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“But maybe it isn’t the truth. Maybe you have some idea of me that I’m not—”
“I don’t think so.”
Her brow creased. Her head had begun to throb again. Amazing how he could give her a headache in just minutes.
The problem with Tair, she thought, was that he was too confident. Too sure of himself, and comfortable with his power.
It didn’t help that he was so powerfully shaped, either, as if cut from the desert rock and ravines—solid, invincible. He wasn’t just tall, he was broad, strong, big in the way warriors were big. He dwarfed the tent, ate up space with his endless legs and broad shoulders. His wrists and hands were just as immense, his skin a golden-bronze from sun. But it was his hair that gave him the look of the barbarian. His hair was thick, jet-black, and long. His hair ought to be cut or at least tied back from his face but he didn’t bother with it, although his jaw was smoother than it had been. Normally it was shadowed with a day’s growth of beard but he must have shaved again since morning.
“Tair,” she said, and her voice was soft, almost pleading. “I’m not whatever you think I am.”
“And what do I think you are?”
“A spy!” Tally flashed, livid all over again.
Tair chuckled softly, dark hair falling forward, shadowing his face. “You object?”
“Of course I’m not a spy. Why would I be a spy? My camera’s nice, but it isn’t even that high-tech!” She continued to frown at him, hating him, even as she found him horribly, alarmingly attractive. If only she didn’t find tall, dark, handsome appealing. If only Paolo had been blonde, frail. But no, Paolo had been her type, too. Brazilian, rugged, muscular, handsome.
But Tair, he put a whole new spin on rugged and muscular.
He put a whole new spin on everything.
“Why do you have such an excellent vocabulary?” she asked, exasperated. It amazed her that at times his English was better than hers. “You speak English flawlessly.”
“You pick up things along the way,” he answered, shifting a little and then placing one pale suede boot on top of the other. “But tell me more about these first impressions. Why do you think they’re wrong?”
He’d changed the subject, she noticed, deliberately focusing the attention away from him back on her. He certainly didn’t reveal much about himself and yet there was lots she’d like to know. Like—was he married? Did he have children? How long had he been sheikh? “You want me to divulge all these things about myself but you won’t say anything about you.”
“I already know me. I don’t know you.”
“But I don’t know you.”
“Good. It’s better off that way.” He grinned, flashing white straight teeth. “How long have you been a photographer?”
She gave up trying to deflect his questioning. At least when talking he wasn’t making threats. “About seven years now.”
“How did you get into it?”
“I liked photography in high school—worked on the yearbook—but dropped it in college. Then in my early twenties I got a job working in a photo studio at the mall. Lots of family portraits and naked babies lying on sheepskin rugs, but I enjoyed setting up the shots, liked the photography aspect. One thing led to another and here I am.”
“In Northern Africa.”
She smiled fleetingly. He sounded almost amused and she realized yet again that he wasn’t entirely without humor. “Working at the Factoria Mall got boring, as well as claustrophobic. I hated being cooped up inside a big building. I like being outside. Free to roam.”
“You had a lot of freedom then as a child?”
Tally suddenly thought of her childhood and her mood instantly changed. She didn’t like remembering her childhood, or her home. She didn’t want to think about a place that had trapped her, confined her, limiting her opportunities and choices. “No,” she answered firmly, and her voice sounded sharper than she intended.
Tally saw his eyebrows lift and she grimaced, gentled her tone. “I was the oldest in a big family. I didn’t have a lot of freedom. Just a lot of responsibility.”
“So tell me about your family.”
But Tally didn’t want to talk about her family. Her family had been poor, and poor wasn’t interesting or glamorous, but it had taught good lessons. Like, poor tasted hungry. Poor felt weary. Poor smelled fearful. Poor heard despair.
Poor wasn’t what Tally wanted to be ever again. Not poor, not helpless, not dependent, not trapped. And maybe she’d never be rich doing her freelance photography, but she always managed to pay her bills and take care of herself.
