Desert Destiny Page 2

  ‘She will not sing here,’ said the sheikh, ‘but in the Gardens of Scheherazade.’ He clapped strong dark hands. ‘Achmed—take Mr Burton to the gardens and allow him to inspect the stage. He may do as he wishes.’

  ‘Thy will is my will,’ said Achmed, bowing in long dark robes.

  ‘Thank you!’ Chris was more than a little taken aback. ‘Right. Well—coming, Beth? Prue?’

  ‘I…Bethsheba darted a glance at the sheikh, knowing that she preferred to stay with him, the thought of inspecting mikes and PA and running a sound-check too boring to contemplate.

  ‘The Sheba will stay with me,’ said the sheikh at once, and his strong brown fingers curled over her wrist. ‘I will take care of her.’

  Chris hesitated, hands thrust in black evening-trouser pockets. ‘You ought to do a sound-check, Beth.’

  ‘This way, Mr Burton,’ Achmed said, ‘Miss Prue…’

  ‘You must be hungry, Sheba,’ the sheikh said deeply, and his strong hand moved to the small of her back as he guided her away.

  It was all very smooth, very fast, and before she knew what was happening she was walking away in gold silk beside the sheikh while Chris and Prudence were led to the Gardens of Scheherazade.

  He led her down gold-scripted steps to the central floor.

  ‘Please,’ he said deeply, and gestured to the luxurious cushions scattered there, ‘sit with me.’

  Slowly, she sank down on them, her body as sensual and provocative as her eyes, her mouth. He smiled and sank down beside her, relaxing full-length. Their eyes met and held in a mutual acknowledgement of the strong crackle of attraction between them that was like an electric current.

  He clapped his hands. A ravishing young girl in transparent scarlet harem silk appeared. Kneeling to the sheikh, she offered a long silver tray laden with delicacies. Placing it before them, she bowed, and left.

  ‘Your slave?’ Bethsheba asked with a cool glance.

  ‘Slaves choose their own master,’ he said softly, and his eyes slid to her breasts.

  Her heart quickened as she felt her nipples become erect under his gaze. ‘In Western civilisation, possibly. But out here in the desert?’ She lifted her head. ‘I think not!’

  ‘You know the desert well?’

  ‘I’ve never been to the Sahara before, but——’

  ‘Then do not judge our ways until you understand us.’ He reached out a strong hand, selected a small honey-coloured delicacy, and offered it to her. ‘A crystallised bee, Sheba.’

  ‘A bee?’

  He slid it between her pink lips. ‘We of course remove the sting.’

  Bethsheba’s mouth watered as his fingers slid the honeyed crystal inside, and the sweetness exploded on her tongue. The way he watched her, spoke to her, touched her, made her body throb with awareness, and she shifted on the silk cushions, her ivory silk dress drawing his dark gaze down over her breasts, slender waist and softly curved hips.

  ‘You are a very beautiful woman, Sheba,’ he said softly, and shifted too, reaching to touch her long gold hair. ‘Hair the colour of the sun, of the sand-cat…’

  She smiled. ‘It’s just blonde.’

  ‘But you are blonde all over,’ he said, ‘are you not?’

  A flush burnt her cheeks and she said acidly, ‘I presume you’re used to touching women whenever the mood takes you?’

  ‘Only those who welcome my touch.’

  ‘I’m sure you have a harem full of such women!’

  ‘A harem!’ His laughter was deep and rich as his long fingers lingered on her bare golden shoulder. ‘We enter the realms of fantasy, bint! Western fantasy dictates that every sheikh shall have a harem quivering with nubile women ready to do his bidding!’

  ‘And do you deny that?’

  He watched her with mocking eyes. ‘There are many Western fantasies of the East. Shall we explore them, Sheba?’

  ‘I really don’t mind,’ she said with a light shrug, although her body was marching to the beat of his drum, and they both knew it.

  ‘I saw a film once,’ he said lightly, ‘about a sheikh and a beautiful blonde Englishwoman…’

  ‘I saw that, too,’ she said, equally lightly.

  ‘It was arousing, was it not,’ the sheikh remarked lazily, ‘to see him kidnap her on horseback, though she screamed and struggled? Take her to his desert camp, throw her on the pillows of his tent and…’ He paused, flicking those dark eyes coolly to her enraptured face.

  ‘She fought him!’ Bethsheba said thickly, heart thumping.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he agreed, ‘she fought bravely and well. But that was part of the fantasy for them both—was it not, bint?’

  She was quite still, unable to tear her eyes from him.

  Suddenly, he was motionless too, watching her intently. ‘Did you like that film, Sheba?’ his dark voice asked, and she answered without thinking.

  ‘Yes.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  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 Tif
fany’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 s
heikh. 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.