Secrets of the Oasis

by Abby Green

  Abruptly she put down her napkin and stood up, making a hasty excuse, hating herself for it. ‘I need to get some papers from the suite for my own meeting this afternoon.’

  With smooth grace Jamilah saw Salman make a discreet gesture to someone behind them, and he stood up, too, indicating for her to precede him out of the gazebo. She was surprised he wasn’t pushing for them to stay for coffee and dessert. She walked out a little unsteadily. And then he took her arm to lead her back into the hotel through the gorgeous private gardens.

  As they neared the doors, where staff waited, she cursed her gullibility. She stopped and turned to him, looked up. ‘You knew very well what you were asking for when you requested a table outside, didn’t you?’

  Eyes as black as sin turned her insides molten. He smiled wickedly. ‘It was a mere manipulation of the truth to get you to stay.’

  Jamilah fought the lazy tendrils of desire unfurling inside her. ‘I don’t want you to seduce me, Salman. I won’t be seduced.’

  ‘It’s too late, Jamilah. We’re here now…for a reason.’ His mouth firmed, ‘I don’t believe in fate, but I believe in this.’

  He pulled her into him and his mouth was on hers before she could even squeak in protest. One hand went to his chest, to push him away, but his steely strength called to her, making her legs weak. She emitted a groan of pure self-disgust mixed with the inevitable rise of wanton desire. Their mouths clung, tongues touching and tasting. It grew more heated, and Jamilah found that her arms and hands had climbed up to Salman’s neck and she was straining on tiptoe to get even closer.

  She pulled back, her heart racing, disgusted to find herself in this position—again.

  He held her fast against his body, where she could feel the heat and strength of his burgeoning arousal. ‘Tell me again you won’t be seduced…’ It wasn’t even a question.

  Jamilah wanted to deny him, but the way she kept falling into his arms and responding so forcibly mocked her. Her heart fell at the unmistakable light of triumph in his eyes.

  ‘The problem is that we are dealing with a force greater than ourselves, and the fact that our desire never got a chance to burn itself out,’ he said.

  Jamilah finally managed to pull away. ‘Unlike you, I have a healthy respect for things that aren’t good for me. I can resist this, and I will. Find someone else, Salman, please.’ And she hoped to God that he would listen to her plea.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JAMILAH had only gone back downstairs when she was due to have her own meeting with the envoy from Dubai. To her abject relief she hadn’t seen Salman again, but she steeled herself now for the evening ahead, when they were due to go to a black tie function.

  When she heard Salman moving around in the main salon she took a deep and shaky breath in. She regarded herself in her bedroom mirror. Make-up covered most of the ravages of the last sleepless night, and the aftermath of that lunch and the kiss. There was an awful feeling of inevitability burning low in her belly, and she couldn’t ignore it much as she wanted to.

  Her dress was strapless silk and floor-length, midnight-blue in colour—almost black. It managed to be effortlessly chic even while the low back presented a much more daring view.

  Her mother had been a famous fashion model—one of the first Arabic women to break into the international scene—which was how she’d met Jamilah’s father in Paris. Before Jamilah’s parents had died so tragically her mother had already instilled within her a love and appreciation for classic elegant clothes and jewellery. Jamilah didn’t buy much, but when she did it was always quality pieces.

  She’d twisted her hair up, and now added a pair of her mother’s sapphire earrings to match the simple necklace that adorned her neck. With another shaky breath she picked up her short faux fur coat and evening bag and left her room.

  Her hands clenched tight around her bag when she saw Salman, standing and flicking idly through a magazine on the table. He looked up, and for a moment Jamilah felt as if she was drowning. She’d seen Salman in a tuxedo before, but something about seeing him now, tonight, seemed to hit her right between the eyes. He was simply the most stupendously handsome man she’d ever seen.

  Salman looked at Jamilah. She was a vision in dark silk which showed off every elegant curve of her body. Her breasts were soft pale swells above the bodice, and a gem hung with tantalising provocation just above the vee in her cleavage. Her eyes glittered a dazzling blue, and Salman knew that if they didn’t get out of there right now he’d take her to his bed and she would hate him for ever. And then he had to concede bitterly that he’d already taken care of that when he’d rejected her so cruelly six years before.

