SUDDENLY Achmed was returning at a brisk pace. Chris was behind him, and Bethsheba tensed inwardly, not wanting the intrusion of the modern world, of pop music and studios and a twentieth-century businessman. It grated harshly with this living, breathing fantasy in white robes and gold iqal, his hard body sprawled beside her on the silk cushions, and his dark eyes as mesmeric as his mind.
‘The PA is superb!’ Chris said as he reached them. ‘Absolutely first class! Where on earth did you——?’
‘I had them brought here this morning from Casablanca,’ said the sheikh coolly.
‘But this is marvellous!’ Chris’s handsome face was alive with pleasure. ‘There’s even a band, Beth! It’s going to be a really good performance.’
The sheikh inclined his regal head. ‘Of course.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Sit, please. Eat what you will. You are my guests.’
The music changed.
Out from the shadows of the pillars at the far end came dancing girls, bracelets jangling, ankle bells ringing, slender bodies twisting and turning in transparent silks of scarlet and gold, blue and gold, purple and gold. Bethsheba suddenly longed to dance with them, to wear such sensual scraps of silk, her hair flowing as she flashed out of the shadows like a jewelled bird of paradise for her sheikh.
Other guests arrived, and were treated with great respect, salaams from everyone. They were obviously rich, their robes signifying authority. Watching raptly, Bethsheba remembered Bahrain and smiled with pleasure.
‘You will sing for me very soon,’ the sheikh murmured in Bethsheba’s ear suddenly. ‘Are you prepared?’
‘Of course,’ she said with a tilt of one gold brow. ‘It’s my job.’
A smile touched his hard mouth. ‘Then come.’ He got to his feet with arrogant grace and extended a strong brown hand. ‘I will take you to the gardens myself.’
Together they walked across that beautiful gold-scripted floor, he in white robes and gold iqal, she in ivory silk, and, as they moved, their heads held high, people stared at them both, but particularly at Bethsheba, and she knew the look in their eyes.
‘Your people are staring at me,’ she said quietly.
‘They stare because you are beautiful.’
‘No,’ she said frowning, ‘I feel recognised. But I’m not famous here, so——’
‘So how can it be?’ he agreed calmly, and clapped his hands, signalling that the double doors leading to the gardens should be opened. They walked through, and the cool night air touched her cheek as Suliman said, ‘The Gardens of Scheherazade…’
The gardens were breathtaking, tiled in blue-white mosaic, dotted with fountains and flowers and high walls. The profusion of colour dazzled, bright yellow marigolds mingling with the smooth pearl of oleander, the cream clusters of jasmine, the rich russet of harmal and henna. Slim-stemmed palms fanned their lush silhouettes beside the draping fringes of jacaranda, and beyond blazed the most beautiful sight of all: the desert sky. So clear, so perfect—each star blazing with light and colour like a tray of diamonds on black velvet at Tiffany’s.
‘Do you enjoy your fame?’ asked the sheikh suddenly, his deep voice startling her.
‘Oh…!’ She turned to find him watching her with those dark, mesmeric eyes and shrugged lightly. ‘It’s something I’ve learned to live with.’
‘But do you wish it to be so, Sheba?’
She moistened her lips and found herself saying truthfully, ‘I find it rather suffocating. Fame, publicity, studio work. I often feel like a caged bird.’
‘A dove, bien sÛr!’ he murmured, a smile touching the hard mouth. ‘And, like any dove, you long to escape.’
‘Sometimes,’ she admitted.
‘But how,’ he asked coolly, ‘does a caged bird learn to be free? Perhaps it must simply find a new master.’
‘I need no master,’ Bethsheba said, lifting her gold head.
‘Yet you describe your life as suffocating and caged,’ he said calmly, and his strong hand curled at her arm. ‘Are these the words of a free woman?’
She looked into his eyes and suddenly needed to change the subject. ‘Have you always lived here?’ she asked lightly, flicking her gaze from his to the palace walls.
The sheikh recognised why she had asked that and was faintly amused, drawling, ‘No. I have another palace, deep in the heart of the Sahara. The Great Palace of Suliman.’
