“Lucky her.” Layla’s gaze fell to the cuff. She felt forlorn suddenly, that this rich asshole had purchased it, probably for his wife or lover. And that he could – just throwing around his money and his Rumi and aqua eyes and making the world do his bidding. And yet, the most disappointing thing was that he was otherwise engaged. It speared Layla’s heart suddenly that he had someone else – someone who was not her and never would be. Her ardor struggled, as if he’d trapped it and now it needed to be free. Her heat diminished as she sipped her wine, staring at the Moroccan cuff and letting conversation with her mystery guy drop.
“And how is it that an arresting creature such as yourself is here on a Friday night, when all the rest of the world is out dancing?”
Layla blinked, realizing that he was striking up a conversation while he waited for the judgement on his price. She glanced over, trying to not be arrested by his incredible eyes and still failing. “I just got off work. I heard this show was coming in and I’ve been looking forward to it.”
He cocked his head, giving her a keen once-over that made her flush and tingle again, damn hormones. “Bartender,” he spoke with a slight smile. “You smell like twists of orange and lemon-peel with a splash of sweet bourbon. And half-Moroccan if I’m not mistaken, with that light olive skin and those loose black curls. Though those pale jade eyes of yours – I can’t rightly say where those come from.”
“Worldly, aren’t we?” Layla sassed him again, swirling her wine. It both pissed her off and impressed her that his assessment of her heritage and vocation had been so acute – a little too acute. “I was born near Marrakesh, though my family moved here when I was an infant. My mother’s Moroccan; father’s American. Have you been to Morocco?”
“I was born there also.” Uncouth, he clinked glasses with her, his eyes witty. “My father’s from Morocco, but my mother’s Parisian. I still have a place in Morocco, and family. I try to get back as often as I can.”
Of course he has a place there.Layla thought sourly.Probably has apalacein every corner of the world and thinks nothing of it.
“Your eyes are hardly Moroccan, either,” she bit somewhat harshly, irritated suddenly.
“No, they’re not.” He cocked his head, his straight dark brows furrowing at her terseness. “Tell me, have I—”
But he got no further as the gallery host whisked back, practically tripping in her haste, her blue eyes wide behind her chunky frames. “The owner said yes!”
“Fantastic!” The man’s face opened from worry to immense pleasure as he gestured to the case. The girl produced a bundle of keys and unlocked the glass. She slid the velvet pillow out with reverence, liberating the artifact. The red coral and bright silver caught the lights, dazzling as if exuberant to be free. While the white bone of the hamsa-hand ate the light – devouring it as if hungry for more.
“I’ll just be a moment boxing it. If you’d meet me in the back?”
“Leave the item here; I’ve no need for a box. Run the sum on this – and please add a twenty percent tip for the gallery.” Reaching out, the man slipped a black credit card embossed with a scarlet ‘R’ in an elegant script font and surrounded by a golden crown into the pocket of the girl’s t-shirt. Eyes enormous, she set the velvet pillow with the cuff on top of the glass case.
“I’ll be right back.” She spoke, then hustled off.
With slow reverence the man reached out, his fingers hovering over the cuff. His aqua eyes were a thousand miles away as he set his fingertips to the scarlet coral, stroking the bone and inlaid silver as if stroking a lover’s skin. His lips fell open and his sigh seemed to fill the gallery, whispering upon a sudden gust of wind that intensified the scent of his cinnamon-jasmine cologne. As if responding to his touch, the coral teardrop threw the evening light in a pulse like a beating heart – though it was just the last rays of the sun flashing out through the windows.
“Hold out your wrist.” The man’s voice was a bare murmur in the empty gallery.
“What?” Layla startled, glancing at him.
“Hold out your wrist,” the man’s gaze caught hers, drowning like a Mediterranean ocean. “I want to make sure it fits the woman it’s for.”
“Oh! Sure.” Layla was shaking as she held out her left wrist, her wineglass in her other hand. She wanted more than anything to have the cuff bound upon her, yet it was somehow terrifying. Draining his wine and setting his glass on a pedestal, the man’s long fingers claimed the cuff. With a deft touch, he pulled the long silver pin, then clasped the cuff around Layla’s wrist. The silver was so cold it burned, as if the cuff held an otherworldly energy. Setting the pin, the man’s hands slipped away.
But at the last moment, his long fingers strayed over Layla’s wrist – touching skin-to-skin with the silver cuff between. A hard pulse rocked Layla; like a firebrand had been thrust through her from the cuff and the man’s touch, causing her to cry out in exquisite pleasure and terrible pain.
As if whatever had happened affected him also, the man grunted, doubling over as if he’d been punched. A bright wind roared through Layla as his hand clamped upon hers – filling her nostrils with cinnamon and anise, jasmine and orange peel. Vast deserts rolled away from her, destroying her with a vision of light. Vistas of canyons; cities of ancient splendor. A desert wind surged through her like an oasis at twilight; a roaring demon ripped through her like a sandstorm. She cried out again, shuddering and dropping her wineglass to shatter upon the gallery’s floor as the man’s fingers twined into hers – flooding her with a roaring, ancient passion.
With a gasp, Layla broke from the man’s touch, staggering to the wall to prevent herself from falling. The man stood near the pedestal, gripping it for support, his iron-wrought frame shaking like a leaf in gale as he stared at her with eyes that shifted through every color now, including gold – amazing and impossible. Heat and pleasure continued to rock Layla, flooding from the hamsa-cuff and where the man had touched her. With a shudder, she hastily unpinned the cuff, dropping it. It was saved from landing in her shattered wineglass by the man’s serpent-fast reflexes. Cradling her wrist as surges of pleasure just this side of orgasm rocked her, Layla saw a red mark burned into her inner wrist. The hamsa with its bloody teardrop was seared into her flesh – right over the spot where the bone inlay had been.
The gallery host came running with a broom and trash sweep-up as Layla massaged her wrist, still unable to process what had just happened. Handing back the man’s credit card with a receipt, the host nodded to him, then began sweeping up the glass.
“Forgive us!” The man murmured, making a nominal motion to help, though he was still breathing hard as if he’d just run a sprint.
“No, it’s no problem!” The host waved him off. “People break glassware in here all the time. And you’re all set with your purchase. Thank you so much for your patronage, we truly appreciate it! If there’s anything else I can do?”
With an unsteady step back and a shiver, the man produced a scarlet silk handkerchief from his trouser-pocket and wrapped the cuff, then pocketed it. His gaze simmered upon Layla, though his eyes had returned to their regular piercing aqua. Those eyes snapped back to the gallery host. “Yes. Best restaurant in a three-block walk?”
“Oh, I recommend Lark,” she answered. “Take Pike west to 10th, head south, then over and down on Broadway. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.”
Before Layla could react, the man set a hand to the small of her back, then whisked her out the door into the Friday night bustle on Capitol Hill. He breathed out shakily as they passed through the doorway, heat rising from his body as he stepped close, his hand searing upon Layla’s back. With a chuckle, he flashed Layla a smile from his still-burning aquamarine eyes as they stepped out to the sidewalk.
“I could use a bite after all that excitement. Shall we?”
