by Donna Alam
‘Be sure to use the napkin.’
Get fu . . . obsessive-compulsive as well as in a strop! I reach for a rolled napkin contemplating my own bloody tantrum, especially as I haven’t even attempted to slather it—or the tablecloth—in honey or jam. Something obscene and heavenly flickers deeply as I find myself inhaling a sharp breath. Gilding the starched, white linen is the filigree silver butterfly. Loosening the creature, I clip it to my thumb.
‘How does it feel?’ His voice is quiet but also a little rough.
‘Now or . . .’ I shiver, not daring to look up. ‘Hurts,’ I reply before answering the unasked. ‘Somewhere between too much and not enough.’
Without looking, I know he’s smiling from the sound of his now soft words. ‘From little acorns.’
Apparently, big freaks grow.
‘If you’re ready, we should leave.’ His voice is without emotion as he plucks a matching suit jacket from the back of a chair, threading his arms through the sleeves. From seemingly nowhere, Rashid appears, car keys in hand as, once again, I hope he wasn’t within listening distance.
‘Shall we?’
I rise, shoving the butterfly into last night’s purse and ignore his proffered hand. I make to follow Rashid through the now open door, not quite reaching the threshold as Kai’s hand snags my waist, stopping me in my tracks. He slams the door shut with the toe of his shoe, moving me almost against it, his body hard at my back, my breath hitching as his large hand rests on the front of my thigh, his words a hot breath against my ear.
‘If I want to buy you a dress—if I want to buy you a whole rack of dresses, I will. I’d like you to get used to the idea.’ His teeth close over my earlobe, a slow, tantalizing bite increasing in pressure until it almost hurts. As he releases it, my stifled moan hits the air as a sigh as I’m engulfed in a sudden, drenching need. Drawing the fabric of my dress into his fingers, he bares my trembling thigh.
‘It’s nothing,’ he murmurs, ‘of no consequence. Don’t look for things that aren’t there, do you understand? I’m not trying to buy your affections. I just want you around.’
Breath stutters from my chest as his hands slip to the inside of my thigh—the place he claims to like best—my legs shifting unconsciously, allowing him access. Instead, he turns me roughly, pulling me to his chest and kissing me with possession, sucking my lips into his own.
As we break apart, our chests heave collectively, his words a bass growl as he pulls me back against him once more.
‘I should’ve fucked you in the bathroom.’
If I had any breath left to spare I’d point out that, strictly speaking, he only has himself to blame for that.
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘Your town car, madam, discreet as requested.’ Clipping his heels together, Kai parodies a bow at the open door of the car, which is about as inconspicuous as a flying piece of pork, as far as I’m concerned. A behemoth high-end Mercedes sedan, just like the kind that heads of state travel in, is my taxi today. Kai slides in, Rashid closing the door behind.
Despite our clothing contretemps of earlier, the silence in the dark windowed car is a comfortable one, our brief fumble at the door having settled both our tempers, somehow. Kai studies emails on his phone, one hand warm on my knee as I stare from the window, watching the schizophrenia of Dubai whizz by: Sand and vacant lots. The sun glinting from towers of glass and chrome. Construction cranes sprouting in the horizon like fauna from the sand. Just mad.
‘Last night was fun, don’t you think?’ Turning from the window, eyes large in my head, my glance goes from Kai’s face to the back of Rashid’s head, and back again, double quick. Even so, I can’t bite back my returning smile. ‘Did you enjoy the wine?’
‘Yeah, it was . . . nice?’ The last word hits the air in a squeak.
‘I find a cool viognier always trickles down well. Hits you in all the right spots, don’t you think?’
I think a lot of things about that statement, none of them I want to voice out loud.
Stroking the back of his index finger against the curve of my cheek, he traces the path of my blush, asking evenly, ‘Do you have a busy day planned?’
‘It’s pretty full on.’ I’m not really sure what kind of a day I have ahead. Half my stuff is at home and I can’t think straight when he’s this close.
‘The ties that bind,’ he answers, with an almost considering nod. ‘Have you ever surfed?’
