Desert Hostage

by Diane Dunaway

  For the next days then, Juliette stayed in her room resting on a divan placed below a window. From there she watched the steady stream of chieftains and emissaries who came and went every hour from the palace gates and also the men drilling on a sandy plateau beyond the city walls, where they charged at a fierce gallop while firing at clay targets.

  Looking on, Juliette found herself spotting men she knew, remembering how, not long ago, all these Arabs had seemed as dangerous to her as hungry wolves. Yet, having known many of them well, having fought at their side and tended their wounds, she realized their exuberance was infinitely more exciting than any of the dull, properness of the English and, as the days passed, and the drills continued, she dolefully began to wonder which of these desert men would be dead when the fighting ended.

  The nights Juliette spent alone too, aware that Sharif was meeting with the chiefs and emissaries and his own headmen, all housed now in the far wings of the palace. But sometimes Sharif did come and eat dinner with her, saying little, although often she felt his eyes on her and sometimes, glancing up, she would catch an enigmatic light in them that sent a strange shimmering up her spine.

  As nights passed, he seemed more distant, more preoccupied than ever, though some evenings he lingered and read to her from one of his collection of books, sometimes translating Arabic poetry in a deep melodious voice that moved Juliette to tears.

  "That's beautiful," she said one night brushing her cheek. "I had no idea Arabic poetry was actually ..:" She paused, realizing she couldn't say "good" as she had started to and thinking frantically of another way to complete the sentence.

  But he had already caught her meaning and, smiling, said with only a trace of condescension, "We are not all barbarians. We do have poets and scholars too."

  At first, Juliette thought time would make a difference. Always before, even though he had hated her, he had still desired her. So, daily, she expected that hot light to reappear in his face. But when another week passed, and still he was the same, Juliette began to ask herself if indeed there was another woman who had taken his interest, a woman Sharif went to after leaving her with a brief, platonic pat to her cheek.

  "Well, good!" she insisted to herself.

  But at the same time, there was a heaviness that weighed on her so she couldn't sleep soundly. And as the days passed, she grew silent and listless and only nibbled at the squab-stuffed, pastries she had once eaten greedily.

  In sha'Allah, In sha'Allah, she told herself more often. Maybe it was true what they said about fate. Certainly she felt helpless to change her situation or to understand Sharif. More and more time now he spent away from the city, and less and less often he came to see her. Yet he had never suggested that she vacate his rooms and return to her own, and wouldn't he if he really wanted to be rid of her?

  So the days went by, still with no answers, while still she found herself dreaming of him, his hands, his lips, his hard driving body that aroused a fever even the briskness of the desert nights couldn't cool. And sometimes, awakening with a moan and feeling the tempestuous urges of her own body, Juliette knew that if only he was here, she would yield to him eagerly as never before.

  Rising on one elbow then, she brushed damp locks from her flushed cheeks and, turning onto her stomach, lit a candle. She thought of the night they had first returned to, camp after she had shot the mouflon, when he had come to her, seeming to know she wanted him even before she knew it fully herself. But that-night seemed an axon ago.

  Now he would never come to her again, she thought, twisting for a more comfortable position. Now there were so many others to satisfy his needs. And it was then she noticed that the door at the far end of her room, the one leading to Sharif's private study, was slightly ajar so that a bar of light fell across the carpet.

  Juliette felt her heartbeat quicken. So, he had returned while she was asleep. And not questioning why, but feeling suddenly compelled, Juliette slipped out of bed and into a light robe before going to the portal and nudging it slowly open.

  Chapter 69

  "You don't take Abu Hussar seriously enough, my friend. His ambitions are ruthless. He'll do anything to discredit you. And if he does have any proof-even something that could pass for proof, he could disrupt the entire alliance."

  It was Doctor Santapalo speaking from one of the deep leather chairs. "You know better than I the emphasis Arabs place on blood lines and inheritance."

  Sharif laughed briefly and harshly as he stood up to pour himself a cup of coffee from an urn on the heavy sideboard. Then standing opposite the doctor he said, "I take Abu Hussar seriously enough. It is his rumors that I find ridiculous. And now, even you are listening to this babble."

  "It's not mere babble when it makes people question if you are in fact your father's son. If only there were some definite proof."

  "Merde!" Sharif interrupted. "If you had known my mother you would see how ridiculous that allegation is. If I had been another man's child my mother would have been delighted to tell me. She hated my father until the day she died. Anyway, she was kept in the palace harem. What other man could have fathered me?"

  Sharif paused to swallow the small cup of coffee in a single gulp. But as he reached to replace the cup on the table, his hand stopped in midair as he saw Juliette, most unexpectedly, framed in the doorway beyond Dr. Santapalo's shoulder.

  Sensing the change in his friend, Dr. Santapalo turned to follow his gaze until Juliette found both men staring at her, the doctor's expression of surprise quickly masked and Sharif's, as usual, unreadable.

