Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (157 page)

He was reminded of that incident now as he sprawled white-
robed on an enormous low L-shaped couch. Was he begging
to get his hands burned once again? he wondered. Had he not,
after all, learned his lesson painfully enough when his mother
had shown him what playing with fire could do?

But this new fire to which he was drawn burned too allur
ingly for him to ignore. Najib knew he couldn't stay away.

As inexorably as a moth drawn to a flame, he was drawn to
Daliah. He couldn't explain it. All he knew was that something
quite extraordinary was happening to him. No matter how he
tried to shut his mind against it, Daliah's presence was a siren's
call which stole after him wherever he went, and reached even
to the furthermost reaches of the palace. He had the unnerving
impression that he could have been halfway around the world
and it would have followed him still.

For two nights now, he hadn't been able to get more than a
few scattered catnaps. As soon as he went to bed and shut his
eyes, then her eyes, luminescent and full of wild magnificence, would spring up before him. Every waking minute, and every
minute he tried in vain to go to sleep, all he had was Daliah
on his mind. Daliah's eyes. Daliah's voice. Daliah's spirit. She
was everywhere. She had him twisted up in knots. After thirty-
seven hours of not having seen her, he was convinced that if he
didn't go and see her immediately he was liable to go berserk.
Finally, deciding that not seeing her would only compound
his misery, he did the only sensible thing possible under the
circumstances. He went to see her.

As usual, two guards were posted in front of her door. As
was also usual, they had pulled up chairs, propped their weapons against the wall, and were listening to music on a
tape deck while leafing through dog-eared back issues of
Play
boy.
On duty were Haluk, a big pockmarked Egyptian, and
Ahmed, the tense, wiry little Syrian who looked like he'd
really gotten into the music and was clicking his fingers crazily
to the beat.

They looked up at him warily.

'Has she been giving you any problems? Najib asked, main
taining a noncommittal tone.

Haluk, his eyes still on the unfolded centrefold, shrugged disinterestedly. Ahmed grinned at Najib, wiggled his eye
brows, and winked lewdly.

Najib's hand caught Ahmed's fatigue shirt and half-lifted him out of the chair. The little Arab lost the musical rhythm,
his eyes glazed and fearful. He tried to grin ingratiatingly, but
it came off unconvincingly.

'Do you want the key?' The slow-speaking, deliberate voice
belonged to Haluk.

It defused the tension. Najib felt the mad anger rushing out of him. He flung Ahmed back and let him slide down into the chair. Nodding, he took the key from Haluk and inserted it in
the keyhole. For the barest moment he hesitated, his hand
pressing down on the huge sculptured handle. Then swiftly,
as though he wanted to get it over with before he could change
his mind, he turned the key and pushed the door open.

The first thing that hit him was the chill. She had the air
conditioning turned up high, but otherwise, all was warmly feminine. The pink silk taffeta curtains were drawn tightly
across the shuttered windows, relieving the bleak, dark view
of the shutters, and the lamps were all lit, spilling soft pools
of yellow light.

He could almost feel her nearness. The air was electrified
with her presence. His blood rushed crazily through him, and
beneath his robes his penis grew rock hard.

She was not in the living room.

He went into the bedroom.

The bed looked unslept-in; it was still flawlessly made,
covered with the quilted pink silk spread. Quickly he looked
around the room, at once feeling both alarm and wild hope
that she had somehow managed to escape.

Then he saw her.

She looked anything but a hostage, slumped as she was
casually in the fur-lined cocoon of a giant spherical fibreglass
chair which looked like a hollowed-out pearlized pink egg.
Her feet were bare, and she sat with one of them tucked under her. Her hair was loose and spilled down in a thick tangle over
her shoulders, nearly to her waist, and her hands were tucked
into the pockets of one of the Almoayyed wives' best Bargu
zinski sables. Of course, he thought; that was why the air
conditioning was on full blast. To freeze her visitors out while
she wrapped up in fur, didn't feel a hint of discomfort.

Catching sight of him, Daliah raised her head aggressively.
For an instant her face shone with a look of such pure steel
that it could have killed; then, shrugging eloquently, as though
he was not really worth the bother, she casually swivelled the
chair around in the opposite direction, so that all he faced was
the shiny pink fibreglass globe of the back of the egg-chair.

