Page 48 of Silver Angel

“We will eat here,” he said, walking away from her, as if he hadn’t been on the verge of kissing her, as if she hadn’t been on the verge of wanting him to.

“Here,” she saw as she followed him, was an enclosed garden just outside the room. The sun had already sunk below the high walls surrounding the little area, but it still shone brilliantly against the palace above their heads, leaving the grounds shaded and cool. Tulips, roses, and carnations abounded in quaint little groupings. A single tree offered an even cooler shaded area, with a bench beneath it. A fountain in one corner bubbled like a waterfall into what she saw was a fish pond made entirely of small blue tiles, large orange fish a striking contrast.

Large square pillows had already been laid out around an engraved brass table, set up right on the grass. It was peaceful here, romantic even, and the effect of what was nearly an English picnic was relaxing in its familiarity.

She let him lead her to one of the pillows, but she didn’t sink down on it until she knew how close he would be sitting, for with so many pillows there for the taking, she could lean either way to allow more distance between them. She needn’t have worried. He moved around the low table until he was directly across from her.

“What do you think?” he asked when the trays of food began arriving.

“I think it wouldn’t have mattered if I wanted to eat with you or not.”

She shouldn’t have said that. Did shewanthim angry? But he wasn’t. He waved the servants back and filled her plate himself.

“True,” he said after a thoughtful moment. “The asking was a mere courtesy for your benefit.”

“And if I had declined?”

“I would have insisted.”

“I see.”

He glanced up at her and smiled at the stiffness in her expression. “No, I don’t think you do. I can insist as the Dey, and no one dares to defy me. Or I can insist as the man, Jamil, and see how persuasive I can be.”

Her brow rose skeptically. “Am I to believe, then, that I have some choices? I was told that I did not.”

“On some things—perhaps.”

She couldn’t quite bring herself to ask if one of those things was sharing his bed. Somehow she doubted it, and to introduce that topic now would give her indigestion.

It was a quiet meal, once they began eating. If she didn’t know better, she would think Jamil was as nervous as she. On her part, she tried to ignore him, concentrating on the food he had piled on her plate. For the main course there was roast kid and guinea fowl, as well aspideli kebab, which was lamb enclosed in flat, oval bread. And if none of those were tempting enough, there was also a turkey stuffed with rice, liver, currants, and pine kernels. The side dishes were just as numerous—sweet peppers stuffed with flavored rice and meat, artichoke hearts, sheep’s brain, white beans, asparagus, and two different salads.

Several drinks were also offered for her to choose from:kanyak, a Muslim’s sole vice, which was a combination of brandy and wine; almond milk, made from crushed almonds, sweetened water, and orange blossom extract; a sweet Cyprus wine; and tart cherry juice. She noted that Jamil chose the almond milk, her first indication that he adhered to the Islam strictures that forbade the drinking of intoxicating beverages. She took thekanyakherself, anything to help her get through the rest of this ordeal, and would have drunk the whole bottle, but Jamil allowed her only a glass and a half.

When the desserts were brought in, Jamil again served her, putting one of each offering on her plate. There was a pastry rolled in sugar syrup, baklava, the one layered with walnuts and syrup;helva, a ground-up compression of sesame, butter, honey, and nuts; and lastly, the jellied sweets calledrahat lokum, meaning, “giving rest to the throat,” and oh, God, it did. The Turkish coffee was served now, too, brewed by the coffeemaker right there at the table; sweet, hot, with thick foam on top. She was actually beginning to acquire a taste for it.

Looking around her, Chantelle realized that she had eaten more at this sitting than she had in weeks, but she wasn’t thinking of keeping her weight down anymore. It was too late for that. She would have eaten another full course or two, anything to keep the meal from ending. But it was ended. The servants who had streamed in with their heavily laden trays now took everything away.

Jamil’s hookah was brought, but he made no move to partake of it. He was reclining on several pillows, propped on one elbow facing her. His black hair was in disarray from the slight breeze that worked its way over the walls, several locks falling over his forehead. She hadn’t thought he would have such thick, luxuriant hair, what with having to wear a turban constantly. She wished he were wearing the turban now. He looked too English by half.

As if his own thoughts were running along the same vein, he said, “I want to see if your hair is as silky as it looks. Will you come nearer, Shahar, and let me feel it?”

It would have been churlish to say no. But it was such a simple request, how could she refuse? She came around the table on the pillows, stopping on the one next to the one he leaned on.

His right hand reached toward her immediately, first removing the jeweled circlet that had rested on her forehead and still supported the longer veil that only half covered her unbound hair. He tossed this aside, and then she felt his fingers sliding along her scalp, but only for a moment. He raised his hand, letting her hair glide slowly through his fingers for at least a foot’s length; then he twisted his wrist, catching a handful, but he didn’t tug on it.

Chantelle turned her head to see him rubbing her hair between his fingers, and she was mesmerized for a moment. It seemed such an intimate thing, those dark fingers caressing her hair, and that was what he was doing, caressing, memorizing the feel and texture of a single lock. She was leaning toward him to give him an easy reach. She had the option to move back at any time—or so she thought.

“I was wrong,” he said, drawing her attention back to those dark green eyes. “It’s even softer than silk. Is your skin the same?”

Oh, God, did he want to touch her now? She tried to sit up straight, but he was still holding her hair and wasn’t letting go.

“Come, Shahar, slide onto my pillow,” he coaxed her. “You may rest your head on my knee.” When she didn’t budge, he added, “You must get used to lying next to me, but it is only your skin that interests me at the moment. And you have enough exposed that I will not ask you to remove any clothing.”

That should have relieved her, but it didn’t. She knew she couldn’t really deny him these little requests, because her body belonged to him. He didn’t have to ask for anything. He could just take. Whether she could let him plunge his “thing,” as Vashti had called it, into her when the time came, without any resistance on her part, she didn’t know, but she had no need to panic yet, not until he suggested they go inside.

For a man who had wanted her here immediately, he was certainly taking his time with her now. She was grateful for that, and that today, he seemed nothing like the man she had first met.

“Shahar…” he prompted, not impatiently, but to let her know she was not reprieved by her hesitation. He was waiting.