by Serena Janes
Despite his bad mood, Tor had an enjoyable evening. Habib was charming, eloquent and did everything he could to make his guests feel at ease. The sun set early, and for those who were feeling cold, he provided coats and shawls. If anyone needed a refill, he did the honors himself. Promptly at seven o’clock, dinner was loaded onto the banquet table by the mute servers. There were generous platters of skewered lamb, chicken and vegetables with little pastries folded over ground meat or vegetables, along with creamy dips, filo parcels stuffed with rice, kibbeth, and lots of different salads.
Tor ate heartily, enjoying the perfectly seasoned meats with various yogurt and tomato sauces. After the meal, his host made a speech about how he hoped everyone would take home happy memories of the evening. He asked nothing more of them, and Tor was surprised at his generosity.
Throughout the evening, as always, Tor felt women watching him. Although he made it a point to talk to everyone, he was guarded. He didn’t want to encourage anybody to think he was available for more than polite conversation.
Most of the guests were foreign students studying Arabic at the Arabic Language Institute of the University of Damascus. One woman in particular managed to monopolize his attention. She turned out to be Russian, on leave from her role as wife of a schoolteacher and mother of four teenagers. As she smiled and flirted in broken English, Tor began to look for a way to escape. He needed her even less than he needed those two Norwegian nymphomaniacs back at John’s house.
The novelty of the entire experience kept him from thinking too much about his vanished lover, but after dinner he found his mind kept returning to memories of the night before. He would have liked Julie to be there, beside him, enjoying Habib’s hospitality. Then they could ride back to his room together. And then…
Dessert was a selection of pastries and cookies served with plenty of steaming mint tea. When everyone was finished, Habib introduced his three sons—each a handsome young man sporting the latest Western fashions, wearing an expensive watch and carrying a smart phone. The boys took photographs of their father seated around the pool with his dinner guests, then went off to watch the big, flat screen television in one of the lower rooms of the big house. Mrs. Habib was nowhere to be seen.
When it was time to go, Tor thanked his host, shaking his hand warmly. He knew, as he drove back into the city, he would never forget the man’s generosity. He hoped that whatever the future held for the citizens of Syria, Habib and his family would remain safe.
Back in his room, Tor planned what he would do the next day. Julie would still be in the city, and there were more places to search. As he climbed into bed, he reflected on the events that had lead him to this foreign city, alone, on a quest for what would probably be just another one-night stand.
Ludicrous. Insane. I’m running away from one woman and what do I do? Go flying straight into the arms of another one. Or I would, anyway, if only I could find her.
He fell asleep immediately after turning out the light, slept through two separate calls to prayer from the mosque next door, and awoke at nine, feeling fuzzy-headed.
When he went downstairs, Tor found that his host’s good wife had prepared him a lavish breakfast. He seemed to be the only guest, and he happily stuffed himself. There was excellent coffee, for a change, and piles of thin crepes folded into quarters, covered with segments of orange and drizzled with honey. Pomegranate juice, soft-boiled eggs, and an entire tray of tiny, flakey pastries filled with pistachios, almonds, walnuts and dried fruit.
Fortified, he thanked his hostess, who didn’t speak a word of English, and set out on foot to the last place he could think of—the National Museum of Damascus. Eventually, all tourists the least bit interested in Syrian history and culture would end up there. It housed the best collection of antiquities and treasures in the country. Unless Julie and her group had gone there yesterday, Tor felt pretty sure they might turn up today.
He didn’t have anything better to do, anyway. And besides, he rationalized, he liked museums. At least he could enjoy himself while he waited to be disappointed again.
The façade of the museum was once the impressive main gate of the Qasr al-Heir al-Gharbi Palace, reassembled stone by stone from its original site west of Palmyra. Tor stopped to admire it, snapping a few photos before he bought his admission ticket. It was fairly quiet inside, so he knew he wouldn’t miss Julie’s group if they came in.
If they come in? What hope do I have—am I a complete idiot? I’m never going to see her again.
For a few minutes his attention was diverted by an impressive collection of cuneiform clay tablets. He wanted to photograph a few of them, but was well aware of the signs forbidding cameras.
After wandering into another corner of the gallery, he stopped in front of a glass case containing a coin collection. Greek, Roman, Byzantine coins in silver, gold, and base metals. Just as he stuck his face closer to try and read the details on one particularly fine example, he heard someone behind him.
“Psssst!”
Tor looked up, surprised. He thought he was alone in the cavernous room. Then he saw him. It was one of the security guards, dressed in a navy blue blazer with some sort of identification card hanging on a string around his neck.
“Pssst! Hey mister.” He beckoned with a forefinger. “Come and see. Beautiful ceiling. You make picture.”
Tor had seen this sort of thing before. He walked over to the guard, who silently opened one of a pair of large carved wooden doors and slipped inside. Then he turned and looked at Tor. “Very beautiful. You want picture?”
He followed the man into the room, which was sumptuously decorated with tiled walls and floors. Elaborately embroidered fabrics covered the benches and chairs, and a large crystal chandelier hung from the center of the most intricately carved ceiling he’d ever seen. The ceiling was a masterpiece of Islamic design, and he took out his camera, knowing he needed to be quick.
