by Ann Jacobs
She couldn't help staring at it, even when Jake's pregnant wife Kate came up beside her.
"That's the George Washington," Kate told her. "Funny, the carriers hardly ever come so close to shore. Of course, these are friendly waters," she added, apparently not wanting to offend anyone with her observation.
Leila shuddered, for she understood Kate's American pride even though most of the words were beyond her comprehension. She also knew firsthand the peril regimes faced when they incurred the fury of the American military machine.
She'd been conditioned since childhood to believe in Iraq. In Saddam, for whom her father fought and died. But at that prison outpost her vicious brother-by-marriage had operated in the name of his leader, Leila had seen the incredible cruelty of some Iraqi soldiers. She'd witnessed the result of Saddam's disregard for the Iraqi people after he had drained the marshes and destroyed the livelihood of good Iraqis like Maktoum and Zayed, who had risked his life in order to die free.
"I hope a peaceful solution may be found," she said, though she was fairly certain Kate understood very little Arabic.
"I do, as well," Kate said, and she clasped Leila's hand.
A feeling of goodwill washed over her. Perhaps Kate had grasped some of what she had said, the way Leila herself comprehended a few words of English.
"Leila, come see this," Dahoud bellowed from across the room where the men had congregated.
"What, my lord Dahoud?"
"The eye Brian holds here in his hand. The old Marsh Arab gave it to him before he died. I have seen nothing like it, and neither has Jamil. Have you?"
Standing close to Jamil, enjoying the security of his presence, Leila looked at the odd, ancient-looking center stone that was painted to resemble a clear, blue human eye. An eye that bore a single tear. Its filigree setting was made of pure gold, and three glittering, multifaceted ruby-colored stones hung at the bottom of the setting, suspended on finely wrought gold chains.
Were it not for the workmanship and the obvious value, Leila might have mistaken the necklace for the sort of pagan talismans hawkers used to sell in the bazaars of Baghdad. "No, I have never seen anything like this before. May I hold it for a moment?"
Brian passed over the necklace, and when it touched Leila's hand it seemed that the tear she saw had vanished. She must have been mistaken about that, though, for when she gave it back to Brian and took another look, the glittering tear was still there.
But there was something strange about the piece, something that made Leila shiver. It was as though it carried with it the spirit of people whose lives had touched it through the ages. She clasped Jamil's hand a little tighter.
"Mahmoud told me Zayed found it when he was a young man, fishing for his livelihood," Brian said. "It apparently had become tangled in the rushes near the convergence of the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. Of course that was years ago, before the Butcher of Baghdad drained the marshes."
Jamil paused and squeezed Leila's hand again, as if to reassure her. Had he seen the tear disappear, too? Or was he simply reacting to her concern?
"Well, Brian, I wouldn't lose any sleep over it if I were you. Consider it a good luck charm. Come on, I've got clearance to fly you down to the Prince Sultan Airbase so you can get started bringing yourself back to life with the Air Force and getting discharged," Jake said, picking up a brown leather briefcase and striding toward his bride.
Today Jake looked the part of the American cowboy in jeans and boots. But Leila got the impression he was almost as comfortable wearing the desert robes he'd had on when he and Dahoud had charged in on camels to rescue them at an Iraqi oasis.
Well, maybe Jake wasn't all that comfortable riding camels, she amended when she recalled how quickly he'd volunteered to drive the army truck and let her and Jamil ride on his "miserable beast." But she had no trouble picturing him galloping across the desert on one of Dahoud's sleek Arabian stallions, white robes flapping in the wind.
He wasn't the monster she'd grown up thinking all Americans must be. Neither was Brian or Kate. Or beautiful, sensual Shana, whose love for Dahoud showed in her every graceful motion, in each detail of the beautiful home they'd built after the retreating Iraqi army had destroyed the old el Rashid villa during the war.
"Allah go with you, Brian. We look forward to meeting your wife when we visit next month in America," Jamil said, giving the American a quick hug.