Change of topic! ‘Are you a surfie? Surely, not here, though? The surf’s pretty ordinary because . . . of the gulf.’ Idiot, of course he’s familiar with the coastline, he lives here. Unless he’s talking about going on holiday, which I totally would, though not to surf. I hate the beach. Burnt skin, sand in your crotch and sea water that ruins your hair and stings your nose when inhaled, which I invariably do. I’m a disappointment to the antipodean myth: all Australians live near the beach, ergo, they all surf. Not.
‘I like to be . . . instrumental in surfing,’ he answers, pulling me from my reflections.
‘What, you teach?’
‘Not that kind of surfing, I was thinking more about last night.’
He smiles darkly, and I’m suddenly aware we are on different pages. Probably in different books. Hell, in different libraries, suburbs apart. But what other kind of surfing is there? If not surfing on a board, in the water, then what? Surfing the web? Sofa surfing? Whatever the fuck?
‘Nope. I’ve got Buckley’s,’ I reply with a frown. ‘No idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Take last night, only imagine surfing around the edges of your pleasure, but never quite . . . getting there.’ He smiles wickedly, his eyes flicking over me. ‘Peaking at my pleasure, rather than yours,’ he adds, sotto voce. ‘Sounds fun, no?’
Sounds torturous, more like. What shade is redder than red? I suspect I am it as the metaphorical penny drops. As I really have nothing to add, I return to staring out of the window, eyes wider than saucers as Kai chuckles softly beside me.
I’m pleased I’m amusing someone . . .
Rashid stops at the school gates, which are thankfully closed, the large iron edifices policing unwanted eyes and persons, only this time from the other side. I breathe a sigh of relief—no inquisitive questions to be asked about my mode of transport today, let alone my travelling companion.
Rashid climbs from the car and walks around to my door. I’m late, but not fantastically so. Sadia will have called the roll or the register as I must remember to say, but lesson time hasn’t yet begun. My mind is already racing with thoughts of what I’ve written on my planner when Kai’s hand grasps my own.
‘When can I see you next?’
I duck my head, concealing my smile. ‘Let me consult my diary. I’ll have my people talk to yours.’
‘Very droll, how about an answer now.’
‘Depends on what you have in mind.’ I roll my eyes at his villainous expression. ‘Other than that.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’
‘‘Course not. Why don’t you call me later? I’ve gotta dash.’
I place my hand against the door handle, but my other hand remains locked in his. He brings it to his mouth, grazing my knuckles with his lips.
‘Ma’salama, habibti.’ He peers playfully over my hand.
Guessing that was a farewell of some sort, I turn back to the door and push as Rashid begins to open it from the other side. I don’t get very far. ‘You know,’ I say, turning back. ‘You have to let go so I can get out.’ I glance at our joined hands. ‘You can’t come with.’
‘Can’t I?’
‘Okay, technically you can, but do you want to turn up unexpectedly, getting the ladies all hot under their hijabs over your hotness and fab hair?’
‘Is that even English?’
‘ ‘Course it is, I’m a teacher. Got a certificate with my name on and everything.’
‘Then let’s hear those advanced English skills. Tell me a secret and I’ll let you go.’ Heat
blooms in my chest, but before I’ve a chance to think, Kai speaks again. ‘Or you can tell me what you liked best about last night.’
I glance uncomfortably at the partially open door, answering in a whisper and without thought, ‘Not knowing what was coming next.’
‘Thank you,’ he murmurs, lips light against my knuckles again. ‘And you’ve never . . .’
I shake my head.
‘I love first times.’ His eyes shine amber as he glances to his thumb caressing the knuckles of my hand. ‘But maybe I’m not ready to let you go.’
‘Pity you didn’t bring your tie-thingies, ‘cos I’ve—’
‘I’ll let you go if you’ll do something for me.’ Please let that something be him, though not here in the car. ‘I’d like you to accompany me to an event tonight. A charity thing at a local art gallery. Short notice, but it would mean a lot to me.’
‘That’ll be three dates in a row, you know.’ Sort of.
He seems taken aback but laughs. ‘I’m sure we’ve already negated the parameters set by the three date rule.’
‘You mean I put out too early.’ This sounds harsher out of my head and his responding tone is dry in the extreme.
