Her Desert Dream

by Liz Fielding

  The woman, Dena, picked up a robe, held it out so that she could turn and slip her arms through the sleeves, wrap it around her, preserve a little of her modesty before sliding out of the bed.

  It clung to her, soft and light as the touch of a butterfly wing, leaving her feeling almost as exposed as if she was wearing nothing at all. The kind of thing a pampered concubine might have worn. With a sudden quickening of something almost like fear, laced through with excitement, she said, ‘Where is Kal?’

  ‘He went to the stables.’ The woman’s eyes, as she handed her the glass of juice she’d poured from a flask, saw the flush that heated her skin and smiled knowingly. ‘He took a horse,’ she said. Then, ‘I will bathe you and then you will have a massage.’

  What?

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ she said.

  ‘Bin Zaki ordered it so. Princess Lucy always needs a massage when she comes home.’

  ‘Really?’

  But the woman had opened a door that led into a bathroom that was out of a fantasy. A deep sunken tub. A huge shower with side jets. A seat big enough for two.

  ‘Which?’ Dena asked.

  ‘The shower,’ Lydia said, dismissing the disturbing image of sinking into the huge tub, sharing it with Kal.

  She really, really needed something to clear her head, wake her up.

  Dena turned it on, adjusted the temperature, apparently oblivious of the fact that her floor length black dress was getting wet. Apparently waiting for her to shed the robe and step into the shower so that she could wash her.

  No, no, no…

  Lydia swallowed, said, ‘I can manage. Really.’

  She nodded. ‘Come into the next room when you are ready and I will ease the ache in your shoulder.’

  Lydia stared after her. Raised her left hand to her right shoulder, the one that ached when it was cold or damp. After a long shift on the checkout. The legacy of years of lifting other people’s groceries across a scanner.

  How did she know? What had given her away?

  She shook her head.

  Nothing. Dena couldn’t know that she was a fake. If she did, the whole house of cards would be tumbling around her ears by now, she told herself as she slipped out of the wrap, stepped under the warm water.

  If she was a trained masseuse she would be observant, that was all, would notice the slightest imbalance. It didn’t mean anything.

  She might have slept awkwardly on the plane or strained it in a hundred ways.

  She turned up the heat and let the water pound her body, easing an ache which, until that moment, she’d been scarcely aware of herself.

  Lathered herself in rich soap.

  Washed her hair.

  Putting off, for as long as possible, the moment when, wrapped in a towel that covered her from breast to ankle, her hair wrapped in a smaller one, she would have to submit herself to the ministrations of the slightly scary Dena.

  But as she lay down and Dena’s hands found the knots in her muscles, soothed away the tension of the last twenty-four hours, all the stress floated away and she surrendered to total pampering.

  Wrapped tenderly in a robe, seated in a chair that tilted back, her hair was released and unseen hands massaged her scalp, gently combed out her hair, while a young girl did miraculous things to her feet, her hands.

  Painted her nails, drew patterns with henna.

  By the time they were finished, she was so utterly relaxed that when one of the girls held out a pair of exquisite French knickers she stepped into them without a flicker of embarrassment.

  Slipped into a matching lace bra and left it for someone else to fasten.

  Held up her arms as Dena slipped a loose silk kaftan over her head that had certainly not been part of the wardrobe packed by Rose.

  It floated over her, a mist of blue, then settled over her shoulders, her arms, falling to the floor before nimble fingers fastened the dozen or more silk-covered buttons that held it together at her breast.

  Then she stepped into a pair of soft thong sandals that were placed in front of her.

  A week of this and she’d be ruined for real life, she thought, pulling her lips back against her teeth so that she wouldn’t grin out loud.

  Wow! Wow! Wow!

  Thank you, Rose! I hope you’re enjoying every second of your freedom. Having the most wonderful time.

  And, with that thought, reality rushed back as she looked around for the clutch bag she’d been carrying.

