traditional craft of his country. It was everything she had hoped he might do; everything she had so firmly believed he hadn’t done.
‘Come on,’ he said impatiently, bouncing her into action, ‘The people of the desert don’t wait for anyone—they obey nature’s rules, rather than man’s.’
‘Are you Bedouin?’ she asked as she climbed into the Jeep.
‘My mother was a Bedouin princess.’
And that conjured up the most wonderful images. She longed to know more, but there was a reserve in Raffa’s voice that told her to leave it. If Raffa didn’t want to discuss his parents with her, she respected that.
‘There’s a first aid kit here, and water here.’ He pointed them out to her when they were both safely strapped in. ‘And we have a radio as well as a satellite phone, should we need them. There’s also a tracking device on the Jeep, so that we know where we are and my people know too.’
A frisson of fear mixed with Casey’s excitement. Her fantasies were left behind as she faced the realities of the desert. Raffa was warning her that they were going into dangerous terrain where anything could happen. She had prepared well. She had even taken a first aid course before leaving England. She knew how to handle a radio and was ready for anything.
Except for riding on horseback.
‘You’re joking!’ Casey exclaimed when Raffa drew up after an hour of driving.
‘I never joke,’ Raffa informed her. ‘Or at least I don’t employ humour out here, where jokes cost lives.’
A’Qabani handlers were standing by a horse transporter, while two horses were tethered in the shade. The real road had petered out, and in front of them lay miles of unseen desert. Casey gazed down the dusty trail, hardly able to believe she was about to embark on her first real expedition on horseback. When she turned back to Raffa he was winding yards of black cloth around his head.
‘We call it a howlis,’ he explained, throwing the ties over his shoulder.
He looked amazing, with just a slit for his expressive black eyes.
‘The closest word you have to describe it would be a turban. It keeps the sun off my face and the dust out of my eyes, nose, ears and mouth.’
And makes you look stunning along the way, Casey thought, nodding sagely. This was not a turban. A turban was respectable headgear. This was a wild man’s bandanna-cum-scarf that made Raffa look like a brigand. His expression was hidden, which she didn’t like, but his eyes—those she did like. They might have been amused as he stared at, or then again not. She could decide. Her throat dried as she watched him stride towards the horses, and then she saw the men bring out a mule loaded with provisions and her mouth dried a little more. This was going to be some expedition.
Excited as she was, she felt a tremble of alarm. What did it mean, this trek into the desert? She was prepared in the practical sense, but in another, far more personal sense, was she ready for this? Was she ready for the untamed desert with an untamed man? What did she really think was going to happen when she was out there with Raffa, miles away from anyone, and from convention and civilisation?
She was terrified, but excited