‘Too early for whom? I don’t hold to socially constructed prejudices and neither should you.’
What guy would complain? I clear my throat. ‘So what’s it worth to you, this third date that would appropriate another of my evenings? A girl’s got to make time to wash her hair and stuff.’
‘Shave?’
‘Unless you’re into spiky legs.’ I snort.
‘I am, as you say, into all kinds of things but, no, spiky doesn’t do it for me. What is an evening of your company worth?’ Eyes cast heavenward, he taps his bottom lip in mock contemplation. ‘Actually, quite a lot.’
‘That’s not very specific.’ I’m not entirely sure how to interpret his response or the pensive look his face wears now. ‘Come on, what exactly is it worth?’ His hand is passive as I pull mine away, pushing my shoulder against his. It seems I have the wheel and I’m steering this conversation down Silly Street.
‘Sorry?’ His brows react in bemusement, his thoughts returning from wherever they’ve been. ‘You want a fiscal amount, the actual dollar equivalent on what an evening with you would be worth?’ Not surprisingly, he looks a little stunned.
‘No, obviously.’ I tut and roll my eyes. ‘What would that make me?’
‘Expensive.’ he laughs. ‘Are we talking an evening with or without the silks?’
‘Be sensible. Say I was Layla from the book. You know, your Layla and Kais? If you had to pay my dad to date me, what would it be worth in sheep or shi—I mean, whatever?’
‘Thirteenth-century dating would certainly get you stoned,’ he chuckles, ‘and not in a good way. And you want to know what an evening with you would be worth in livestock?’
‘Something like that.’
This is stupid. My idiocy knows no bounds, it seems. Like an accident about to happen, there’s no avoiding the inexorable follow-through, the scene unfurling in a torturous slow-mo effect. I’ll no doubt suffer my indignity later, and probably often, my flirting endeavours about as successful as my dancing.
‘How about, for an evening in your company I would gift your father a thousand camels and bestow upon you, a pearl—’
‘Necklace.’
I clap a hand over my mouth as the sound of his laughter fills the entire car, deep and loud. Meanwhile, I consider crawling into the glove box to hide.
‘You deliciously dirty girl! I was going to say a pearl encrusted veil in view of the period, but your idea sounds much more fun.’ His shoulders shake as he presses his lips to my cheek. ‘Go to work before I take you up on that.’
Attempting a graceful climb from the car, I half turn my head over my shoulder.
‘Hey, Kai? I don’t have any use for a veil.’
It’s very gratifying to see his stunned expression, but did I just imply . . . offer . . . that? ‘Bye, Rashid!’ I giggle like a total girl as I dash for the gates.
I have another date!
And I am a deviant.
Wonder if I’m entitled to a membership badge?
Chapter Twenty-Five
This evening is wall to wall couture, European and Emirati. Wall to wall expensive, more like. I’m pleased I’d managed to get to the mall this afternoon, not that I’d have turned up in my jeans, but tonight feels like some high-end fashion show. Karen Millen may be off the rack, and better still, the sale rack, but this LBD has still put a major dent in my credit card. Totally worth it though, just to see Kai’s response as he’d called to pick me up. Words, who needs them? His expression was enough. So strong was his reaction, so clear the desire on his face, that I couldn’t hold his gaze. Then, fingers at my chin, he’d tilted my head, his eyes unmoving from mine. When words were finally spoken, I almost dissolved into a puddle on the ground.
‘Look at me,’ he’d whispered, ‘look at what you’re doing to me, Kate. Know that all evening, every time I look at you, every time my hand brushes against yours, I’ll be imagining peeling you out of that dress, waiting for the moment when the only thing that covers your body is my own.’
‘Are you cold?’ Kai’s hand tightens on mine. ‘You’ve got gooseflesh,’ he says, running a light finger across my arm. It doesn’t help and I shiver further. Kai, the aural sex deity, every time he talks to me like that, I literally throb.
The venue for this evening, a beautifully preserved Emirati homestead, has been painstakingly restored and remade into a high-end art gallery. Despite the high-tech lighting and contemporary works of art, I can almost still see the Sheik that must’ve once lived here, seated on traditional floor cushions, guests gathered around him as tiny cups of coffee are served.
