Chapter 14
ZOE WRITHED.
She lay nude in a large, plain bed, her black hair streaming across her dark body and the white sheets. The chamber was filled with shadow, completely unlit. A big man, his features clouded by the night, bent over her, caressing and stroking her genitals with his hands and his tongue.
Zoe shouted, but not his name. No matter how lost in passion she might be, she would never become so abandoned that she would cry his name and endanger them both.
He shoved an ivory dildo inside of her. Zoe wept.
He laughed, his teeth flashing against his sun-darkened skin.
“Please,” she begged. “Please, or may Allah cast you from this earth and straight to sinners’ hell!”
He ignored her pleas, dropping the dildo and his pants at the same time. He straddled her chest. The moonlight played over his massive manhood, which he shoved down her throat. “Beautiful, beautiful bitch,” he whispered.
Zoe gripped his waist, her nails breaking his flesh, sucking him noisily. He finally grunted, arching his head back. But he did not ejaculate.
He withdrew, stood, flipped her over, and drove inside of her.
She shouted, finding instant release. He grabbed her buttocks and took her savagely.
Zoe climaxed again. Her lover finally allowed himself his release.
He grunted once, his knees buckling slightly, but nevertheless, he remained standing upright.
Sweat, however, poured down his body and his face.
Standing, he stared down at her. She sprawled bonelessly on her belly. He smiled slightly, patted her rear, then bent and retrieved his pants. “You are a greedy bitch, Zoe,” he remarked.
She sighed, turned, and regarded him from a classically seductive position, her face propped up on one hand, her breasts spilling onto the bed.
“And that makes us perfect together, does it not?” She smiled sensually.
Her eyes still glowed and her face was still flushed from the numerous orgasms she had achieved.
His gaze swept over her. “You undoubtedly destroy Jebal. He is crazy to dally with that fifteen-year-old concubine.”
Zoe laughed, sitting up, tossing her head and her hair.
Black tendrils streamed over her large breasts, which parted the strands.
“I do destroy him. No other woman has ever pleasured him as I have; he told me so. And yes, he is a fool to dally with Paulina, just as he is a fool to want that American—but aren’t most men? ”
He was silent as he dressed. “Most, but not all.”
Zoe came up behind him, pressing her breasts against his back, then sensually rubbing herself there. “Jebal is going to take her whether she wants him to or not. I can feel how impatient he is. She is a fool. She will destroy herself by trying to avoid him.”
His tone was mild. “You told me that she is clever.”
“She is very clever, I know she is a big liar. I checked. There was no diplomat named Thornton on Gibraltar.”
He froze. “Well, well,” he said softly. Then, “When did you find this out?”
Zoe laughed, continuing to rub her hard, large nipples against his shoulders. “Months ago,” she taunted, nipping his nape.
He turned swiftly, seizing one of her breasts. Zoe cried out as he pulled cruelly on her nipple. “Then you should have told me this months ago.”
She did not move—she didn’t dare, for fear of hurting herself. “I did not know you would care.”
“Yes, you did,” he said very softly. “You knew. You think to outmaneuver me?” His tone was dangerous. The pressure he was exerting on her increased.
She whimpered. “No.”
He released her nipple and stroked her breast tenderly. “Never hide anything from me.”
Zoe closed her eyes, flushed up to her neck. She arched toward him. “I won’t.”
They both knew that she lied.
He released her but did not stand up. “This is very interesting,” he said. “Because many months ago I made inquiries, and failed to discover which of my ships brought her to Tripoh.”
Zoe stared. After a long moment she said, “Is it possible that she did not arrive in Tripoli as a prize on one of the corsair ships?”
He smiled coolly. “Anything is possible, Zoe.”
She wrapped both arms around him from behind, this time undulating her hairless sex against the small of his back. “So who is she? What is she hiding?”
“That, my dear, I am certain you will find out.”
Zoe smiled and kissed his neck. When he did not respond, she pulled away. “What are you thinking about? You were preoccupied the entire time you lay with me,” she complained. Usually he stayed half the night, alternately torturing her and pleasuring her.
“Blackwell. We must pressure him for his answer now.” The man did not move.
Zoe shifted and sat down beside him. “You said he will never embrace Islam and captain our ships.”
“And I meant it.” He rose abruptly and stared down at her, his eyes cold. “The sooner he refuses us, the sooner he will die.”
And Zoe’s lover smiled.
