Summer Sheikhs. Marguerite Kaye
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abruptly.
‘You’re right. It’s crazy of me to ask. Sorry, sorry. But, Desi, what can I do? Tell me what to do!’ And again, the flame of desperation was there, licking around the edges of her voice. Desi’s heart contracted.
‘God, Sam—can’t you and Farid just elope?’
‘Walid is not above making threats. Maybe—probably he’d do nothing, but you know I can’t count on that.’
‘Making threats? That’s disgusting!’ Desi exclaimed. ‘Is Walid completely insane?’
‘Don’t get me started.’
‘What about talking to your Uncle Khaled?’ Uncle Khaled was her father’s younger brother, and since her father’s death, Sami had explained, was the head of the extended family. Uncle Khaled was also Salah’s father.
‘I’ve thought of that. But Uncle Khaled and Aunt Arwa are really keen on me and Salah. They’ve told my mother they’re thrilled. So I can’t just ask Uncle Khaled straight out, either, because if that went wrong…But, Des, if you were there you could sound him out for me—’
Sami broke off with a gasp. ‘Oh, Allah, I’ve got it! I’ve got it!’ she cried. ‘Uncle Khaled’s dig!’
Chapter Six
THE servant led her through the palace to the foot of an external staircase running up to a large terrace backed by the dome, and left her. Desi went slowly up, gazing entranced as the vista was slowly revealed.
The sun was just disappearing behind the horizon of deep-purple desert on the right, pulling a cloak of fiery, furnace-red sky after it; to the left the last of its rays caught the mountain tops with liquid gold. Below and beyond the palace the city was lighting up, a swathe of glittering jewels cut in two by the darkness of the great river that carved its way from the mountains to the sea. As the sun’s last light faded, the tree-lined river began to reflect the myriad lights from its banks.
Desi drew a long breath as she arrived at the top and sighed it out. Magic.
Salah was standing halfway along the terrace, looking out over the city. He turned, and at once she was locked by his gaze. Desi put one foot in front of the other and, as helpless as if a magnet were drawing her, slowly moved towards where he waited.
Her hair was loose, he saw, caressing shoulders and neck; her skin was without a flaw. She was wearing seablue silk that turned her chameleon eyes to turquoise: a clingy slip top bared the smooth skin of her throat and the shadow between her breasts; flowing trousers caressed the tantalizing shape of hip, thigh and leg when she moved; a matching jacket, the collar standing up under her chin, showed purple and gold embroidery. Gold and amethyst glinted against her neck and ears. Her sandals were delicate straps of gold across her insteps.
But it was her eyes where the true beauty resided—that wide level gaze that once had shown him all the truth of her soul, the gentle sweep of mobile eyebrows under a broad, pale forehead. The curve of her cheeks like wind-sculpted sand, and the mouth—wide, full, sensuous. Her face had always held this contradiction, as if her eyes held no awareness of the sensuality promised by her mouth and body.
Long ago, he had awakened something else in that gaze. Joy, sensual gratitude and love had mixed in a gaze for him and him alone. He had believed he was the only one to see it.
Falsely, as it happened, for it was exploited by every advertiser she posed for. But men had been fools before him, and would be fools when he was dust.
And still in ten long years he had not seen beauty to match it. But he would not fall victim to that beauty again. He had been weak earlier, but he would be that much more on his guard now.
Her gaze was guarded, her beauty remote. But something more: in her eyes was more than a simple veiling of the inner. She was lying to him.
What lie? Well, he would find out.
‘Good evening, Desi,’ he said.
He had dispensed with the keffiyeh and the oil sheikh’s robes. Now he was wearing flowing cream cotton trousers and a knee-length shirt, the outfit called shalwar kamees. The shirt was open at the neck and rolled up at the wrists, leaving his dark throat and his forearms bare. His head, too, was bare, black curls kissed into gold by the setting sun.
Without the keffiyeh, he was less a stranger. She looked up into the harsh face, searching for traces of the fresh-faced boy she had loved, and wondered if he, too, was looking for the awkward, naive girl of ten years ago.
The boy was gone forever. The eyes she remembered could never have looked at her as these eyes did: hard and suspicious, even as they raked her face with a hunger so blatant she shivered.
‘It’s a fabulous view,’ she said, to defuse the sudden tension. But his jaw only tightened. She felt a sudden jolt of heat against her back—his hand, guiding her.
They moved silently along the terrace and into a roof garden. In the centre of the space was a small fountain, its splashing sounds a caress to the ears in the twilight.
He led her to an alcove surrounded by trellis, enclosed in greenery, where a low platform was luxuriantly spread with carpets and pillows. He kicked off his sandals, stepped up onto the platform and sank down on the lush carpet amongst silken pillows.
Lying back against the cushions, dark and arrogant, he suddenly looked like a sultan in a storybook.
She hesitated, without knowing why. With a regal gesture he indicated the cushions opposite him in the little enclosure. Desi slipped off her own sandals, stepped up along the soft carpet and melted down into the luxuriously comfortable cushions opposite him.
‘You are beautiful tonight.’ The words seemed choked, as if they came out in spite of his intentions.
He had said it before. Tonight—and always, he had said then.
‘Mash’allah,’ she said, with a wry half smile. He had taught her the traditional Barakati response to a compliment. Like crossing your fingers, he’d said, you have to avert the evil eye.
His eyes darkened, suddenly, like a cat’s, but his lips tightened, as if the fact that she used the expression gave him pleasure but he would not allow himself to feel it.
Beyond the trellis and greenery, sky and sunset created a backdrop of magnificence. Intimacy closed around them like a velvet paw, trapping them for the gods’ amusement.
The desert was deep purple now in the darkness. A soft breeze lifted her hair as she gazed at the scene, tossed it lightly across her face. Shaking it back, Desi sighed in pure delight. A feeling of peace invaded her bones, and she searched for something innocuous to say. She did not want to fight with him.
‘This must be the most unusual dining room in the world.’
‘Princess Jana designed it for private use. It is Omar’s favourite retreat. No state business is ever conducted here.’
‘I hope food is coming soon! I haven’t eaten since London, and I’m ravenous.’
‘I apologize. Fatima should have offered you lunch.’
‘She did. I wasn’t hungry. Then.’
‘And you didn’t eat on the plane?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t usually.’
There was a curious amplified clicking noise, and then down in the city the haunting voice of the muezzin began to recite the call to prayer. The reciter’s deep tones, half singing, half chanting, poured out over the city, echoing in the distance. They sat in silence, listening, trying not to remember how, long ago, he had lovingly described this sound to her…
A waiter came, spread a tablecloth on the platform between them and set down a couple of jugs and four goblets. He half filled the goblets and disappeared again.