Kai is like a kid on his holidays, insisting on showing me each room, his hand in mine, enchanted by the building rather than the contemporary art.
‘See the mashrabiya?’ His enthusiasm is contagious, but my own passion is stirred by his delight rather than the intricate wooden screens.
‘They’re lovely.’ I’ve never seen anything like them before. ‘Would you call them installations?’ The high screens adorn the room, artistically lit to cast geometric shadows across the floors and walls.
‘Traditionally, mashrabiya would screen windows, allowing air into the rooms, days pre-air-conditioning, of course. They would’ve also aided in shielding the women of the house from view, probably from their quarters upstairs.’
‘How very upstairs, downstairs,’ I reply, wryly. ‘Menfolk on the ground floor, the trouble and strife upstairs, or would that be the trouble and strife’s plural? Probably multiple wives, right?’
He ignores my idiocy. ‘There would be a Majlis, or reception area, on the ground floor. Men would greet visitors here, protecting women from potential exposure to any unrelated males. No, not that kind of exposure, kitten,’ he adds, responding to my giggles.
Still sniggering, I cast my gaze around, processing another difference in our worlds. I decide on a change of subject instead. ‘I love the garden, it’s so green.’
We reach the inner courtyard as a peach-coloured sun sets in watermelon hues. The garden, fragrant with the scent of jasmine, houses more greenery than I’ve seen since my arrival in Dubai. Palm trees hang heavy with actual fresh dates as bougainvillea trails over pale walls.
‘The garden wouldn’t have originally looked like this, but see how the windows face toward the courtyard? There aren’t any windows looking to the outside. All windows face inwards for privacy. Here.’ Plucking a champagne flute from a passing tray, he feeds it into my hands. ‘You look overwhelmed. Relax, we won’t stay too long.’
‘I’m fine. I am relaxed,’ I answer too quickly, glancing at the milling guests. Women in flowing black silk abaayat mingle with stunners in sequinned cocktail dresses. Attendance is pretty heavily biased towards women, but there are a fair number of men here, too.
Twirl
ing the delicate stem between my fingers, my eyes remain fixed on Dubai’s glitterati. ‘They’re a very well turned out bunch.’
‘Yes, very attractive. If augmentation and artifice are your thing.’
I stifle a giggle as an Amazonian blonde saunters by, gravity-defying bikini-stuffers almost spilling from her tiny dress.
‘I hope she wasn’t charged for those by the kilo,’ I say with a giggle. ‘What’s tonight all about? Why are we here, I mean?’
‘It’s a fundraiser. My mother is patron of an orphanage in Bangladesh.’
Mother? I don’t remember that part of the bargain being mentioned.
‘You have family here tonight?’ I try to regulate my voice, succeeding only in sounding like a strangled duck.
‘Probably,’ he says with a secretive smile. ‘Arab families are quite extensive, you could say almost a tribe.’ His hand touches my shoulder, my skin reacting with a pleasurable kind of pang. ‘Don’t worry,’ he whispers, bowing his head to my ear. ‘I won’t feed you to the lions.’ His hand glides down my arm, fingers entwining tightly with mine. ‘I’m the only one allowed to bite.’
‘Darling!’ Nerve endings still shimmering, my eyes spring open to a woman approaching us with outstretched arms. Immaculately dressed and slightly bohemian looking, the gallery’s lighting glinting from the diamonds draping her wrists.
‘Mother.’ Kai greets her warmly, European kisses are exchanged before is hand returns to mine. ‘May I introduce my friend, Kate Saunders. Kate, this is my mother, Mishael Al Khalfan.’
‘What a darling dress!’ Hands against my shoulders, she kisses me on each cheek. ‘This is a pleasant surprise. I get to meet so few of Kai’s friends, and certainly none as pretty as you.’
She definitely does look delighted. And beautiful. And at second glance, less bohemian and more chic. A sleek caramel bob accentuates Slavic cheekbones and brilliant blue eyes. I can see where Kai inherited his bone structure from, though his eyes are another matter. It seems the gene mixing palette hit jackpot; blue and brown didn’t mix to make amber last time I checked.