by Serena Janes
His body missed her. It was a strange feeling—this visceral longing for a woman he’d known only a week.
He groaned in frustration and longing, catching the attention of his hostess, Sophia, a young Moroccan woman who ran the riad with her husband.
“Is there a problem Monsieur LaPlante? You are unwell?”
“Non. Non, merci. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just hungry. Can you tell me where I can get some dinner?”
“Oui. It is very late but you can go out the door to the left, and…”
It was just getting dark and he had some trouble finding the restaurant. But the lamb tagine was very good and he enjoyed his meal for the first time in weeks. He washed it down with many cups of mint tea before deciding to walk the long way back through the steep streets of the old town. When a ruckus caught his attention, he approached and saw a young foreign woman standing tall in the centre of a leering group of teenaged boys. They were growing increasingly aggressive as they taunted her.
But she didn’t crumble. Holding her head high, she let their cries bounce off her like hailstones, which only incensed the boys further. Just as one or two of them began to pull at her pigtails Luc saw something like fear creep into her posture. He stormed through the circle and grabbed her by the hand, shouting in French at the boys, who scattered like gulls. He pulled her along the dark, narrow passageways of the souk, and she followed without a word. He was a little unsure where he was headed until he found himself at the door of his riad.
He brought her up to his room, closed the door behind him and turned to look at her. She wasn’t crying but he knew she’d been badly frightened.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he said in English. “Don’t you think it’s a little dangerous to go wandering around alone at this time of night?”
She stood in front of him, met his eyes defiantly and shrugged. “I do it all the time.”
He recognized her accent. A Hollander. He was immediately struck by the appealing combination of toughness and vulnerability in her demeanor.
“All the time?” He couldn’t help smiling.
“Yes. I have been traveling for five weeks, alone. I travel a lot.”
“And does someone always step in to save you when you get in trouble?” he teased.
“I didn’t need saving,” she said, lifting her chin. “They would have calmed down.”
“Oh, you think so?” He was amused. “So why did you let me lead you all the way back to my room if you didn’t need saving?”
She paused, bit her lip into a slight smile, and ran her eyes up and down the length of his body, causing him to feel something he hadn’t felt since Joanna. He was getting hard.
“Because,” she said, lowering her voice provocatively, “I thought it was time for another kind of adventure.” She dropped her backpack to the floor, moved closer and raised a hand to brush back the hair from his forehead. He felt his knees go weak and put his arms around her for support.
Hilda was as brave in bed as she was out on the road. And as untiring. Luc hadn’t planned on spending any time in Tangier, but they didn’t leave his bed for two days. Sophia brought them their meals, a faintly disapproving look on her face. But Luc paid her well, and she reserved comment.
Then, because Hilda hadn’t seen much of the city, they decided to stay a third night so they could squeeze in some sightseeing.
There was no question that she would travel with Luc from now on. She didn’t care where he was going—she didn’t even ask. She just climbed onto the back of his bike and let him take her wherever he wanted to go.
As far as Luc was concerned, it didn’t make much difference to him whether or not he had a traveling companion. Or where they went. It was an adventure, the diversion he so badly needed. She traveled light, and she was hot.
She was also surprisingly easy to be with. She never talked about anything serious, she didn’t drink, and she was completely uninhibited about all things sexual. As a bonus, she seemed to have limitless amounts of money.
Chapter Eight
After their first breakfast in Ronda, Jo, Brenda and Danny piled into the car—Jo taking the back seat this time—to follow the winding Ruta de Los Pueblos Blanchos. Their destination for the day was the second largest of the Hill towns, Arcos de la Frontera. The road was tortuous, and Jo had to ask Danny to slow down on the curves and switchbacks because she was prone to carsickness. Brenda, with a constitution tough as any seasoned sailor, traded seats with her, but that didn’t help much. Jo didn’t want to take any Gravol, as it made her dull and sleepy. Danny was too good to miss, she figured. Being half unconscious in his presence wouldn’t be as much fun, so she willingly suffered nausea for the duration of the ride.
