Read Online Heather Graham by Arabian Nights - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Arabian Nights
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Biting down on her lip to quell the tears that rose within her, Alex tried desperately to regain some composure and assess her situation logically.
Logically! Dear God, it wasn’t a classroom, it wasn’t even an ancient tomb with hieroglyphics to be analyzed and transcribed. She had been taken prisoner in the middle of an alien desert, by a dark and apparently all-powerful Bedouin, who had ordered that she have a bath.
Oh, dear God! This was impossible; outrageous. No, it wasn’t impossible, because it was happening.
Don’t panic, Alex. Don’t panic. She realized suddenly that she was studiously chewing the nail of her left forefinger. She quickly wrenched her fingertip from her mouth and spun around to survey the tent.
Again, all she could think of was Arabian nights. The floor was sand, but over the sand beautifully woven Persian rugs were scattered. There was a massive canopied bed with silk coverings and a multitude of throw pillows; larger pillows decked the floor around an especially large rug. Turkish coffee brewed in a canister above a small fire at the far end of the rug; a tray with dates and nuts and fruits sat near it. Several divans, also decked in colorful silks, rounded out the room; spaced between them were teakwood tables and trunks.
It was an exotically beautiful place, she thought fleetingly. Even the inner skin of the tent had been dressed in billowing silk. The colors were those of the rainbow, bright and yet soft.
And in the far rear of the tent, silently watching Alex, was the stunningly pretty Arab girl. Her eyes were large and sympathetic as she stood quietly beside the tent’s one other accessory—a large, ornately embossed metal bathtub with four huge feet that resembled those of a jackal.
Steam rose in fragrant mists from the tub. The girl inclined her head slightly toward Alex and swept her arm invitingly across the rise of the mist.
Alex crossed her arms firmly over her chest, tapping her fingers upon her arms. She smiled grimly. “Not on your life,” she said with sweet, unfaltering determination.
The girl appeared to be sincerely upset. She spoke quickly in husky tones to Alex, but all Alex could make out was the Arabic for “please,” min fadlak. The girl again motioned to the tub, her expression pleading.
Alex shook her head. “I’m sorry. No.”
The huge, doelike eyes of the girl became both sad and resigned. With delicate little steps she started toward the tent flap.
Alex heard her soft Arabic as she began speaking to the Bedouin bruisers. A second later both men ducked beneath the flap and stood behind the girl as she again addressed Alex in sorrowful tones.
For several seconds Alex stared at her blankly, wondering what on earth the girl was saying and once more lamenting her sketchy Arabic. Then the girl lifted her hands in a universal gesture of exasperation. The two men started toward Alex, and everything the young woman had been trying to say became crystal clear. She could step into the tub of her own accord—or she could receive some assistance from the bruisers.
Alex immediately leaped backward, lining her hand toward the men. “Kiff! Kiff!” she exclaimed, thankful she remembered the word for “stop.” The men paused, and she wished heatedly that she could smash both their faces as they smiled their superior amusement.
Everyone in the tent knew she was going to step into the bath under her own power. Bowing like amiable housemen pleased to have served her, they backed out of the tent, only to take up their positions on either side of it once more.
Alex grated her teeth and stared with animosity at the Arab girl, who continued to survey her sorrowfully. She attempted to smile, and Alex sighed. Begrudging every step she took, she gingerly approached the tub.
Even in high school and college Alex had never been the type to run around the girls’ locker room nude. It bothered her to disrobe with the young Arab girl near, but she knew it would
Biting down on her lip to quell the tears that rose within her, Alex tried desperately to regain some composure and assess her situation logically.
Logically! Dear God, it wasn’t a classroom, it wasn’t even an ancient tomb with hieroglyphics to be analyzed and transcribed. She had been taken prisoner in the middle of an alien desert, by a dark and apparently all-powerful Bedouin, who had ordered that she have a bath.
Oh, dear God! This was impossible; outrageous. No, it wasn’t impossible, because it was happening.
Don’t panic, Alex. Don’t panic. She realized suddenly that she was studiously chewing the nail of her left forefinger. She quickly wrenched her fingertip from her mouth and spun around to survey the tent.
Again, all she could think of was Arabian nights. The floor was sand, but over the sand beautifully woven Persian rugs were scattered. There was a massive canopied bed with silk coverings and a multitude of throw pillows; larger pillows decked the floor around an especially large rug. Turkish coffee brewed in a canister above a small fire at the far end of the rug; a tray with dates and nuts and fruits sat near it. Several divans, also decked in colorful silks, rounded out the room; spaced between them were teakwood tables and trunks.
It was an exotically beautiful place, she thought fleetingly. Even the inner skin of the tent had been dressed in billowing silk. The colors were those of the rainbow, bright and yet soft.
And in the far rear of the tent, silently watching Alex, was the stunningly pretty Arab girl. Her eyes were large and sympathetic as she stood quietly beside the tent’s one other accessory—a large, ornately embossed metal bathtub with four huge feet that resembled those of a jackal.
Steam rose in fragrant mists from the tub. The girl inclined her head slightly toward Alex and swept her arm invitingly across the rise of the mist.
Alex crossed her arms firmly over her chest, tapping her fingers upon her arms. She smiled grimly. “Not on your life,” she said with sweet, unfaltering determination.
The girl appeared to be sincerely upset. She spoke quickly in husky tones to Alex, but all Alex could make out was the Arabic for “please,” min fadlak. The girl again motioned to the tub, her expression pleading.
Alex shook her head. “I’m sorry. No.”
The huge, doelike eyes of the girl became both sad and resigned. With delicate little steps she started toward the tent flap.
Alex heard her soft Arabic as she began speaking to the Bedouin bruisers. A second later both men ducked beneath the flap and stood behind the girl as she again addressed Alex in sorrowful tones.
For several seconds Alex stared at her blankly, wondering what on earth the girl was saying and once more lamenting her sketchy Arabic. Then the girl lifted her hands in a universal gesture of exasperation. The two men started toward Alex, and everything the young woman had been trying to say became crystal clear. She could step into the tub of her own accord—or she could receive some assistance from the bruisers.
Alex immediately leaped backward, lining her hand toward the men. “Kiff! Kiff!” she exclaimed, thankful she remembered the word for “stop.” The men paused, and she wished heatedly that she could smash both their faces as they smiled their superior amusement.
Everyone in the tent knew she was going to step into the bath under her own power. Bowing like amiable housemen pleased to have served her, they backed out of the tent, only to take up their positions on either side of it once more.
Alex grated her teeth and stared with animosity at the Arab girl, who continued to survey her sorrowfully. She attempted to smile, and Alex sighed. Begrudging every step she took, she gingerly approached the tub.
Even in high school and college Alex had never been the type to run around the girls’ locker room nude. It bothered her to disrobe with the young Arab girl near, but she knew it would
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