  Curtly, Salman said, dropping the magazine, ‘We should get going, or we’ll be late for the opening speech.’

  Jamilah nearly reeled back on her heels. She felt as if she’d just hurtled through a time continuum, been burnt by the sun and then thrown out the other side. Had she just imagined that incendiary moment?

  Standing in the lift moments later as they descended, she felt very shaky and vulnerable. Salman was stony-faced and taciturn, and it gave her a sickening sense of déjà-vu to when he’d changed so utterly on that fateful day six years before. She welcomed it, and hardened the tender inner part of herself that had felt an awful weakening as the day had progressed, as if on some level his relentless pursuit was starting to dissolve her own resolve to resist. She could resist. She had to resist.

  Outside the hotel, in the cool night air, he helped her to put on her coat. Visibly flinching when his hand brushed the bare skin of her shoulder.

  Jamilah tugged her coat from his hands and said curtly, ‘It’s fine. I’ve got it. I’m sorry you had to touch me.’

  His car was just drawing up, and he turned her to face him with his hands on her shoulders. Jamilah hated that she was feeling so raw. But the stark hunger etched onto his face sent tremors of awareness through her. Along with confusion.

  ‘You think that I don’t want to touch you?’

  Jamilah couldn’t speak. In her peripheral vision she could see the driver standing and holding the door open, but they weren’t moving. Salman spoke again in low husky tones.

  ‘If I hadn’t got you out of that suite as quickly as I had, I think it’s safe to say that your dress would already be in ribbons and we’d be indulging in the most frantic and urgent coupling of our lives. All I can think about is how I want to pull you onto the back seat of that car, spread your legs around me and take you right now—because quite frankly the suite is too far away. I’ve never before contemplated stopping a lift to make love to a woman, but I just did. Don’t you have any idea how much I want you?’

  Jamilah’s mouth opened and closed with shock. Any resolve that had recently fired through her was washed away by a rush of desire so intense that she literally ached for Salman to do exactly as he’d said. All she could see was their naked limbs entwined, dewed with sweat, hearts beating frantically as they came closer and closer to the explosive pinnacle.

  Just then someone emerged from the hotel behind them, and Jamilah blinked as she saw Salman’s urbane mask come back. It was the Sultan of Al-Omar, and she issued a garbled greeting to the tall, handsome ruler. She vaguely heard him ask if he could share their ride to the dinner, as he’d lent his car out for the evening to someone else.

  Bodyguards belonging to the Sultan and to Salman hovered in the shadows, ready to jump into their accompanying vehicles. It served to bring Jamilah back to some kind of sanity, and a few seconds later she found herself pressed tight against Salman, who had negotiated it so that Jamilah was on his right, with Sultan Sadiq on his left. All Jamilah could feel was her thigh burning where Salman’s pressed against her. Strong and powerfully muscular.

  The men spoke of inanities and their meetings. Jamilah couldn’t contribute a word, her head still whirling at Salman’s intensity just now. How on earth was she going to cope if he directed that at her again? With an awful feeling of fatality she knew she
wouldn’t be able to.

  A couple of hours later Jamilah’s nerves were overwrought after an evening spent at Salman’s side, trying to ignore the feelings running riot through her system. He’d barely touched her all evening, but she’d felt the burning intensity in his restraint.

  Now they were back in their car—without the Sultan this time. He’d come up to Salman earlier, with a gorgeous statuesque brunette on his arm, and it had been obvious he had plans other than returning to the hotel. Sultan Sadiq had almost as notorious a reputation as Salman.

  They glided through the moonlit streets of Paris now, with the Eiffel Tower appearing and disappearing intermittently, all lit up like a giant bauble. The tension was thick between them, and just when Jamilah was contemplating the uphill battle she faced if Salman tried to seduce her again she heard him ask the driver to slow down. She only noticed then that they were beside the Hôtel de Ville, where a fairground had been set up in the main square.