  A word and it was in her hand and she took out her mobile phone to send the agreed ‘arrived safely’ message, followed by another more detailed message to her mother. Not just to let her know that she’d got to her destination without mishap, but that the apartment was great and she was having a great time.

  So far, so true. Unless…Did kissing Kal count as a mishap?

  She looked at the message doubtfully, then, with a rueful smile, hit ‘send’, grateful that her mother had insisted that overseas mobile calls were too expensive, that the occasional text was all she expected. She would never be able to bluff her way through an entire week of this, not with her mother. With Kal…

  She looked up and realised that everyone was waiting to hear what she wanted to do next.

  She slipped the phone into a pocket in the seam of the kaftan and said, ‘May I look around?’

  Dena led the way, down a series of steps to a lower level entrance lobby with a two-storey domed ceiling richly decorated in floral designs with tiny ceramic tiles, her helpers following, all anxious to see her reaction. Clearly wanting her to love this place they called home.

  They waited patiently while she stopped, turned slowly, looking up in awe at the workmanship.

  ‘This is a holiday cottage?’ she asked in amazement. ‘It’s so beautiful!’

  Dena was unreadable, but the two younger women were clearly delighted.

  The tour took in a formal dining room where ornate carved doors had been folded back to reveal a terrace and, below it, set in a private walled garden, a swimming pool.

  More steps and then Dena said, ‘This is the room the family use when they are here.’

  Furnished with richly coloured sofas and jewel-bright oriental rugs that softened the polished wooden floor, Lydia might have been totally overwhelmed by its sheer size, but then she spotted a fluffy yellow toy duck half hidden amongst the cushions.

  It was a reminder that this was someone’s holiday home, a place where children ran and played. She picked it up and held it for a moment and when she looked up she saw that Dena was smiling.

  ‘It is Jamal’s,’ she said. ‘He left it there to keep his place while he was away.’

  ‘Bless,’ she said, carefully tucking it back where she’d found it and, looking around, saw the touches that made this unbelievably grand room a home.

  The box filled with toys. A pile of books that suggested Lucy’s favourite holiday activity was reading. A child’s drawing of the creek, framed as lovingly as an old master. Children’s books in English and Arabic.

  ‘You like children?’ Dena asked as she picked up an alphabet colouring book similar to one she’d had as a child. Except that the alphabet was Arabic.

  She nodded. ‘Even the little monsters…’

  Even the little monsters who whined and nagged their stressed mothers for sweets at the checkout. Their soft little mouths, big eyes that could be coaxed so quickly from tears to a smile with a little attention.

  She was so relaxed that she’d completely forgotten to guard her tongue but, while Dena regarded her thoughtfully, the younger women giggled, repeating ‘little monsters’ as if they knew only too well what she meant.

  She managed a shrug and Dena, making no comment, folded back doors similar to the ones in the dining room, opening up one side of the room to the garden so that Lydia could step out onto a wide terrace that overlooked the creek.

  ‘All children love Bab el Sama,’ she said. ‘You will bring your children here.’

  It soun
ded more like a statement than a question and Lydia swallowed.

  She had two careers and no time for romance, even if she could ever trust a man again sufficiently to let him get that close.

  Maybe Kal was the answer. He, at least, wouldn’t be pretending…

  She, on the other hand, would be.

  Since the one thing she demanded of a man was total honesty, to kiss with a lie on her lips was not something she could live with, no matter how alluring the temptation.

  ‘I’m sure they have a wonderful time,’ she said, responding to her first comment, ignoring the second as she walked quickly to the edge of the terrace as if to take a closer look at the beach.

  They were much lower here than on the bluff where she’d watched the sunrise, not more than twenty feet above the beach. And, looking around, she thought that the adults must love it too.

  There were pots overflowing with geraniums, still flowering in December, the rustle and clack of palm fronds in the light breeze, a snatch of unfamiliar music carrying across the glittering water.

  It was peaceful, beautiful, with a delicious warmth that seeped into the bones and invited her to lift her face to the sun and smile as if she were a sunflower.

