‘You are a very beautiful woman, Sheba,’ he said softly, and shifted too, reaching to touch her long gold hair. ‘Hair the colour of the sun, of the sand-cat…’
She smiled. ‘It’s just blonde.’
‘But you are blonde all over,’ he said, ‘are you not?’
A flush burnt her cheeks and she said acidly, ‘I presume you’re used to touching women whenever the mood takes you?’
‘Only those who welcome my touch.’
‘I’m sure you have a harem full of such women!’
‘A harem!’ His laughter was deep and rich as his long fingers lingered on her bare golden shoulder. ‘We enter the realms of fantasy, bint! Western fantasy dictates that every sheikh shall have a harem quivering with nubile women ready to do his bidding!’
‘And do you deny that?’
He watched her with mocking eyes. ‘There are many Western fantasies of the East. Shall we explore them, Sheba?’
‘I really don’t mind,’ she said with a light shrug, although her body was marching to the beat of his drum, and they both knew it.
‘I saw a film once,’ he said lightly, ‘about a sheikh and a beautiful blonde Englishwoman…’
‘I saw that, too,’ she said, equally lightly.
‘It was arousing, was it not,’ the sheikh remarked lazily, ‘to see him kidnap her on horseback, though she screamed and struggled? Take her to his desert camp, throw her on the pillows of his tent and…’ He paused, flicking those dark eyes coolly to her enraptured face.
‘She fought him!’ Bethsheba said thickly, heart thumping.
‘Ah, yes,’ he agreed, ‘she fought bravely and well. But that was part of the fantasy for them both—was it not, bint?’
She was quite still, unable to tear her eyes from him.
Suddenly, he was motionless too, watching her intently. ‘Did you like that film, Sheba?’ his dark voice asked, and she answered without thinking.
‘Yes.’
SUDDENLY Achmed was returning at a brisk pace. Chris was behind him, and Bethsheba tensed inwardly, not wanting the intrusion of the modern world, of pop music and studios and a twentieth-century businessman. It grated harshly with this living, breathing fantasy in white robes and gold iqal, his hard body sprawled beside her on the silk cushions, and his dark eyes as mesmeric as his mind.
‘The PA is superb!’ Chris said as he reached them. ‘Absolutely first class! Where on earth did you——?’
‘I had them brought here this morning from Casablanca,’ said the sheikh coolly.
‘But this is marvellous!’ Chris’s handsome face was alive with pleasure. ‘There’s even a band, Beth! It’s going to be a really good performance.’
The sheikh inclined his regal head. ‘Of course.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Sit, please. Eat what you will. You are my guests.’
The music changed.
Out from the shadows of the pillars at the far end came dancing girls, bracelets jangling, ankle bells ringing, slender bodies twisting and turning in transparent silks of scarlet and gold, blue and gold, purple and gold. Bethsheba suddenly longed to dance with them, to wear such sensual scraps of silk, her hair flowing as she flashed out of the shadows like a jewelled bird of paradise for her sheikh.
Other guests arrived, and were treated with great respect, salaams from everyone. They were obviously rich, their robes signifying authority. Watching raptly, Bethsheba remembered Bahrain and smiled with pleasure.
‘You will sing for me very soon,’ the sheikh murmured in Bethsheba’s ear suddenly. ‘Are you prepared?’
‘Of course,’ she said with a tilt of one gold brow. ‘It’s my job.’
A smile touched his hard mouth. ‘Then come.’ He got to his feet with arrogant grace and extended a strong brown hand. ‘I will take you to the gardens myself.’
Together they walked across that beautiful gold-scripted floor, he in white robes and gold iqal, she in ivory silk, and, as they moved, their heads held high, people stared at them both, but particularly at Bethsheba, and she knew the look in their eyes.
‘Your people are staring at me,’ she said quietly.
‘They stare because you are beautiful.’
‘No,’ she said frowning, ‘I feel recognised. But I’m not famous here, so——’
‘So how can it be?’ he agreed calmly, and clapped his hands, signalling that the double doors leading to the gardens should be opened. They walked through, and the cool night air touched her cheek as Suliman said, ‘The Gardens of Scheherazade…’
The gardens were breathtaking, tiled in blue-white mosaic, dotted with fountains and flowers and high walls. The profusion of colour dazzled, bright yellow marigolds mingling with the smooth pearl of oleander, the cream clusters of jasmine, the rich russet of harmal and henna. Slim-stemmed palms fanned their lush silhouettes beside the draping fringes of jacaranda, and beyond blazed the most beautiful sight of all: the desert sky. So clear, so perfect—each star blazing with light and colour like a tray of diamonds on black velvet at Tiffany’s.
‘Do you enjoy your fame?’ asked the sheikh suddenly, his deep voice startling her.
‘Oh…!’ She turned to find him watching her with those dark, mesmeric eyes and shrugged lightly. ‘It’s something I’ve learned to live with.’
‘But do you wish it to be so, Sheba?’
She moistened her lips and found herself saying truthfully, ‘I find it rather suffocating. Fame, publicity, studio work. I often feel like a caged bird.’
‘A dove, bien sÛr!’ he murmured, a smile touching the hard mouth. ‘And, like any dove, you long to escape.’
‘Sometimes,’ she admitted.
‘But how,’ he asked coolly, ‘does a caged bird learn to be free? Perhaps it must simply find a new master.’
‘I need no master,’ Bethsheba said, lifting her gold head.
‘Yet you describe your life as suffocating and caged,’ he said calmly, and his strong hand curled at her arm. ‘Are these the words of a free woman?’
She looked into his eyes and suddenly needed to change the subject. ‘Have you always lived here?’ she asked lightly, flicking her gaze from his to the palace walls.
The sheikh recognised why she had asked that and was faintly amused, drawling, ‘No. I have another palace, deep in the heart of the Sahara. The Great Palace of Suliman.’
There was a little silence as his eyes narrowed on her, and she looked at him, suddenly realising that he expected some kind of reaction from her to those words.
‘The Great Palace of Suliman?’ she repeated, frowning. ‘You say it as though I should have heard of it——’
‘No,’ he said at once, and led her to walk beside him, his hand lingering on her arm as they moved slowly, bodies in harmonious step. ‘It is the palace of my ancestors. Suliman El