by Holly Rayner
Standing there, looking at him, the tiredness in her bones began to assert itself again. And she must have shown it, because the look on his face went from ardent to concerned.
“Are you still not sure you can trust me?”
A moment before, she would have said no. And she certainly hadn’t been afraid to speak her mind with him. But in the space of their walk along the river, and the way he talked about the company and his plans for it…
“If you’re a fraud, you’re a very good fraud.”
Salim took a step closer, and for one long, drawn-out moment, he looked into her eyes.
“Ophelia, there are a lot of unseen disadvantages to living the life I was born into. But there is one good thing about it: when you’re born a prince, you never need to be a fraud. If I want something, I can say so. I can get it. I never have to lie about it. I don’t have to conceal my desires.”
Then why are you concealing that you want me?
The words jumped instantly into her head, but stuck in her throat. He’d praised her dancing. He’d invited her on this walk. And every defense he had of his actions seemed strangely personal.
Ophelia had spent her life learning to express emotion with her body; she knew how to read the signs. The ballerina was struck with a sudden certainty that he wanted her. She’d seen it enough. She knew what it looked like. But she wasn’t certain that he knew it himself.
Chapter 13
Salim
It was working.
He was almost sure it was working, but not in the way he’d expected. All of his plans…his ways of talking to her hadn’t come out the way he’d meant them to. That was partially his fault for throwing aside his plan to make her wait a few more days to see him. He’d meant to be mysterious. He’d meant to make her desperate to find out about him.
But the questions she’d had… Salim cursed himself for not having realized Ophelia would be so suspicious. Of course she’d had men pursue her. Of course she’d be dubious about his intentions. Of course the way he’d swooped in and bought the ballet would raise questions about who he was and how fairly he’d treated her mentor.
He’d mismanaged this seduction; he could see that, now. And yet, here she was, standing in front of him, with that wonderfully expressive body opened to him, telling him everything he needed to know about the way things were headed.
“Have you ever been to London before?” he asked, though he knew the answer.
He’d studied every performance of her career and every tour she’d been on to try to get a sense of what was expected of this one, and none of them had taken her to London. And, from his research, there certainly didn’t seem to be the time for an independent trip.
“This is my first time here.”
“Ah,” he said, and he put a big enough smile across his face to try to pull them out of the serious moment they’d somehow found themselves in. “Then there are a lot of things you should see. The Crown Jewels, the Tower of London, all of that. But can I show you my favorite thing I saw, on my first trip to London?”
She must have been tired from the day, and all of its demands on her. But even so, she instantly agreed.
Taking the chance, Salim offered his arm. The most they’d touched so far had been his hand on the small of her back earlier, and that had seemed to confuse her, somehow. But he couldn’t help himself. If he was going to lead her where he intended to lead her, then he was at least going to have her arm in his while he did so.
When she slid her arm into his, she looked at him with a grin. It was like she thought she knew something he didn’t. He felt his heart rate rise. When had been the last time he’d felt his heart race because of a woman? Paintings, yes—there was always a chance he’d lose out on acquiring them. But when was the last time a woman had made him feel that kind of uncertainty?
Salim felt a strange surge of nerves as they walked along the riverfront towards his destination. He’d picked this path, he’d picked even the restaurant so that he would be close enough to bring her here. He’d figured it would humanize him to her. It usually worked with girls he met in London. For them to be really comfortable, they liked to feel that they were special, learning something about him that most people don’t.
And this spot usually accomplished that end for him.
But as they grew closer to the steps down towards the river, it seemed less and less like a good idea to bring her here.
“We’re under a bridge.”
He looked at her with mock shock.
“What, you don’t think this is better than the tower of London?”
She smiled.
“Well, the Tower of London trip isn’t until Thursday, so I can’t really compare.”
“Ah,” Salim said, “then I’ll have to make the best first impression as I can, so you can be as disappointed on Thursday as possible.”
He reached out his hand, and was pleased that she didn’t hesitate to take it. Then, he began climbing up the side of the riverbank, to reach the point where the bank met the underside of the bridge.
This time of night, there were few, if any, cars passing on the bridge up above them, but there were a few people milling around, most of them on their ways home from a long night out.
Up here, if you knew how to find it, there was a little shelf, just large enough for two people. You couldn’t be seen from anywhere, not from above, or below. But you could, if you looked, see those who were passing by below. Salim sat, and offered a steadying hand as Ophelia tucked herself into place beside him.
The first group they saw pass were two boys, probably still in high school. They could have been brothers—they certainly acted like it. They were arguing about something that Salim couldn’t quite make out, between their thick accents and lack of context. But they certainly seemed to care about it.
Next, there was a couple, walking nearly folded up into one another. They didn’t speak a word, but their body language said more than enough for them. Normally, on one of these trips, if a couple passed by, it would be a perfect moment to make a move on the woman he’d brought here. An arm around the shoulder, at least.
