âTwo hands on the wheel, please.â
âHow many years have I been driving, Maeve?â
âIâve never seen it so bad out here. You realize we could hydroplane at any minute. How can I possibly enjoy your hand creeping under my skirt at a timeââ
âWell, I can,â Devlin said. He gave her thigh a squeeze.
Maeve shoved his hand down. It got as far as her knee. âSingle-minded, arenât you?â
The wipers beat against the glass, fighting the whip of rain into the carâs steady acceleration.
âHow much farther do we have to go?â Her question sounded perfectly calm. âMaybe we should pull over? Find a place to stop. Itâs been pounding down for the entire drive. You must be exhausted.â
âWeâre not stopping.â He was using the firm voice. One finger circled the tender inside skin of her knee. âYou need to get your mind on something else.â
âHow would you suggest I do that? This storm is practically drumming on my head. No other cars on the road. No lights for miles. If we crashâ¦â
âEnough.â Warningâthere âd be a full-blown fight if she continued.
Was he deliberately accelerating, with only one hand on the wheel, the other just waiting to slide up her leg? Maeveâs heart beat faster.
âLetâs have a story.â
âA story?â she repeated. âNow?â
âYes.â
At least the man kept his eyes on the road. Maeve turned away, peering into the streaky darkness beyond her window. Why then did she feel as if he were watching her every move?
âTell me a story,â he asked quietly, âabout a woman who was afraid.â
Fear was not her aphrodisiac of choice. âAfraid of what?â
âWhatever you like.â
She tapped the carâs burlwood armrest with her nail. âAnd she meets a manâ¦â
âWho helps her overcome all her fears.â
Maeve lifted an eyebrow at that, but the idea tickled her mind. âIâm not really in the mood, you know. But Iâll see what I can do.â
âThatâs my girl.â
The percussion of the drums throbbed in time with Delilahâs heartbeat. All the women crowded near the entrance began to sway.
âBugger,â Delilah whispered. âI canât do it.â
âYou cannot change your mind now,â Nima, the eldest, whispered. âDonât think of them as men. Think of them asâ¦palms.â
âPalms?â
âNot hands, of course. Trees. Think of them as large potted trees one must dance around.â
Delilah tried to laugh, but the sound hurt her throat. One palm in particular had caught her eye. What was he doing here?
The other women began to pet her, and coo those same soothing words that had brought her to the dance floor that very first time in the womenâs courtyard. Their hands were soft and sweet smelling from the jasmine oil smoothed over bare arms and ankles. Even in the dim light of the hall, they glistened with it.
âListen to the music.â
âThink of the garden.â
âLet it live inside you.â
Eleven women, like sisters to Delilah after all these months, each beautiful in her own way. Each wise, or brave, or talented in her own way, because a Khanum must always be more than beautiful. After several months of lessons in English and deportment, they generously offered to teach their teacher somethingâhow to move in the sensuous curves of their sacred native dance. Delilah loved learning from them.
But she had never planned to dance in public.
A servant folded back the drape over the doorway. A tambor joined the drum.
All around her, the womenâs hands began to sing the music, weaving spirals in the air. Hips rolled and bumped against Delilah, teasing her to join their movement.
Vagwa, the girl whoâd had the hardest time with the new language, fluttered her eyelashes and threw Delilahâs words back at her. âMrs. Delilah, you must always try difficult things. You may not give up when it feels buggery.â
âDance with us,â they whispered. âCome. Dance.â
Something right below Delilahâs belly button released and swirledâjust onceâin a small, delicious circle. Her body was coming alive, like it or not. She peered around the curtain again, closed her eyes and moaned. âBut I know him.â
ââHimâ? Which him?â Nima asked, elbowing Delilah for a peek.
âThe Khanâs guest. Colonel Westonâthe infidel in the uniform.â Delilah nodded. A chilly droplet of anticipation drizzled down her core. âMy âproblem.ââ
The man, dressed in an impeccably starched colonial uniform, was ridiculously at ease for someone surrounded by armed native guards. He lounged beside the Khan in a low-slung king chair, long legs extended, as if Turkish furnishings were in his blood. Teddy Lawrence, uncrowned king of Arabia himself, couldnât look more at home. Delilah found the contrast of Western man and Eastern surroundings quite fascinating.
Academically, of course.
Nima clapped her hands together. âThat is your âgentleman problemâ?â
âExactly.â Delilah trembled as she pulled the veil away from her face, unsure if it was cold or heat that bothered her. âAnd applause is hardly appropriate.â