saffron threads—see.’
The stallholder had pulled some threads of saffron from the jar and handed them to Khalifa.
He pressed them into Liz’s hand, feeling the softness of her skin—
‘But such huge stacks of it when all you use is a pinch,’ Liz said, sniffing at the saffron, half turning towards him so the softness her breast was pressed against his hand and the havoc in his body strengthened to chaos.
‘I think they do it to attract attention to the stall,’ he said, hoping the prosaic reply had hidden his reaction to her closeness.
‘Well, that works!’ she said, smiling at him in such a natural way he wanted to stay right here, holding her arm, surrounded by the noise and scents and bustle of the souk, possibly for ever.
But she’d plunged on, finding a tall, silver coffee pot and holding it up, turning it this way and that to catch the few rays of the sun penetrating the narrow passage between stalls.
‘It’s a design from the south,’ he said, pointing to a triangular symbol etched on the side. ‘That’s one of the tattoos the desert women might have worn to ward off evil spirits.’
She put the pot down, serious now.
‘I forgot to ask you. What happened with the relatives of your patient? Did you get in touch with them?’
‘My grandmother has gone down to visit them. She will tell them what has happened and bring back as many of the relatives as wish to come.’
‘Your grandmother? You still have a grandmother? You are lucky!’
He had no doubt that she meant it, and remembered now her telling him of her parents’ deaths then her brother being killed.
‘You have no living relatives?’ he asked, and she shook her head, then she smiled and for the first time that he could remember, right there in the colour and clamour of the souk, she patted the bulge of her stomach.
‘Well, I suppose you could say this one will be a relative—a niece or nephew. We’d thought later…’
Liz felt the tears sting her eyes and couldn’t believe this was happening to her. Right here, in a marketplace, in a strange country, with a strange man, she was about to give in to the tears she’d held back for so long.
And that she was going to give in to them she had no doubt, for they were welling up inside her like a wave about to crash onto the shore.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ she gabbled at her host, and without waiting for his reply she plunged back the way they’d come, past the silver coffee pot and the pyramids of spices, heading blindly for the big black vehicle, thankful it had tinted windows so her feeble-minded collapse wouldn’t be witnessed by the crowds of people entering and leaving the marketplace.
Khalifa put his arm around her, sheltering her from the crush, feeling the tension in her muscles as she drove forward, helping her into the car, closing the door, and quickly starting the car. Just down the road and off to the left was a small oasis, rarely visited as most people preferred the big parks in the centre of the city.
It was a beautiful place, where the red desert sands met the soft green of the tiny area, the sand hills slowly moving closer to the water but the vegetation fighting back.
He took her there, aware that some emotion was tearing her apart, helpless to help her as she held her hands to her face, unable to stop the tears that streamed between her fingers or the sobs she muffled with her fists.
But once he’d stopped in the shade of a squat date palm, he could put his arm around her and draw her close to his body, hoping human contact might be of comfort.
Holding her, was, of course, a huge mistake on his part, for this close he could smell the fragrance of her hair, the scent of her body, feel the softness of her flesh, the rise and fall of her breasts as she struggled to regain her composure. He stroked her arm—her skin silky smooth, lightly tanned, with fine, sun-kissed golden hairs that flirted with his fingertips.
And his flesh, weak as it was,
The stallholder had pulled some threads of saffron from the jar and handed them to Khalifa.
He pressed them into Liz’s hand, feeling the softness of her skin—
‘But such huge stacks of it when all you use is a pinch,’ Liz said, sniffing at the saffron, half turning towards him so the softness her breast was pressed against his hand and the havoc in his body strengthened to chaos.
‘I think they do it to attract attention to the stall,’ he said, hoping the prosaic reply had hidden his reaction to her closeness.
‘Well, that works!’ she said, smiling at him in such a natural way he wanted to stay right here, holding her arm, surrounded by the noise and scents and bustle of the souk, possibly for ever.
But she’d plunged on, finding a tall, silver coffee pot and holding it up, turning it this way and that to catch the few rays of the sun penetrating the narrow passage between stalls.
‘It’s a design from the south,’ he said, pointing to a triangular symbol etched on the side. ‘That’s one of the tattoos the desert women might have worn to ward off evil spirits.’
She put the pot down, serious now.
‘I forgot to ask you. What happened with the relatives of your patient? Did you get in touch with them?’
‘My grandmother has gone down to visit them. She will tell them what has happened and bring back as many of the relatives as wish to come.’
‘Your grandmother? You still have a grandmother? You are lucky!’
He had no doubt that she meant it, and remembered now her telling him of her parents’ deaths then her brother being killed.
‘You have no living relatives?’ he asked, and she shook her head, then she smiled and for the first time that he could remember, right there in the colour and clamour of the souk, she patted the bulge of her stomach.
‘Well, I suppose you could say this one will be a relative—a niece or nephew. We’d thought later…’
Liz felt the tears sting her eyes and couldn’t believe this was happening to her. Right here, in a marketplace, in a strange country, with a strange man, she was about to give in to the tears she’d held back for so long.
And that she was going to give in to them she had no doubt, for they were welling up inside her like a wave about to crash onto the shore.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ she gabbled at her host, and without waiting for his reply she plunged back the way they’d come, past the silver coffee pot and the pyramids of spices, heading blindly for the big black vehicle, thankful it had tinted windows so her feeble-minded collapse wouldn’t be witnessed by the crowds of people entering and leaving the marketplace.
Khalifa put his arm around her, sheltering her from the crush, feeling the tension in her muscles as she drove forward, helping her into the car, closing the door, and quickly starting the car. Just down the road and off to the left was a small oasis, rarely visited as most people preferred the big parks in the centre of the city.
It was a beautiful place, where the red desert sands met the soft green of the tiny area, the sand hills slowly moving closer to the water but the vegetation fighting back.
He took her there, aware that some emotion was tearing her apart, helpless to help her as she held her hands to her face, unable to stop the tears that streamed between her fingers or the sobs she muffled with her fists.
But once he’d stopped in the shade of a squat date palm, he could put his arm around her and draw her close to his body, hoping human contact might be of comfort.
Holding her, was, of course, a huge mistake on his part, for this close he could smell the fragrance of her hair, the scent of her body, feel the softness of her flesh, the rise and fall of her breasts as she struggled to regain her composure. He stroked her arm—her skin silky smooth, lightly tanned, with fine, sun-kissed golden hairs that flirted with his fingertips.
And his flesh, weak as it was,
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