One Desert Night - By Maggie Cox Page 0,10
Can you believe we’ve been invited to stay at his palace instead of some local flea-bitten hotel?’
‘I’d be careful about coming out with things like that when we’re in Kabuyadir, Jake. It might be construed as disrespectful…which it is.’
‘Have you always been such a good girl, Gina?’ the hazel eyes behind the fashionable ebony glass frames were definitely speculative as well as teasing. ‘Don’t you ever let your hair down and just, well…misbehave?’
It was such an outrageous comment that Gina sensed herself flushing hotly. She had ‘misbehaved’ once–in Kabuyadir, as a matter of fact–but at the time it hadn’t seemed at all as if she was doing wrong. Under the circumstances it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world, because it had been purely instinctive and right. She certainly didn’t regret what others might regard as her moment of madness if they knew about it. Not even once.
Running her hand over her tidy French pleat, she felt the leap of intense longing to see Zahir again almost overcome her. ‘I’m not perfect, Jake. I have my foibles just like anyone else. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’
There were moments in a person's life when the sheer wonder of a sight left an imprint on the heart and mind that would never be erased. Stepping into the vast mosaic and marble courtyard of Sheikh Kazeem Khan's ornately gilded palace was one of them.
Shielding her gaze against the dazzling sunlight that rendered the tall golden turrets almost impossible to look at for long, even with her sunglasses on, Gina glanced over at an equally mesmerised Jake and shook her head. Words seemed unnecessary.
Lifting her face up to the skyline again, she noted the impressive stone-built watchtower, hovering even higher than the golden pinnacle of the roof. Once upon a time this palace must have been the most intimidating and impenetrable fortress. It wasn't hard to imagine what it must have been like then. From the outside it appeared as if twenty-first century modernity had barely touched it at all.
A slim-built young man with watchful amber eyes, dressed traditionally in a jalabiya and a headdress with a colourful agal rope securing it round his head, stood waiting patiently as the two Europeans ogled a sight that for him was no doubt commonplace. His name was Jamal, and he was proud to call himself a servant of Sheikh Kazeem Khan, he told them. He had met them at the foothills of the city, where the taxi that had waited for them at the airport had left them, and had then accompanied them up the mountain in a cable car. From there, a comfortable horsedrawn buggy, with ravishing silk curtains and cushions, had transported them to the palace.
Gina was tired, travel-worn and melting in the heat, yet an undeniable excitement thrummed in her veins, making her not want to miss anything if she could help it.
‘We must not linger here in the afternoon heat. We should go inside now. This way.’ Jamal made a sweeping motion towards a vaulted sandstone passageway. ‘Another servant will show you to your rooms, where you can rest for awhile. Then, later, you will make preparations to meet with His Highness.’
Gina’s tiredness vanished completely when she was shown to her guest quarters. She’d been absolutely charmed by the comfortable adobe style house that she’d lived in when she’d stayed with the Hussein’s, but this…this was like walking into the sumptuous boudoir of an eastern princess. The furnishings were lush, with ravishing silk brocades of every imaginable hue and colour, and floor-to-ceiling voile drapes fell in a sensuous sunburst from two slim windows. An azure-coloured blind was partially unfolded behind the curtains, to keep out the heat and glare of the sun, and the floor was made from blissfully cool white marble. A generous-sized Persian rug picked out in sensuous gold and bronze threads was spread out at the foot of the bed…the bed.
If Gina had been inclined to write poetry she would have composed a veritable sonnet to such a bed. It was vast in every sense, with the broad-clawed feet of a sphinx and intricate Arabian carvings inlaid in a rosewood headboard that appeared magical and ancient at the same time. It practically drowned beneath a sea of silk and brocade cushions of every conceivable shape and colour.
Throwing herself down amongst them, she sighed with pleasure. A delicious if bittersweet daydream about Zahir drifted into her mind. Was there some way she could get to