“What picture books?”
“Oh, children’s books,” I explain, moving to the bed and lifting a pillow – a deep purple with fine gold thread. “He was able to get some sent to us after –,” the words are sharp in my throat. I can’t help looking at him reproachfully. “After you exiled him.”
His expression doesn’t change. There is no remorse though, no sympathy either. It is the best antidote to desire, pushing anything I had been feeling for him deep down inside of me. How can I possibly want this man, who single-handedly ruined my father’s life?
I replace the cushion on the bed and move towards the table.
“You said you were starving?”
“Yes.”
He’s close. I stiffen, keeping my back turned to him
, studying the elaborate, detailed tapestry on the canvas wall opposite instead. There is the sound of metal on metal and then a moment later, the aroma of something salty and piquant. Despite myself, I glance over my shoulder. He’s removing small containers from a fridge.
A fridge? I frown, moving towards it. “There’s electricity here.”
“A generator. Yes.”
“So this is just pretend camping?”
His smile is brief. “It is camping with convenience.”
“I should have thought you’d be too uber masculine for that.”
He lifts a brow, studying me slowly, his eyes raking over me, making me aware of just what I’ve admitted. That I find him uber masculine – and I fear the next logical conclusion is that I find him desirable. I rush to correct that assumption.
“I mean, that you’d want to prove your masculinity to the world.”
He leaves the smile in place, rich with mockery. “We both know this is not the case, but if you feel better to taunt me, then go ahead.”
Damn him! I spin away, feeling as though I’m on the back foot. Nerves fire through me. I am torn between a desire to ease the silence and a wish to act completely aloof.
The former wins, an ingrained dislike for awkward silences stretching through me. “Do you come out here often?”
He places the dishes in the middle of the table, gesturing with his hand for me to take a seat.
“Often enough.”
I move to the chair, drawing it backwards. “What does that mean?”
“Once every few weeks. More if I can.”
“You like the desert?”
He takes the seat opposite and by accident I’m sure, our knees brush beneath the table. I jolt and then wish I wasn’t so damned obvious. I glare at him to compensate for the fact I’m annoyed at myself. “Qabid is sixty per cent desert,” he says quietly, and I’m pleased he doesn’t push his advantage. Instead, he reaches for a plate and begins to place various pieces on it. “I did not have much choice, growing up, but to like it.”
“Surely you don’t have to spend much time out here,” I point out. “This is by choice?”
“It’s in my blood,” he agrees.
“And mine?”
His eyes spear me. “You look so much like your mother. It’s almost impossible to believe any Qabidi genes run through your blood.”
“It’s too late for a DNA test,” I quip. “We’re officially married.”
“It wouldn’t matter,” he says, placing the plate in front of me. “You’re a figure of the Hassan family, regardless of your looks and parentage.”