He bit back the flare of irritation. He wouldn’t rise to the bait. “And why would you wish to make an excuse?” He nodded to a passing acquaintance and settled his gaze on her.
“Because there are just the two of us. I have no wish to sit beside the king, to create gossip over nothing.”
“Nothing? I think not.” He didn’t wait for her to reply. “Would you care for a drink? Wine, whiskey, liqueur?”
“A cup of tea, please.”
“Tea,” he repeated, unable to prevent his disapproving tone. It was obvious she was more interested in emphasizing the differences between them than identifying the similarities. A waiter responded to his raised brows, and he ordered the tea.
“Yes, tea,” she said, her smile relaxing as she felt she’d won a point. “I am English, after all.”
He tried not to rise to the bait but failed. “I like whiskey, but I’m not Scottish or Irish.”
Her eyes narrowed. One all. He took a deep breath. He could be gracious in victory. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your evening?”
“Of course.” She smiled politely. “I’ve been in very pleasant company… up until now.”
His smile faded instantly as he followed her gaze to the young American archivist who’d returned and reciprocated her smile.
“Would you like your new ‘friend’ to join us?” He gave her a look so that she’d know exactly what her friend would get if he dared to accept an invitation to the king’s table.
She shook her head quickly, and his gaze lowered to her bit lip. Such beautiful lips—plump and red. They were not meant to be bitten, but to be kissed. Her slender shoulders rose and fell, shifting the sheen of the satin dress, which shimmered in the light, highlighting her curves. “No, thank you. I’m sure he’s fine where he is.”
“Really,” pressed Zavian, unable to stop himself now. “He’s most welcome to join us. I’d be interested in asking him—”
“Interrogating him,” Gabrielle interrupted.
Zavian ignored her. “Asking him all about his work.” He sat back. “You know how interested I am in his work.”
“What work is that?” asked the Bedouin sheikh, who’d just turned around after finishing his conversation.
Zavian stifled his irritation at being interrupted in a conversation with Gabrielle, which, despite its prickliness, he found compelling. “The celebration of poetry.”
Gabrielle looked at him sharply. Zavian smiled at her. “You thought I didn’t know about a celebration of poetry in the desert?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t…” She trailed off.
Zavian turned with a smile once more to the honored Bedouin guest. “May I introduce Dr. Gabrielle Taylor, Sheikh Mohammed?”
Sheikh Mohammed smiled. “Gabrielle and I are friends of old, are we not, Gabrielle?”
Zavian tried to keep his smile in place. He hadn’t known that Sheikh Mohammed knew Gabrielle. It seemed there was no end to the surprises for him this evening.
“Indeed,” Gabrielle said, with the first genuine smile of the evening. “My earliest memory of you was when my grandfather was working in your village.”
Mohammed nodded and smiled. “He changed everything for us. Put us on the map. I owe your grandfather a debt of gratitude I can never repay.”
“He didn’t see it that way.” Gabrielle shrugged. “Besides, he’s gone now.”
Mohammed leaned in toward Gabrielle, ignoring Zavian. “And the world lost a great man with his passing, but…” He sat back again, considering Gabrielle and then Zavian thoughtfully. “But, the debt remains. But it is to you now, rather than your grandfather.”
Gabrielle smiled. “You owe me nothing, sir.”
“On the contrary. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, all you have to do is contact me, and I will do my best to help.”
“That is very kind of you, sir, but I assure you there is no debt either to my grandfather or myself.”
He grimaced slightly. “You surely wouldn’t prevent an old man from repaying his debt?”