Oasis of Night by J.S. Cook Page A

the neck; it exposed the strong column of his throat and the hollow at its base, dusted with dark hairs. I couldn’t stop looking at that tiny patch of skin. I wanted to kiss him there. I wondered what it took to make him cry out, to bring him to completion, and what he looked like, sounded like, at that moment. It must have showed in my face. “Jack, are you quite all right?”
    â€œHuh? Oh, yeah, Sam, I’m just fine.” I sipped at my coffee and realized too late that the cup was empty. “Would you, uh—would you like some coffee?”
    â€œI would. Perhaps you would, as well?”
    â€œCome on into the kitchen. I’ll put a pot on.” The service light was on over the stove, so I didn’t bother to cut on any other lights. I filled the percolator with water and added coffee in the right amount, all the time acutely aware of his presence.
    â€œYour cook keeps this place remarkably clean. I have always found that to be the mark of a satisfied worker.” He leaned against the counter, watching me with those long-lashed brown eyes of his. “Are all your employees so satisfied?”
    I hadn’t honestly thought about it. “I guess so. Why?”
    â€œI was merely wondering. You seem the type of man that has no trouble giving… satisfaction when it suits him.” His gaze was frank and open and very, very suggestive, and I wondered what he would do if I said to hell with convention and kissed him. He was standing so close, I could feel the heat of his body and smell that damnable cologne he was wearing. He was shorter than me by maybe four or five inches, but there was an unmistakable force just underneath the surface, and he embodied the automatic authority of a man used to being in charge of other men. He had, I was sure of it, known power at some point in his life, and I wondered about his cover story.
    â€œAre you really the assistant to the British Consul?” I fetched some cups down from a shelf above.
    The corners of his lips curved up, but he wasn’t quite smiling. “Of course.” I got the distinct impression he was humoring me. “Is that not what I told you?”
    I leaned my elbow on the counter and gazed into his eyes. It was like gazing into the swirling heart of a newborn star. His lips were soft, not overly full, and sharply defined, and there was a shallow dimple in his chin. A tiny pulse beat in the hollow of his throat. He had, I saw, nicked himself shaving. “Mmm-hmm.”
    This time he did smile. “I never really know what it means when an American makes that particular sound.” He reached into his hip pocket and took out his wallet. “Here is my identification card, with my photograph, as you can see. There, it says Samuel Abdelleh Halim. That is my name.” He flipped through to another section. “This woman is my wife. These are my four children: Samuel, Hanbal, Stamos, and Tabia. They live in Cairo with my wife, Tareenah.”
    Disappointment settled in my gut like a stone. “Your… wife?” It was ridiculous to feel this way. I had no claim on him.
    â€œEvery Moslem man is married as soon as he comes of age to take a wife. Tareenah and I were married when I was twenty and she eighteen. It is the way of our people.” He folded the wallet away. “You seem surprised.”
    â€œNo, it’s just… you don’t seem the type.” The percolator bubbled merrily, and I lifted it onto a tray, along with the cups. I felt compelled to make small talk. Maybe I was trying to cover my disappointment. “Stamos, huh? That’s a Greek name.”
    â€œMy mother was Greek.” He held my wrist. “Does my being married disturb you, Jack? If I knew it would have this effect, I would not have mentioned it.”
    â€œIt’s fine.” My face felt frozen, and I had the absurd feeling I might burst into tears any minute. “Let’s go sit in the Cafe.