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.
‘Let’s have lunch out!’ Chris said when they had finally finished recording. ‘Go to the kasbah, get some knick-knacks, discover an intriguing harem, perhaps.’
‘I’m rather tired,’ Bethsheba heard herself say. ‘I think I’ll stay home and get some rest.’ As the words left her mouth her stomach started to churn and she knew she was going to Suliman’s palace.
They left on foot, and Bethsheba watched them go, her body alive with sick excitement. As soon as they had disappeared from view in their bright summer clothes, she raced upstairs, tugged on cream jodhpurs, a white shirt, long black boots and brushed her tousled curls into a mass of silk, then added a dash of pink gloss to her mouth for luck and rang down to the kitchen to get the car keys.
‘Got bored and decided to go sightseeing in Rabat,’ she wrote on a piece of paper. ‘Might have dinner there. Don’t worry.’
Leaving the note on the kitchen table, she slipped out of the front door so that Mohammed, their manservant, would not see her leaving and ask awkward questions about her riding outfit.
The drive to the sheikh’s palace was long but relatively easy, a straight road, more or less, all the way there. As she approached the palace from Agadir she began to panic again, her stomach churning and her mouth as dry as ashes.
But as she drove through the main gates, and saw Achmed waiting for her at the doors, her stomach lurched with excitement. Suliman had not forgotten either.
The courtyard was so different by daylight—there were stone arcades and guards with dogs and a slumbrous air of mystery about it; fountains gushing into sculpted marble, greenery hanging from meshed wood balconies, and the dogs were roused from their slumber, barking as Bethsheba stepped from the car.
‘Greetings, sitt.’ Achmed gave a deep salaam. ‘The sheikh is expecting you. Please to follow me.’
Locking the car door, she shoved her keys in her handbag and followed Achmed into the palace. This time she was led a different way. The cool arcades with high Moorish arches were carved with Arabesque script, and small alcoves with richly embroidered divans nestled along the way, the scent of spicy coffee clinging to the air and the low murmur of Arabic voices lazy in the hot afternoon. Obviously, these were the day quarters.
Achmed stopped outside a purple hanging, swept it aside and gestured for her to enter.
The room was vibrant with colour and brass-ware. Incense filled the air, cushions littered the floor, and everywhere was the stamp of barbaric luxury that seduced her with its blatant sensuality.
‘So, Sheba.’ Suliman stood at the far end of the room, magnificent in white robes and gold iqal, oxblood riding boots on his strong legs, the dark blue and red of his shirt deepening that skin to mahogany. ‘You have kept our appointment.’
Her heart missed several beats. ‘I always keep my promises.’
The hard mouth curled. ‘So do I, bint!’ he said softly, and the look in those dark eyes made her body throb in response to him as he stepped forward, tall, primitive and magnificent. ‘Come.’ He took her hand. ‘Let us ride while the sun lights our way!’ He led her across the room and into the corridor, drawling, ‘We start as we mean to go on—the hawk leading the dove!’
Bethsheba laughed, allowing him to lead her along the cool arcade. ‘The hawk and the dove…! Arabia…!’
‘You embrace my culture,’ Suliman observed, flicking a glance at her. ‘I have noticed it before.’
‘I find it very beautiful,’ she agreed.
‘And it is,’ he drawled coolly, ‘particularly in regard to women. Here, our women are admired for everything that is uniquely feminine about them. They are the goddesses of our desires, our hearts, our childhood—and we anoint them with our love.’
‘That is not the Western view of the East,’ she said.
‘You are but one woman,’ he pointed out, ‘not one quarter of the world, and it is your view of my culture that I desire, not theirs.’
Suddenly they reached a vast arched doorway, and beyond it lay the bleached stone-dust of a courtyard. The scent of horses, of manure, of leather and of sweat pervaded the air.
