The Sheikh's Disobedient Bride. Jane Porter
talking and he was drawing attention to them.
Cheeks burning, Tally finally took the robe and tugged it over her head. “Thank you,” she said stiffly. “Now if I can just go back to my tent?”
But the old man was still talking and gesticulating and Tally clutched the small memory card tighter, her palm beginning to grow damp. She had to get the card hidden before Tair appeared.
Finally she managed to escape, slipping beneath the flap of her tent and diving onto her bed. She was shaking all over. Shaking with fear, shaking with relief. But she had the memory card back. That was the important thing.
But where to hide it? She still hadn’t decided when she heard voices outside her tent. She was out of time. Hastily Tally tucked the memory card under her shirt, inside her bra just as the tent flap flipped over and Tair’s long shadow stretched over the floor, his powerful frame silhouetted by the bright morning sun.
“You lied to me and you stole from me,” his deep voice rasped. “If you were a man I’d cut your tongue out and you’d lose a hand.”
Tally wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging them for protection.
“Where is the memory card?” he demanded.
Tally hugged her knees even tighter. “What are you talking about?”
“You know perfectly well.”
“I don’t.”
He said nothing now, just stared at her, his expression hard, unforgiving, brooding. His eyes were dark like coffee and a deep line seemed permanently etched between his black eyebrows.
He finally spoke. “I saw you. I was watching.”
Tally shuddered. She felt his anger and scorn, it was also there in his eyes and the mocking tilt of his lips but she wouldn’t let him know it bothered her. And she wouldn’t act afraid, or acknowledge that she was stuck here. Stranded and powerless.
“I want it,” he added softly. “Now.”
“It’s mine!” she answered fiercely, even as she bowed her head. She couldn’t give him the memory card, she couldn’t. It was hers, all she had of the past few weeks.
“Before you tell me no again,” he added even more quietly, “before you tell me another lie, know that in my world thieves lose hands. Liars lose tongues. Think for a moment. Decide if your photos are worth it.”
Tally couldn’t look at him now. All thoughts of being tough and strong were crumbling. “Please,” she whispered. “Please let me keep the card. You can have the camera.”
“That’s an odd thing for a tourist to say.”
Slowly Tally lifted her head, swallowing around the lump of fear.
“You told me you were just a tourist,” he added, his dark eyes boring into her, staring so hard, so intently she felt as if he were seeing inside her, all the way to her heart. “You lie. You steal. What else do you do?”
She shook her head, terrified.
“Perhaps you aid the insurgents. Those who want to be rid of us. Those that take our land from us.”
“I help no one—”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because I’m not political. Yes, I’m a photographer, but I’m not political, I take no sides, I do not even know the history of these border wars you talk about.”
“Prove it.”
She looked at him for a long unblinking moment. “How?”
“Give me the memory card back. I will look at the photos. I shall see for myself if you tell the truth.”
She couldn’t look away from his dark eyes, or his hard features, each strong, defined—nose, jaw, cheekbone, brow bone. “What if you don’t like my work?”
He shrugged. “I’ll erase it.”
Tears filled her eyes and she hated herself for being weak and emotional but she was in agony. Those photos were months of work, work in nearly unbearable heat, work in wretched conditions, work where she’d sacrificed comfort and her own health to get just the right shots. “Please don’t erase my work. I’ve weeks and weeks of shots on that memory card. I haven’t downloaded anything in ages since I’ve been traveling.”
He was still, very still and his hard gaze reproving. “Why did you lie to me?”
She searched his face, searched for a sign of compassion or comprehension. “I didn’t think you’d understand.”
He stared down at her, expression shuttered, and when he spoke his voice was cold. “No. I don’t understand.” Then he walked out and for a moment Tally did nothing and then leaping from the bed, she chased after him.
“Wait,” she shouted, running to catch up with him. “Wait, please. Please!” She caught his sleeve, tugged on it. Her legs were shaking, her heart pounding and her mouth tasted sandy and dry.
Reaching into her bra, Tally pulled out the memory card and with a trembling hand gave it to him. “Take it. Look at the photos. See what I’ve done, see my work for yourself. If certain pictures offend you, then erase those, but I beg you, please don’t delete everything. Please leave me something.” Her voice cracked, broke. “I’ve spent months here, months in the desert, months away from my family. Please don’t take it all from me.”
Silently he accepted the memory card, his large hand wrapping around the small disk. Tally met his gaze, and blinking back tears she held it, looked him square in the eye, looked without pretense or pride. She was asking him to be fair, that’s all she wanted. For him to be fair.
Legs still shaking, she walked back to her tent, and dropped weakly onto the low bed.
This wasn’t good. So not good.
This is exactly what her mother always warned her about. This was what her friends had predicted. This was what her editor cautioned every time Tally set out on a new expedition. But she’d been a photographer for years and although she’d been in some tight spots, she’d never had serious trouble. She’d been doing so well traveling on her own until now. But this…this…was bad.
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