  Salman looked at her. ‘Do you mind if we get out for a minute?’

  Jamilah shook her head with relief. She needed space and air in order to gather her defences again.

  They got out, and when the cool air hit her she shivered. She felt Salman dropping his warm jacket around her shoulders. She looked up at him, heart tripping. ‘I can get my coat. You’ll freeze.’

  He smiled his lopsided smile. ‘I’ll survive. It’ll take more than the cold to do me in.’

  He took her by the hand and reluctantly she gave in, knowing he wouldn’t let her go anyway. They walked towards the tinkling music. Some couples were strolling around, like them, hand in hand, amongst groups of teenagers and even some harried-looking parents with small children, seemingly oblivious to the late hour.

  Salman said then, so softly that she almost didn’t hear him, ‘I’ve always loved fairgrounds. There’s something so escapist and other-worldly about them.’

  Jamilah’s mouth dropped open, and she closed it abruptly when Salman sent her an amused glance. ‘Don’t look so shocked.’

  ‘When were you ever at a fairground growing up?’ They had nothing like them in Merkazad.

  He was leading her towards where a merry-go-round glistened under a blaze of lights. There was a melancholic quality to his voice. ‘There used to be a fairground in Merkazad, but when the rebels invaded they smashed it to pieces.’

  ‘Oh…’ No wonder she hadn’t ever seen one. It would have been long gone by the time she’d been old enough to visit it. ‘Why wasn’t another one built?’

  Salman shrugged. ‘I think people were having a hard enough time just rebuilding their lives and homes.’

  ‘Perhaps someone should build one again…’

  Salman looked at her with an enigmatic expression. ‘Maybe one day someone will.’

  The intensity of his gaze on hers made her look away and say a little breathlessly, ‘You don’t mind these horses…?’

  He followed her gaze to the brightly coloured horses that went up and down and round and round. ‘No,’ he said tightly, ‘I don’t mind these horses.’ He looked back at her. ‘I don’t mind any horses in general, Jamilah. I just choose not to go near them. I leave that up to people like you and Nadim.’

  His tone brooked no further conversation, and she caught a glimpse of something suspiciously like fear in his eyes. That slightly ashen tinge again coloured his skin. She’d been around horses and people long enough to spot someone who had a pathological fear a mile away, and for the first time she guessed that Salman’s antipathy to horses went far deeper than fear. It reminded her of a phobic reaction. Her curiosity was welling up again, and with it a sense of danger.

  She took her hand out of his and stepped up to the beautiful antique-looking carousel, holding her dress in one hand. She handed some money over to the man operating the controls, and when it had stopped she jumped up to sit side-saddle on one of the horses. With a burgeoning feeling of lightness in her chest she stuck her tongue out cheekily at Salman, and just as it was about to start off again he threw some money at the man and stepped up beside her, standing close enough that she could feel his hard chest against her thigh.

  ‘Hey!’ she said, breathless all over again. ‘That’s cheating. You’re meant to sit on your own horse.’

  He locked his hands around her waist and Jamilah had to hang onto his shoulders for dear life as the horse started to go up and down. They were moving. It was causing a delicious friction between his chest and her leg. He reached up and pulled her head down to his. She was powerless to resist. Their mouths met, the up and down motion of the horse forcing them close together and then apart in an intoxicating dance.

  The music faded, and everything dissolved into the heat of the kiss and Salman’s arms around her, holding her like an anchor. Neither one of them heard the crude wolf-whistle from a passing crowd of teens. They didn’t come up for air until the man asked brusquely if they were prepared to pay for another go.

  Cheeks scarlet with embarrassment, Jamilah slithered off the horse, legs wobbly, and was grateful for Salman’s steadying hand on hers as he led her away. Her heart was pounding and her skin prickled with anticipation. She had no doubt that right at this moment Salman intended taking her back to the hotel and making love to her.