As they watched Brian leave with Jake and Kate, Leila sensed some impending sorrow, but she quickly banished it. Life today was good. What would be, would be.
* * * * *
That night three pairs of lovers looked out over the Khalij from their private quarters in Bear's palatial villa.
Bear stood behind Shana, nibbling at the sensitive spot he'd recently found behind one ear while he played with the pointed nubs of her nipples. He loved the way they jutted so proudly forward, the jewels in her nipple shields reflecting blue fire from the light of fragrant candles flickering in the breeze. His cock swelled more with every moment he denied it its rightful place in her hot, tight pussy, nudging her back until she turned and led him to the silken couch where she once again became his wanton harem love slave.
In one of the guest suites, Jake held Kate on his lap on a lounge chair beside their bedroom door after they'd made love and cradled her expanding belly in both hands, thanking God he'd found her. Soon they'd go home to Texas, to his job and their everyday life. Damn, he pitied Brian. Eleven years away from the woman he loved would have killed him, yet Brian seemed to have survived. Now, under the light of a moon reflecting on a carrier in the Persian Gulf, Jake stroked his wife's satiny skin as they basked in the afterglow.
Next door Jamil held Leila in his arms while he looked out over the Khalij at the ships' lights from an American carrier group. A presence that augured war. Despite them, Jamil felt at peace tonight, for he had been granted not only freedom but love. For the first time in years, he felt he might someday find remnants in himself of the exuberant young man who long ago had embarked upon another war with the same enemy Kuwait might enjoin again, side by side with its invincible American ally.
Tonight, though, being here with Leila satisfied all his needs. "I love you," he whispered against her hair, suddenly aware of the emotions that had risen soon after she'd seduced him and lurked below the surface of his consciousness until now.
"And I love you, my sheikh," she replied, tilting her head back and seeking his descending lips. "Nek ni."
"Fucking you will be my greatest pleasure, houri. Now and always." Lifting Leila in his arms, he laid her in his bed and showed her with his body what his heart had just learned. Loving each other made the sex sweeter, the orgasms more intense. It made the future something to anticipate with joy instead of dread.
After they came, while Jamil held Leila he thought again about the necklace with the eye. "When you held Brian's necklace this morning. That's when I realized I loved you," he murmured against her hair.
Leila snuggled closer, her breath tickling his chest and making his cock begin to stir again. When she spoke, her voice was full of wonder. "You saw the tear go away, too, didn't you?"
Epilogue
Outside Washington, DC, six weeks later
Like everything else Leila had seen during the week they'd been here in America, her private hospital room seemed larger than life-more like the luxury suite in the Kuwait City hotel where they'd spent their honeymoon than like the inside of any hospital she'd seen back home.
Each day away from his captivity, Jamil grew stronger, handsomer, more sure of himself in the way he walked and talked and presented himself to others. But he'd shown no signs that the coy glances from women on the streets drew more than his passing notice. And he'd assured her on their wedding night that he would take no other wives.
No longer the defenseless prisoner whose helplessness she'd exploited but a powerful sheikh whose wealth if not his home had survived her country's invasion years ago, Jamil still seemed
content with her, scars and all. And he'd told her before they boarded the plane to come here a week ago that whether to have this surgery or not must be her decision.
Though she realized it would take more magic than even the most skilled surgeon possessed to completely restore her former looks, Leila wanted to be beautiful in her husband's eyes. She yearned to walk at his side dressed in some of the beautiful western garments she'd seen on other women, and not have strangers stare at her in horror. And she wanted the children she and Jamil would have someday, insha'Allah, not to recoil at the sight of her.
Leila wanted that badly enough to endure the pain Dr. d'Angelo had said would follow the first of several complex procedures he would do tomorrow morning. Idly, she reached up and stroked the uneven surface of her ruined cheek, wondered how it would feel once the skin grafts healed.