There was a little silence as his eyes narrowed on her, and she looked at him, suddenly realising that he expected some kind of reaction from her to those words.
‘The Great Palace of Suliman?’ she repeated, frowning. ‘You say it as though I should have heard of it——’
‘No,’ he said at once, and led her to walk beside him, his hand lingering on her arm as they moved slowly, bodies in harmonious step. ‘It is the palace of my ancestors. Suliman El Khazir the Great built it; he once ruled most of the Sahara. It is special to me, Sheba. And to my people.’
‘I should think any palace in the middle of the Sahara would be special.’
He looked at her, then away. ‘I also have a douar—a desert encampment—a few hours’ ride from here.’
‘A desert man, then?’ she asked, trailing her fingers through clusters of creamy jasmine petals.
‘I am.’ He stopped walking and looked at her, black brows like scimitars over his dark eyes. ‘I was born here, Sheba. Born to rule these people and this land. I was destined, always, to love the wild beauty of the desert; and my sense of kismet—of destiny—is stronger than any force in my life.’
She smiled. ‘I understand destiny. But I don’t feel I have truly found mine yet——’
‘And if you did?’ he asked at once, his hand tightening on her arm. ‘What then, Sheba? Would you run from it? Or surrender utterly?’
‘If I had a destiny,’ she heard her voice say as their gazes once again locked, ‘I would surrender to it utterly.’
‘And feel it possess you,’ he said intently.
‘Yes…’ Shivers ran through her, her heartbeat thudded faster, and her voice was rich with longing as she found herself saying, ‘And feel it possess me.’
‘Destiny often comes in the shape of another person,’ he said tensely. ‘If it came thus—what then? Would your surrender be…’ his eyes slid suddenly to her breasts, and her heart missed a beat as she felt her nipples harden prominently under that burning gaze as though he had touched her ‘…as complete?’ His voice roughened as his gaze flicked back to hers. ‘Your possession as absolute?’
Pulse throbbing, she looked into those dark eyes and knew he was telling her something. But what? And why did she feel that somewhere, deep inside herself, she already knew?
Later, Bethsheba stood under the white heat of the spotlight on stage and sang for Sheikh Suliman El Khazir, surrounded by his guests and servants in the Gardens of Scheherazade.
Her voice floated out above the music in high, breathy seduction of her audience. The band played behind her, all Arabian and obviously experienced musicians. Prudence undulated and sang at a mike to her left. It should have been a purely professional performance—polished and skilled—but nevertheless just work.
But some divine spark had entered her, and she sang only for the sheikh, only for Suliman, her eyes closed now as she gleamed in the spotlight like a living, breathing golden statue and raised her slender arms in triumph as the song ended.
Applause burst from every corner of the gardens, and Bethsheba was elated, taking her bows with a dazzling smile, eyes flashing like yellow diamonds to Suliman for the first time since she’d begun the performance and saw him smile as he realised she had known exactly where he was sitting from the moment she’d stepped on stage.
‘His Majesty Sheikh Suliman El Khazir,’ Achmed said when she came off stage, ‘requests that you join him at his table.’
Bethsheba swayed towards Suliman’s table, her body pulsating with adrenalin, face flushed and eyes feverish, every inch a star, and revelling in it for the first time in years.
‘You are a gifted songbird,’ Suliman drawled as she sank on to the chair beside him, his eyes moving restlessly over her. ‘Mr Burton must be very proud of his caged dove.’
Indignation made her eyes flash. ‘I’m not his——’ She broke off, refusing to give any more away to him than she already had tonight. With a light shrug she smiled coolly and said, ‘At any rate—I’m not his only songbird.’
‘He has many like you? Impossible! There can only be one golden-skinned Sheba!’
‘I mean he has other singers. About fifteen, in fact. He runs a recording company, writes all the material, arranges, produces and—well, runs the whole show.’
‘Ah.’ Suliman nodded, unsmiling. ‘He is your producer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not your lover.’
She caught her breath, staring, silenced, her lips parted as her gaze locked into his once more and the crackle of attraction flashed between them like a tangible force.