But before he could adjust the settings, the guard held out his hand.
Tor knew he had to pay for the privilege, wrong as it might be. He took out his wallet and peeled off enough Syrian pound notes to satisfy his new friend. Then he began to shoot.
Just then he heard voices. A lot of them. Women’s voices, mostly, and then, as if he’d been hit between the eyes with an arrow, he realized they were speaking in English.
It’s her! It’s got to be!
He practically flew to the door, which the guard had left slightly ajar, and peered out.
Yes! There she is. I can’t fucking believe it. I found her!
Instantly he looked at the guard, whose thin face now wore a worried expression. Smiling broadly, Tor took out his wallet again, opened it, and pulled out some more bills.
* * * *
Julie liked the National Museum. Last year she’d spent almost an entire morning examining every detail of every exhibit.
It didn’t seem to have changed any, she noticed after a quick glance inside the lobby, but she didn’t mind, because now she had her camera.
After her mother and the rest of the gang had moved through to some of the galleries, Julie walked over to the large double doors that she knew lead into the Azem Palace Room, the room she wanted to photograph. She expected the doors to be guarded, and she was ready to pay her bribe, but there was no one around.
Damn. Where’s a guard when you need one?
Then the door opened a crack, and a man pushed his head through, looking right at her. “Pssst!”
She smiled, and felt in her pocket for her change purse.
Stepping back, he opened the door just wide enough for her to enter. Then, instead of holding out a hand for money, he slipped out behind her, closing the door securely.
Julie was stunned to find herself alone in the room. She looked around and blinked. Once, twice. By the third time her eyes had adjusted to the dim light.
Then she saw him.
At first she thought she was just making him
up. He was a fantasy—a mirage, her eyes and her brain working together to trick her. He wore khakis and a pale striped shirt, his hair bound into a short braid secured with a cord.
She saw the camera in his hand as he moved across the room toward her. That was when she knew he was real, and he was there, in the very room she herself stood in, hand still clasping a zippered purse full of coins and pound notes.
Her body froze as her mind struggled to grasp the facts.
When he smiled, she had to lean back against the double doors for support.
“I believe it was your turn,” he said with a lopsided grin. “It wasn’t polite of me to run out on you before you took your turn. Was it?”
She shook her head, still stunned that he hadn’t simply vanished in front of her eyes. Then, in a small voice, she said, “No. It wasn’t.”
“So.” He stepped up to her and put his hands on her shoulders, looking down at her, his grey eyes soft. “Do you want another turn before we go our separate ways again?”
She nodded solemnly. “There’s nothing I’d like more.” There was no point in playing coy. Her heart was hammering so hard she was certain he could hear it echoing off the tiled walls. The skin on her shoulders burned underneath his hands.
He leaned down and kissed her, and her senses exploded. She pushed herself up and into him, wanting to whoop in joy. That was when the guard made a hasty entrance. “Mister! You must go!”
He held the door open just enough to usher Tor and Julie out into the middle of a raucous crowd of school children. Julie laughed when she realized she had no hope of laying even so much as a finger on Tor until they could find a way to get behind another set of closed doors. Somewhere. Anywhere.
It’s my turn!
Chapter Eight
Julie rushed through the museum, looking for her mother. When she spotted her studying a glass case full of old textiles, she went up to her and in hushed tones explained she wanted the rest of the afternoon and the whole evening off. She would be spending the night with Tor, at his guesthouse. Hannah looked up in surprise, concern on her face.
“Of course I can manage without you. But are you sure you know what you’re doing? You haven’t been yourself at all since you met that man.”
“I know. Isn’t it great?” Julie stifled a chuckle, not wanting to attract Marc’s attention. He and her mother had been practically joined at the hip since they’d fired Bish.
“Where is he?”
“Waiting outside.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Did you plan this little rendezvous? You could have told me earlier.”
“No, not at all. We just sort of bumped into each other a few minutes ago. And I really want to go.” She bounced up and down on her heels like a kid at a circus.
She actually felt like a teenager again, asking for her mother’s permission to go on a date.
Hannah sighed. “All right, dear. But be careful. And make sure you leave your phone switched on.”
“Yes, Mom,” Julie said with a grin. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Go have fun.” She indicated Marc, who was close by, with a tilt of her head.
Grinning from ear to ear, Julie left the museum with Tor by her side. The heat of the late morning was oppressive. The pavement was probably scorching, she thought, but she couldn’t tell because she was walking on air. Part of her still couldn’t believe that she was going to get another go at her lion man. The most intensely sexual man she’d ever met.
And he wants me!
She needed to pick up a few personal things, so first they headed to her hotel. As they walked along the busy streets, Julie was dying to ask Tor if he’d deliberately come to Damascus to seek her out.
Or was it just coincidence that we both ended up at the museum at the same time? I shouldn’t read more into this than it deserves.