"Are you afraid, houri?" Jamil asked when he looked up from the English-language newspaper he'd been reading. "You don't have to put yourself through this, you know."
"I want to. I only fear the doctors won't be able to improve the scars all that much." She smiled, tightening the skin beneath her fingers. "I thank you for making this possible. I'd never expected…"
"Quiet. I had never expected to leave that prison camp alive. I do now a very small favor for you compared with the way you risked your life for me. Know, however, that I love you as you are. And I will love you always, whether or not the surgery restores your beauty as you hope it will."
He held her gaze, as though determined to convince her of what his every action had shown in the weeks since he'd been free. He loved her.
She loved him, as well. Allah could not have found her a better man than she'd picked for herself and entrapped out of pure desperation.
It struck her then that she had not told him often enough what was in her heart…and that she wanted him to know.
"Come and sit beside me," she said, patting the edge of the bed.
When he gathered her in his arms and held her, the reassuring thump-thump of his heartbeat reverberated against her ear.
Very gently Jamil stroked Leila's ruined cheek. "I want you to have this for yourself, because it means so much to you. You must know I love the beauty I see within your soul. Insha'Allah, the surgeons will work their magic and you will soon be able to look in a mirror and not grieve for what was taken from you."
Suddenly her anxiety went away. She wasn't afraid, couldn't fear anything with Jamil here at her side, loving her. "I love you, my husband."
She loved him enough to go through hell to become the best that she could be. Enough to believe he'd still love her even if the surgery left her worse off than before.
Leila lifted her face to his, saw the barely restrained passion in his beautiful, expressive eyes. Whatever happened, whether she looked worse than before or as beautiful as she'd been before the fire, Leila had Jamil.
And he had her.
ENTANGLED
Carroll Mavis-Raine
Chapter One
Laura stepped into the drab gray room, her heart pounding as the moment grew near. For ten months, she'd been imagining this. Wondering what it would be like to finally meet Declan. Through his letters, she felt like she knew him. The one photograph he'd sent revealed an attractive man in his late twenties with an easy smile and brilliant blue eyes. Of course, it had been taken before he'd been convicted and imprisoned in Portlaiose Prison seven years ago.
She peered around the prison day room. The air smelled stale-a combination of old cigarette smoke and dank humidity. A television anchored in the corner wall blared an idiotic comedy to its audience of one sleeping man attired in prison beige. Laura scanned his face. It wasn't Declan. No way could he have become gray-haired and rail-thin since his imprisonment. At least, she hoped not.
Just as this thought crossed her mind, she felt the atmosphere in the room change. Someone was watching her.
"You must be Laura." His voice was low, melodic and very Irish.
She turned, and there he stood, leaning indolently against the doorframe-one hundred eighty pounds of hard muscle and brawny male. Like the sleeping man, he wore beige broadcloth, yet the plain clothes did nothing to take away from his vibrant good looks. He smiled at her, and Laura caught her breath at the attractive creases that lined his sensuous mouth. The impact of his sexual heat hit her like a blast of steam. She took an unconscious step backward as he straightened and extended his hand.
"I'm Declan," he said in his lilting brogue. "I cannot believe you're really here."
His hand enclosed hers, his thumb pressing gently against her thumping pulse. The room swayed as light-headedness engulfed her. She blinked and then focused upon his face. His eyes were a deep ocean blue, a beguiling contrast to the glossy black of his hair. His gaze traveled over her slowly from head to foot, measuring her. She felt heat crawl up her neck at his appraisal. What did she look like to him?
Oh, but she knew. He saw her exactly like everyone else saw her-as a plain, pale-faced woman in her early thirties with mousy brown hair pulled back in a pony-tail-a country-bred Vermont woman who'd never learned the art of applying cosmetics or how to dress with style. And now, as his sapphire eyes swept over her, she wished fervently that she were beautiful, that she could be the kind of woman who made men weak with desire. But not just any man. This one. Declan. She wanted him to want her. Like she'd wanted him since that very first letter.
