Desert Man

by Barbara Faith

  He moved with the sensuous grace of a jungle cat. In the dimly seductive light of the dance floor, it seemed as if the other couples faded away and they were alone. The muscles of his shoulder rippled beneath her fingertips. She felt the pressure of his thigh against hers, the press of his body.

  He brushed a kiss on her temple and she caught the scent of musk on his skin. The hand against the small of her back began to move in slow concentric circles, warming her as he urged her closer. And though she told herself she should move away, she did not. Instead her fingers crept up to the back of his neck, to feel the soft curl of hair there, to caress his heated skin.

  When the music stopped they were in the shadows, away from the hanging brass lamps that offered what little light there was. Still holding her, he whispered her name, “Josie...Sho-zee,” and gently kissed her.

  “The music has stopped,” she whispered.

  “I know.” His face was close to hers. “But I don’t want to let you go.” He kissed her again and this time his gaze lingered on the décolletage at the opening of the blue jacket. “You’re so lovely,” he whispered. And brushed the tips of his fingers across the rise of her breasts.

  Her eyes drifted closed and a sigh shivered through her.

  And through him before he let her go.

  When the waiter came, Kumar ordered ripe cantaloupe served with salty slices of feta cheese, a salad of greens mixed with tomatoes, black olives and fresh mint, and artichokes cooked with lemon and saffron. That was followed by pigeon wrapped in thin, layered pastry, roast lamb cooked with dates, and rice and steaming chicken couscous.

  They sipped champagne while they waited for the food to be served, and though Kumar asked her to dance again, she refused. It was too dangerous. Being close like that unsettled her.

  She had told herself after the day of the riots, the day when he had covered her body with his and she had wanted him with a desire that made her ache every time she thought about it, that she would never let anything like that happen again. She had to remember that she had come to Abdu Resaba against her will, that Kumar had paid three million dollars to bring her here. It was a lot of money, but she wouldn’t be bought.

  He was handsome, sexy, and he could be incredibly kind. But the fact remained that he had forced her to come to his country. They were two entirely different people; she musn’t allow herself to succumb to him or to the emotions raging inside her.

  When they finished dinner, though Josie protested she couldn’t eat another bite, he ordered baklava for dessert.

  When it was served, he took a small piece and held it to her lips. “Taste,” he said. “You will like.”

  The pastry, layered with nuts and coated with honey syrup, was deliciously sweet.

  “Another bite,” he coaxed, and when she had taken it he brushed his thumb across her lips and whispered, “Taste.”

  Held by his gaze, unable to look away, she slowly licked the taste of honey from his thumb. A spark of flame quivered through her.

  “Kumar,” she said, and he kissed her.

  His mouth was warm and as sweet as the pastry had been.

  “The baklava is good?” he said against her lips.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Oh, yes.”

  He held another piece to her lips and when she had taken it he kissed her again, and this time she tasted the sweetness on his lips and on his tongue.

  The spark of flame became a fire. “Don’t do this,” she whispered.

  He let her go. “I’m sorry,” he said in a voice so low she could barely hear. “I know this is neither the time nor the place, but something happens to me when I am with you. I want to kiss you in ways I have kissed no other woman, touch you in ways I have not touched them. I want to do things with you I have only dreamed of doing.” He took a steadying breath. “Forgive me,” he said. “I should not say these things.”

  They moved a little apart, but he kept his arm around her shoulders and took her hand in his.

  A small band made up of zithers, a piping horn and a thin-skinned drum began to play a kind of music she had never heard before. It was different, strangely exotic.

  A snake charmer appeared with a round wicker basket. He sat cross-legged on the floor, and after he had removed the top of the basket, he began to play a flute. A cobra rose from the basket and started to sway to the thin, high music.

  When another snake appeared, uncoiling as it came, flat head darting right and left, tongue flicking in and out, Josie moved closer to Kumar.

  “Do not worry,” he whispered, and tightened his arm around her.

