Sarah Holland - Desert Destiny

Her voice floated out above the music in high, breathy seduction of her audience. The band played behind her, all Arabian and obviously experienced musicians. Prudence undulated and sang at a mike to her left. It should have been a purely professional performance—polished and skilled—but nevertheless just work.

But some divine spark had entered her, and she sang only for the sheikh, only for Suliman, her eyes closed now as she gleamed in the spotlight like a living, breathing golden statue and raised her slender arms in triumph as the song ended.

Applause burst from every corner of the gardens, and Bethsheba was elated, taking her bows with a dazzling smile, eyes flashing like yellow diamonds to Suliman for the first time since she’d begun the performance and saw him smile as he realised she had known exactly where he was sitting from the moment she’d stepped on stage.

‘His Majesty Sheikh Suliman El Khazir,’ Achmed said when she came off stage, ‘requests that you join him at his table.’

Bethsheba swayed towards Suliman’s table, her body pulsating with adrenalin, face flushed and eyes feverish, every inch a star, and revelling in it for the first time in years.

‘You are a gifted songbird,’ Suliman drawled as she sank on to the chair beside him, his eyes moving restlessly over her. ‘Mr Burton must be very proud of his caged dove.’

Indignation made her eyes flash. ‘I’m not his——’ She broke off, refusing to give any more away to him than she already had tonight. With a light shrug she smiled coolly and said, ‘At any rate—I’m not his only songbird.’

‘He has many like you? Impossible! There can only be one golden-skinned Sheba!’

‘I mean he has other singers. About fifteen, in fact. He runs a recording company, writes all the material, arranges, produces and—well, runs the whole show.’

‘Ah.’ Suliman nodded, unsmiling. ‘He is your producer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not your lover.’

She caught her breath, staring, silenced, her lips parted as her gaze locked into his once more and the crackle of attraction flashed between them like a tangible force.

‘A simple question, bint ,’ he said softly. ‘Is Burton your lover or not?’

‘No!’ she said under her breath, her face burning with hot colour. ‘He is not my lover!’ Good heavens, she had never even had a boyfriend or a stolen kiss—let alone a fully fledged lover! ‘We’re friends and colleagues—that’s all.’

Suliman gave no reply, but his eyes darkened further, and his gaze dropped to her mouth, then away. ‘How long do you intend to stay in the Sahara, bint?’

‘Another ten days,’ she said huskily, aware that her voice shook, and angry with herself for betraying the depth of her reaction to him. ‘We’re recording at Chris’s villa in Tangier.’

‘And do you have a man staying with you? A boyfriend? A——’

‘No,’ she said quickly, before he could mention lovers again and force that hot blush to her face.

‘Family?’ He was idly fingering a delicate filigree cup on the carved brass table. ‘Is your family in England or here with you?’

‘I have no family,’ she said huskily. ‘My parents died when I was fourteen.’

His lashes flickered. His gaze slid to meet hers. ‘Tell me, Sheba—do you ride?’

‘Ride?’ The question surprised her. ‘Yes—I ride very well, as a matter of fact.’

‘Good. Then tomorrow you will ride with me.’

‘Tomorrow!’ Her eyes widened. ‘I don’t know if——’

‘Here,’ he said coolly, ‘I am but a few hours’ drive from Tangier. I have a stable of pure-bred horses, and the Sahara surrounds me. Why should you not come here to ride with me?’

‘Well, I don’t know if Chris would altogether approve and——’

‘We shall not tell him,’ drawled the sheikh, a smile touching his hard mouth. ‘It will be our secret. Our secret…’ his gaze slid to her breasts, then up to her eyes again ‘…fantasy. Hmm?’

Bethsheba’s mouth went dry. She felt suddenly unable to reply, her heart drumming wildly.

‘You will be my golden-haired Englishwoman,’ Suliman said under his breath, ‘and I your sheikh. Together we will live out our fantasy and surrender ourselves to destiny.’

She was staring at him through gold lashes, her lips parted, face flushed, eyes glittering, and as she remained silent so her breasts rose and fell unsteadily with the thud of her heart.

‘Say yes, Sheba,’ Suliman’s eyes never wavered, ‘and it shall be done.’

Bethsheba’s voice whispered, ‘Yes…’

She woke next morning to the sound of ‘Haya alla Salat!’ echoing across the city of Tangier from the mosque tower. Suliman’s face leapt into her mind and she sat up in bed with a gasp, a hand clutching her heart as the pace leapt.

Had she really agreed to ride with him at three this afternoon? She must have been out of her mind! Of course she couldn’t ride with him, or even consider going back to his palace!

Bethsheba spent the morning working in the studio. They were laying down the backing vocals on various tracks, and it was harder work than the lead vocal because it was a rather bitty job and intensely repetitive. Chris cheered them up by doing the ‘To be or not to be’ monologue from Hamlet every time they wound the tape back. But Bethsheba had heard him do it a million times before, and it had begun to grate on her nerves.

Bethsheba felt guilty as she watched Chris through the glass panel. She owed him every- thing—how could she be so mean as to feel bored with the friend who had saved her from penury?

Christopher Burton had discovered Bethsheba when she was fifteen and singing with an unknown band in a dingy London pub. Obviously under age, she had been desperate for money and for something to cling to that was hers.

Her parents had been killed in a car crash when she was fourteen. She had been living with her maiden aunt for a year, and felt restless, trapped, alone and unhappy. With few friends and no money, Bethsheba had been desperate for someone to come along and help her.

Chris recognised her talent as well as her desperation, and took her under his wing.

At that time, Chris had a small twenty-four-track studio in a London suburb. Working every hour of the day, he too was desperate: desperate to finally succeed in the music business.

Bethsheba learnt the ropes of the industry with him, watching him write, record, arrange and produce song after song, then suffer the painful setbacks and frustrations of life on the fringes of the music business.

She virtually lived in that studio for three years. They rarely performed live in the end; just spent endless hours recording, followed by more endless hours hiking their demos around major record labels, trying for a deal.

Eventually Chris lost his temper with the major labels. In a whirlwind of furious determination he formed his own record company, released his own singles, and pushed Bethsheba as his first release.

He had to mortgage his house to do it. Everything was riding on Bethsheba’s single, and she suffered agonies of guilt as they waited for DJs to play it, magazines to talk about it, and the public to buy it.

The record went to number one and stayed there for eight weeks.

Over the next four years Bethsheba released fifteen records, all of which went to number one. Teen magazines featured her continually, television videos made hit after hit.

Now Chris Burton was the biggest force in the music industry. Everyone wanted to work with him. He had a stable of international stars and more money than he could even count.

But Bethsheba was still his biggest star—and his favourite, for she had been there with him at the beginning, in the dark ages, when they had lived on black tea, chips and grim determination.