Summer Sheikhs. Marguerite Kaye

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      ‘I think I’ve drunk four litres of water today! Do we have enough?’

      ‘We have plenty. When did you last take a salt tablet?’

      She told him, and he nodded approval.

      She knew she must be sweating, but she’d never have known it by her skin. In such dry air, sweat seemed to evaporate before you saw it.

      ‘I suppose this is as good as a detox cure,’ Desi mused.

      When Salah had unloaded the equipment and supplies, he slammed the tailgate and turned to look into the sun.

      With his eyes narrowed, his chiselled face outlined by sun and shadow, he looked fiercely handsome, a face from another century. Desi felt lightheaded, almost drunk, with his beauty.

      ‘You’re the image of the desert,’ she said dreamily.

      Salah flicked her a glance. ‘You need food,’ he said.

      He bent to pick up the roll that was the tent, and carried it to a flat spot among the trees. Desi set down her bottle, dusted her hands on her butt, and moved to help him.

      An hour later the tent was up, the sleeping bags unrolled, and Desi was watching the sun go down to glory over the desert as she scooped up the last morsel of lamb and aubergine stew.

      ‘Does this place have a name?’ she asked dreamily.

      ‘It is called Halimah’s Rest.’

      ‘Halimah? Didn’t you tell me she was a great queen or something?’

      ‘Yes. After her husband’s death, she held the throne for her son against all comers for years.’

      ‘What was she doing out here in the middle of nowhere?’

      ‘Queen Halimah and her army got lost during a battle. A local Bedouin boy led her to this oasis. The army camped here and refreshed themselves and went on to win the battle the next day. Later Halimah commanded that the pool be banked with brick and a well dug, to the great benefit of the Bedouin. You can still see the remnants of the brick walls.’

      ‘Who was she fighting with?’

      ‘Adil ibn Bilah, her dead husband’s nephew, who wanted to take the throne from her.’

      ‘He didn’t succeed?’

      ‘No. He was killed, and Halimah made an example of his generals. No one challenged her rule for some time afterwards.’

      The sun was all but gone now. Salah got up and moved among the trees, collecting palm leaves and bark. Desi sat and watched the desert change from gold to red and then to purple.

      The desert went on forever. A sense of unreality settled over her. What stories the sand whispered to the secret ear!

      ‘This is so weird,’ she murmured, after a long silence.

      ‘What?’ Salah began laying a fire with what he had collected.

      ‘I feel as though I’ve plugged into a mindset that’s been sitting here forever. As if time is nothing, only the desert exists.’

      ‘The desert has many effects on the mind. You’ve never been in the desert before?’

      ‘I’ve done a couple of photo shoots in the more obvious places. Golden beaches and palm trees. Once we went out to an old battlefield and I posed by burntout tanks. That was horrible. But never right out in the middle of nowhere, never where the desert could really get to you. Never anywhere I felt like this.’

      ‘There is more than one sort of mirage,’ Salah said, setting a match to the fire.

      ‘Meaning?’

      ‘People see what they want to see in the desert.’

      ‘And what do I want to see?’

      ‘That in the desert time is transcended, perhaps. That time does not matter.’

      She went still with the truth of it. There was silence between them, and then, as if driven, he went on.

      ‘If there is only the desert and eternity, how can ten years matter? Do you yearn for that time of innocence, Desi? I, too. We drive across the desert together, and I know that, if only we had been more thabet—what word is it?—stead…steady…’

      ‘Stea—’ Her throat closed. She cleared it. ‘Steadfast.’

      Darkness was settling around them as the first stars appeared. Thick, roiling smoke curled up from under the stacked leaves, and then a puff of yellow flame.

      ‘Steadfast, yes. We might still be here together, but how different it would be. You would be my wife. Our children would be sleeping in the tent. Do you feel their ghosts, Desi, as I do?’

       Baba, Baba, I want a drink!

      Her heart convulsed at the nearness of the dream. Desi opened her mouth to breathe.

      ‘What is there in that moment that still traps us, after so many years?’ he pressed. ‘A few weeks out of a lifetime. Why is it so close?’

      The question hung on the air like smoke, symbol of the fire that lurked beneath.

      Desi moved her head. Something burned her eyes and the back of her throat. ‘I don’t know.’ The desert at night was like nothing she had ever experienced, and yet there was something about the campfire, the stars and his nearness that brought those island feelings close. Love—the memory of love! she corrected herself—tore at her heart.

      A moment later he was beside her on the blanket, his voice hoarse and low.

      ‘Here there is no time, Desi. You feel it. I feel it. Time has disappeared. Here we can be what we were. Let us make love once more as the innocent children we were. Let us remember the love we felt, just once; let us make love as if ten years had not passed, as if you had come to me then.’

      Her heart was caught between melting and breaking. A sob burned her throat. ‘What do you want, Salah?’

      She felt the approach of heat, and then his hand was on her breast, cupping it tenderly.

      ‘Do you remember the first time I touched you, Desi? How my hand trembled. Let me touch you like that again.’

      Slowly he drew the loose shirt down her arms and tossed it to one side. Under her T-shirt she was naked, the heat was too much for a bra, and he knew it. Gently he pushed her down onto the blanket, his hand slipping up under the thin cotton to find the silky curve of her breast and encircle it as if coming home.

      ‘The first time I touched you like this, Desi, how my blood leapt! The magic of your soft breast, the way your flesh answered me—’ He stroked his palm over the shivered, hungry tip that responded to his urgency with aching need, then pushed the cloth up and bent his head.

      The firelight shadowed his chiselled face, showed her the tortured passion in his eyes, СКАЧАТЬ