Sunlounger - the Ultimate Beach Read (Sunlounger Stories Book 1)

by Belinda Jones

‘Wait, Noura,’ he said, his voice suddenly close to her ear as the jostling crowds hemmed them in on all sides. ‘It’s almost midnight. Look at the bridge.’

  Noura’s heart had picked up pace and was thudding in time with the music coming from a nearby stage as she looked over the darkened waters of the Neva where the lights of the city danced and shimmered in the waves. The Dvortsovy Bridge was edged in tiny white lights, spanning the wide river, both dark and light against the pink and blue sky. It was hard for Noura to believe it was almost midnight; the sensation she felt of being outside of time magnified by the warmth of Yuri’s fingers curling around her hand. He moved closer still as the crowd pressed in, his shoulder touching hers and the earthy scent of his leather jacket filling the space between them.

  All around them, the excited voices of the onlookers rose as watches were consulted and a lady nearby suggested that the bridge operator’s clocks were slow. Noura was smiling, not just at the slight embarrassment of watching an inanimate bridge with thousands of other people, but also at the smile she could see spreading slowly across Yuri’s face. A shout from beside her caused her to refocus and she saw the two pieces of the Dvortsovy Bridge begin to lift. The crowd cheered and flashbulbs peppered the light night sky and all of a sudden Noura was in Yuri’s arms, his lips brushing against hers as the applause and noise and light faded away…

  *

  ‘The bridge keeper’s watch is slow,’ muttered a man with a strong Belarussian accent. ‘Mine says one minute past midnight.’

  ‘Your watch is too keen, just like you,’ his wife retorted, much to the amusement of the people nearby.

  Noura stood alone, the hope that had brought her back to St Petersburg splintering as the minutes became seconds. Gazing out across the Neva, the Dvortsovy Bridge began to wobble and sway as tears filled her eyes…

  *

  It was only one night – a long, beautiful night that almost never ended. Their first kiss opened the floodgates and for the next five hours their lips found their way back together countless times. Yuri and Noura moved through the city as if on air, like the illuminated tall ships floating proudly down the river beside them. It was like they were two halves of one person reunited by the magical still-light city and Noura couldn’t explain how, in the space of a few short hours, she knew more about Yuri than all the years she had spent with Karl. Perhaps it was the allure of St Petersburg, glowing bright around them. Perhaps it was because she was so far from home. But Noura felt alive – as alive as the laughter in Yuri’s eyes when he looked at her – and she didn’t want the night to end.

  But next morning she awoke alone, the dented pillow next to her the only indication that Yuri had been there. On the bedside table she found a handwritten note beside a single yellow rose:

  Noura

  I didn’t want to wake you. You look so beautiful when you sleep. I have to work today but I will call you tonight. Thank you for a wonderful White Night with you.

  All my love

  Yuri

  He didn’t call that night, or the next four nights that Noura was in St Petersburg. Ben accompanied her for the remainder of her stay, making no mention of his colleague or his whereabouts. It was only at the departures gate when Noura embraced her brother that she asked the question.

  ‘His mother had a fall,’ Ben replied. ‘He asked me to send you his deepest apologies for missing the rest of the festival. I must say, he seemed awfully keen for you to know that. Did something happen with you two?’

  She had said no. Because, after their incredible, otherworldly night beside the Neva River, how would she ever explain what it meant?

  A part of her still held out hope that Yuri would try to make contact as soon as his mother was better. After his whispered words to her that night, how could he not want there to be more? But as time went on and nothing happened, Noura bore the secret pain of her shattered trust, eventually putting the experience down to a moment of lunacy in an unfamiliar city. A holiday fling and nothing more. That is, until the email arrived that promised to change everything:

  Hello Noura

  I don’t know if you remember me, or even if you want to talk to me again. It has been almost a year since our night together in St Petersburg and I have thought of you every day.

  I was moved from the British Consulate in St Petersburg to a better position in Moscow. The move happened without warning, a month after my mother’s fall. I had been nursing her since I left you that night and the promotion came as somewhat of a shock. It was only last month when Ben visited that I confessed to him what had happened between us. I was a coward until then.

