‘You,’ he said, and she broke the skin of her fruit, not as easily as him but it worked and she drank from it. Though the fluid was sweet and warm and delicious, somehow she wanted to lean and lick the moisture still damp on his fingers.
She ate, and it was different, because she was thinking about food again, about every morsel that slid down her throat, but it was far from with loathing, because each swallow of her throat was watched by him—and she wanted his mouth there.
She wanted their tongues to meet in one half of the pomegranate, but he offered her only her share and then ate his.
‘No spoons.’ Ibrahim said, and made eating seem debauched, but in the most thrilling of ways, and for the first time there was regret that a meal was over. As they moved to the couches, she wanted back at his table.
And Ibrahim knew.
But it was safer on the sofa and she sipped sweet coffee gratefully and had another cup to help her sober up, because that was how he sometimes made her feel.
‘The trouble with antiques,’ Ibrahim drawled, filling her cup with the jug that had been used since his childhood, ‘is that nothing gets thrown out. Nothing changes. Always it is the same.’
‘You hate it here?’
‘No.’ Ibrahim said, and then went on, ‘Not always.’ He saw her confusion. ‘I know every corner of this tent. We came as children—it was good then.’ He didn’t want to talk, he wanted to slowly seduce, he wanted her wanting him in the morning, but somehow she demanded, without him always realising, more from him.
Sometimes he found himself talking with her, not about things that teased but things that tortured. He heard his voice saying things he had never said before, and she didn’t just listen, as others would have, she did not agree but partook.
‘When your mother was here? Was it after she left when it changed?’ she probed, and he closed his eyes, but her question remained and he thought about it, because when his mother had been here, it had been different. Then his father would laugh and the children would play and spend a whole day searching for one rare wild flower for the maid to put on their mother’s breakfast tray. He and Ahmed would play in a cave a morning’s walk from here and the servants would find them at dusk, but the scolding had always been worth it.
Then there had been no fear when he had been with Ahmed, just the arrogance of youth, for surely nothing could harm the young princes.
‘It just changed,’ Ibrahim said.
‘After Ahmed died?’
She had gone where no one should, where not even he dared.
‘For him I would have been king.’ He was beyond angry, his voice was raw. ‘Had he just asked me, had he even bothered to tell me his fears. Instead …’ He could not forgive his brother, and that killed a part of Ibrahim too, and he could not linger on it either, so he spoke of other things instead. ‘It changed for many reasons. For a while it was a playground, but at seventeen you spend a month alone before you go to the military. It is a time of transition. For a month you wander and then return to the tent.’
‘No staff?’
‘None,’ Ibrahim said. ‘You remember the fear when you were left as a child, but there is no one watching this time. So slowly you build up for the walk home.’
‘You walk home?’ She could not keep the shock from her voice—that a teenager would be left to fend for himself then walk for miles. ‘And then you get to join the army—some reward!’
‘No.’ Ibrahim shook his head. ‘First you become a man. There is a very good reason to find your bearings and keep walking back to the palace. There, waiting, is your reward.’
Georgie blinked and as his eyes never left her face, as realisation slowly dawned, her pale skin darkened. ‘That’s disgusting,’ Georgie spluttered.
‘Why?’ He was genuinely bemused. ‘I am a royal prince—the woman I marry must be a virgin. It is my duty to be a skilled lover.’
‘To teach her!’ Georgie spat.
‘Of course.’ Ibrahim said. ‘But even a teacher first has to be taught.’
‘You make it sound so clinical.’
‘When?’ He challenged. ‘You interpret it as clinical—I assure you it was not.’
‘You can’t teach it …’ she flared but right there her argument started to weaken, because in his arms she had learnt so much. ‘It isn’t just …’ she tried again, but words failed her. ‘Some things,’ she attempted, and then closed her eyes in defeat, because how could she admit that it wasn’t just his skill that brought her to frenzy, it was him.
That just the curve of his arrogant mouth and the scent of his skin prompted vigilance, that if he sat there now and did not move, if all he did was stay still as she leant over and kissed him, if all he did was lie there as her hands roamed his body, it would be every bit as good as her recall. It wasn’t Ibrahim’s skill her body craved—it was him. ‘When we …’ Georgie swallowed. There was something she needed to say. ‘When I stopped you, it wasn’t because—’
‘I don’t want to discuss it,’ Ibrahim said, because it would be too dangerous here to recall that night. Going into the details of their time together would not help.
‘Please. I want—’
‘You heard what I said.’
He could be so rude. Annoyed at him, angry at how he just closed off whenever it suited him. She refused to drag conversation out of him. She wandered around the lounge and there was much to amuse and interest her. She ran her fingers along one instrument and another and for the first time in her life she actually wanted to dance. She wanted to turn up the music and turn to him, and she felt as if she was fighting insanity, wondered just what it was in the fruit, because the desert made her dizzy with freedom from inhibition. She forced herself to explore rather than linger, picked up a heavy glass bottle and pulled out the stopper, but Ibrahim came over.
‘They are not for cosmetic …’ Ibrahim shook his head, took the glass jar and replaced the stopper. ‘They are medicinal.’