A groom in grubby beige jellaba led two horses to them. A white Arab stallion and a gold Arab stallion with a mane the colour of honey. Bethsheba was handed a riding whip, and the groom made a bridge with his hands for her to mount the gold-coloured horse.
She mounted, laughing with a sudden rush of excitement as she sat astride that honey-coloured stallion and felt it dance beneath her as the sheikh swung on to his powerful white steed and met her gaze, laughing also.
‘You are keen, bint!’ he shouted across to her, and kicked his horse. ‘Let us ride!’
They cantered out of the courtyard, hoofs clattering as the men cried in Arabic, hands raised in salute to their sheikh as he thundered into the desert, white robes flowing.
Exhilarated, the wind in her hair and sand stinging her face, Bethsheba galloped beside her sheikh and saw the light of dreams in the blue, blue sky above that ocean of golden sand. She felt brave and beautiful and free, the scent of horseflesh in her nostrils and the feeling of power as she rode fast, fast, faster.
The spurs on the heels of Suliman’s dark red boots flashed gold in the hot sun. His head-dress flashed back to show the strength of his jaw, the narrowed determination of his dark eyes.
Desert landscape engulfed them, a great silence broken only by the sound of their horses’ hoofs. She saw thick clumps of greenery strangled by clustered boulders near a well, and the dusty white gleam of dead animals’ bones close by. Sweat covered her face and body, the saddle thudded against her thighs, her hair whipped back in a golden, tousled banner.
How far had they come? The sun was a furnace in the sky. There was nothing, had been nothing, for miles, and still they rode, still they bore down across the desert as a hawk flew overhead with a piercing cry.
‘Stop!’ Bethsheba reined in her horse suddenly, but Suliman rode on, and she was left cantering in a wide circle, struggling to prevent her horse following its master. ‘Stop!’
Suliman reined in his horse, a quick look over one shoulder making his eyes narrow as he turned, cantering back to her, his dark, handsome face sheened with sweat.
‘What is it?’ he called harshly. ‘Do you need water?’
‘Why didn’t you stop earlier?’ she demanded angrily. ‘You heard me calling!’
‘We have only two hours before sunset,’ he said, black brows meeting like scimitars above his arrogant eyes. ‘We must reach the douar before dark.’
Her breath caught. ‘The douar!’ She knew what that meant! It conjured up a world of long ago, a world she had almost forgotten: of tents and gold sands and elegant men and women drinking hot mint tea at trestle-tables in the sun.
‘Come!’ Su
liman waited, stallion dancing beneath his powerful thighs. ‘Let us waste no more time!’
‘I can’t go there with you!’ Bethsheba cried hoarsely. ‘Not there!’
‘But you must!’ The dark eyes flashed. ‘It is written.’
‘It is not written!’ she cried fiercely. ‘It is not written and I won’t go there with you!’ Turning her horse, she tried to kick it back the way they had come, but it whinnied, worried and unsettled.
‘You cannot go back!’ Suliman shouted. ‘Not without me!’
‘I can and I will!’ Fear made her whip the horse sharply on its flanks as it danced out of control.
The horse rose up in angry protest, and Bethsheba cried out in shock as she was flung backwards into the air. The last thing she saw was a blur of white Arab robes and white horse thundered towards her as the sand slammed into her and blackness claimed her.
CHAPTER THREE
THE jingle of the harness soothed Bethsheba, the swaying motion of the Sheikh’s horse lulling her continually back into sleep. Occasionally, she opened her eyes, felt the stabs of agony in her head, and slipped back into unconsciousness, unable or unwilling to face what was happening.
The sheikh’s chest was strong and warm and comforting. Her face rested against it, her nostrils breathing in the scent of his flesh, and sometimes when her lids flickered open she looked drowsily at that tanned skin and the dark hairs that grew on it and thought of Arabia as though it were a dream; a colourful vivid dream of gold and silk and all the perfumes. The air grew steadily cooler. The sands, once gold, were now cool pink as the sun began to set, and the next time her eyes flickered open she saw the desert was lilac, then purple, then, finally, black.