  The first night of the White Nights festival is next month and I want so much to make amends for my disappearance last year. I realise you may not want this. But I have to try.

  If you still feel as you told me you did that night, I beg you to meet me in St Petersburg by The Hermitage Palace, at midnight on the anniversary of our first kiss. I will be there, waiting for you. If you do not come, I will know that I have lost you and you will hear nothing more. But if you do come, I believe that anything is possible for us.

  I’m sorry for leaving you. I’ll be waiting by the river.

  Yuri

  *

  After everything that had happened, why had she believed this time would be different? As the noise from the delighted crowds rose into the glowing sky, Noura closed her eyes and wished she hadn’t come.

  ‘Noura!’

  It was almost lost in the cheers of the crowd as the final seconds slipped away. She almost didn’t hear it. But then it came again, stronger and closer than the last. Somebody was calling her name…

  Noura opened her eyes.

  ‘Zdravstvujtye, Yuri.’

  He was staring at her, his eyes at once lost and burning with hope. ‘You came back.’

  As Yuri swept Noura into his arms the Dvortsovy Bridge began to rise behind them to a hundred-thousand cheers. There were questions, searching for answers and many hours of talking ahead of them. But at that moment, nothing else mattered, as Noura’s world became a blur of Yuri’s lips, the insistent pounding of her heart and the magical glow of St Petersburg surrounding them as they kissed. Suddenly, anything was possible…

  About the Author

  Miranda Dickinson has always had a head full of stories. Born in 1973 in Wolverhampton, she dreamed of one day writing a book that would reach the heady heights of Kingswinford Library. Her first novel, FAIRYTALE OF NEW YORK (2009), was discovered on Authonomy.com – HarperCollins' site for unpublished authors – and within three weeks of its release, her debut had entered the Sunday Times Top Ten Bestsellers List where it remained for five weeks. The novel was also shortlisted for the RNA's Romantic Novel of the Year Award 2010 at the Pure Passion Awards. Miranda has had continued bestselling success with her subsequent novels WELCOME TO MY WORLD, IT STARTED WITH A KISS and, most recently, WHEN I FALL IN LOVE.

  Check out Miranda's New Rose Short Story Competition – deadline August 31st 2013 – all the details are on her website and blog!

  Website: www.miranda-dickinson.com

  Twitter: @wurdsmyth

  Blog: www.coffeeandroses.blogspot.com

  Visit the Sunlounger website at www.va-va-vacation.com/miranda-dickinson

  We have everything you need to make this your Best Summer Ever!

  You can also chat with the authors on the Belinda Jones Travel Club Facebook page.

  Return to the contents list.

  AT FIRST SIGHT

  ***

  Carrie Duffy

  Destination: Dubai

  The gold dazzled in the light; row upon row of gleaming bracelets, rings, necklaces and headpieces, filling every window. Chains hung from the ceiling in thick yellow coils, delicate filigree necklaces piled one on top of the other and draped around display stands. There were clusters of bangles with exquisite detailing, some decorated with rubies, diamonds, emeralds. It was overwhelming.

  The Dubai souk was a t
reasure trove – clearly geared towards tourists, but full of hidden gems. Cara was there for inspiration. She ran an interior design business in London, and this was one of her most important commissions yet. Elizabeth Campbell-Jones, wife of the retired diplomat Sir Richard Campbell-Jones, had asked her to decorate their palatial home in Surrey. As her husband had been stationed all over the Middle East during his tenure, Elizabeth wanted the quintessentially English country house to reflect that.

  The budget for the project was the largest Cara had worked with, and over the past week she’d flown to Jordan, Oman and Abu Dhabi, sourcing pieces to be shipped back. She’d discovered heavy wooden cabinets, beautifully carved and hand-decorated with silver; Persian rugs woven from the finest lambswool; silk curtains in traditional designs and a whole host of accessories from lamps to vases to cushions. Dubai was the final stop on the itinerary.