  Maybe he was right? Maybe they should indulge in this madness in Paris and be purged of this crazy desire and obsession? Perhaps that was what it would take to get him out of her system for good?

  Just then Salman got distracted by something. She heard the rat-tat-tat of rapid tinny gunfire coming from a shooting range, and saw where a small boy of about eight was in floods of tears because he’d obviously missed his target. His mother was trying to console him, telling him she had no more money, pleading with the owner of the stall of give him something, but the owner was sour-faced.

  Before Jamilah knew what was happening Salman was striding over to the stall, dragging her along in his wake. When they reached it, he let Jamilah’s hand go and bent down to talk to the little boy in perfect French. Jamilah smiled awkwardly at the beleaguered-looking mother, and wondered what Salman was up to.

  After a few minutes of consulting with the now sniffling boy, who had pointed out the prize he wanted, Salman handed some money to the owner. Then he lifted up the boy and rested his feet on a rung of the fence around the stall. He helped him to aim—showing him how to balance the rifle on his shoulder, explaining how to keep a steady hand. With his arms around him, Salman encouraged the boy to take the shot. To his ecstatic surprise and the owner’s evident disgruntlement he hit it first time. A perfect hit, right in the bullseye—and it was the hardest target to hit, as it was clearly the most coveted prize.

  Amidst much effusive thanks, Salman finally took a bemused Jamilah’s hand again, and with a wave they walked off, leaving the now chirpy boy with his grateful mum. But as they approached the car, she could sense his mood change as clearly as if a bell had gone off.

  When they were in the car, Jamilah turned on a tensely silent Salman.

  ‘Where did you learn to shoot like that?’

  Salman didn’t turn to face her, and just said quietly, almost as if to himself, ‘I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have encouraged him to take the shot. It was good that he missed. Better that he be disappointed and not want to do it again than…’ He trailed off.

  Jamilah asked, ‘Than what? Salman?’

  Suddenly a chasm existed between them when minutes ago it had been all heat and urgent desire. Salman had withdrawn to somewhere impenetrable. He looked at her, but his eyes were opaque, unreadable. ‘Than nothing. It doesn’t matter.’

  It did matter, though. She knew it with a grim certainty when she thought back to that little scene, and when she recalled the automatic way Salman had handled even a toy gun with such unerring dexterity. Like a true marksman.

  Jamilah said now, ‘He didn’t take that shot. You did. You just made him think that he took it. It’s no big deal. It’s just a game.’

&nb
sp; Salman smiled, but it was grim. ‘It’s never just a game.’

  ‘How do you know this? And you didn’t answer me—where did you learn to shoot?’

  For such a long time he said nothing, and she almost thought he was going to ignore her, but then he said, in a scarily emotionless voice, ‘It was just luck…pure fluke.’

  He turned back to look out of his window, and Jamilah felt as if she’d been dismissed. The rest of the drive to the hotel was made in a silence which had thickened so much that by the time they got up to the suite Jamilah felt too intimidated to speak.

  Salman just looked at her, and for a second she saw such a wealth of pain that she instinctively stepped forward with a hand outstretched. ‘Salman, what is it?’

  And then the enigmatic look was gone, and a stony-faced Salman said a curt, ‘Nothing. Go to bed, Jamilah.’

  He turned on his heel and walked into his own rooms. Thoroughly confused, Jamilah stared after him for a long moment. And then, galvanised by something she couldn’t even understand, she strode forward and opened Salman’s bedroom door without knocking. He was standing in the dark, looking out of the window, hands in his pockets.

  He didn’t turn around, just said, ‘I thought I told you to go to bed.’

  ‘You’re not my father, Salman. I’ll go to bed when I feel like it.’

  She walked over to where he stood and looked up. When he didn’t turn around exasperation made her take his arm to turn him. He looked down at her, face expressionless in the moonlight.

  ‘What’s going on, Salman? One minute you’re kissing me, and the next you’re treating me as if I’ve got leprosy.’

  Salman smiled mockingly and Jamilah wanted to slap that look off his face. ‘Are you saying you’re ready to fall into bed with me?’