Suddenly she heard voices and the crackle of wood fires, and when the horse came to a standstill she knew they had reached the douar.
‘Awake, Sheba.’ Suliman’s deep voice echoed in his chest. ‘Awake and behold your dream.’
Opening her eyes, she looked up into his hard, handsome face, and for a moment saw only his features; the heavy-lidded eyes, the strong arrogant nose and the firm sensual mouth below.
Then she saw beyond and knew it was night. Camp-fires flickered and spat in the darkness. Hair tents were dotted around the encampment, horses tethered beneath a tree, and the cool waters of the oasis gleamed with starlight from above. Men and the shadows of men were all about. They wore turbans and jellabas, some carried guns, some stood guard and some sat by the fires, eating.
‘Is it to your taste, Sheba?’ Suliman asked with a hard smile. ‘The douar of your fantasies?’
‘No!’ The fierce cry was weak, but her eyes flashed gold fire. ‘You must take me back at once.’
He laughed, and suddenly dismounted, catching Bethsheba before she unbalanced. His strong arms were around her, holding her as he strode in dark red boots and white robes towards the royal tent.
A servant leapt to sweep the tent flap aside. Suliman carried Bethsheba in as though she were a gazelle, and her startled eyes took in the luxurious surroundings; the royal blue cloth walls of the tent, the embroidered rugs, low brass trestle-table covered in Arabesque script, and the central bed of silk cushions.
The sheikh laid her on the bed of cushions. ‘How is your head, Sheba?’ he asked, sprawling beside her, his dark face above hers as he studied her. ‘You fell on the slope of a dune and your fall was softened. But still you lost consciousness…’
‘It throbs a little,’ she admitted, gold eyes wary. ‘But you must take me back, Suliman! You cannot keep me——’
‘You are my prisoner now, bint!’ he said softly, and his dark eyes mocked her as he flicked a cool, proprietorial gaze to her mouth. ‘And you will do my bidding!’
‘You’re out of your mind,’ she whispered, but her head was thudding like a drum and she could not take her eyes off that firm, sensual mouth. ‘You must know that what you’ve done is against the law.’
‘I am master here,’ he said under his breath, ‘and here—I am the law!’
‘No…!’ Her heart stopped and she tried to sit up.
‘Lie back, bint!’ he said, pushing her down again into the cushions. ‘And accept your fate!’
‘I will not!’ she said heatedly, ‘I won’t stay here a——’ The tent flap was swept aside, silencing her protest.
A servant entered in white jellaba and turban. He carried an ornate carved brass tray. On it, a coffee-pot gleamed, two brass filigree cups and a brass plate holding squares of halva, Turkish delight and spicy biscuits. He bowed low, placed the tray on a side-table, and said something respectful to his master.
‘What did he say?’ Bethsheba asked as the servant left. ‘That he disapproves of your kidnapping an English girl?’
The sheikh laughed under his breath. ‘He would not dare, bint!’
‘And I suppose you think I shouldn’t dare either.’ Rebellion flashed in her eyes.
‘You are brave and spirited, and I know you will fight me,’ he drawled coolly, one strong hand firm on her hip as he held her captive, ‘but it is part of our…shared fantasy, is it not, bint? That you will fight and I will conquer?’
Her breath caught and she said shakily, ‘You will not conquer me!’
Suliman smiled slowly and flicked his gaze from her to the table beside them. ‘Come. You need to rest and eat. Have some coffee and sweetmeats. They are prepared specially for you by one of my handmaidens in the——’
‘I don’t want any sweetmeats!’ she said, heart thumping at the nearness of his hard body and the sexual threat implicit in that soft, dark voice. ‘I want to go home right now!’
‘You do not listen, bint,’ Suliman said flatly, mouth hardening as he looked back at her. ‘And you do not learn. You are my captive: I am your master. And eventually, bint, you will admit your own silent approval of this shared fantasy.’
