Free Lord of the Desert by Diana Palmer

won’t say adieu when you leave Tangier. We will say au revoir. ”
    â€œI’m glad.”
    His long fingers touched the back of hers where her hand lay on the table beside her glass. “So am I. Although,” he added broodingly, “I am not doing you a favor to let you go there.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œYou may discover that appearances can be very deceptive.”
    Her eyes sparkled. “Don’t tell me. You’re really an international jewel thief or a spy on holiday.”
    He burst out laughing. “No,” he said. “I can assure you that isn’t the case.”
    She studied his hand. It was his left one, and there were scars on the back of it, white lines against his olive complexion. She touched them lightly. “From the accident?”
    His whole body clenched at the memory of the injuries. “Yes,” he said reluctantly, withdrawing his hand.
    â€œThat was clumsy,” she said, grimacing. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
    He stared at her with conflicting emotions. “You will have to know before you leave Tangier,” he said quite calmly. “But I prefer to put it off for a few days. Honesty can be a brutal thing.”
    â€œThen you’re an ax murderer,” she said thoughtfully, nodding. “I understand. You don’t want to shatter my illusions of you as some elegant scoundrel.”
    He laughed again, caught off guard. “You remind me of her, so much,” he said without thinking. “The first thing that attracted me to her was a sense of humor that made me laugh at myself, something I was never able to do before.”
    â€œShe?”
    He shifted, as if he hadn’t meant to say that. “A woman I knew,” he hedged. “A blonde, like you, with a very open personality. I thought she was one of a kind. I am delighted to find that the earth contains another woman similar to her.”
    â€œMaggie thinks I’m a certifiable lunatic.”
    â€œYou’re refreshing,” he said, leaning back in his chair to study her. “You might be surprised at how many people say only what is expected of them, out of fear of giving offense. I abhor being toadied to,” he added quite fiercely, and his eyes blazed for an instant.
    He must be, Gretchen decided, someone very important. She wanted to ask him about his life, his background, his work. She was curious about him. But he seemed not to like discussing his past.
    She glanced at her menu and grimaced. “French. Everywhere we go, everything’s written in French,” she moaned.
    He laughed softly. “I must make it my business to teach you to read a menu. Here.” He shared his menu with her, pronounced each entry and made her pronounce it after him, and then explained what it was. She started with an appetizer of prosciutto and melon, followed by a main dish of lamb done in a Moroccan sauce. He ordered fish and a bottle of white wine.
    â€œI’ve never had wine before,” she said, watching his eyebrows go up.
    â€œWould you prefer something else?”
    She lifted a shoulder. “I suppose I should know something about wines. If the sheikh isn’t Muslim, he probably has a wine cellar and will expect me to know all sorts of things about wines.”
    He pursed his lips. “Probably,” he murmured. “But one can rarely go wrong with a good white wine, like a Riesling or a Chardonnay. Although I prefer an Alsace wine, like a Gewürtztraminer. It is an acquired taste.”
    She shook her head. “I’ll never learn.”
    â€œOf course you will. Each night, we’ll sample a different wine from the list. By the time you leave Morocco, you’ll be knowledgeable.”
    She smiled. “You’re very sophisticated.”
    â€œI was educated in Europe,” he told her. “One matures rapidly in a sophisticated environment.” His black eyes narrowed. “But I wasn’t