Alex was trembling. It was the following day. Blackwell had been summoned to the bashaw’s hall, undoubtedly for an answer to the bashaw’s demand that he become a renegade. She and Murad hurried through the palace to the women’s room. Alex was terrified.
Please, God, Alex prayed silently, do not let him die.
She was afraid to even imagine what the bashaw would do when Blackwell refused him.
But she had heard about the bashaw’s temper and his cruelty.
Had he not had Rais Jovar whipped and bastinadoed for the loss of the Mirabouka—his very own admiral?
“Alex!” Murad gripped her elbow. “Your husband!”
Alex stumbled as Jebal walked through an archway, clearly on his way to the bashaw’s hall. He saw her and faltered. Then he changed direction, smiling as he approached her.
Alex was in no mood for Jebal now. She pasted a smile on her lips. “Good morning.”
“It is a beautiful day, is it not?” Jebal said cheerfully. “And tonight shall be even better.” His gaze was direct.
Alex could not think about that night and their celebration, not now.
Not when Blackwell’s life might be at slake.
It had occurred to her just moments ago that, as history was not being true to itself, Blackwell might very well wind up dead for denying the bashaw, instead of being executed next summer for a love affair. She was more than ill.
“Are you still unwell?” Jebal asked, staring closely.
“My stomach is upset,” Alex said shakily. But it was the truth. She ignored the expression of displeasure on Jebal’s face, seizing his sleeve. “Jebal, what will your father do to Blackwell if he refuses to turn Turk?”
Jebal’s gaze hardened. “We do not use that expression, Zohara; only Christians use those words. You are offending me. I am not Turk.”
“I am sorry.” Too late, she knew she had made a mistake by even raising a topic so dear to her own heart.
“What does it matter to you?”
She swallowed. “He is my countryman.”
“He is? But you are Moslem now, a Tripolitan, and my wife.”
Alex was speechless.
“My father may decide to behead him if he refuses us,” Jebal said holly. “And after all Dali Capitan has done, such a fate would be just. Do you not agree?”
Murad pinched her from behind.
Alex could hardly breathe. “Of course,” she whispered.
Jebal stormed away.
Alex stared after him, frightened and disbelieving. Was this the kind, sensitive man she had known for an entire year?
“He is supicious,” Murad whispered angrily, breaking into her thoughts.
“I made a mistake.”
“That is an understatement. How am I going to keep you out of trouble, Alex?”
“In the future I will be more careful.”
“Perhaps there will be no future, not for me, not for you, and not for your friend.” Murad took her hand and hurried into the women’s room.
Alex was briefly elated, for it was vacant.
She moved immediately to the peephole. A dozen of the bashaw’s closest retainers were already assembled in the hall, a feast was laid out, two dozen slaves were attendant, but she did not see Blackwell.
Nor did she see the bashaw, although Jebal was just now striding into the spacious, marble-floored hall.
His expression had softened, fortunately.
Although they were currently alone, Alex kept her voice lowered to a whisper. “What do you think will they do to him when he refuses them?” she asked anxiously.
Murad softened. “I don’t think they will behead him. It would be so foolish. They should try more forms of persuasion. In the end, in spite of what you think, he might decide his life is more valuable than his patriotism and his pride.”
Alex faced Murad. “But the bashaw has a terrible temper when he is denied.”
“Farouk will advise him.” He put his arm around her. “You are hurting yourself, Alex. He is forbidden, in every way. Leave him alone. Leave him to his own destiny. Worry about yourself, and your future—here, in Tripoli, with Jebal.”
Alex faced the peephole, but blindly. Murad’s words were frightening. No matter what, her future did not lie in Tripoli, with Jebal. She would have to escape. Sooner, or later. Even, God forbid, alone. Alex suddenly wondered if she could ever travel back to the future if she wanted to—or had to.
The door to the chamber suddenly opened. Alex tensed as Fatima, the bashaw’s first wife, whom Alex actually liked, entered the room with Zoe. Her sister-in-law was the very last person Alex wished to share the women’s room with.
“Hello, Lilli Zohara,” Fatima said with a pleasant smile. She was round and plump.
Before Alex could reply, Zoe smiled, not prettily. “I heard you had come to watch. My, I wonder why you are here, Zohara.”
Alex’s jaw tightened. “Undoubtedly for the same reason as you. I do not like being excluded from important events. In my country, women are included in events like this one.”
Zoe’s dark eyes widened. “In your country? But aren’t you a Moslem now? And Jebal’s wife? Isn’t this your country, Zohara … sister dear?”