  Even as she did that, a movement caught her eye and below, on the beach, she saw a horseman galloping along the edge of the surf, robes streaming out behind him.

  The horse, its hooves a blur in the spray, seemed to be almost flying, elemental, a force of nature. Lydia’s breath caught in her throat and she took a step closer, her hand lifting towards him as if reaching to catch hold, be lifted up to fly with him.

  ‘It is Bin Zaki,’ Dena said, but Lydia knew that.

  He might have shed his designer suit, donned a robe, hidden his dark curls beneath a keffiyeh, but his chiselled face, the fierce hawkish nose were imprinted on her memory and, as he flashed by in a swirl of cloth, hooves, spray, the profile was unmistakable.

  ‘He is chasing his demons. So like his grandfather.’

  For a moment she didn’t respond, scarcely registered what the woman had said, but Kal had gone, lost from sight as the beach curved around massive rocks, the final fling of the mountain range behind them. And already the sea was smoothing away the hoof prints, rubbing out all trace of his passing.

  She turned to discover that Dena was watching her and, suddenly coming back to reality, she dropped her hand self-consciously.

  ‘Demons? What demons?’

  ‘He will tell you in his own good time. Do you need anything, sitti?’

  Only to be held, enfolded, caressed, but not by some anonymous, faceless figure. All the longings and desires that haunted her had become focused on one man and she turned back to the empty beach as if his spirit was still there for her to reach out and touch.

  ‘I think I’ll take a walk,’ she said, suddenly self-conscious, certain that Dena knew exactly what she was thinking. ‘Explore a little. Is there anywhere I shouldn’t go?’

  ‘Bab el Sama is yours, sitti.’

  Dena left her alone to explore and she skirted the terrace, noticing how cleverly it was shielded from the creek by the trees so that no one from below would be able to see the royal family at play.

  Taking a path, she found steps that led invitingly downwards in the direction of the beach but, conscious of the silk kaftan flowing around her ankles, she turned instead along a path that led upward through the garden.

  After the crash that had killed her father and left her mother in a wheelchair, she and her mother had moved from their small house with a garden into a ground floor flat that had been adapted for a wheelchair user.

  She’d missed the garden but, ten years old, she’d understood the necessity and knew better than to say anything that would hurt her mother. It was the hand that life had dealt but even then she’d used her pocket money to buy flowering pot plants from the market. Had grown herbs on the windowsill.

  This garden was like a dream. Little streams ran down through the trees, fell over rocks to feed pools where carp rose at her appearance.

  There were exquisite summer houses tucked away. Some were for children, with garden toys. Some, with comfortable chairs, were placed to catch a stunning view.

  One, with a copper roof turned green with verdigris, was laid with rich carpets on which cushions had been piled, and looked like a lovers’ hideaway. She could imagine lying there with Kal, his lips pressed against her throat as he unfastened the buttons…

  She lifted her hand to her breast, shook her head, trying to rid herself of an image that was so powerful that she could feel his hands, his mouth on her body.

  As she backed away there was a scuffle near her feet as a lizard disappeared in a flurry of emerald tail. For a moment she stared at the spot, not sure whether she’d imagined it. Then she looked up and saw Kal standing just a few feet away.

  The keffiyeh had fallen from his head and lay gathered about his neck. His robes were made of some loosely woven cream material and the hem was heavy with sea water and sand. As they stood there, silent, still, a trickle of sweat ran from his temple into the dust on his cheek.

  After what seemed like an age he finally moved, lifting his elbow to wipe his face on his sleeve.

  ‘I’ve been riding,’ he said wearily.

  ‘I saw you. You looked as if you were flying,’ she said.

  ‘That’s me,’ he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a self-mocking smile. ‘Addicted to the air.’ He took a step forward but Lydia, almost dizzy with the scent of leather, of the sea clinging to his clothes, of tangy fresh sweat that her body was responding to like an aphrodisiac, didn’t move.