“All the towns with the name Frontera,” Brenda read from her guide as Danny navigated narrow roads searching for a parking space, “were important outposts protecting Spain from the encroaching Moors.”
“So that’s why they built on the very top of the mountain,” Jo said as she tumbled out of the car. “It’s so beautiful.” She looked up at the picturesque cluster of white-washed buildings perched high above the new town at the bottom of the hill. It was a photographer’s dream, she realized, watching Danny pull his cases of equipment out of the car. He had the roundest buttocks she’d ever seen on a man. A dancer’s butt, she knew now. It looked like Brenda had hired the right man.
In more ways than one. But can he take photos?
Laden down with various cases and bags, Danny followed the two women up through the sun-drenched old town towards the bullring. To their disappointment, it was closed, so all they could see was the exterior.
Danny got busy setting up his tripod and adjusting his unwieldy large format camera. Every time they changed location he had to go through the setting up process all over again. Jo thought it all seemed like an awful lot of work and hoped it would be worth it. She and Brenda just snapped away with their little digital cameras while Danny worked.
Then they headed for the churches, and Danny had to change his equipment again for the dim interiors. According to Brenda’s Internet search, Arcos boasted only one Black Virgin—a small painting. But scholarly research was incomplete, she’d read, and there could be more tucked away waiting to be catalogued. She told Jo and Danny she wanted to visit every church, and inspect every nook and cranny.
So they did just that, but were rewarded with no great discoveries. The lone painting was disappointingly small and faded, but in the tiny Madonna’s eyes Jo instantly recognized that same powerful gaze, the same strength of insistence that female sexual power was unconquerable.
As she squinted at the wise virgin’s face, Jo felt she was being watched. She turned around and saw Danny studying her carefully. He smiled widely, oh so sweetly, and she felt a rush of excitement, aware of a sexuality she’d all but buried over the last month. Then he turned back to his camera. He was a professional, it seemed, and Brenda, hovering over his shoulder, was satisfied with his work ethic so far.
It was very hot by the time they walked out of the Church of Santa Maria, and Jo was glad for her light cotton dress and her straw hat, made pretty by a white silk bow. They headed for the Plaza del Cabildo, and sat down for coffee in a shaded cafe.
Spanish coffee was excellent, Jo thought. And always served with a glass of water, which she appreciated on this warm day. She sighed contentedly and looked at the beautiful scene spread out before her, like a tempting smorgasbord of life.
Yes, Brenda was right. It was a very good idea to come here. I need to enjoy life again, not pine for what I’ve lost.
She glanced at her oldest friend, who was gazing at the view and smiling that furtive little smile she wore when things were going her way. She wasn’t exactly a control freak, like James, Jo thought, but it sure did make Brenda happy when she got her way.
Brenda, as usual, looked sophisticated and cool in her hot-weather uniform of white cotton shirt, pale linen pants, and sturdy sandals. Fair-
skinned, she tried to protect herself from the sun whenever she went outdoors. Her short dark hair peeked out from under a wide-brimmed man’s hat, and her over-large sunglasses hid much of her face. But she was attractive, Jo thought, even to men.
Then Jo looked at Danny, brown-skinned and heedless of the sun’s burning rays. He was wearing pale lightweight pants, and a golf shirt that lay taut and flat against his belly. No hat, and he’d removed his dark glasses as soon as he’d sat town at the table. His eyes were surrounded by incredibly long lashes. Just like a girl’s. But there was nothing girlish about the rest of him. She could see that quite clearly, and felt herself blushing a little as she forced herself to stop staring at his biceps.
He was smiling too. But it wasn’t a subtle smile—it was large, joyful and outrageously appealing. And it was seductive, even at this hour of the morning in a bustling town centre.
“About last night, Danny,” said Brenda interrupting the chemical reaction building at the table. “Where’d you learn to dance like that? You’re excellent.”