‘I know,’ Georgie answered, irritated. ‘This is what I study.’
‘These are potent.’
‘I do know!’ She saw the dismissal in his single blink. It was a reaction she was used to, yet from Ibrahim it annoyed her. ‘Just because you don’t believe in my work …’
‘But I do.’
‘So why are you so scorning?’
‘I am not …’ His voice trailed off, because in truth he was. ‘There are thousands of years of learning, of wisdom in these oils, our ways—’
‘That can’t be learnt in a four-week course!’ Stupidly she felt like crying, not at his scorn, not at his derision, but because she felt there was truth in what he was saying. It was a question she had asked herself. She had sat in a classroom and later with clients wondering if she was worthy of imparting such ancient knowledge.
‘Do you believe in what you do?’ Ibrahim asked.
‘Of course,’ Georgie said. ‘Well, I do, but I know there is more, much more to learn.’
‘Always there is more to learn, for ever there will be more to learn,’ Ibrahim said.
‘So you don’t think I should practise.’
‘I did not say that. I go for my massage in London. There are practitioners like you …’ He said it without scorn. ‘They work with the oils, but their minds are not present.’ How could he explain something he did not fully understand himself? But Georgie understood.
‘Mine is,’ she said, and took the bottle back from him. She held it a moment then took off the stopper, placed a drop of oil on her finger and moved it to his throat. He stood rigid as her finger slid down to his throat and in tiny circular motions massaged over his thymus—that area held past issues and his was full. She could smell the frankincense, the bergamot and a note she couldn’t identify, and still her finger circled and her mind was present. It was Ibrahim who pulled back. ‘This is what you do for a living?’ He captured her hand.
‘You make it sound like I’m running some seedy massage parlour. It’s about energy and heali
ng and relaxation.’ She gave an impatient shake of her head. ‘I don’t have to explain to you what I do.’
He dropped his grip and still her finger circled. ‘Show me,’ Ibrahim said, which normally would have been a dangerous tease, an extension of his game, but it was more than that. He could feel the tiny flickers of her pulse in the pads of her fingers, and he also wanted some of this peace she talked about. ‘Show me,’ he said again.
He was used to massage—a keen horseman, there was all too often a hip or a shoulder that had taken a beating. He used massage just for physical ailments but wanted more. Often in London he found himself face down on a table, but no matter how skilled the hands, no matter how they relaxed his body, his mind did not quieten, and it was that he craved—some peace and clarity, for conflicting thoughts to still so he could assess them. For a second she had given him that quietness and he wanted more.
He pulled off his robes and lay on the cushioned floor. Just a sash covered him and it was Georgie who was awkward as she prepared her oils from the vast selection. It was she who was facing the biggest test, she wondering how to remain professional because he was utterly and completely exquisite. She was used to shy, fragile women, and there could be no greater contrast. His back gleamed with muscle and awaited her touch, but there was a pertinent problem and as she prepared her dishes and vials she tried to keep her voice matter-of-fact.
‘You need to lie on your back.’
She watched his shoulders stiffen, watched his expanded chest still as he held air in, then he turned round and she covered him, because this was not about sex, this was about something more.
But for Ibrahim any hope of relaxing, of merely enjoying a feminine touch, was dashed then, because lying like this with her kneeling next to him, it would take every ounce of concentration he possessed to ignore her, not to give in to the natural response of his body. He must lie there now and think of things, anything other than the woman who was moving down to his feet. He must not think of the hands she rubbed together to warm in preparation and he was about to roll over, to tell her not to bother, but as she captured a foot her fingers were so silky and oiled he lingered.
She had felt him resist, felt him fight, but as her hands slid to his feet and she stroked his sole, there was a tentative surrender that she recognised, a shift when a mind handed itself over to you. She wasn’t sure if that trust was merited. Just a ping of doubt went through her as she thought of a four-week course versus the arts of the desert, then she knew what to do, and there was no more trepidation. She felt as if the roof had lifted from the tent, felt as if it was daylight again and the wind was gone, that the sun was beating directly into her head, spreading through her body and warming her fingers. Her hands knew what to do, and Georgie gave in to the healing along with Ibrahim and did what the desert told her.
She oiled his feet with lavender and spruce, worked slowly up past his calves, and when his legs were oiled and his body relaxed, her mind with his, she oiled her fingers and moved to his navel. There was a brief hesitation as her fingers hovered, and then it was only about him and she worked gently there with jasmine and neroli. She moved to his chest, small clockwise motions around his heart, and she couldn’t hear the wind, just its message, and she worked on forgiveness with geranium and other drops of different oils, but she still felt resistance, his urge for her to move on. She moved to his stomach again. She worked on release, with ylang ylang and blue tansy, but he would not give in to it.
She added melissa, the fragrance he had smelt on her that night on the balcony, or as he called it—Bal-smin. It was the chief of oils and Ibrahim met his match in it. She saw his eyes close tighter, and if it had not been Ibrahim, so proud and removed, she would have sworn it was a man fighting back tears. Then she felt the release, felt the pain slide out beneath her fingers as he freed Ahmed. And then she went to his heart again, which didn’t need her hand now because he had forgiven, and her hand slid down his body, down his legs, then to his feet to finish.