  The cobras faced each other, heads darting, tongues flicking as they swayed to the music in a strangely hypnotizing danse macabre.

  Half afraid, half fascinated, Josie watched the writhing serpents. This was unlike anything she had ever seen, and like so many things in this country it was so foreign, exotic. And yes, erotic.

  When at last the snake charmer left, the music changed and a belly dancer appeared. She was veiled. Her sheer costume was covered with golden coins, sequins and bangles that glittered in the spotlight.

  She began slowly, moving with sensuous grace, swaying her body as the serpents had done, moving to a rhythm so obviously sensuous that Josie felt hot color flood her cheeks. The beat quickened. The dancer’s hips rolled and the muscles of her stomach moved round and round.

  The men sitting close to the stage leaned forward, eyes intent, hands beating to the rhythm of the dancer. Faster, yet faster she moved to the beat of the drum and the piping of horn.

  She fell to her knees, body arched back, waist-length hair flowing behind her, arms raised, sweat-slick body undulating to the beat until in a wildly frantic burst of music it was over. She lay still for a moment, supine, full breasts heaving with effort, then rose and with a bow to the crowd, fled from the stage.

  “Well,” Kumar said. “How did you like the dance?”

  “I’m not sure. I think she was very good.”

  “Yes, she was.” His fingers tightened around her shoulders. “What else? What of the dance itself?”

  “It’s very...” She hesitated. “Provocative,” she said. “I can see why men like it.”

  “Yes, we do.” He laughed, and then his face sobered. “Sometime, Josie, when it is the right time, I would like you to dance for me.” He touched her hair. “When you do, your glorious hair must be free. You will wear a veil that is sheer enough for me to see the beauty of your face. And a gossamer gown so that every inch of your body will be revealed.”

  For a moment she was too shocked by his words to speak. When she could she said, “You...you musn’t say things like that to me, Kumar.”

  “You’re wrong, Josie. I can say them only to you. But if you are offended, then I apologize and ask your forgiveness.” He signaled to a waiter and asked for the check. When it came and he had put some bills on the table, he rose, and taking Josie’s hand he led her out of the restaurant.

  His car came, and behind it a darker car with Saoud at the wheel. Kumar helped Josie in, and with a nod toward Saoud, went to his side of the car.

  They spoke little on the way to her residence. Once there he escorted her to the door and into the inside patio. The air was filled with the scent of lemon blossoms and the moon cast silver shadows on the water bubbling from the white marble fountain.

  “I hope you’ve had a pleasant evening,” Kumar said. “I hope, too, that I didn’t ruin it by being too forward.”

  “No,” Josie said. “But we can’t...” She shook her head. “You mustn’t say such things to me, Kumar. You shouldn’t kiss me.”

  He put a finger against her lips. “If there is one thing I should do, it is to kiss you.” He cupped one hand around the back of her neck to bring her closer. “There is something between us, Josie, something neither of us can deny. I don’t know what it is, and perhaps like you I am trying to pretend that it doesn’t exist. But I know that it does, just as I know that some day we will be together, for ho
wever long or brief a time.”

  He kissed her and his lips were cool on hers. He took her lower lip between his teeth and ran his tongue back and forth across it before he eased his tongue into her mouth.

  His mouth was warm. So warm. He pressed her closer and with a smothered gasp she began to answer his kiss, touching her tongue to his, holding him as he held her.

  When he let her go, he cupped her face between his hands. Looking deep into her eyes, he kissed her again and said, “Think about this tonight when you are alone in your bed. Think of how it will be when finally our bodies join as one.”

  He let her go and stepped away. “Good night,” he said. “Sleep well.”

  When he had gone Josie stood alone in the patio, breathing in the scent of the lemon trees, watching the moon dapple the silvered water of the fountain.

  And knew that he was right. For though she would try not to, tonight she would think about him and of how it would be if they ever made love.

  * * *

  The next day he sent her a star-sapphire necklace with matching earrings.