“Gracias,” he said, turning that radiant smile to Brenda. “I come from a family of dancers. My parents are dancing instructors, and when I’m not taking photographs I too give lessons now and then.”
Jo and Brenda grinned at each other, then Brenda said, “Well, you’re very good. Do you like teaching?”
“A little. But it’s not my passion,” he added emphatically. “Pictures are. Trying to capture a perfect image of beauty, whether it be the light in the sky, or a shadow in a church nave, or the fleeting expression of a beautiful woman as she teases the camera.” With this he gave Jo such a meaningful smile that she almost choked on her coffee, setting the three of them into a fit of laughter.
Jo drained her coffee and changed the subject. “How did you get started in photography?”
Danny said, “Ever since I can remember I wanted to be an architect. But my parents could never afford to send me to university. It takes a long time, and a lot of money. As you know.”
Jo and Brenda nodded.
“So I decided that taking pictures of beautiful buildings would be a reasonable substitute for designing my own. I enrolled in art school and took a photography program.”
“Can you make a living taking pictures in this part of the world?” Brenda asked.
“No. Spain is, of course, suffering a deep financial depression. Nobody has any money. So when I received your telephone call,” he solemnly nodded his head at Brenda, “I was very happy.”
“And when I met you two lovely ladies,” he added with a wide smile, “I became even happier.”
He seemed so sincere, Jo thought, as she and Brenda exchanged meaningful glances. And so full of life.
After their rest they got back to the serious business of sightseeing. Jo knew she and Brenda looked like tourists, but as the morning wore on she was having so much fun she didn’t care what the locals thought of them as they helped Danny set up his equipment and photograph everything they saw—crooked little side streets snaking up the hill, flower-laden window boxes, cats dozing in the sun, children running back to school after lunch, and everywhere the magnificent views against a dark blue sky.
They wandered through the ruins of an eleventh-century Moorish castle and Danny told them about the running of the bull each year during Holy Week.
“It’s only one bull, and they tie ropes to each horn so it doesn’t do too much damage. But people can run through the streets alongside and pretend they’re in Pamplona,” he said with a laugh.
“Did you run with it?” asked Jo, running her gaze up and down the length of his lithe body. She saw that Brenda was doing the same thing.
“Once. When I was young.”
Both women broke into laughter at the idea that he considered himself anything but young. He was growing more delightful with every passing hour.
They spent quite a lot of time photographing the town’s fifteenth-century magic circle, made of twelve red and twelve white stones, and then it was time to eat.
For lunch, Danny chose a pretty restaurant overlooking the hills below. They sat outside under an arbor of ripening grapes and enjoyed plates of tapas and cool, white wine. Jo particularly liked the little croquettes filled with thickened Béchamel sauce and chopped ham, but then everything in Spain tasted so good compared to what she’d been eating at home over the last month. Never much of a cook, she’d survived on reheated pre-packed dinners and her mother’s half-hearted attempts at recreating family favorites.
Fortified by the food and made merry by the wine, Jo gazed over the beautiful views and, for the first time, thought about Luc without feeling any pain.
There’s still a chance he wants me. There’s still a chance he’ll get my letter and respond. But even if he doesn’t, life will go on. And it will be good.
With this realization in mind, she looked at Danny, who said, “Forgive me for being so bold, but you look very happy right now. I think you like Andalusia?”
“I love Andalusia!” And turning her smile to Brenda she said, “Thanks so much for this. I won’t forget what you’ve done for me.” She reached across the table and gave her friend’s hand a little squeeze.
Brenda beamed back at her. “You’re worth it, sweetie.”
Jo watched Danny jump to his feet and pull out their chairs as she and Brenda got up. She wondered what he made of the little exchange he’d just witnessed. But he said only, “As you know, Arcos is the biggest of the Hill towns. I’m so glad you like it. But tomorrow we will go to Zahara and Grazalema which, in my opinion, are even more beautiful.”