She stared, breathless, heart thudding. ‘My approval! What do you mean—my approval?’
‘We discussed it in great detail last night,’ he said softly, and the long fingers selected a sweetmeat for her, sliding it on to her lips and watching her with a slow, lazy smile.
‘We did not!’ She pushed the sweetmeat away from her mouth with a shaking hand.
‘I made myself more than clear,’ the sheikh told her, and allowed his gaze to move insolently, possessively over her body, resting on the full breasts beneath her white blouse. ‘And you, Sheba, responded in kind.’
‘No…’ She knew his gaze was provoking her to remember the way her breasts had swollen under his gaze then, as they did now, and the erection of her pink nipples only served to humiliate her further as she felt the excitement shiver through her.
‘Yes.’ His strong hand moved slowly to the buttons on her blouse and slid one open while she stared, trembling, hypnotised by those eyes. ‘You welcome your destiny, and your ultimate surrender.’
‘I don’t!’ she protested, then gasped, face flushing scarlet with hot arousal as Suliman’s strong fingers slid over her breast and they both felt her taut nipples burn in electric response to his touch.
‘Your body betrays you,’ he said softly, and as his head lowered to block out the light Bethsheba heard herself give a faint moan, eyes closing helplessly as that hard mouth took possession of hers.
She struggled, but he pinned her arms to the splay of cushions. She cried out but he silenced her with his mouth, and as she lay helpless beneath him the blood raced through her body with a wild throb of excitement that made her moan as his kiss took fire, pulling her down into a sudden dark flare of hot desire that made her gasp against his mouth.
‘So.’ Suliman raised his dark head, breathing roughly, his face flushed as he watched her, and the soft sound of desert sands blowing in the night air came from outside the tent. ‘Let us have no more protests or denials, bint!’
He got to his feet and reached for the brass coffee-pot, pouring hot spicy coffee into the two cups.
Bethsheba watched him, intolerably aroused, intol
erably confused, and unbelievably angry with him for kissing her like that. How dared he? How dared he bring her here against her will, kidnap her and put her in his desert encampment specifically to play some vile game with her that would end in her complete physical surrender to him…?
She hated him! Her eyes moved over his strong back, his arrogant head, and she said hoarsely, ‘You think you can get away with this, but you’re wrong! Chris will be frantic when I don’t come back! He’ll look for me, and——’
‘And where will he look?’ Suliman drawled coolly, turning, and handing her a cup of rich spicy coffee. ‘At my palace of Agadir? What will he find there? Nothing but an abandoned car and my men ready with explanations.’
‘The car will be proof enough,’ she said fiercely, sitting up. ‘He’ll inform the authorities at once and——’
‘And the authorities will read the note attached to the car.’ Suliman watched her, mockery in his eyes, his stance arrogant as he raised the brass filigree cup to his lips and drank.
‘What note?’ she demanded, her heart missing a beat.
‘The note I had drafted before you arrived, chérie. The note telling Burton that you requested a tour of my land, many days’ ride, in order to give your work new depth.’
She stared, breathless, horrified, then said on a rush, ‘You don’t seriously expect me to believe that?’
‘Why not?’ he drawled. ‘In America I believe it is called method acting.’
Her mouth tightened. ‘Chris went to RADA and has often discussed acting with me. He knows I’m not an actress—and certainly not interested in the Stanislavsky method!’
‘Yet you were acting in the desert not three days ago.’
‘For a pop video! It’s hardly the same thing!’
‘But it will give me the time I need, bint,’ he said softly, ‘and that, I assure you, is all I require from your friend Burton!’
Fear shot through her and she said hoarsely, ‘Chris has known me for years. He’ll know something’s wrong. He knows me better than anyone in my life. He’s almost family to me, and I to him!’
Desert Destiny Page 3
