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little?”
    “Impossible,” he said. At the entrance to the tent, he slipped off his shoes. Her boots took more effort, but she got them off and followed him inside. It was like stepping into an illustration—or a dream.
    Incense burners and lamps set with colored glass hung from the wooden tent frame. Fabrics draped the walls and carpets turned the sand into colorful flooring. Everywhere she looked she could see cushions in vivid silks—purples, reds, oranges. A huge brass table sat on a low wooden stand. Adilan glanced at her from where he sat beside the table. He swept out a hand. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
    She came over and sat down on the pillows—they seemed to enfold her. A woman brought in a pitcher, a bright blue bowl and towels. The woman poured the water and Michelle washed her hands in the cool liquid.
    And then the food began to appear—carried in on large platters. She thought she recognized the smooth paste that almost everyone in the Middle East ate—hummus, or ground up chick peas. Flat bread, still warm from baking came in, along with a bowl of figs and bright red pomegranate seeds. Meat of some kind on skewers was served, with a honey dipping sauce. Salad, olives, sliced cucumbers, and then Michelle lost track of the dishes. She wanted to taste everything.
    Adilan poured her lemonade from a glass carafe. He held up what looked like a small pastry made of layers of flaky dough and smelling of honey. “This is a specialty of Al-Sarid. You must try it.”
    She didn’t see any way to take the pastry from him, so she let him put it in her mouth. Her lips closed over his fingers and her tongue brushed his fingertip. His eyes darkened. She swallowed the morsel of sweetness. “What is it?”
    “Dates, honey—and spices. The recipe is known only to three cooks in Al-Sarid, and each bakery claims to have invented the dish. Try the lamb now.” He wrapped a small chunk of meat in the flat bread and held it up for her to take it from his fingers.
    “Uh, I can manage,” she told him.
    He shook his head. “It is custom to feed a guest. In turn, you may choose to feed me.”
    She bit down on her lower lip. She wasn’t sure if he was feeding her a line more than any food, but she glanced over and saw one of the robed women watching them. The woman rolled her eyes, a giggle was smothered, and Michelle straightened. She wasn’t letting anyone think she was some stupid American who couldn’t adopt local customs.
    Leaning forward, she parted her lips. Adilan placed the lamb on her tongue, and whispered, “Savor it.”
    She let the meat linger on her tongue. Spices exploded in her mouth—a mix of mint, thyme, something sweet, and something a little tart. The bread seemed to melt away, and the lamb—she’d never had anything so good.
    Glancing over at the women serving them, she saw expectation in the woman’s dark eyes. Michelle scooted a little closer to Adilan. She swept up one of the honey dates with her fingers—there were no forks, not even so much as a napkin—and held it up for him. Green eyes dancing, Adilan opened his lips. She fed him the date, and his mouth closed on her thumb and fore finger.
    His tongue darted out, licking the last touch of sweetness from her thumb. Shock darted up her hand to her heart, sending it skidding fast. She licked her lips.
    Adilan leaned even closer. She could smell his scent, something musky and warm. “I have a surprise for you.” Standing, he held out his hand to her. She put her hand in his and he pulled her to her feet.
    He kept her hand as he walked her to the front of the tent. There stood a tan camel—the kind with one hump. A tasseled saddle sat on the animal’s back and a matching tasseled bridle wrapped around its head. The camel turned and stared at Michelle with dark eyes and the most ridiculously long eye lashes. Then it gave a belch that smelled like something fermenting and a loud, grumbling complaint.
    Michelle eased closer to