Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Zara
I still have to resign.
But the morning has brought me clarity, and I’ve been able to see things in a different light.
It was incredibly inappropriate of me to act the way I did with my boss.
But there were two of us in the equation, and he seemed to be just as into it as I was.
I know we crossed a line, but I’m not going to pursue anything legal-wise, of course I’m not.
I’m not that kind of person. I’m just going to resign and move on with my life.
I have my savings, and a dream of a place by the sea, so I’ll find another job and plan my escape from London, and Morocco will remain a shimmering memory.
I’m also not going to spend the remainder of my time here being upset about what happened. My heart might hurt at the thought of having to leave Myles, but it will heal. At least, I keep telling myself that. Otherwise, I’ll just spend the next two days lying on my bed crying.
I take this new, sensible version of myself down to breakfast, bringing my book to keep me company. I remind myself how lucky I am, and how no one needs to ever know what happened here, as I read my book and sip my coffee, trying to ignore the pit of pain in my stomach.
Then I feel eyes on me, and look up.
And my carefully built facade crumbles into nothing.
Myles is standing there, dressed in rumpled cream linen, his raven hair tousled.
He looks like a dream, like my world, like everything I’ve ever wanted.
My dream flashes into my mind again, his hands, his mouth on me, and my breath catches.
There’s no way I can continue working for him, not in a million years.
He’s watching me, and there’s something in his steel-grey gaze that pierces my heart.
So I ask him if he needs me.
God, I wish more than anything that he did, that I was something more to him than a girl he kissed on a beach. I try to gather up my strength again, but it’s hopeless. I want him, desperately.
I try and keep space between us, so I don’t act on the pull I feel, the one that demands his hands on me, now. I eat my breakfast, trying to have a conversation like a normal person, not like someone whose entire body is aching for him.
“What will you do today?” he says, once we’ve eaten and drunk a little.
“I’m not sure.” Kissing Myles again isn’t an option I can pursue, so it’s the truth, I guess. “I mean, there’s work to do, but I’d like to see the medina, if I can. I might ask about getting a guide.”
“I can take you,” he says.
I swallow. “You can?”
“I know this place well,” he says, looking at me with those grey eyes. “And the medina is vast. Let me take you into the really interesting parts.” He smiles. “It would be my pleasure, truly.”
“Don’t you have a meeting?”
“I do. But I’ll be finished by midday.”
God. It’s so tempting. I try to find the wall I built, the one where I’m sensible and professional and do my job until I can get back to London and resign, but it seems to be gone.
I realise there’s something I need to say.
He’s tried to talk to me about it. The least I can do is give him the chance.
I don’t look at him, because I don’t want to see the rejection in his eyes.
“Myles, about the other night…” I pause, trying to find the words. “I realise… I don’t think we should have… it was unprofessional and you have a girlfriend and?—”
“Zara.” He stops me. Not surprising, really, that he doesn’t want to talk about it. But then he surprises me. “I ended things with Katya. Before we came here.”
“You did?” Relief jolts through me.
“Hmm.” Myles finishes his pastry. “She won’t be coming into the office again, and you don’t need to accept any of her parcels.”
Oh, so that’s why he’s telling me. I bite back at the snarl of disappointment in my mind. “Um, well, I’m sorry. She seemed nice.”
Myles laughs. “She did? I’m aware she didn’t make things easy for you, despite how I tried to rein her in. But she wasn’t a bad person. Just… temperamental.”
That’s one way to describe her. I hold my tongue, though.
“I just… I wanted you to know.” Myles glances at me.
“As for the other night, it happened, and we need to move on from it.” He says it as though it was just another night to him.
Perhaps it was. I have to accept this. “But we can enjoy the time we have left here. Forget about work. Will you let me take you out today? I would really like to.” But there’s an odd note to his voice and, when I look at him, there’s softness in his clear gaze. “Will you come?” he says.
Heat floods my body, and I remember his hands on me, his voice in my ear.
How can I refuse?
Myles
I love this place.
The medina in Marrakech is ancient, almost a thousand years old, a warren of narrow streets lined with market stalls and mosques opening out to the huge expanse of Jemaa el-Fnaa, the central square.
I’ve wandered its alleyways many times, dodging motorcycles and carts pulled by donkeys, aggressive touts and tourist crowds.