  Cara slowed as she reached a stall selling spices, the open bags displaying the rich colours within. The smell was incredible – a heady blend of saffron, turmeric, frankincense, plus dozens more that Cara couldn’t even begin to identify.

  ‘Do you mind if I take a photo?’ Cara asked the stallholder, raising her camera. The picture would be great for her mood board.

  The man stared at her for a few moments then shrugged, implying that she should go ahead. Cara fired off a couple of shots, then nodded in thanks before moving on, past units selling cheap pashminas and knock-off handbags.

  It was late morning, and the heat was sweltering. When was it ever not, in Dubai? Cara thought wryly, weaving her way through covered walkways that offered a welcome respite from the fierce sun overhead.

  She had dressed carefully – flowing linen trousers and a light shirt, a plain scarf knotted loosely round her neck – so as not to draw attention to herself. But the Arab men weren’t blind to a beautiful woman, and it was hard to hide those long, slim legs and that willowy figure, the way her shirt draped tantalisingly over the small swell of her breasts. She was undeniably attractive. Whilst Cara hadn’t covered her head – she was only a tourist after all – she’d pulled her long, blonde hair back into a low ponytail, so that she felt less conspicuous.

  Before long, she was lost in the maze of backstreets, finding herself outside a small shop selling beautiful abayas – the traditional Arabic robes for women. Cara knew that many Westerners thought they were all the same – a plain, black cloak, stifling any individuality. But Cara had a keen eye for detail, and during her time in the Middle East she’d learnt to identify the way designs and embellishments signified the affluence or social status of the wearer. She’d seen the importance the Emirati women placed on accessories too – a Louboutin heel just visible below the hem; a designer watch half-hidden beneath a long sleeve. It wasn’t for nothing that Dubai had earned itself a reputation as one of the flashiest Gulf states around.

  As Cara admired the window display, an elderly woman appeared in the doorway. She was dressed in a plain black abaya, her head covered with a hijab. Her skin was lined with heavy creases, her lips thin and surrounded by faint whiskers. She raised a crooked finger and beckoned for Cara to come inside.

  Cara hesitated, feeling inexplicably nervous. But the woman nodded her head reassuringly and beckoned once more.

  Telling herself not to be so ridiculous, Cara stepped inside, staring round in wonder at the rails of exquisite gowns. The old woman held out a hand, gesturing for Cara to go ahead and browse. She hadn’t uttered a word, and Cara began to wonder whether she spoke any English.

  The sheer array of robes crammed into the tiny space was impressive – some with hand-sewn beads, others with huge panels in gold and silver foil. Absorbed in taking photos of a particularly unusual geometric design, Cara had almost forgotten that the old woman was there. She jumped when she appeared beside her, holding out a delicately embroidered abaya and indicating that Cara should try it.

  Cara shook her head demurely, but the woman was insistent, thrusting the robe towards her. In spite of herself, Cara was intrigued. She dropped her bag on the floor, allowing the old woman to help slip the gown over her head. But as she moved towards the musty mirror by the window, the woman shook her head, bringing over the niqab – the full face veil – for Cara to try.

  It was a strange sensation as the cloth fell over her face, rising and falling gently with every breath. There was something almost powerful in the knowledge that her entire body was hidden from view, only a letterbox-sized slit around her eyes still visible. It felt like having a secret that only she knew.

  Cara gasped as the woman suddenly clutched at her hands, her fingers gripping Cara’s with a surprising strength.

  ‘No wedding ring,’ the woman murmured, running her fingertips over Cara’s pale, slim left hand. Cara stared at her in shock. It was the first time she’d heard the woman speak, and her voice was low and rasping.

  Cara met the woman’s eyes. They were dark as the night sky but brimming with life.

  ‘You work too hard,’ the woman told her. ‘You leave no time for a man.’

  Outraged, Cara wrenched back her hands. How dare this woman speak to her like that! She knew nothing about Cara’s life.

