The Tale Of The Dancing Girl. Grace D'Otare

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       “Two hands on the wheel, please.”

       “How many years have I been driving, Maeve?”

       “I’ve 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 time—”

       “Well, I can,” Devlin said. He gave her thigh a squeeze.

       Maeve shoved his hand down. It got as far as her knee. “Single-minded, aren’t you?”

       The wipers beat against the glass, fighting the whip of rain into the car’s steady acceleration.

       “How much farther do we have to go?” Her question sounded perfectly calm. “Maybe we should pull over? Find a place to stop. It’s been pounding down for the entire drive. You must be exhausted.”

       “We’re not stopping.” He was using the firm voice. One finger circled the tender inside skin of her knee. “You need to get your mind on something else.”

       “How 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 crash…”

       “Enough.” Warning—there ‘d 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? Maeve’s heart beat faster.

       “Let’s have a story.”

       “A story?” she repeated. “Now?”

       “Yes.”

       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?

       “Tell me a story,” he asked quietly, “about a woman who was afraid.”

       Fear was not her aphrodisiac of choice. “Afraid of what?”

       “Whatever you like.”

       She tapped the car’s burlwood armrest with her nail. “And she meets a man…”

       “Who helps her overcome all her fears.”

       Maeve lifted an eyebrow at that, but the idea tickled her mind. “I’m not really in the mood, you know. But I’ll see what I can do.”

       “That’s my girl.”

      The percussion of the drums throbbed in time with Delilah’s heartbeat. All the women crowded near the entrance began to sway.

      “Bugger,” Delilah whispered. “I can’t do it.”

      “You cannot change your mind now,” Nima, the eldest, whispered. “Don’t think of them as men. Think of them as…palms.”

      “Palms?”

      “Not hands, of course. Trees. Think of them as large potted trees one must dance around.”

      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 women’s 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.

      “Listen to the music.”

      “Think of the garden.”

      “Let it live inside you.”

      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 something—how 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 women’s 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 who’d had the hardest time with the new language, fluttered her eyelashes and threw Delilah’s words back at her. “Mrs. Delilah, you must always try difficult things. You may not give up when it feels buggery.”

      “Dance with us,” they whispered. “Come. Dance.”

      Something right below Delilah’s belly button released and swirled—just once—in a small, delicious circle. Her body was coming alive, like it or not. She peered around the curtain again, closed her eyes and moaned. “But I know him.”

      “‘Him’? Which him?” Nima asked, elbowing Delilah for a peek.

      “The Khan’s guest. Colonel Weston—the infidel in the uniform.” Delilah nodded. A chilly droplet of anticipation drizzled down her core. “My ‘problem.’”

      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, couldn’t look more at home. Delilah found the contrast of Western man and Eastern surroundings quite fascinating.

      Academically, of course.

      Nima clapped her hands together. “That is your ‘gentleman problem’?”

      “Exactly.” Delilah trembled as she pulled the veil away from her face, unsure if it was cold or heat that bothered her. “And applause is hardly appropriate.”

      What had started out as an act of mercy was quickly turning into an act of madness.

      Lillit, the youngest dancer from the women’s palace, was ill. She was Sarcassian and the only one among them with blue eyes. All of the Sultan’s Khanum had been commanded to dance tonight. Some feared Lillit would be returned in disgrace to her family if she did not appear.

      Delilah was blue-eyed, and similar in size. Would she please, please take the woman’s place?

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