Sarah Holland - Desert Destiny

‘Whoever he is,’ Chris murmured as the car halted, ‘he’s obviously very rich and very powerful. I’m glad we didn’t make an enemy of him.’

Bethsheba got out of the car, trembling with nerves and excitement. Her ivory silk strapless dress clung to her slender curves. She wore a long gold silk jacket over it.

‘Greetings!’ A tall dark Arab in red robes appeared at the doors to welcome them. He gave a deep salaam. ‘Follow me, please.’

Excitement quickened Bethsheba’s step as she followed him into corridors of Moorish beauty, arched hollows in walls of blue-white mosaic, fountains in other courtyards, statues of lions and Arabic script flowing on bleached stone walls.

They swung into a final corridor. Two bare-chested Arabs in red-gold harem trousers stood guarding double doors like living art nouveau statues. The Arab leading them clapped his hands. The bare-chested Arabs swung open the double doors.

Music filled the air. Bells, tambourines, flutes and handclaps. Dazzling colours littered the magnificent Arabic ballroom, and Bethsheba stepped in, staring, her breath caught in her throat.

Bethsheba looked immediately for Sheikh Suliman El Khazir, but he was nowhere to be seen, and as her gold eyes moved restlessly around the room so she reeled under the dizzying impact of what she saw.

There were rows of richly embroidered silk cushions scattered on the floor in purple, blue, red, maroon, oxblood, royal blue, bright blue, sky-blue…Incense filled the air with a sweet, spicy opiate scent, flowing from gold filigree lamps which hung from the ceiling on gold chains. The walls were ivory stone, engraved in gold with Arabic script, and the sensual ribbons were words, words she did not understand but longed to.

‘My God…’ she breathed, pulses leaping at the sight of such barbaric luxury, ‘I’ve never seen anything so beautiful!’

‘I thought you were born in Bahrain?’ Chris said, frowning.

‘Yes,’ Bethesda turned in surprise, ‘but I never saw the inside of a sheikh’s palace. I was only allowed to mix with army officers’ children.’

‘Snobbery!’ Prudence’s beautiful nose curled. ‘Can’t stand it!’

‘Do you know where the word “snob” came from?’ Chris asked lazily. ‘It just means sans noblesse —without title. They used to write it next to pupils’ names at Eton. Some were titled—some not. So they wrote either noblesse or sans noblesse next to your name.’

‘Well, whoever this guy is,’ drawled Prudence, ‘he’s got more noblesse than he knows what to do with.’

Suddenly, all music ceased. The doors at the far end of the ballroom were flung open. Footsteps approached, and as they were heard so people stood up, bowing deeply.

Sheikh Suliman El Khazir strode into the ballroom in white robes, dark eyes flashing round restlessly then fixing on Bethsheba as she met his arrogant gaze, golden head lifted, unaware of her equally regal stance.

For a second they studied each other across those bowed heads. Then a slight smile touched the hard mouth of the sheikh and he clapped his hands.

The music began again. Everyone sat down on the rich cushions. Flutes and bells and tambourines cascaded in the air as the sheikh walked towards Bethsheba.

‘Good evening,’ Sheikh Suliman said in that deep, rich voice as he reached them. ‘Welcome to my palace.’

‘Good evening,’ Chris said, taking charge as usual. ‘Your palace is magnificent. We are honoured to be your guests tonight.’

The sheikh inclined his head coolly, and Bethsheba noticed for the first time how very tall he was: at least four inches taller than Chris Burton, and Chris was six feet.

‘Is Beth to sing in here?’ Chris asked now, glancing around the room. ‘She might need a microphone to be heard above——’

‘She will not sing here,’ said the sheikh, ‘but in the Gardens of Scheherazade.’ He clapped strong dark hands. ‘Achmed—take Mr Burton to the gardens and allow him to inspect the stage. He may do as he wishes.’

‘Thy will is my will,’ said Achmed, bowing in long dark robes.

‘Thank you!’ Chris was more than a little taken aback. ‘Right. Well—coming, Beth? Prue?’

‘I…Bethsheba darted a glance at the sheikh, knowing that she preferred to stay with him, the thought of inspecting mikes and PA and running a sound-check too boring to contemplate.

‘The Sheba will stay with me,’ said the sheikh at once, and his strong brown fingers curled over her wrist. ‘I will take care of her.’

Chris hesitated, hands thrust in black evening-trouser pockets. ‘You ought to do a sound-check, Beth.’

‘This way, Mr Burton,’ Achmed said, ‘Miss Prue…’

‘You must be hungry, Sheba,’ the sheikh said deeply, and his strong hand moved to the small of her back as he guided her away.

It was all very smooth, very fast, and before she knew what was happening she was walking away in gold silk beside the sheikh while Chris and Prudence were led to the Gardens of Scheherazade.

He led her down gold-scripted steps to the central floor.

‘Please,’ he said deeply, and gestured to the luxurious cushions scattered there, ‘sit with me.’

Slowly, she sank down on them, her body as sensual and provocative as her eyes, her mouth. He smiled and sank down beside her, relaxing full-length. Their eyes met and held in a mutual acknowledgement of the strong crackle of attraction between them that was like an electric current.

He clapped his hands. A ravishing young girl in transparent scarlet harem silk appeared. Kneeling to the sheikh, she offered a long silver tray laden with delicacies. Placing it before them, she bowed, and left.

‘Your slave?’ Bethsheba asked with a cool glance.

‘Slaves choose their own master,’ he said softly, and his eyes slid to her breasts.

Her heart quickened as she felt her nipples become erect under his gaze. ‘In Western civilisation, possibly. But out here in the desert?’ She lifted her head. ‘I think not!’

‘You know the desert well?’

‘I’ve never been to the Sahara before, but——’

‘Then do not judge our ways until you understand us.’ He reached out a strong hand, selected a small honey-coloured delicacy, and offered it to her. ‘A crystallised bee, Sheba.’

‘A bee?’

He slid it between her pink lips. ‘We of course remove the sting.’

Bethsheba’s mouth watered as his fingers slid the honeyed crystal inside, and the sweetness exploded on her tongue. The way he watched her, spoke to her, touched her, made her body throb with awareness, and she shifted on the silk cushions, her ivory silk dress drawing his dark gaze down over her breasts, slender waist and softly curved hips.

‘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.