She admitted that to herself now. For the first time. She wanted him. But was she crazy? The way he was looking at her. As if what he saw wasn't repugnant. Wasn't, in fact, a disappointment, at all. But then, he'd been in prison for seven years. Any woman would look good to him.
"Won't you have a seat?" he said, his lips quirking in a wry smile. "Don't mind Daniel there. He can sleep through anything."
As Laura settled onto the functional vinyl sofa, Declan crossed the room to switch off the TV. She knew she was staring, but she couldn't help it. He moved with a cat-like grace, full of self-confidence. Almost like a panther. How had they caught him? What mistake had he made to end up in here?
The abrupt silence of the TV filled the room with a crackling tension. Only the whistling snores of the sleeping inmate broke the quiet. Declan settled on the sofa beside her and smiled, and again, Laura marveled at the attractive creases on both sides of his jaw that only increased his lean good looks. What a waste, she thought, trying not to stare. Seven years in here. But then, she had to remind herself that he was in here for a reason.
"So, you have moved to Dublin," Declan said. "And you are going to write your book there?"
Laura tugged nervously at her ponytail. He watched her, his eyes moving to her fingers. He was so close she could smell his beguiling male scent, a mixture of cigarettes and heather. She felt her heart dip with yearning.
"Yeah," she said, her voice slightly breathless. "It was just too much flying back and forth from Ireland to America. I've sub-let a flat in Dublin. That way, I'm only a few hours away from Belfast to do my research. Not to mention that I'm surrounded by Irish history in Dublin. I'm surprised I didn't consider it before now." She knew she was rattling on. The amused expression on Declan's handsome face told her he was well aware of his effect on her. He was probably used to having this kind of effect on women.
She was here because of him. Although she'd never admitted that to herself before. Not until now. Fate had played a part, though, because if she hadn't bought An Glor Gafa and read his short story, she would never have written to him in care of the Republican magazine. She'd felt guilty buying it because it was distributed by Sinn Fein, the political arm of the Irish Republican Army. The three dollars would go straight into the IRA's coffers, wouldn't it? And wouldn't she be condoning their violent activities by buying the magazine? Maybe, but she'd convinced herself it was exactly what she needed for research.
After all, it was written by Republican prisoners. What better source to discover what life was like for a political prisoner? Tears had co
me to her eyes when she'd read Declan's sensitive short story about an Irish father leaving his family behind while he went to America for work. On impulse, she'd written to him and ten months of correspondence between them had followed. In her sheltered life on a mountain in Vermont, his letters had become the center of her life. Only her writing came close in importance.
As the weeks passed, she haunted the mailbox, waiting for his letters to arrive. His words were ripe with poetry, and she was already half in love with him when she opened up a letter to find his photo. Staring into his handsome, smiling face, his lips bracketed by supple creases, her heart had pounded as she'd imagined running her fingers over that strong jaw-line, tracing his smooth lips. And that's when she knew she had to meet him. To see him in the flesh.
"That must've been quite the upheaval. To leave America and move to Dublin," he said, his eyes holding hers in such a way that it made her think he was looking deep into her soul to the real woman beneath the plain exterior. It disconcerted her. Heart pounding, she looked away, running a hand over her wool skirt to smooth out imaginary wrinkles. "Plenty of people tried to talk me out of it. My agent was really against it. She thinks I'll lose the few readers I have if I don't stay close to the New York literati. As if that's ever been important to me. I hate parties, even if they are in my honor. Intellectuals make me shudder."
Declan cocked an admiring eyebrow. "A woman after me own heart. Could it be, love, you're a wee bit of a hermit as I am?"
Laura felt her temperature rise a degree. Was it her imagination, or just wishful thinking that he found her attractive? Or was it just his natural Irish charm? Whatever, she liked the way she felt under his gaze. Feminine. Desirable. And that was something she'd never felt before. But God, was her agent right? She remembered their last conversation.