Heart of a Desert Warrior. Lucy Monroe
forward with your career.”
“Just how close tabs have you been keeping?” she demanded.
“Close enough.”
“So, you thought you’d do me a favor?” Why did she think it hadn’t all been altruism on his part? Oh, yes, because she no longer trusted him and never would again. “Didn’t it occur to you that not coming to the Middle East had been my decision?”
“No.”
She dropped her head in her hands and groaned, her fury losing its heat. The man just had no clue, none whatsoever.
And there was no point in continuing this discussion. He was never going to get it, but he wasn’t going to drop the subject unless she did.
So she observed, “You said you share this tent with your family.”
“I do.”
“Where is everyone else?” Were the tent walls so thick, they would mask the sounds of a child?
It was surprisingly quiet, no sounds from outside filtering through, nor from any other part of the tent.
“My grandfather spends this time each day with the other old men, drinking coffee and telling stories. No doubt he would have stayed to meet your arrival, but my grandmother knows how to get her way and she wanted to meet you first,” Asad revealed in a fond tone.
“Where is your daughter? In school?” Iris guessed.
He shook his head. “She will be playing with other small children under the watchful eye of my cousin.”
Since, presumably, if his grandparents had more children than Asad’s father, the barbaric bargain would not have been made, he didn’t mean cousin literally, but referred to a female relative. “She’s not old enough for school?”
“We do not run a school precisely, though the concept is similar. We train our children in every aspect of life, not merely to read, write and cipher, though we do not neglect their book learning. Some will want to attend university one day.” He reached out as if to touch Iris and let his hand fall, an unreadable expression in his dark eyes. “But you are right, my daughter is too young for any formalized training.”
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