  * * *

  There was growing unrest in the city. A riot broke out in front of the palace. It was quickly brought under control, but on the following day there was an even bigger riot right at the entrance of the American consulate.

  More demonstrations followed. Placards called for the downfall of Sheikh Rashid Ben Ari and of his son, the prince. Rabble-rousers from a faction led by Sharif Kadiri incited thieves and malcontents. Spies infiltrated from the country of Azrou Jadida. Under cover of night, arms were smuggled across the border.

  It was a time of unrest and of danger. When Josie called Kumar to say that she could not accept the star sapphires, he said, “We’ll talk about it later. I’ve called an emergency meeting of my ministers and I’m late. I’ve only a moment, Josie, but I want to urge you not to leave your residence for the next few days.”

  “But I have so many things to do,” she protested. “Both at the consulate and at the hospital.”

  “Delay them. I have a feeling things in Abdu Resaba are going to get worse before they get better.”

  She heard another voice, and Kumar said, “I really can’t talk any more. I’ll call you when I can.”

  She put the phone down. Kumar had asked her not to leave her residence, but he was being overly cautious. Saoud accompanied her wherever she went and usually another car followed behind. Yesterday, when she’d left the hospital, an angry street gang had surrounded their car. But the gang had backed off as soon as Saoud and the men in the other car pulled their weapons.

  The work she was doing at the hospital was important. She couldn’t back off, not now.

  She was pleased with the way things were shaping up. Perhaps by the end of the week she’d be able to spend less time there and more at the consulate. But right now she had to be at the hospital.

  Dr. Nazib, now that she had finally been given the authority that was due her, was an enormous help. As was the head nurse, Jumana. Together the three of them, with the assistance of the other nurses, were turning the women’s section of the Abdu Resaba Hospital into an institution the country could be proud of.

  In a week or two Josie would visit outlying clinics, but preparations had to be made before she did. Meantime, she struggled to get the hospital running the way she wanted it to.

  By the end of the second week she was able to begin spending her mornings at the consulate catching up with the needed paperwork, and her afternoons and evenings at the hospital.

  * * *

  She was at the consulate the morning it was attacked.

  She had been in Aubrey Bonner’s office and was just starting out the door with a sheaf of papers in her hand when the first explosion hit.

  The force of the blast knocked her to the floor. She lay there, badly shaken, too stunned for a moment to move.

  Behind his desk, Bonner, his face ashen, his black suit white with plaster dust, cried, “Are you all right?”

  “I...I think so. What happened? What...?”

  Another explosion ripped through the building. Windows shattered and blew. One section of the wall split and crumbled and fell into the room.

  “My God!” Bonner stared at her, unbelieving. “We’re under attack!” He grabbed the phone. “Get me the palace!” he shouted. “Hello? Hello? Can you hear me? This is Bonner at the consulate. We’re being attacked. I must talk to Prince Kumar.”

  Gunfire cracked. Josie dropped to the floor just as a spray of bullets ripped through the broken windows and into the room.

  “Stay where you are!” Bonner ordered.

  She waited a moment, then started to her feet just as another explosion hit. It knocked her down, choked her in the dust of crumbled plaster.

  My God! she thought. They’re bombing the building.

  Bonner screamed into the phone, banged it, jiggled the receiver. “Damn!” he cried. “Damn it to hell, we’ve been cut off!”

  There was a terrible pounding on the consulate door, frenzied cries of, “Get them! Burn them out. Death to the foreign infidels!”

  Josie and Bonner stared at each other. “I’ve got to see if any of the others are hurt,” Josie said, scrambling to her feet.

  “No, no, you musn’t.” He half rose out of his chair, but before he could stop her, she ran out of the room.

  The hallway was littered with debris, the door to her office was ajar. She ran in. The office was a shambles. One wall had caved in. Her desk chair had smashed halfway through a window. Part of the ceiling lay atop her desk. Her secretary’s desk slanted at a crazy angle. “Miss Barakat!” Josie cried. “Are you in here?”