  But a tiny part of her wondered if it could be true. She’d left school at eighteen, and while all her friends had gone off to university, Cara had begun an apprenticeship with The Portland Group, one of the most prestigious interior design companies in London. She’d worked solidly and steadily, building up her experience and her contacts list. By the time her contemporaries were leaving university and finishing their gap years, she was already a junior director, and at the age of twenty-five she’d launched her own business.

  That had been two years ago, and Cara had been working like a demon ever since. Her whole life was poured into her company, and it left little time for socialising. Or for love...

  The old woman was clutching at her arm once again. ‘Do not worry,’ she began, her black eyes glittering. ‘You will fall in love. It will happen very soon.’

  Cara shook her off, that same feeling of unease creeping over her once more. Here she was, lost in the back streets of Dubai with some crazy old woman, and not a soul in the world knew where she was. She wanted to get out of here immediately, she realised, grabbing at the niqab to pull it off.

  But the woman stopped her. ‘No,’ she said firmly, gesturing towards the mirror. ‘You must look.’

  Sensing that it was easier to appease her, Cara moved towards the mirror, astonished by her reflection. She looked elegant and exotic. The long, black abaya seemed to elongate her figure, making her appear even taller and slimmer. Only a tiny portion of her face could be seen, but there was something sensual and enigmatic about the effect it produced, throwing the focus onto her vivid blue eyes.

  A sudden movement outside the window caught her attention, and Cara looked up. She caught only a fleeting glimpse of the man who was passing by, but it was enough to realise that he was incredibly handsome, with dark, Middle-Eastern looks and a powerful body beneath his white robes. He turned his head and for a split-second their eyes locked. Cara jumped back as though she’d had an electric shock, every sense going into overdrive. Her pulse was racing, adrenaline surging through her veins. She’d only seen him for the briefest of moments, but that was all it took to understand that something momentous had happened. By the time Cara had recovered herself enough to look back, the man had gone.

  *

  Kareem was sitting in the opulent surroundings of the Al Muntaha restaurant, twenty-seven floors up in the exclusive Burj al Arab. The building had become an iconic symbol of Dubai; shaped like a sail and accessed by a private causeway, it was reputed to be the world’s only seven-star hotel.

  From Kareem’s table beside the window, the views were incredible. The sparkling sea met the city itself, with towering skyscrapers thrusting into a cloudless sky, stretching out to the scorching desert beyond. The Wagyu beef in front of him was cooked to perfection, while a uniformed waiter hovered discr
eetly, ready to take care of his every whim.

  But Kareem barely noticed any of it.

  He knew that he needed to focus, to regain his usual laser-like concentration. But this afternoon, he was simply too distracted.

  Opposite him sat Ted Fitzsimmons, an American tycoon who’d made his fortune in the technology boom of the 1990s, and was looking to widen his empire. Kareem himself had interests in oil, precious metals and real estate, and he was close to brokering a deal with Fitzsimmons which would see them enter the lucrative communications market in the UAE.

  Kareem shook his head imperceptibly, in an effort to clear it, and tried once again to concentrate on what the man was saying.

  ‘...even taking into account CCL requirements, once we float the EPS should be looking pretty strong, and if we can get Goldman on board by then...’

  The words seemed to blur together, the rise and fall of Fitzsimmons’ Texan drawl becoming nothing but a background irritant to Kareem. He made noises in the right places, pushing the food limply round his plate. But the truth was, he couldn’t think about anything except the woman he’d seen earlier.

  He knew it was ridiculous. He’d caught only the merest glimpse of her, but it was a split-second sighting that had rocked him to his core. There had been something about her... It was impossible to explain, but it had sent his whole body into shock – his heart pounding, stomach churning, palms growing sweaty.

  The most ludicrous part was that he’d only seen her eyes, the rest of her face concealed by the niqab she was wearing. But they’d told him everything he needed to know. After all, the eyes were the windows to the soul – wasn’t that how the saying went? And hers had been full of light and life, brimming with warmth and passion.

  It seemed likely she wasn’t Emirati; her skin was white, her eyes a deep blue. Kareem looked out over the ocean, two hundred metres below him, and thought how the dazzling colours of the Arabian Gulf paled in comparison to the mysterious woman’s eyes.