After a couple of hours wandering the maze of laneways at the market, we go back to the boat for a quick wash and change before dinner. I decide to wear the things I bought today. Digging is dirty, sweaty work, and I haven’t had time to do any laundry, so most of my shirts are in desperate need of soap and water. I do manage to locate one last pair of clean jeans, at least.
The headdress has a crochet-style cap, with long strands of beads that hang down over my hair and short ones on my forehead. The beads are a beautiful turquoise blue and gold and match the blue in the top perfectly. I even swipe on a little eyeliner and some tinted lip gloss.
“Wow. Sadie. You look sensational.” Jeremy whistles when I meet them up on deck.
I smile my thanks, but I only have eyes for Ethan, who also looks sensational in chinos and a white linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his muscular forearms. Or maybe it’s the look of appreciation he shoots my way, then quickly shutters, that makes him look so delectable. I give myself a mental slap and chant two words silently to myself. Derek Montgomery. But they don’t seem to have the effect I was hoping for. Because the way Ethan had my back today, without treating me like a child who couldn’t make their own decisions, proved how unlike my father he is.
The sun is setting as we make our way to a little restaurant with a terrace overlooking the Nile. The light is glowing gold on the hills behind us, and the strip of green that runs along the riverbank is bright in the last rays of the early evening sun.
Dish after dish of fabulous food comes out from the kitchen, along with many icy bottles of local beer. I don’t think I can eat another bite until tagines of something smelling like heaven are brought to the table. Baked golden brown, sprinkled with bright green pistachios, and bubbling with sweetness. I nearly whimper. I’m so full. But sweets are my weakness.
We all look at Ethan, whose eyes have lit up.
“This is Om Ali. A traditional Egyptian dessert.”
The whole table falls silent, except for the scraping of spoons, as we eat.
“Ggrmmm,” I groan as I finish, licking my lips to gather up the last deliciously sweet taste of the dessert. “This is sooo good.”
“You have a sweet tooth like Ethan, do you, Sadie?” Bart, who is shovelling the flaky, milky, nutty goodness into his mouth, asks.
Guilty. Yes. I do have a sweet tooth. I didn’t realise Ethan did, though, and I wish I didn’t know. Because every new thing I learn about him seems to make him even more perfect for me. And he can’t be. We can’t be. I chant those two words again. Derek Montgomery. Or maybe I should be chanting Rebecca Montgomery. Because I cannot, will not, make her mistakes.
But maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be like that with Ethan, my traitor of a brain—or maybe some other organ—suggests. And these thoughts are dangerous.
My cheeks are burning, probably from the heated stare Riley shoots my way, reminding me it’s not only Ethan I need to be wary of, but the judgement of others. Luckily, I’m prevented from answering by a loud drumbeat, drowning out all ability to hear anything else.
The lights go out, leaving only the table candles and the moon illuminating the terrace. A spotlight hits a red velvet curtain beside the bar. A cheer goes up around the restaurant, and into the light dances a woman in a glorious red and gold belly dancer’s costume. The top is covered in jingling coins and bells, the full chiffon skirt flying and whipping around her legs. Her hair is long and lush and as dark as the kohl around her eyes.
Not a soul in the restaurant can take their eyes off her as she spins and twirls between the tables, teasing the men with her scarf, swinging her hips and crooking her finger, inviting people to dance.
It’s no surprise she spots our table. We have more than our fair share of good-looking young guys. Simon is the first to be pulled up, followed by Bart and Jeremy. Then she spots me. It’s impossible to say no, and I wouldn’t want to. She indicates I should copy her movements, and what I do might be a pale imitation of her sexy moves, but I’m doing it.
Our whole table is up. Even Ethan. Dancing and laughing, hands clasped, crushed together, moving through the restaurant tables like a Middle Eastern conga line.
And because the universe hates me, my hand is held firmly in Ethan’s when the line breaks up and everyone pairs off at the dancer’s instruction.
The music is frantic. The space between the tables is packed with dozens of willing apprentices to a mesmerising teacher. Over the delicious smells of garlic, roasting meat, and rosewater-soaked sweets, I’m hit with the peppery scent of a familiar aftershave. My eyes are level with the small, tanned indent at the base of his throat, exposed by the open collar of the white linen shirt. I dare not look up. Because I don’t want to meet his gaze. Not when I’m pressed against the hard chest, and even harder dick, of the one man in the world I need to stay away from. And can’t.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ethan
Inearly swallowed my tongue when Sadie came up on deck tonight. She looked like the princess the workers have been calling her. Not an Egyptian princess because she’s too fair, but a princess, nonetheless.
Her eyes and cheeks are glowing, and the blue beaded headdress is the perfect colour for her honey-gold hair. She’s dazzling.
As if hearing her make something that approximated sex noises over dessert—and who could blame her, Om Ali is sublime—was not enough, now the damn belly dancer has thrown us together in a heaving crowd that means I can’t get away. Neither can I hide the reaction I’m having. Bloody brilliant.
Which is exactly what my dick is saying. Only in a completely different tone of voice.
Everyone in the restaurant is up and dancing. The noise is deafening. We’re hidden in plain sight. Everyone caught up in their own enjoyment of the dance.
The beat of the music slows to an erotic pulsing. I need to let go of Sadie. Go to the bathroom. Or the bar. Or even our table. Not stay here, swaying with her.
Instead, my hands drop to her hips, then slide around to cup the curve of her arse in her tight jeans. My libido shoves my brain out of the driver’s seat and takes the wheel. I find my hands pressing her hips to mine, leaving her in no doubt about what I’m feeling.
Her eyes, which had been glued to my throat, travel up over the unshaved stubble on my chin. My parted lips. Until they connect with mine.
