Accidentally the Sheikh's Wife by Barbara McMahon Page B

replied. “This changes your plans, doesn’t it? You didn’t expect to be away from the office all day.”
    “I can be reached by phone if there is an emergency. The staff is capable of handling things. Shall we explore the town after lunch?”
    “I would love to.”
    When they started out, Rashid insisted on buying her a wide-brimmed hat to shelter her head from the sun.
    “You aren’t wearing one,” she said as they left the gift shop.
    “I’m used to the sun. Your skin is much fairer than mine and I don’t want it burned.”
    She smiled, feeling cherished. No one had looked out for her in a long, long time.
    They walked around the square, looking into the shops, but when asked if she wanted to enter any, she declined. She wanted to see as much of the town as she could. The old buildings had ornate decorative carvings and bas-reliefs that intrigued her. The cobblestone streets showed wear but were still functioning centuries after they’d first been laid down.
    “Tell me about this place. It’s old, feels steeped in history. Is it a true representation of old Quishari?”
    Rashid gave her a brief history of the town, telling her it had been on the trade routes, a favorite resting place because of the plentiful water.
    As the afternoon grew warmer, she could feel heat radiating from the walls as they passed. Turning a corner and exploring some of the side streets put them in line with the breeze and it was pleasant.
    “The air feels drier than the coast,” she commented.
    “Quite. There’s a danger of dehydration. We’ll stop soon and have something to drink.”
    Stopping after three o’clock for cold drinks at a small sidewalk café, she was glad the tables had umbrellas. Even with the hat, she was hot beneath the sun. Yet she relished the sights. She loved the sense of timelessness. This town had been here for a thousand years and would likely be around another thousand. If only the walls could talk.
    “Will we be able to walk out on the desert a little?” she asked.
    “We can ask the driver to take us as far out as you wish to go.”
    “Just enough to get the feel for it. It’s amazing to me anyone can live in the desert.”
    “The old tribes knew the water spots which were crucial for survival. Caravans and nomads once roamed known trails. Now the routes are known to fewer and fewer people.”
     
    When they returned to the hotel, Rashid summoned the same cab. He spoke with the driver and before she knew it, she was sitting in the backseat with Rashid as the man drove crazily toward the west.
    “So we ditch the town and take off,” she murmured, feeling the delightful cool air from the air conditioner.
    “For a while. It’s best to see the desert with those interested, not those who wish they were elsewhere.”
    She laughed and settled down to enjoy the drive. To the right were rows of oil wells, the steady rising and fall of the pumpjacks timeless.
    “I’ve seen those pumps in California,” she commented. “In one place they are even painted to look like whimsical animals,” she said, watching the monotonous up-and-down action of the machines.
    “These kind of pumps are used all over the world. I had not thought about decorating them. They’re functional, that’s all.”
    “Is this an oil field that belongs to your company?”
    “It is.”
    “Do you come here often?”
    “No. Only once before, actually.” He was silent for a moment, then said softly, “It was my father’s special project. The wells don’t produce as much as in other areas, but he insisted on keeping the field going, and on checking on it himself. I came with him once. It held special attraction for him, not so much for me. As long as there are no problems, I don’t need to visit. Khalid comes occasionally.”
    “Must be nice for the local economy.”
    “One reason my father kept it going, I think. The discovery of oil helped revive the town and he felt an obligation to keep it going.”
    “And you do as