“Jebal spent a fortune clothing her for this night,” Zoe said, her gaze narrowed.
“I don’t understand,” the fifteen-year-old Italian concubine said. “What is so special about tonight?”
Zoe felt like killing Paulina, as she usually did. But she knew that she was lucky that Jebal’s current favorite was so stupid. “Tonight Jebal and Zohara celebrate their first wedding anniversary. Jebal is finally going to take the American to bed.” The entire palace knew, and was giggling over the fact. Bets were being waged as well, discreetly, of course, and almost exclusively amongst the captives, as to what the outcome would be this night. The Koran forbade gambling.
Zoe had placed a wager with her lover. If she lost, she would still win. And if she won … She smiled, licking her lips, her sex already swelling.
“Oh.” Paulina scowled, lazily pawing the water with one hand.
“Don’t you care?”
Paulina tossed her damp head. “Why should I? She is old. And skinny. Jebal will soon lose interest in her.”
“Paulina, little sister, dear. Zohara is hiswife.”
“I knowthat,”Paulina said with impatience. “But when he tires of her he will divorce her.”
“How confident you are,” Zoe murmured. And how dumb. Zohara was very clever. She was up to no good. Zoe had yet to learn why she was in Tripoli, or how she had, precisely, come to be a captive there. Zoe doubted she was a spy. She thought that Zohara had a past she wished to hide. Her intuition told her that. Revealing Zohara’s past would be very interesting,Zoewas sure. Interesting and fun. She had no doubt that it would hurt, dismay, or infuriate Jebal. Zohara might be clever, but she was not as clever as Zoe, and Zoe was quite sure of it.
“Jebal is too kind to divorce her, Paulina,” Zoe said with remarkable patience. “He would only do so under the most extreme circumstances.”
Paulina ducked under the water and came up shaking her head, water flying. “Well, I hardly care. He is allowed two more wives.”
Zoe stared. The hairs on her nape actually rose. She swallowed the growl that filled her throat. “I beg your pardon, dear,” she said sweedy. “But what does that have to do with Jebal and Zohara?”
Paulina smiled. “The reason I have reminded you of that is because that means he can marry me.”
Zoe almost burst out laughing. She absolutely knew that Jebal would never, ever marry the stupid Italian girl. In fact, she gave him three more months at the most before he cast her aside in favor of someone newer, younger, fresher. It was the way of men, the way of the world.
“Do you think she sleeps with her slave?” Paulina suddenly asked.
Zoe jerked, swiveled, and followed Paulina’s gaze. Murad was hurrying after Zohara, who was almost out of sight. Zoe stared. “Whatever made you say that?” But it was a fact of life in the harem. Many ladies took their eunuchs as lovers. Some, like Masa, Zoe’s slave, were truly formidable lovers.
“Murad is the handsomest slave I have ever seen,” Paulina remarked, sighing. “Have you ever looked into his eyes? They are not even gray, but silver. It is such a shame that he was castrated.”
They were so close. The entire palace knew them to be inseparable. Zoe stared across the gardens, but Zohara and Murad were now gone. And she smiled.
“Perhaps it is true,” she murmured. “We must find out. And if it is true, I do not think Jebal will be very pleased, do you?”
“Of course, he would be furious,” Paulina replied, shrugging. She stood. Water cascaded down her narrow shoulders, between her full breasts, and down her long, coltish legs. “I am hungry,” she announced. Her slave came forward, a young, ugly German girl. Paulina stood still while the chunky girl toweled her dry and wrapped her in a robe. “Are you coming?”
“No,” Zoe replied. She popped half of a fig into her mouth and sucked on it.
Zoe watched as Paulina walked away, attended by her slave. Then, beyond Paulina, she saw her own slave returning to her—and he was not alone. Zoe was so excited that she stood, her eyes bright. “Masa! What has taken you so long?” she cried, indifferent to her nudity.
Masa hung his head. “I apologize, my lady. The old woman refused to be rushed.” His dark body gleamed with sweat. He was clad in nothing but a pair of trousers and a slave collar. He was a huge African man.
A very old bedouin woman stepped forward, staring closely at Zoe’s face. Her black eyes were piercing in their intensity.
Zoe was repulsed. She was not just ancient, she was also fat, and her face hung in tiers of flesh. Worse, the old woman’s eyes appeared to be black holes. But not empty black holes, rather, they were like black holes of fire and knowledge. Zoe took a step backward as Masa placed a robe around her. Zoe tied the sash, her gaze locked with the bedouin’s, aware of the rapid beating of her heart.
“Is it true?” she finally demanded. “That you know the past—and can see the future?”
“Danger. Blood. Fire. Death,” the woman said.
Zoe flinched. “What are you rambling about? I will pay you well. Tell me all about this woman who calls herself Alexandra Thornton.”
The old woman stared at Zoe out of burning eyes. “You must beware,” she said.