Witnessing romance makes one romantic, he’d found.
But this time, he found himself really looking at the couple in question. The perfect trust in what he could make out of the woman’s face. The serenity in the man’s. For the second time tonight, and yet the first day in his life, he felt a pang of jealousy.
It was short-lived, as a group of university students came by next. They were so young and foolish and free that Salim felt himself involuntarily smiling.
“This is London,” Salim whispered into the quiet of the bridge in a lull between groups. “It’s not the old buildings, or the eccentric history. It’s the people. It’s how they are with one another when they don’t know they’re being watched. That’s what a city really is.”
He could kiss her, now. He felt it. Maybe a bit of a rush, but with the moment and the feeling between them in the quiet, he could do it.
But he didn’t. Instead, he waited for her to ask the question that every woman asked.
“So, you came here on your first trip to London?”
And he answered the way he always did.
“I did. I was a mischievous child.” He winked. “Nothing much has changed. Terrified my schoolteachers that they’d misplaced a student, but I had a grand time until they found me.”
The little speech—the same one he always gave—felt out of place tonight.
“And here is where you came? Why here?”
I liked watching the people, and I didn’t think anyone would find me.
That was what he always said. But instead, he found himself saying something entirely different.
“I spent the whole day looking there, to that ledge along the bottom of the bridge. I thought if I could get on there, then I could drop down onto a boat. I figured I’d be taken somewhere—anywhere. Start a new life as a sailor.”
The memory was a fo
nd one, and a strange one to say after the years of lies that had taken its place.
“I was just figuring out what it meant to be who I am, and I didn’t want to go back.”
Not the thing to say. Not at all the right thing to say. What was going wrong with him? This should be such a simple, straightforward task.
But beside him, he could make out Ophelia nodding through the shadows.
“I ran away from ballet camp one year,” she offered. “Not nearly as exciting, and they found me immediately, but it was the same thing, I think. The way people were talking…it had all just been for fun up until then, but then, things changed. And I realized that this was my life, and this was who I was going to be for the rest of my life.”
The huskiness in her voice came out more when she was tired, and Salim treasured hearing it. It was indescribably sexy. He wondered if she knew how beautiful she was, with all her muscles loose and her body in an obvious state of exhaustion. How little she had to try to be enrapturing.
But suddenly, she straightened up.
“Do you mean that ledge, there?” she asked, pointing out at it.
“Yes,” Salim said, not sure he liked where this was going.
But Ophelia was already standing up.
“It doesn’t look that hard to get to.”
He didn’t comment that there was a little bit of a difference between what was easy for a world-class dancer to get to and others. She was already on her way, carefully finding her footing and navigating the gaps and obstacles.
Salim was conflicted. On the one hand, he wanted to go after her. He knew he had to. On the other hand, watching her make her way along was very much like watching her dance—a strange, improvised, sensual dance that she made up on her own as she went along.
“Are you going to keep staring, or are you going to come along?”
Chapter 14
Ophelia
She had lost her mind, she was sure of it. Never in her life had she done anything remotely like this. The closest she had gotten was the time she’d run away from camp, which she’d just told Salim about, and that was half a day and she’d only gotten a couple of miles.
This was breaking the law in a foreign country, and egging a foreign prince on to do the same, passing right by multiple signs that warned against trespassing, and insisted that climbing on the bridge was forbidden.
But the cool breeze felt good on her bare legs, whipping her skirt up and bringing with it a clarity that cut through the exhaustion and the booze from dinner and the drama that had surrounded the whole tour. She could see little peaks on the dark water beneath them caused by the wind, and she felt more alive than she could ever remember feeling not on stage.
She couldn’t say for sure why she was doing it, only that she had a vague sense that she wanted to give Salim something that he couldn’t get for himself. Perhaps the only thing he couldn’t get for himself. Plus, that strange desire that she didn’t know if she wanted and didn’t have a name for, which compelled her forward.
Ophelia knew he was behind her. He was surprisingly fit and agile for someone who didn’t use their body for a living, and kept up admirably well. She let her pace lag so that he was right behind her, until she swore she could feel the warmth from his body.
They had to stoop down as they went to keep their heads from hitting the underside of the bridge above, but luckily, the ledge they were on was plenty wide and Ophelia felt herself in no danger of falling.
When they got to the center, she carefully sat down, and Salim did the same beside her.
“We’re lucky London’s in the middle of a warm spell,” he said. “I can’t imagine this bridge on a cold day.”
“Maybe London knew we were coming.”
Salim smiled.
“Oh, I don’t think anyone’s ever really going to see us coming.”
Ophelia felt herself blush deeply, but hoped that the dark of the night, punctuated only by the occasional light from boats passing below and reflections of the water, hid her embarrassment.