She decided to wait and see what he would tell her without prompting. She wouldn’t dare confess she’d spent the better part of yesterday tramping up and down the streets of the city looking for him. It sounded ridiculous, in retrospect, like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. And she didn’t want him thinking she was some sort of neurotic stalker or anything like that.
So she let him do most of the talking as they picked up her things. He told her about his cousin’s research, his ride from Palmyra, and his dinner the night before. But he seemed to be deliberately avoiding the only subject Julie cared about. How did he happen to find her? Obviously, if she wanted him to talk about it, she’d have to come right out and ask him.
On the way to his guesthouse, they stopped to buy a couple of bottles of wine and some groceries. “Did you miss me?” she said, finally, as she watched him sort through a basket of apricots. She was due to leave for Jordan at eight the next morning, so she didn’t have much time. She wanted him to tell her why they were standing side-by-side in a Damascus mini-market shopping for groceries.
He flashed her a brief, expressionless look but didn’t stop filling a plastic bag with fruit. “Miss you?”
“Yes. Miss me.”
“I have been thinking about you. Yes.”
“So you planned to meet me here?”
“Planned?” He straightened up and looked down at her. “Let’s just say it was a happy coincidence that we met again.” The tone of his voice was ambiguous, his face unreadable.
Julie’s stomach lurched in protest. That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Even if they’d be spending only one more night together, a little love talk wasn’t too much to ask for. Was it?
Then she remembered how she’d managed to alienate Richard. Through her tireless attempts to get closer, she’d effectively ended up doing the opposite—pushing him away.
Okay. Lesson learned. I’m going to hold off with the questions. If he likes me he’ll let me know without being prompted. I have to be patient.
Pleased with her new-found maturity, Julie accepted that whatever would happen, would happen.
The landlord of the Mirage Guesthouse turned out to be little less liberal than Tor had led Julie to believe. It took a lengthy discussion, and rather a lot of cash, before he managed to get Julie into his room, with the door locked securely behind them.
When Tor first introduced Julie as his girlfriend, just arrived from Palmyra, the old man frowned and shook his head. For himself, he explained in broken English, handing Julie’s passport back to her, it was not a problem. Foreigners lived by different rules—he understood that. But his wife, he said, was a devout woman. No unmarried couples would sleep together under her roof.
For a moment Julie felt a crushing disappointment, and even a little shame. But when she saw Tor reach for his wallet, she knew everything would be fine. She caught his steel grey eye as he counted the bills into the landlord’s hand and felt a spike of desire.
As she picked up her hastily-packed bag and turned to follow him up to the room, she saw the landlord’s wife standing in the doorway. There was no doubt the woman had witnessed everything, and although she probably didn’t understand the words it was clear she knew what was going on. Prim and silent in her black headscarf, she looked up and down at Tor’s body as he greeted her. Then, with her eyes bright as jet beads, she looked at Julie, nodding her head in acknowledgement, a positively wanton smile on her lined face.
Julie almost broke into a giggling fit.
Tor pulled her into his room, slammed the door shut, and turned to her with a wanton smile of his own. “What’s so funny?”
She walked into his big hard body and reached her arms up to wrap them around his neck. Burying her face in his shirt, she closed her eyes and breathed in his scent, knowing she could recognize it anywhere. It was the best man-scent she’d ever smelled. It made her want to lick him, bite him, suck him dry.
“I think I was just given permission by the lady of the house to have my way with you.”
She felt his arms encircle her. It was like being wrapped in heaven. He kissed the top o
f her head. “Well it is your turn, remember.”
“I absolutely remember. When can I start?”
He pulled away from her. “Right now.” He crossed the room and closed the louvered shades on the windows. It was near noon, and the sun was already at its peak and hot. Then he turned on the overhead fan and began to unbutton his shirt, his eyes never leaving hers. The look on his smooth, tanned face caused her stomach to flip a little. She didn’t have to work very hard to convince herself that she had never desired a man more.
“Let me do that.” She walked up to him and put her hands on his chest, parted his half-open shirt, kissed his sternum and breathed him into her lungs.
She didn’t need any more persuading to know that this man was meant for her. It seemed she’d been waiting her entire life for him, and here he was—by some miracle she wouldn’t dream of questioning.
His scent, his particular odor, entered more than her lungs. It filled every part of her body—every cell stirred in response. It was more persuasive than the mere sight of his smooth skin stretched over muscled shoulders, the multi-colored tattoo fully visible now as she pulled off his shirt. The smell of his breath and body was more powerfully persuasive than even the sound of his voice—deep and strangely hypnotic with its Nordic lilt. And this scent mingled with, and was complemented by, the salty musk taste of his skin when she put her mouth on his chest, his nipple, his biceps, and then traced the contours of his tattoo.
It was an intricate, provocative image of a Viking ship under full sail, cutting through the curling sea beneath like an ax. And at the helm stood a Nordic prince who looked much like Tor himself. Feet planted widely apart, a lion skin slung across his chest, he had a majestic bearing, gazing ahead as if he would conquer the entire unknown world that lay ahead of him. It was a purely masculine image, evoking strength, danger, a thirst for adventure and a desire for a life lived to the fullest.