He felt the colour rising to his face, and his cheeks prickled
hotly. The unmitigated impudence! No woman had treated
him so dismissively. Not ever!

The need to lash out prompted his tongue. 'You bitch!' he
said in an intense whisper.

A staccato laugh trilled from the other side of the chair.
Angrily he strode toward it. Then, as though through a miracle
of theatrical timing, she whirled the chair back around just as
he was about to touch it. She stared up, and he had the sen
sation that her pupils expanded and her green eyes glowed
pitch black. Then she laughed again, and they receded to
green.

He took a deep breath. 'I do not see anything to laugh at,'
he said with wounded dignity. 'Perhaps if you find something
funny, you would care to share the joke with me.'

'Hmmm.'

Finger poised on her lips, she twisted the well-oiled chair
lazily back and forth in silent little arcs, so that he found him
self alternately looking left, then right, then left again, like a
spectator at a tennis match.

'You look tired.' There was not a hint of sincere regret in
her voice. 'This little adventure seems to be wearying you.'
She eyed him slyly. 'Maybe you should try to get some sleep.'

He gestured at the chair, finding it impossible to focus his words at a constantly shifting target. 'In the name of Allah,' he said irritably. 'Can you not be still for an instant?'

She raised her eyebrows. 'Why?'

'This is not a game,' he snapped. 'It might be well for you
to take this seriously.'

'Of course this isn't a game,' she sighed. 'In case you've
forgotten, it wasn't
my
idea to be here. I didn't ask to come.
Did I?' Still she swayed back and forth. 'What do you expect
me to do? Plead with you to let me go? Burst into tears? Beg
for mercy on my knees?' She smiled. 'You would like that,
wouldn't you?'

He shook his head. 'As a matter of fact, no,' he said softly.
'I wouldn't.' His fists quivered at his sides, and he felt as awk
ward as he had felt two days earlier when he had first seen her
downstairs in the foyer. Just as he had then, he was again
convinced that it would have been better—far better all
around—had he been able to shut his ears to that siren's call
and stayed away. For some reason, she had the knack of reduc
ing him to something gangly and all thumbs.

Her eyes never strayed from his. 'Then let me ask you this:
why are you here?'

'I only came by to see if you were comfortable,' he said
inadequately.

The chair stopped moving abruptly and she stared, her head
tilted sideways, her eyebrows arched. 'Would you care to
repeat that?' She blinked rapidly. 'You want to know if . . .
if I am
comfortable!'

He did not reply.

She began to roar with laughter, 'I suppose the next thing you're going to ask is how I like it here.' She swallowed her
laughter. 'But to answer your question, of course I'm comfort
able. Any idiot could see that. Who wouldn't be in a cage of spun gold? I feel like the Queen of Sheba. The Maharani of
Jaipur. The Begum Khan.' She gestured expansively around
the room. 'Not happy, mind you, but comfortable. Now are
you pleased?'

'If you need anything,' he said stiffly, 'just tell the guards
and they will let me know.'

She extended one splendid creamy leg and twisted her foot
back and forth as though admiring her toenail polish from
afar. She glanced up at him. 'I suppose my telling you that what I need is my freedom won't cut any ice, will it?'

He smiled sadly. 'I am afraid not. That is entirely beyond
my control.'

'Pity. I was always under the impression that you were so
powerful.' She made a face and then shrugged diffidently.
'Oh, well, you can't win them all, I suppose. I know you would
hate having to see me go. You see, I've been doing some
thinking.' She knit her brows together. 'When you're locked
up the way I have been, you have time to do nothing
but
think.
And you end up thinking the craziest things.' She paused.
'Anyway, what I was thinking was . . . well, that I wish I had
gone to the university and studied some psychology.'

He raised his eyebrows. 'Indeed?'

'Uh-huh. Because you see,' she said in a serious tone,
although her eyes were alight with laughter, 'maybe then I
could figure out why you can't stay away from me. Maybe then
I'd know why you kissed me so savagely two days ago. It may
come as a rude awakening to your overblown ego, but I'd
really much rather be left alone. If I need you, I'll whistle.'

'Then I shall leave you alone.' He turned and began to stride
toward the living-room door. He had almost reached it when
she called out coyly in sugared tones, 'Oh, Mr. al-Ameer?'