The suggestion of a smile tugged at Khalid’s lips.
Across the way, a cup was set down on the table with unwarranted vehemence.
Please, Tariq. Don’t make a scene. Don’t do anything.
Salim grinned at Shahrzad. “Truly silver-tongued, my lady Shahrzad. I’d ask where you found her, Khalid-jan, but . . .”
Khalid’s right hand clenched, and Shahrzad held back the desire to stab Salim in the eye with a utensil.
“Why would you be curious as to where he found me, my lord? Are you in the market?” Shahrzad asked in a nonchalant manner.
Salim’s brown eyes glittered. “Perhaps I should be. Have you any relatives, my lady? Maybe a sister?”
He knows I have a sister. Is he . . . threatening my family?
Shahrzad tilted her head to one side, tamping down a flare of concern. “I do have a sister, my lord.”
Salim propped his elbows onto the table, studying Shahrzad with an amused yet predatory gleam.
Khalid’s full attention was fixed on the Sultan of Parthia, and a taut band of muscle flexed in his forearm. His hand shifted in Shahrzad’s direction. Conversation around them had all but ceased in recognition of the growing tension in the air.
“Am I not dangerous enough, Shahrzad?” Salim asked in a chillingly thoughtful tone. “Perhaps too forgiving of the women in my past? Too willing to let them live?”
Several gasps emanated from around them, rippling across the hall like a rumor being passed through a square. Jalal released a pent-up breath followed by a low oath that garnered a look of warning from his father.
Shahrzad swallowed her fury and then smiled with the brightness of the sun.
“No, Uncle Salim. You are simply too old.”
The room was as silent as a tomb.
And then the huge man with the collection of rings on his fingers began to laugh, his oiled mustache twitching all the while. Followed by the nobleman who had arrived on the black-and-white-striped steed. Soon, others started to join in until a chorus of amusement echoed throughout the space.
Salim’s robust laughter rose above the rest. Only those closest to him saw the venomous gaze he shot at the young Calipha of Khorasan. Only those who knew him well understood he was beyond enraged by the recent turn of events.
And only those watching very carefully saw the Caliph of Khorasan lean back against the cushions and toy with the bangles on his wife’s arm.
The boy with the silver eyes was one of them.
A DANCE ON A BALCONY
AS THE MEAL DREW TO A CLOSE, AN ASSEMBLAGE of musicians gathered in the corner by the raised dais. A heavily bearded man with a kamancheh slid the hair of his bow across his instrument, checking to see if it was in tune by tightening its ivory pegs, while a young woman adjusted the reed of her ney one last time. An elderly man settled the base of his tombak against his left hip and struck the drum’s taut surface . . . slow, then quick, quick. He began pounding out a driving rhythm, and the dulcimer melody of the santur joined in before all four musicians were lost to their music. Lost to the beat.
Then, from the opposite side of the dais, a young girl appeared.
A collective murmuring arose from the tables. A communal sigh of disbelief.
Jalal groaned. Khalid looked away.
For she was undoubtedly the most beautiful girl Shahrzad had ever beheld.
She was dressed in a fitted top of fiery red silk that left little to the imagination and a matching flowing skirt with intricate embroidery along the hem. Her hair fell past her waist in spiraling curls of mahogany, with hints of auburn set aflame by the torchlight. Her face would have brought a painter to his knees—high cheekbones, flawless skin, arched brows, and a fringe of black lashes that fanned over obscenely large eyes.
Of course, the girl began to dance.
She moved like a snake, writhing across the black and white stones to the rising strains of the music. The curves of her body seemed inspired by the moon itself. Her hands and hips beckoned, beseeched . . . befuddled. She twisted and swayed in a manner that was altogether otherworldly.
Altogether unfair.
As the girl made her mesmeric way to the center of the tables, Shahrzad tensed in awareness.
She’s—dancing for Khalid.
It was obvious. The girl’s eyes were locked on the Caliph of Khorasan, her dark irises a host of the forbidden. With each slow spin, her rich mane of hair coiled about her shoulders, and the gems at her stomach flashed in wild abandon.
When she smiled at Khalid as though they shared a lifetime of secrets, an ugly series of images flickered through Shahrzad’s mind—most of them beginning and ending with mahogany curls being torn by their roots from the beautiful girl’s head.
How could I be so childish? She’s just dancing.
It doesn’t matter. None of this matters.
Shahrzad took a deep breath and averted her gaze. When Jalal started to laugh, she glowered at him, the heat rising in her neck.
The brazen girl ended the dance a stone’s throw from the dais, her hands positioned above her head and her endless curls thrown into an alluring mass over one shoulder.
Wonderful. Now go home.
Instead, the girl sashayed toward them, her slender hips continuing to sway, even without music. She stopped right in front of Shahrzad.
Then she grinned.
“Hello, Khalid,” she said in a voice of silken sin.
Khalid exhaled carefully before lifting his tiger-eyes.
“Hello, Yasmine.”
• • •
Irritated would not be an apt word.
Distressed?
No. That wouldn’t be quite right, either.