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around the hump,” he instructed, “and hold tight. I’ve told our friend here to walk her slowly up the hill and back. No galloping,” he assured her.
    She dug her small camera out of the fanny pack around her waist and handed it down to him. “Would you?”
    He grinned. “Of course.”
    She rode, laughing at the odd side to side gait of the beast. She waved at the grinning motorists who passed her as the camel’s owner led the camel up and down by the side of the small paved road. The whole way, the tall man watched them and took photos. He didn’t look much like a man of action, and she couldn’t really picture him on a camel. He seemed like a businessman, and he was probably as fastidious about dirt and camel hair as he would have been about mud. She’d dreamed of a man of action racing across the desert on a stallion. Her companion, who was charming and good company at least, was no counterpart of the daring sheikh she’d read about in the 1920’s novel from which Valentino’s movie had been made. It was a little disappointing. She had to stop living in fantasies, she reminded herself, and held on tight to the little rope as she bounced along.
    When they returned, and the Moroccan had coaxed the camel onto its knees, the tall man handed him the camera and said something under his breath. He reached up and lifted Gretchen down in his strong arms, pausing to turn toward the camera. “Smile,” he instructed, and looked down into her wide, curious eyes. She smiled back, her heart whipping into her throat, her lips parted with lingering pleasure and the beginnings of an odd longing.
    â€œDid you enjoy it?” he asked, hesitating.
    â€œIt was wonderful,” she said breathlessly. She searched his eyes slowly, aware of the smooth fabric of his jacket, where her nervous hands rested, and the narrow, unblinking scrutiny of those black eyes. She couldn’t quite breathe while he held her.
    He felt her breath against his chin and again that unfamiliar stirring made him frown. He put her down abruptly and moved away to retrieve the camera. Gretchen stood watching him with nervous discomfort. She felt as if she’d done something very wrong. She had no idea what.
    He was back very shortly. He handed her the camera and smiled politely, as if nothing had happened to mar the pleasure of her first camel ride. “The grotto is just down that path. Come along.”
    She went first, leaving him to follow. There was a stall at the entrance to the Caves of Hercules and she hesitated with her eyes on a small, flat circle of rock with a raised dome and what looked like a fossil on it. Fascinated, she picked it up, finding it silky to the touch.
    â€œYour first souvenir? Allow me,” he murmured, paying for it.
    â€œBut…”
    He held up a hand to silence her protest. “A trifle,” he waved away the cost. He nodded toward the cave’s entrance. “Go slowly. This is a living cave. You will find limestone walls where, for centuries, men have hewn millstones from them.”
    She went inside, feeling the cool dampness of the caves as she walked along the bare ground and mingled with other tourists. There was an opening toward the sea which looked very much like a map of Africa. The walls had circles carved out—the millstones, she thought. She cradled her souvenir in her small hands and took out her camera again, photographing the walls and, when he wasn’t looking, her strangely attractive companion. She was enjoying his company as she’d enjoyed little else in her life. And she didn’t even know his name!
    She moved back toward him. He was watching the waves through the opening in the cavern, his hands deep in his pockets, his expression taciturn and brooding.
    He turned as she joined him and the polite smile was back on his face.
    â€œI don’t know your name,” she said softly.
    His eyes twinkled. “Call