Sarah Holland - Desert Destiny

‘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 Khazir the Great built it; he once ruled most of the Sahara. It is special to me, Sheba. And to my people.’

‘I should think any palace in the middle of the Sahara would be special.’

He looked at her, then away. ‘I also have a douar —a desert encampment—a few hours’ ride from here.’

‘A desert man, then?’ she asked, trailing her fingers through clusters of creamy jasmine petals.

‘I am.’ He stopped walking and looked at her, black brows like scimitars over his dark eyes. ‘I was born here, Sheba. Born to rule these people and this land. I was destined, always, to love the wild beauty of the desert; and my sense of kismet—of destiny—is stronger than any force in my life.’

She smiled. ‘I understand destiny. But I don’t feel I have truly found mine yet——’

‘And if you did?’ he asked at once, his hand tightening on her arm. ‘What then, Sheba? Would you run from it? Or surrender utterly?’

‘If I had a destiny,’ she heard her voice say as their gazes once again locked, ‘I would surrender to it utterly.’

‘And feel it possess you,’ he said intently.

‘Yes…’ Shivers ran through her, her heartbeat thudded faster, and her voice was rich with longing as she found herself saying, ‘And feel it possess me.’

‘Destiny often comes in the shape of another person,’ he said tensely. ‘If it came thus—what then? Would your surrender be…’ his eyes slid suddenly to her breasts, and her heart missed a beat as she felt her nipples harden prominently under that burning gaze as though he had touched her ‘…as complete?’ His voice roughened as his gaze flicked back to hers. ‘Your possession as absolute?’

Pulse throbbing, she looked into those dark eyes and knew he was telling her something. But what? And why did she feel that somewhere, deep inside herself, she already knew?

Later, Bethsheba stood under the white heat of the spotlight on stage and sang for Sheikh Suliman El Khazir, surrounded by his guests and servants in the Gardens of Scheherazade.