His Pregnant Prisoner

Part 22

THEY TRAVELED ON for what seemed like the better part of an hour. Nakayla fidgeted in her seat, trying to work out a kink in her shoulder.

"Are you uncomfortable?" Came the instant question from Karim.

"I'm fine."

The track vanished halfway through, until it seemed as if they climbed hundreds of feet up a giant ocher sand mound that offered panoramic views of the desert floor and then suddenly evened out again.

Her eyes wide, Nakayla took in the landscape as the jeep came to a halt.

Miles and miles of rippled, undulating dunes rose in all four directions, the harsh beauty of it stealing her breath. Against the backdrop of the desolate sands lay a lush encampment, eons away in scale and quality from the Mehreng's tents, a stark contrast to the stretching emptiness.

Tall palms behind the two curved tents formed a dense circular perimeter as far as she could see. The early evening sun streaked everything reddish orange.

It was breathtaking, tremendous, and it made her concerns seem so small.

She pulled out her cell phone. But remembered her battery had drained a few hours after she had arrived at the Mehreng camp.

Hearing Karim's tread, she turned around. "Do you have your phone?"

He looked at her outstretched hand, beating a path up her arm, her neck and then settling on her face. Something shimmered in his eyes then. A possessive glint. A triumphant light that sent goose bumps over her skin even under the relentless heat. "It's a little late to call for help." But he pulled his phone out.

Grabbing the phone from his hand, she turned around to click a selfie with the dazzling encampment behind her. She knew she was acting a little juvenile and a lot irreverent tourist but after that glimpse of fire in his eyes and the absence of another soul around for as far as she could see, she wasn't eager to go into the tent.

"Is there no one else here?"

Something gleamed in his eyes. "The servants are trained to be not seen or heard."

Which didn't help her any. "Could you take a pic for me?"

"A pic?" he repeated with quiet murder in his tone.

"Yes." She placed her hands on her hips. "And no, I won't sell pictures of the Sheikh of Tahiti's oasis hideaway in the desert even if I was paid a million dollars." She swiped a trickle of sweat from her forehead. "As far as I can see, there's no interrogation room here either, so come on."

With a sudden movement that made her heart crawl to her throat, he grabbed the phone from her hand, and marched to the entrance and held the flap open.

Do not poke the grumpy bear, Nakayla.

She entered the tent.

A burst of rich color, deep purples and sheer violets, greeted her everywhere she looked. Brass tables set with more lanterns and tea lights, handcrafted rugs strewed around, it was a sight to behold. Two veiled areas separated away from the lounge where they stood.

One had a myriad of dishes laid out on low tables guessing by the delicious aroma wafting toward her and the other contained a low but vast bed with a million pillows of all shapes and sizes on it. Bed big enough for two. A thick fur rug lay neatly folded at the bottom while a small brass-legged washstand with a basin stood against the far corner.

Swallowing the sudden tension, she faced the silent six-foot-two-inch male staring at her. His very silence sent her nerves thrumming. "I like it. Which tent is yours?" she said with a cheer that hurt her own head.