Heather Graham by Arabian Nights

threatened him, who had insolently declared she would do exactly what she wanted to do.
    And she also belonged to Jim Crosby. He could only assume she was his mistress, and he had to afford Crosby a certain envy. Crosby was a striking man himself; it was logical that he should attract a bright and beautiful woman. Well, for such beauty one man naturally envied another. As for her temper, Crosby was welcome to it. He would warrant that had she been abducted by a true roving sheikh, that gentleman of the desert would see to it that she spent her time in the harem with her mouth taped shut!
    Alex glanced indignantly at her silk costuming. She was covered from head to toe, but somehow she would have felt more dressed in a string bikini. This was a far cry from the robes and galabias she had seen worn by the fellahin or peasant women along the banks of the Nile. But, she thought with a hint of woeful comfort, at least she was not going to be attacked in the bathtub. Her attire might be almost decadent, but decadent was better than none at all.
    It was a prickling along her spine and a subtle new scent upon the heavy air that alerted her to the fact that she was no longer alone. And she knew instantly, without conscious thought, that the intruder was not the Arab girl. The scent on the air was that of sandalwood and musk, and it was uniquely, ruggedly, hypnotically—male.
    Alex spun quickly to find her coal-eyed captor standing perfectly still just inside the flap of the tent. He watched her with cool assessment—and no apology whatsoever.
    She was definitely discomfited (wishing one could hide in a large paper bag was definitely “discomfited”) and unnerved. Caught totally off guard, she wondered how long he had been standing there. Feeling terribly self-conscious, she was tempted to drop to her knees to wrap her arms around herself.
    She stood as still as he, willing herself not to jerk or tremble or react. Mentally and then physically she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, hoping the haughty, determined actions would allow her to speak with a haughty and determined voice.
    “Who are you? I demand to know who you are!”
    Her dignity disappeared when she stamped her foot after her last command, and she could feel the hysteria building inside her. It was almost impossible for her to curb the feelings. She was in a tent in an oasis God-knew-where, perfumed and bathed and dressed in an absurd costume, and facing the crazy Bedouin with the smoldering laser eyes who had brought her to her present condition.
    “Who are you?” she shrieked. Why didn’t he answer her? Even if he didn’t understand English, he had to understand that she was furiously upset. And why was it that as soon as she needed it, she went blank on the sketchy knowledge of Arabic that she did have? Only one phrase would come to her mind— Aenae imbasett giddaen , which meant, “I’ve enjoyed myself tremendously.” And she surely didn’t want to say something like that.
    While she stood in furious frustration, fists clenched at her sides, she tried desperately to recall a few more words in Arabic. Feeling tense and wounded didn’t help a bit; it created an entire mental block. And then, while she still struggled, he casually started walking forward and spoke. “I might ask you the same question.”
    Dan wondered dryly if he had managed something vaguely similar to an Arabic accent. He doubted it. But then Ali Sheriff didn’t speak English with an Arabic accent. If Ali’s speech was accented at all, it was with a slight British twist, since he had spent a year in prep school in London before entering Yale.
    “You speak English.”
    It was an exhalation of breath; it was an accusation. Dan lowered his lashes and kneeled before the still boiling coffee so she wouldn’t see the grin that refused to be suppressed. His Arabic accent might not be the best, but apparently she didn’t know it.
    “Yes,” he said dryly, “I speak English.”
    She