The Sheik Retold(29)

Indeed, in the great scheme of things, I suddenly saw power rather than weakness in being the object of a man's desire. It was an age-old truth that a man's lust for a woman only weakened him. I thought of Adam and Eve, Samson and Delilah.

Although it was not in my nature to manipulate—I was too honest and forthright for that—I was also not fool enough to pass over the opportunity to play the cards I was dealt to my best advantage. I could either let him have me in the deferent and submissive manner of a lowly servant or meet him on equal footing, allowing myself also to take from him.

I laughed aloud on this absurdly liberating thought.

Yes, I decided. I would take him as my lover—for as long as it suited me to do so.

Instead of retiring and allowing him to take me by surprise, I thought I would wait for his return. To fill the time, I settled onto the black divan with a novel in my lap. I had pulled it from his bookcase, wondering as before, what kind of novel would appeal to a savage sheik. The answer was de Maupassant's Bel-Ami, subtitled The History of a Scoundrel. Somehow this did not surprise me—a wolf knowing the beast, after all.

De Maupassant's story was set against the backdrop of the French colonization of North Africa, which immediately piqued my interest. It was a scandalous tale of George Duroy, christened ''Bel-Ami'' by his many female admirers. The hero was described as ruthless, handsome, and unprincipled, which caused my mind continually to conjure the sheik's face.

I read until the bleariness of my eyes matched the weariness of my body and then must have drifted off to sleep. I awoke to the same Kashmiri love song that I had heard in the hotel gardens at Biskrah—sung in the same low, vibrating baritone that had enthralled me.

"Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar. Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell?" The sheik stood in the doorway looking out into the night, his handsome profile limned in shadow and moonlight. He continued his song, "Whom do you lead on rapture’s roadway far, before you agonize them in farewell? Oh, pale dispensers of my joy and pains, holding the doors of Heaven and Hell. How the hot blood rushes wildly though the veins beneath your touch until you waved farewell…" His voice faded away and off into the night I wondered what it was that had taken him away with such great reluctance and even more, what weighed so heavily on him. He turned and found me watching him, and his expression instantly softened. He came to me with his noiseless tread, drawing my hands together and to his breast. "Pale hands, pink tipped," he sang, raising my fingers to his lips.

I tore them away. "You do know English!" I accused.

"Just because I parrot an English song?" he replied in French and then laughed. "It means nothing. I heard a Spanish boy singing in Carmen once who did not know a word of French. He learned it just as I learn your English song."

The lie was unconvincing. There was too much heart in it to be merely parroting the words. "It was you who sang outside the hotel in Biskra that night?" It was more statement than question. "And was it you who stole into my bedroom like a thief and put blank cartridges in my revolver?"

"One is mad sometimes when the moon is high." His arm stole around me, drawing me close. He raised my chin to look into my eyes. "Do you think I would have allowed anybody else to go to your room when I meant you for myself?" His warm lips brushed first over my knuckles and then my mouth. "Come with me," he whispered, his eyes passionate and devouring.

Was I dreaming this gentleness? This soft persuasion? Perhaps I was just giddy from the strain? Whatever the reason, I let myself forget the relationship that bound me to him. I'd never before allowed myself the indulgence of miss-ish romantic fancies, but this was the desert I had dreamt of all my life, and this man was central to that magical illusion.

Yes, I would simply let myself believe it was all a dream. I would let him be my dream lover—my Bel-Arab, my own desert sheik.

***

We moved in silence through the curtains. It was if he knew my mood and that any further words might break the spell that bound us. The tented bedchamber was dimly illuminated by a single lantern, yet we stood close enough that I could clearly discern his face. I studied his every move and expression as intensely as he had earlier watched me.

Once the curtain dropped behind us, his large warm hands came to my shoulders. I still wore my gown of green silk and nothing beneath. The heated look in his gaze told me that he remembered that as well. He slowly peeled away the thin layer of fabric from my shoulders, and the entire thing slid down my body in a whisper of silk, to pool at my feet. I made no move to cover myself but rather tilted my head to meet his gaze.

He smiled a look of intense satisfaction. I parted and wet my lips, and his pupils flared bigger. Blacker. Although I was an arrant novice at this game of seduction, his reaction to my efforts filled me with a sudden and strange sense of empowerment—as if the menacing tiger had become my prey.

He did not ask me this time if I wanted him. He did not insist as before that I confess my desire. Perhaps he knew that also would break the spell. I would not have given voice to the words anyway. Instead, I let my body speak. Leaning into him, my naked breasts against his linen-clad chest, I removed his headdress and slid my fingers into his silky hair. His breathing came harder, faster, as we stood there, immobile, with the length of our bodies pressed against one another. I could feel him growing more aroused by the second, yet he held back, watching me, as if daring me to make my next move in our new game of seductive chess.