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She looked disapproving, but what could she do? He was the emir. For the first time in his life, Sharif used his raw power for his own selfish purposes.
The woman left, and he took over, pressing his hands against Irene’s back, massaging the warm, pink skin of her naked, overheated body.
* * *
Aziza had told Irene that the hammam, or Turkish bath, would be steamy. “A sort of middle place between heaven and hell,” she’d said, then added hastily, “but you’ll like it. Trust me.”
Irene had already sat naked on a marble slab in a dark alcove for an hour, sweating profusely in steam that was thick as mist. Periodically, the female bath attendant had returned to splash Irene’s naked body with hot soapy water, dumped from buckets, then used a coarse hand mitt to scrub her skin from top to bottom. After several times of this procedure, Irene had started to feel like her skin was glowing and also slightly raw.
The worst was that she couldn’t see anything in the hammam except patterns of shadow and light. She’d taken off her glasses, leaving them with her clothes in the changing room. Without them, she felt disoriented, even helpless, but maybe it was all for the best. Getting totally naked in front of a stranger, even one as businesslike as the female attendant, was a brand-new experience. Without glasses, and with no contact lenses either, she couldn’t tell if the attendant was judging the shape of her body. Irene couldn’t have even said what the attendant’s face looked like. Especially in the deep shadows of the hammam. The only light came from the enormous dome above, gleaming tiny pinpoints of light, leaving dappled stars onto the white marble. Heaven and hell indeed.
Just like the last three months had been.
She’d seen Sharif every day, lived in the same palace, even the same hallway. Every morning, every evening, she’d sat across from him at the dining table. She’d seen his darkly handsome face, heard his voice. They’d spoken about politics and world affairs; they’d discussed Makhtar’s recent international film festival and new art gallery. And that was just in public. In private, when they were alone, they’d teased each other about everything and nothing.
Sharif knew her now. He knew her as no one ever had. He knew her, though he hadn’t kissed her since that night in Dubai.
After she’d started learning Arabic with a Makhtari tutor, Sharif had asked her to be his de facto hostess, entertaining ambassadors and heads of state. Breathlessly, Irene had dressed in designer gowns from local boutiques. She’d entered the ballroom on his arm. Once she would have been shy and afraid of strangers, but now, at his side, she was ready to do battle, to do her best to charm his friends and enemies alike. For him. All for him.
She wanted to make him proud. She wanted to make his dark eyes gleam as he smiled at her across the ballroom. And afterward, when they were alone, she wanted to hear him say in his deep, sensual voice, “Thank you, Miss Taylor. You are a pearl beyond measure. Makhtar is grateful for your service.”
“I know,” she would tease in reply. “You’re seriously lucky to have me. All the other emirs keep calling.”
He would laugh, then his eyes would turn dark and he would start to say something—then stop himself. Irene would catch her breath and turn away. Without even asking what he could not say. Because she knew.
Heaven had turned to hell. Having Sharif so close, but never being able to touch him, never being able to say what was truly in her heart...it was agony.
How could she bear to stay another day?
How could she ever bear to go?
In a week, whether she was willing or no, Irene would leave Makhtar forever. Aziza would be married to a man three times her age, and Sharif would take as his queen a woman he despised. No one was marrying for love here. All those lives ruined.
Including, she was starting to fear, her own.
“Stop thinking,” the bath attendant barked in English, sloughing Irene’s shoulders with the rough hand mitt, scrubbing her skin until she flinched. “Too tense!”
“Yes.” She sighed, and tried to obey. The woman pulled her to standing and rinsed her with a shock of cold water, then stepped back and made some sort of gesture. She waited expectantly.
“I’m sorry, I can’t see,” Irene said apologetically for the tenth time.
“Come,” the woman said roughly in English, grabbing her hand. “I take.”
She led Irene out of the alcove, to the center of the hammam, beneath the dome. She gently pushed her to lie down, with her naked belly against the marble slab in the center of the room, on the edge of the illuminated blue pool. Irene sighed as she felt the cool marble beneath her skin. Her backside was covered with a towel, and thick white steam floated beneath the tiny beams of light, between the shadows.