  "Oh, pardon, Miss Thorpe," the doctor said getting up and bowing respectfully as if he were the intruder. "Karim was kind enough to have me here to discuss some business. I was just going." He bowed again. "You will excuse me?"

  Juliette only nodded, suddenly embarrassed and without words. She had imagined Sharif would be alone at this hour, and what would the doctor think of her entering Sharif's private study with what must seem intimate familiarity.

  Once they were alone, Juliette avoided Sharif's gaze. Butterflies whipped her stomach with a thousand fluttering wings. Oh, why had she come? Madness certainly-and worse, now that she was here, she could think of nothing to say and remained mute while the fragrant smoke from an incense burner curled to the ceiling behind him and time wound down to a standstill.

  Juliette licked her dry lips. "I'm sorry," she said, finally starting to back out the door.

  "No need to go," he said, abruptly taking her forearm and guiding her to the same chair he had just vacated. "You are welcome to keep me company."

  He seemed stiff, more formal, and even more unreadable than usual. The corners of her mouth drew taut, and indicating his desk with a wave, she cleared her throat and said, "I see you're working," surprised to hear how normal she sounded.

  He nodded once. "There is always something for me to do. Would you like coffee?"

  "Yes, thank you," she answered feeling lost in the leather depths of his chair and watching nervously as he struck the bell and ordered another pot of coffee from the servant who answered it.

  There was silence again while they waited. He seemed preoccupied with some matter far apart from her and, by the time the coffee came and he poured himself a cup of the steaming brew, Juliette wondered if he had forgotten her.

  She was not to know how keenly Sharif was aware of her-of her hair that seemed a rumpled halo, and of that languid, sensual air she had just after awakening, an attitude he would have considered intoxicating by itself, even if her lips hadn't been so red and full and parted in a shiny gleam. He didn't have to look at her. He knew exactly how she stood, that her gown was made of misty silk, clinging to her breasts and showing every detail of her firmed nipples.

  With difficulty he withdrew the hand that reached out to give her the cup. But withdraw it he did, reminding himself of the oath he had made that night he had found Juliette unconscious, her life's blood nearly drained-that night he would never forget when, like a thunde
rbolt, the full measure of his love had burst upon him.

  What a fool he had been. From the first moment he had seen her laughing at him from her bed in Las Flores, he had wanted her with a need that he could not quell. Then he had been dazzled as a schoolboy, ready to put his heart and all his earthly possessions at her feet. But in return, she had lied to him, gone back on her promise of marriage, and, when he found out she was none other than his enemy’s daughter, he had lost all reason.

  He had risked everything, discovery, capture, all he had worked so long to achieve. But he was determined to possess her, to hurt, to humble, and to hate her as he swore he would. And, for a time, it seemed he did. But when she had run away in Tripoli, just the thought of losing her had driven him to distraction. After that, he never again questioned her power over him though he constantly questioned the sanity of his obsession.

  How she fascinated him, her radiant beauty, her enigmatic smiles, her silences, her defiance, and some nameable, irresistible essence that only she contained.

  So it had seemed there was only one solution. He must teach her to want him, he must awaken her passions and cravings as she had fired his.

  When he found her that night, drugged, sensual, he had made her a woman. And as they traveled toward El Abadan he had taught her to want him in spite of herself so that now there was no mistaking that he could seduce her. But suddenly he found himself wanting so much more. He didn't want just her desire, but rather her love, to feel she was truly his, to know everything she thought, what she felt, and what secrets dwelled behind those wistful looks.

  Yet even as he longed to know, he searched from behind a mask of indifference. He must never let her suspect his weakness. He couldn't bear her rejection, or worse, to have her pity him. He should have seen from the beginning he could never make her happy he, a man neither Arab nor French. A man between worlds.

  Once he had imagined she had cared for him and could care again. He had hoped that night, after she had killed the mouflon and he had gone to her, to reach a new understanding. But while her passion had surrendered to his, the next morning she had been indifferent. Why hadn't he given up then? But still he had hoped. And when they reached El Abadan, he had begun to marry off his women because he wanted no one but her. But then, once again, she had risked death to escape him.

  Inwardly now he shuddered. She had so nearly died. And when she had lain so still and white on his large bed, Santapalo feverishly working to close her wounds, he had prayed, not just forming the syllables, but with a new deep humility, swearing to send her back home if only she were spared. If she couldn't be happy with him, at least she might be able to pick up the pieces of her life again and go on. And now, gripping his coffee cup, he wondered if he had the courage to let her go.

  He wanted her now, more than ever, with a driving desperation that thundered for expression. Over and over he had told himself to forget her, had tried to force her from his mind, but always he had failed. What more was he to endure?

  Beneath his probing eyes, Juliette stirred her coffee automatically, trying to keep her fingers from shaking. Holding the cup in her lap she tried to calm herself, catching hold of her thoughts as they charged like runaway horses.