And it was more than intimate, it was more than sex, it was the closest he had ever been to another person, and when she had finished, when he opened his eyes, he willed her to go on. But she could hear the music and see the man before her now, and it wasn’t her vocation that led her—it was instinct. She watched her own fingers as they dripped oil low on his stomach, and it was the woman she had only today first seen in the mirror that peeled back the sash. Her warm hands slipped around him, stroked him while she looked at him, slid both palms around in a skilled motion she had never so much as attempted before, and he looked into eyes that were wanton and a red mouth that in moment would take him—and how he wanted it to.
‘We cannot be together here.’
She could feel him sliding through her fingers, could feel the beat of her heart in her throat, and it was him and only him that made her bold.
‘No one would have to know.’ He watched her lips part in a smile. ‘What happens in the desert stays in the desert.’
Ibrahim’s fingers moved up her chin and slid into her hair and how he wanted to guide her head down, rather than wait till the morning. He wanted to break a rule, but he was stronger than that, or was he weak, because he could not defy the desert.
‘This is how you work?’
He watched colour flood her face, ached unfulfilled as her hands released him.
‘Of course not.’
‘Go to bed.’ he stood and pulled her from her knees to her feet and felt guilty for shaming her. He fought a rare need to explain himself, that it was safer if they were apart. ‘Anyway, you might change your mind again at the last minute. Just go to bed, Georgie.’
CHAPTER NINE
IT WAS the longest night and she lay there both embarrassed and wanting.
The air was thick and warm and soon her jug of water was empty. Georgie wanted to go to the kitchen to replenish it, but was scared to move.
She had tried to seduce him. She closed her eyes in mortification—with all her banging on about being professional, she could hardly believe what she’d done, what the desert had made her do.
Georgie. She could hear him calling her.
Georgie. She heard it again and stood.
Georgie. It was his voice, she was sure of it, and she padded across the room, parting the drape, ready for his summons, but then she heard the shriek of laughter from the wind that taunted her and she ran back to bed and curled up, wondering if she was going mad.
Ibrahim. He heard it too, but he was prepared for it. He heard the desert tease, heard the wind drop into a low seductive voice that danced around his bed, saw her face in his dream and when he awoke, when he could not sleep, when his teeth gritted and his head thrashed with insomnia, his hand stalled on its way down to private solace, for even that release was denied him by the laws that bound him tonight, because he would have been thinking of her.
And sunrise should have brought relief, but there was none. Still the winds blacked it out as they screamed, still it was dark, and she heard his chant of prayer and finally she completely agreed with Ibrahim, for Georgie now hated the desert.
‘Can we go?’ she asked, when his prayers were completed and she padded out of her room.
‘The winds are still heavy,’ Ibrahim said but he did not look at her. ‘Get dressed and we will have breakfast.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Then go back to bed and rest,’ he ordered. ‘I will do the same. As soon as it is safe to do so, we will leave.’
‘I’m scared,’ Georgie admitted ‘I’m scared of the noises …’
‘It’s just wind.’
‘I feel like …’ It sounded madder in words than in her head. ‘I feel like it knows I mocked it last night.’
‘Don’t.’ He loathed what he had said to her in an urgent attempt to halt what they had been doing. ‘You did nothing wrong. I should not have spoken to you like that. Georgie … it’s just tales I was telling.’
‘You believe them.’
‘Come here.’
She stood, scared to do as he said, scared to return to her own bed.
‘Come on.’
His voice was real, the wind was not, and as the wind let out a screech, she ran those thirty-four steps to him, to the solid warmth of his arms. He could feel her heart hammering in her chest as he held her close, because she really was terrified.
‘It’s just …’ He struggled for the words. ‘Old wives’ tales.’
‘So they’re not true?’
‘No.’ he started, but he could not quite deny them. ‘I don’t think so. Come …’ His bed was warm and her skin was cold and he pulled her in.
‘Did your parents not tell you tales when you were younger?’
‘No.’ She gave a cynical snort. ‘We weren’t exactly tucked in with a bedside story each night.’
‘Is that why you ran away?’ He felt her tense. ‘Karim told me,’ he admitted. ‘Not everything, he was talking more about Felicity, about her childhood, how mistrusting it made her. Your father—’
‘Was a drunken brute,’ Georgie finished for him. ‘My mother was terrified of him. Even after he died, he still left his mark on her. She’s still taking tablets to calm her nerves, still scared of her own shadow.’
‘What about you?’
‘I wasn’t scared of him—I just wanted to get away from him.’
‘Which was why you ran?’
‘I was always sent back.’ She was angry at the memory, angry at the injustice. ‘He never hit us—which made it fine, apparently. We were living in chaos, dancing to his temper, but …’ She didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to relive those times again—times when the only thing she had been able to control had been the food that had gone into her mouth, but Ibrahim seemed to understand without her saying it. She felt his hand dust her arm and slip to her waist, to the slender frame that was softened now with slight curves. As her hands had helped him, his hands did their work now, each touch, each stroke assuring her somehow that he knew how hard fought each gain had been, how fiercely she had fought for survival.
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