  Hot, sweaty he exuded a raw sexual potency and she wanted to touch his face. Kiss the space between his thumb and palm, taste the leather; lean into him and bury her face in his robes, breathe him in. Wanted to feel those long, powerful hands that had so easily controlled half a ton of muscle and bone in full flight, on her own body.

  She cooled her burning lip with the tip of her tongue, then, realising how that must look, said, ‘Maybe my problem with flying is that I didn’t start in the right place.’

  He frowned. ‘You don’t ride?’

  ‘No.’ Having studied every aspect of her alter ego’s life, she knew that while most little girls of her class would have been confidently astride her first pony by the time she was three, Rose was not one of them. ‘But, if I had to choose, I think I’d prefer it to fishing.’

  His smile was a lazy thing that began in the depths of his eyes, barely noticeable if you weren’t locked in to every tiny response. No more than a tiny spark that might so easily have been mistaken for a shaft of sunlight finding a space between the leaves to warm the darkness. Then the creases that fanned out around them deepened a little, the skin over his cheekbones tightened and lifted. Only then did his mouth join in with a slightly lopsided gotcha grin.

  ‘Here’s the deal,’ he said. ‘You let me take you fishing and I’ll teach you to ride.’

  His voice, his words seemed to caress her so that it sounded more like a sexual proposition than a simple choice between this or that outdoor activity. Standing there in the dappled sunlight, every nerve-ending at attention, sensitized by desire, she knew that if he reached out, touched her, she would buckle, dissolve and if he carried her into the summer house and laid her amongst the cushions, nothing could save her.

  That she wouldn’t want to be saved.

  This powerful, instant attraction had nothing to do with who they were. Or weren’t. It was pure chemistry. Names, titles meant nothing.

  She lowered her lids, scarcely able to breathe. ‘Is that your final offer?’

  His voice soft, dangerously seductive, he said, ‘How about if I offered to bait your hook for you?’

  Baited, hooked, landed…

  She swallowed, cooled her burning lower lip with her tongue. ‘How could I resist such an inducement?’

  A step brought him alongside her and he took her chin in his hand, ran the pad
of his thumb over her mouth in an exploratory sweep as if to test its heat.

  ‘It is a date, Rose.’

  He was so close that she could see the grains of sand thrown up by the flying hooves which clung to his face and, as she closed her eyes to breathe in the pure essence of the man, his mouth touched hers, his tongue lightly tracing her lower lip, imitating the route her own had taken seconds before, as if tasting her.

  Before she could react, clutch at him to stop herself from collapsing at his feet, it was over.

  ‘You will fish with me this afternoon. I will ride with you at dawn.’

  ‘Perfect,’ she managed through a throat that felt as if it was stuffed with cotton wool. Through lips that felt twice their normal size.

  Then, as she opened her eyes, he stepped back and said, ‘You might want to wear something a little less…distracting.’

  Before she could respond, he strode away in a swirl of robes and she did not move until she was quite alone.

  Only when the path was quite empty, the only sound-apart from the pounding of her heart-was the rattle of palm fronds high above her, did she finally look down, see for herself how the light breeze was moulding the thin blue silk to her body so that it outlined every contour. Her thighs, the gentle curve of her belly. The hard, betraying, touch-me peaks of her breasts.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  KAL stood beneath the pounding icy shower. He did not need hot water; the heat coming off him was turning the water to steam.

  He closed his eyes but it didn’t help. Without visual distraction, the image of Rose Napier, silk clinging to every curve, filled his head, obliterating everything from his mind but her.

  If he had ever doubted her innocence, he was now utterly convinced of it. No woman who had a scintilla of experience would have let a man see such naked desire shining out of her eyes, been so unconscious of the come-and-take-me signals her body was semaphoring in response to his nearness. Given him such power over her.

  But maybe they were both out of their depth.

  Preoccupied with his own concerns and apparently immune to this pale beauty that the entire world appeared to be in love with, his guard had been down.