  Then, finally unable to bear the protracted silence, she glanced up at the stacks of papers on his desk and, clearing her throat, said, "I had no idea that you worked so ... well . . , like anyone else."

  Juliette noticed his face was tired though he smiled and she felt a sudden urge to take him in her arms and comfort him with soft words.

  "Sheiks work, too," he said, unexpectedly bending to rest his hands on her chair's arms and bringing his face so close she could smell his shaving soap.

  "Did you think all we Arabs do is dabble in our enemies' blood?" he teased.

  His nearness, the sudden gleam in his eyes, the gentle, almost caressing note in his voice, played Juliette's heartstrings. She had only to raise her mouth to receive a kiss and, unable to prevent herself, she turned her face upward, closed her eyes, and waited.

  But the anticipated feel of his mouth on hers was not forthcoming, and she felt him withdraw, abruptly shattering the magic by swiveling her chair to face a huge map of Africa in which several dozen black pegs marked places and red scrawls named them in Arabic.

  "Why have you come at this late hour?" he questioned near her ear. "I thought you were asleep."

  "It's nothing . . . I mean, I wasn't sleeping," Juliette finally got out, still trying to understand why he hadn't kissed her. It seemed he would and yet. . . . And if only she could think of something besides shrugging off her robe and giving herself to him as every fiber of her being urged her to do.

  Willfully she dislodged her eyes from his bronzed hands that still rested on her chair's arms. She gestured toward the map. "What are those black pegs? I mean, what do they mean?"

  His glance followed her gesture. "Those indicate the trade routes controlled by tribes already allied with me." A finger pointed toward a black peg. "El Abadan is here," he said. "And here is the pass through the mountains where the caravans travel north to south." He turned back to her. "They are in fact the reason the English government sent your father and many others here to try and dominate these trade arteries and thus control Africa's wealth.”

  "When they captured my father, Captain Clayton had him executed. I saw it with my own eyes and I've never been able to wipe out the memory or the hatred completely and, the next day when your father came to my cell, I had just time enough to use the dagger I had hidden and strike once.”

  "I escaped after that, and never knew I was responsible for his death until after I met you. When I found out who you really were I thought you must have known who I was all along. I thought you had been getting revenge of your own kind by toying with me. But when you were unconscious two weeks ago, you said things in your delirium that showed me I was wrong. I'm sorry I misjudged you."

  Juliette shook her head as she looked up and saw the earnestness in his face, and something else, too, that she couldn't read. Why did he tell her this now? Suddenly she realized that she no longer felt the same way about the past. That dark space that always bad clouded her heart with bitterness suddenly cleared away leaving behind only sorrow as tears filled her eyes again.

  "I'm sorry for what my father did to yours," she said. "When people don't understand each other, they do terrible things without ever understanding that they aren't really enemies after all."

  There was silence as she waited for him to speak and again her eyes dropped to her lap as she felt him watching her and the tension grew, her heart bounding expectantly. Would he . . . would he . . . But then his attention returned to the map again and he seemed absorbed in his words as he continued.

  "After my father was killed we destroyed those Englishmen remaining in the fort at Sevit though your father had already been sent back to the coast. It was years then before another expedition of Europeans threatened us again and, by that time, I was able to bargain with them. I had learned to speak their language and was able to strike profitable trade agreements which kept control of the routes in my hands. These agreements are still effective and, ironically, the gold they pay me is the very gold I will use to defeat them."

  "You mean revolution!" Juliette said in a husky whisper.

  "Revolution? No. A revolution is when a people revolt against their own government. But this government of puppets and foreigners is not ours; it is the Europeans' and run solely for their benefit. When I am in Europe as M. Phillips, they speak to me quite freely, assuming, of course, I'm on their side. And since only a handful of Europeans have ever seen the mysterious Sheik of El Abadan, none of them has ever realized the truth, and they won't know until it is too late. One day not only will this country be united, but after that perhaps all Islam can settle its differences and join together." His eyes shone with a deep glimmering light. "Then when all Moslem voices speak as one, the sound will shake the world."

  Juliette looked from
the map back to him, feeling the inspired determination in his words. He seemed capable of anything. Certainly he had carved an empire worth millions which held in it the seed of independence for his people. Some would call this man a renegade, a spy, a revolutionary. But now, as he stood before his desk, he seemed a most respectable businessman discussing his affairs with an interested listener.

  His tone lightened as he continued. "Usually I spend the winter here, since it is the trading season," he was saying. "Then in summer I go back to Europe." He gave her a considering gaze as he finished, "Soon I'll be leaving again."

  Juliette swallowed twice. And what did he intend to do with her? She asked herself. Would he really give her away? There was a strained quality about him tonight she had never seen before. Only a moment ago it seemed he would have kissed her, and then . . . her thoughts paused suddenly as another possibility occurred to her.