  When there was no answer, she ran around the broken desk, and saw Sarida Barakat on the floor, unconscious, a fallen beam across her legs.

  “Sarida!” She knelt beside the other woman and felt for her pulse. It was thready, irregular. The woman’s face was gray and cold to the touch.

  She had to get the beam off her legs. She tried to lift it, heaved and tugged and knew she couldn’t do it alone.

  She ran into the corridor, crying, “Help! I need help! Somebody...”

  An explosion hit. It flung her against the wall amid flying glass, and like a broken doll she slid slowly down and slumped to the floor.

  * * *

  Kumar was at his desk when his phone rang. He picked it up and his secretary said, “Prince Kumar! The consulate is under attack!”

  “What? What? Is Bonner on the phone?”

  “We were speaking when there was an explosion and we were cut off. Shall I call out the army?”

  “Immediately. And a helicopter. We may need it to get those people out of the consulate.” He hung up and dialed the hospital. “Miss McCall,” he snapped. “Is she there?”

  “No, sir,” one of the nurses answered. “She phoned to say she would be at the consulate this morning. Is there anything I can...?”

  He dropped the phone. “Josie!” his mind screamed. “Josie!”

  * * *

  Flanked by police in riot gear and two open trucks filled with soldiers, Kumar sped through the streets toward the consulate. An armed mob tried to block the car he was in. His soldiers began firing. The rioters fired back. Men screamed and fell wounded as the army trucks and police cars advanced.

  Kumar, armed with an Uzi, leaned out the window of his car, and though one of his men said, “Get down, Prince Kumar,” he did not take cover.

  He heard the terrible roar of explosions and knew the rebels were using incendiary rounds, maybe even rocket launchers. His mouth went dry with fear.

  Amid gunfire his car pushed through the street. When it turned a corner he saw the consulate. Part of the roof had been blown off. Flames shot up. Walls were down.

  As he watched, horrified, a man in the crowd fired a 40-mm grenade launcher. Before he could fire another, Kumar jumped from the car and fired his Uzi. The man screamed, but it was too late. The first grenade launcher had found its mark.
r />   “Hurry!” Kumar shouted as he jumped back into the car. “Hurry!”

  “The helicopter,” the soldier next to him said. “It’s trying to land on what’s left of the roof.”

  Kumar looked up. The helicopter hovered for a moment, then cautiously settled on the section of the roof that hadn’t been destroyed.

  As men spilled from the army trucks, his car sped toward the consulate door. Before it stopped, Kumar was out and running up the steps. His guards came behind him, shouting, “Wait, Prince Kumar. Wait!”

  But he paid them no heed as he found the stairs leading to the second floor. He raced up them two at a time and when he reached the top he saw that the destruction was even worse on this floor. He ran past fallen beams until he reached the stairs leading to the roof, and burst through the door.

  They were getting into the helicopter; Bonner, Petersen and his wife, two of the secretaries.

  “Miss McCall?” he cried. “Josie? Where is she?”

  “I don’t know.” Bonner ducked low and hurried toward him. “She was in my office when it started, but she left. Wanted to see if anybody was hurt.”

  “Damn it, man!” Kumar clenched his fists. “Didn’t you try to find her?”

  “I had to get my files,” Bonner said. “Confidential papers. I couldn’t leave them behind.”

  He staggered and Kumar realized he’d had a blow on the head and that he was bleeding. “All right,” he said gruffly, and taking Bonner’s arm hurried him to the helicopter.

  Petersen and his wife were already aboard.

  “I’ve got to take off,” the pilot called out.

  “Not yet,” Kumar said. “Not until I find Josie McCall.”

  “No!” Edith Petersen screamed. “I want to go now. I’m a citizen of the United States. I demand—”

  “Please, Edith,” her husband tried to say. “We can’t leave without Miss McCall.”

  “Shut up!“ She struck at her husband’s chest. “Get us out of here! Get us out of here!”