She’d heard a lot of cheesy lines in her life and in her line of work. But it was the way he’d delivered this one—like he hadn’t really thought it through, and didn’t mean to say it. So much of the time, Salim’s words felt so measured.
“Maybe the next time you decide to radically change your career overnight, you should become a tour guide,” she said, trying to lighten the conversation. “You really do know the best places.”
At that, Salim let out a long, genuine laugh. It hit her ears with the same refreshing feeling that the wind hit her skin.
“We’ll have to go into business together, then, because I really only did half the work to get us here.”
Ophelia smiled.
“All right, if I fall off this bridge and can’t dance anymore and have absolutely no other career options to pursue, I’m going to hold you to that.”
In the relative darkness, she could see his face turn to her.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to let you fall. But you have a deal.”
That sat for a moment in silence, until Ophelia broke it.
“It really is a beautiful place, though.”
He nodded, and seemed to regard it. The water and the night. The quiet and the wind and the lights coming and going.
“It’s been a beautiful evening, from start to finish. And I have you to thank for most of that.”
Ophelia smiled.
“And I have you to thank for some of it.”
“I do what I can.”
They sat for a long while, looking out at the view together. He should kiss her, she thought. And then again, and again, as they talked.
He asked her about home, about Santa Barbara. She told him about endless summers and beautiful beaches, and the bike rides down long paths and the sound of the crashing waves that felt like the heartbeat of her childhood. And she told him about the hordes of tourists, and the way they all felt like they owned a piece of the place because they were visiting it, and how wrong it felt that they were all going away thinking that they knew anything about it at all.
But she told him too about the quiet winters, when it felt like the town came into its own. The way it felt like all of them were the hosts of a party, and the winter time was when all the guests had gone home and they could all breathe again. She told him about the way it made the whole town feel like a family. There was something that bound them that way, more than other places that didn’t have that kind of tourist industry.
She asked him about his country. She had to stop herself from asking him too much about Al-Shyla, actually. The country fascinated her as much as the way he talked about it did. He was always saying things to minimize its size or its wealth. It was like humility, but on a country-wide scale. But, at the same time, she could see how much he loved it. Watching him try not to show how much he actually liked the country he spent all his time running away from was like watching a boxing match with one competitor who doesn’t realize he was fighting himself, but was doing a marvelous job of it, anyway.
And he agreed with her about the winters there being the best time, the way that they were in Santa Barbara as well. But for Salim, he said it was more to do with the weather. He told her that all summer, you feel like you’re at war with the outdoors. It’s so hot and oppressive. So you shuttle around in air-conditioned cars between air-conditioned spaces. You only go outside at night, along with everyone else, so that you feel like you’re all fugitives together from the heat.
But when winter comes, it feels like the world has finally made peace with you. For a few short months, you feel welcome in your own country. When his father switched his dishdasha from summer white to a darker winter hue, Salim always felt a sense of rest come over him.
“It’s a bit like your show,” he said. “Every summer, we put ourselves back into the tower. Back into all the tall, gorgeous glass towers. And when we’re allowed out in winter, life feels real to us. Because it’s better. But, i
f you think about it, the country isn’t how we live a few months out of the year. The country is how we live most of the time. I don’t come from a desert by the sea. I come from a glass tower.”
She looked at him wryly.
“You mean, you come from a palace.”
He laughed.
“Yes, you have me there. But the country I come from, I mean. The country isn’t a desert, it’s a tower. For most people.”
She watched her legs dangling over the edge of the beam.
“You picked a sad story to compare your country to,” she said, and she felt him shrug beside her.
“You picked a sad story to introduce yourself to the world in.”
She laughed.
“You think I chose the story?”
“Are you going to tell me you didn’t have any kind of say?”
He had her there, and she wondered if Tomas had talked to him at all about the conversations she’d had with him and Maxim prior to the season’s show being announced.
“I guess I had a little input.”
Salim nodded.
“I figured you might have. Tomas is a smart man. He knew how important it is that you connect with the role you’re given. If he wanted this ballet to be your company’s real introduction on the world stage. Which it is. Which it will be.”
Ophelia heard herself sigh.
“And you think a princess in a tower is a role I particularly connect with?” she asked, feeling more tired by the moment.
“It makes sense,” Salim said. “With your talent, and how hard you must have worked. It’s hard to imagine you weren’t…isolated, in some way.”
A chill ran up Ophelia’s spine. If only he knew how close to the truth he was. But she shrugged it off.
“And who’s to say that it’s not the other part of it that I connect with? The part about not knowing what’s real and what’s not, and if what you desperately want is actually what you need, or if it’s killing you, in the end?”
She must have been even more tired even than she thought. Or, was she just really that desperate to get the conversation away from how sheltered she was?