“And maybe we’ll find some more virgins,” Brenda said with a chuckle.
“Is the road just as bad?” Jo asked with a frown.
He laughed. “Worse, I’m afraid. But perhaps you can sit in the front with me again?” He slid a look at Brenda, who gave him an indulgent smile.
“Sure thing.”
“And I assure you the unpleasant ride with be worth it.”
After their meal they strolled through the deserted streets of the little town, knowing that only stupid gringos wandered out in the heat of a July afternoon. The light was too harsh for good photographs, Danny explained, and soon they packed up the cameras, loaded the car and headed back.
By the time they got to Ronda, Jo was overheated and tired. Her head ached so she went to bed for a late siesta before the sun began to set.
Jo woke from her nap with a pounding head, her entire body clammy with sweat. She was in no mood to carry on her mild flirtation with anyone, and told Brenda she didn’t want to go out for dinner.
“You go, and maybe you can bring me back a sandwich or something. I feel wretched.”
“Are you sure? Danny’ll be disappointed.”
Jo smiled weakly. “Yes. I need to stay in bed. Go. Have fun.”
She was only faintly aware of Brenda peeking into her room later that night. When birdsong woke her the next morning she saw she’d slept for over twelve hours.
* * * *
Luc and Hilda headed south along the coast to Rabat and because this was Hilda’s first visit to Morocco she wanted to stop and see all the tourist sights. Luc was more interested in the Roman ruins along their route but he took her to Rabat’s Imperial Palace and the Chelat Fortress, uncomplaining.
He convinced her to give Casablanca a miss. It was too big, he said, busy and developed. They’d be better off going directly south to Marrakech.
As they flew along the bumpy, twisting road to Marrakech, Luc began to breathe a little easier. He started to notice his surroundings—the hedgerows were planted with prickly pear and huge agave plants to corral the livestock. The land seemed more fertile inland than it had been on the coast, and he saw fields of grain and vegetables. They stopped to buy some roasted peanuts being sold at the side of the road, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. They were delicious.
As they approach Marrakech at dusk, the first thing he noticed was the palm trees. The sun w
as setting behind them, turning the dry air a beautiful dusty pink color.
They were date palms, he knew. He’d heard once that there were half a million date palms in the city surrounds. And judging from the number of road-side stands selling dates, he didn’t doubt it.
Then he looked to the east at the first stars glittering in the darkness and permitted himself a moment of appreciation at being alive.
Yes. I’ll get through this. The world is a smorgasbord of experiences and I’ll get my appetite back.
Then it was two nights in teeming Marrakech, where they played tourist amid the thousands mingling in the raucous Jemaa el-Fnaa square, a World Heritage site. They enjoyed the chaos of acrobats, singers, snake charmers, mystics, monkey-trainers, and opportunists. Everywhere they went they were accompanied by the sounds of singing and the music of pipes, tambourines and African drums.
Luc led Hilda through the old Berber souk, the largest in the country, where they kept getting lost in the crooked little side streets that radiated the heat of the sun long into the night.
They pushed and shoved their way along cobbled lanes, dodging camels, donkeys, dogs—and their shit—swatting at flies, constantly followed by a gang of eager vendors holding up their wares, shouting and singing as they tagged behind like a procession. Toy camels, hats, jewelry, candle holders, mirrors, caftans, baskets, shoes, wooden ware, brass plates, ceramic pots, purses and wallets—the array of merchandise was stunning. Laughing and trying to remain polite, Luc and his blonde companion just smiled and waved them away, like the flies.
Despite the exhausting heat, they went on to see all the sights—the Hotel Mamounia with its elaborate casino, the leather-dying vats and the grand mosques. They visited the Menara Gardens and the Badi Palace with its Carrera marble, watched water carriers decked out in their traditional costumes pose for photographs with tourists, perused market stalls piled high with fresh and dried fruit, nuts, spices, olives, capers, chilli peppers, lemons, mint and sweets of every kind.