‘A simple question, bint,’ he said softly. ‘Is Burton your lover or not?’
‘No!’ she said under her breath, her face burning with hot colour. ‘He is not my lover!’ Good heavens, she had never even had a boyfriend or a stolen kiss—let alone a fully fledged lover! ‘We’re friends and colleagues—that’s all.’
Suliman gave no reply, but his eyes darkened further, and his gaze dropped to her mouth, then away. ‘How long do you intend to stay in the Sahara, bint?’
‘Another ten days,’ she said huskily, aware that her voice shook, and angry with herself for betraying the depth of her reaction to him. ‘We’re recording at Chris’s villa in Tangier.’
‘And do you have a man staying with you? A boyfriend? A——’
‘No,’ she said quickly, before he could mention lovers again and force that hot blush to her face.
‘Family?’ He was idly fingering a delicate filigree cup on the carved brass table. ‘Is your family in England or here with you?’
‘I have no family,’ she said huskily. ‘My parents died when I was fourteen.’
His lashes flickered. His gaze slid to meet hers. ‘Tell me, Sheba—do you ride?’
‘Ride?’ The question surprised her. ‘Yes—I ride very well, as a matter of fact.’
‘Good. Then tomorrow you will ride with me.’
‘Tomorrow!’ Her eyes widened. ‘I don’t know if——’
‘Here,’ he said coolly, ‘I am but a few hours’ drive from Tangier. I have a stable of pure-bred horses, and the Sahara surrounds me. Why should you not come here to ride with me?’
‘Well, I don’t know if Chris would altogether approve and——’
‘We shall not tell him,’ drawled the sheikh, a smile touching his hard mouth. ‘It will be our secret. Our secret…’ his gaze slid to her breasts, then up to her eyes again ‘…fantasy. Hmm?’
Bethsheba’s mouth went dry. She felt suddenly unable to reply, her heart drumming wildly.
‘You will be my golden-haired Englishwoman,’ Suliman said under his breath, ‘and I your sheikh. Together we will live out our fantasy and surrender ourselves to destiny.’
She was staring at him through gold lashes, her lips parted, face flushed, eyes glittering, and as she remained silent so her breasts rose and fell unsteadily with the thud of her heart.
‘Say yes, Sheba,’ Suliman’s eyes never wavered, ‘and it shall be done.’
Bethsheba’s voice whispered, ‘Yes…’
She woke next morning to the sound of ‘Haya alla Salat!’ echoing across the city of Tangier from the mosque tower. Suliman’s face leapt into her mind and she sat up in bed with a gasp, a hand clutching her heart as the pace leapt.
Had she really agreed to ride with him at three this afternoon? She must have been out of her mind! Of course she couldn’t ride with him, or even consider going back to his palace!
Bethsheba spent the morning working in the studio. They were laying down the backing vocals on various tracks, and it was harder work than the lead vocal because it was a rather bitty job and intensely repetitive. Chris cheered them up by doing the ‘To be or not to be’ monologue from Hamlet every time they wound the tape back. But Bethsheba had heard him do it a million times before, and it had begun to grate on her nerves.
Bethsheba felt guilty as she watched Chris through the glass panel. She owed him every- thing—how could she be so mean as to feel bored with the friend who had saved her from penury?
Christopher Burton had discovered Bethsheba when she was fifteen and singing with an unknown band in a dingy London pub. Obviously under age, she had been desperate for money and for something to cling to that was hers.
Her parents had been killed in a car crash when she was fourteen. She had been living with her maiden aunt for a year, and felt restless, trapped, alone and unhappy. With few friends and no money, Bethsheba had been desperate for someone to come along and help her.
Chris recognised her talent as well as her desperation, and took her under his wing.
At that time, Chris had a small twenty-four-track studio in a London suburb. Working every hour of the day, he too was desperate: desperate to finally succeed in the music business.
Bethsheba learnt the ropes of the industry with him, watching him write, record, arrange and produce song after song, then suffer the painful setbacks and frustrations of life on the fringes of the music business.
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!’ Suliman 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.