A short while later we emerge. Zara has a small lantern, wrapped in paper. I’d offered to buy her whatever she wanted, but she insisted on paying for herself, bargaining with the shopkeeper.
I take her deeper still, through a section of the market where blacksmiths pound at anvils in their tiny cave-like shops, sparks flying, a scene that could be from a thousand years ago. Zara puts her hands over her ears, laughing, and I just want to take her in my arms and kiss her again. This is the most exquisite torture.
Then, as we pass through another section where woven baskets hang in clusters like clouds, a motorcycle comes whizzing past us, just missing Zara. I grab her, pulling her back, and for one glorious moment she’s in my arms, pressed against me, her blossom scent in my nostrils. Her hand is flat on my chest and it almost burns me through my shirt.
“You saved me again,” she says, looking up at me. We stare at each other, lost in the moment, and I lower my head to hers.
But then another bike comes past and she flinches, pulling away, pink on her high cheekbones. She smooths her hands down her black skirt.
“I heard there’s a palace in here somewhere,” she says. “Do you know where?” She starts walking. I hurry to catch up with her, cursing the lost moment. Something is building, though, a feeling as though this place is truly enchanted, casting a spell on us. I didn’t imagine her lips parting, the way she softened against me.
“There is a palace,” I say. “Two, actually.”
“Two? Which one can we go to?”
“Both. The closest one is this way, though.”
I take her along another narrow road, past shops with rugs hanging from their windows, others with displays of traditional jewellery and ceramics. It’s crowded and she stays close to me, so close that her hand brushes against mine. The third time it does I take a chance, clasping it in mine, threading my fingers through hers.
And she doesn’t let go.
Things feel so fucking fragile between us, as though one false move might shatter everything, so I don’t say a word, nor do I look at her as I lead her towards the palace. Everything I have seems focused on our clasped hands, on the current I can feel travelling between us.
The entrance to Bahia Palace doesn’t look like much: a wide pathway with high walls either side, trees and flowering shrubs along one edge. But once we pass through the archway at the end, we’re in a different world.
Courtyards lead one to another, surrounded by interconnected rooms decorated with intricate plasterwork and painted timber. “Wow.” Zara stops in one of the rooms, her head back as she gazes up at the beautifully decorated ceiling. She still has my hand, though. I want to hold on to her for ever.
It’s even worse, in a way, that I’ve had a taste of her. Before, I could only imagine what it would be like. Now I know. I’ve never felt this longing for anyone in my entire life. And here, in this palace literally built for lovers, I want to take her in my arms and kiss her until she can hardly breathe.
I lead her through more rooms, past stained-glass windows that paint her face with colour, and try not to notice the curve of her breasts under her shirt. But it’s getting more difficult to hold back. As we step into yet another courtyard, I stop. She does too, looking back at me with a quizzical glance.
We’re surrounded by tiled garden beds filled with flowers and the ubiquitous palms, water splashing in fountains. I pull her back, closer to me. She doesn’t resist, her hand coming to my chest, my arm around her waist.
A tour group comes in, chattering loudly. Damn. I can feel Zara’s heart beating against mine. We both watch the group. The guide, an older man in a linen jacket and fedora, tells the group in heavily accented English that the palace was built to house courtesans for the king’s vizier.
“How many?” one tourist asks.
“Four wives, and twenty-four courtesans,” the guide announces, to a chorus of laughter.
“Twenty-eight women,” Zara murmurs, with a glance at me. “How did he find the time? There are two women inThe Prince’s Kiss, and that seems complicated enough.” Her mouth curves.
I want to kiss her so badly. “Two female stockbrokers? That seems progressive.”
Her smile deepens.
“I don’t know how anyone would find the time.” I’m serious now. “I’m a one-woman man, myself. More so than ever.”
She isn’t smiling anymore. But her face is soft, and I don’t think I mistake the longing in her eyes.
I wrap my arms around her so she presses against me, her body fitting so perfectly against mine. I don’t care about the tourists or where we are, or anything at all. I just care about her.
Her arms come around my neck, her eyes closing.
I lower my head to hers.
No chance of any motorcycles interrupting us this time.
ChapterThirty