I’ve been here alone, with lovers and with friends, and discovered something new each time.
It’s like something from a story, a place apart from the modern world where treasure might be found behind crumbling stone walls, a hidden palace oasis behind tall gates.
But now, with Zara, it’s as though I’m seeing it for the first time, and I’m filled with wonder.
She walks close to me, close enough to touch, her face lighting up with each new sight and sound. I take her across the vast square, past musicians and market sellers and people taking selfies, then into the twisting tangled streets.
We bypass the more touristy stalls close to the main square, heading deeper into where the artisans are.
A man sitting outside one shop is carefully perforating a thin sheet of metal using a metal punch and hammer, creating intricate patterns for use in a lantern.
More lanterns hang behind him, suspended like stars from the wooden ceiling of his shop.
When Zara stops he looks up at her and smiles, offering her the punch. “You want to try?”
“Oh, no, thank you,” she replies. “But your shop is beautiful.”
“Let’s go in.” My hand comes to her waist briefly, ushering her through the low doorway. She doesn’t move away from me this time.
A short while later we emerge. Zara has a small lantern, wrapped in paper. I’d offered to buy her whatever she wanted, but she insisted on paying for herself, bargaining with the shopkeeper.
I take her deeper still, through a section of the market where blacksmiths pound at anvils in their tiny cave-like shops, sparks flying, a scene that could be from a thousand years ago.
Zara puts her hands over her ears, laughing, and I just want to take her in my arms and kiss her again. This is the most exquisite torture.
Then, as we pass through another section where woven baskets hang in clusters like clouds, a motorcycle comes whizzing past us, just missing Zara.
I grab her, pulling her back, and for one glorious moment she’s in my arms, pressed against me, her blossom scent in my nostrils.
Her hand is flat on my chest and it almost burns me through my shirt.
“You saved me again,” she says, looking up at me. We stare at each other, lost in the moment, and I lower my head to hers.
But then another bike comes past and she flinches, pulling away, pink on her high cheekbones. She smooths her hands down her black skirt.
“I heard there’s a palace in here somewhere,” she says.
“Do you know where?” She starts walking.
I hurry to catch up with her, cursing the lost moment.
Something is building, though, a feeling as though this place is truly enchanted, casting a spell on us.
I didn’t imagine her lips parting, the way she softened against me.
“There is a palace,” I say. “Two, actually.”
“Two? Which one can we go to?”
“Both. The closest one is this way, though.”
I take her along another narrow road, past shops with rugs hanging from their windows, others with displays of traditional jewellery and ceramics.
It’s crowded and she stays close to me, so close that her hand brushes against mine.
The third time it does I take a chance, clasping it in mine, threading my fingers through hers.
And she doesn’t let go.
Things feel so fucking fragile between us, as though one false move might shatter everything, so I don’t say a word, nor do I look at her as I lead her towards the palace. Everything I have seems focused on our clasped hands, on the current I can feel travelling between us.
The entrance to Bahia Palace doesn’t look like much: a wide pathway with high walls either side, trees and flowering shrubs along one edge. But once we pass through the archway at the end, we’re in a different world.
Courtyards lead one to another, surrounded by interconnected rooms decorated with intricate plasterwork and painted timber. “Wow.” Zara stops in one of the rooms, her head back as she gazes up at the beautifully decorated ceiling. She still has my hand, though. I want to hold on to her for ever.
It’s even worse, in a way, that I’ve had a taste of her.
Before, I could only imagine what it would be like.
Now I know. I’ve never felt this longing for anyone in my entire life.
And here, in this palace literally built for lovers, I want to take her in my arms and kiss her until she can hardly breathe.
I lead her through more rooms, past stained-glass windows that paint her face with colour, and try not to notice the curve of her breasts under her shirt.
But it’s getting more difficult to hold back.
As we step into yet another courtyard, I stop.
She does too, looking back at me with a quizzical glance.
We’re surrounded by tiled garden beds filled with flowers and the ubiquitous palms, water splashing in fountains. I pull her back, closer to me. She doesn’t resist, her hand coming to my chest, my arm around her waist.
A tour group comes in, chattering loudly. Damn. I can feel Zara’s heart beating against mine. We both watch the group. The guide, an older man in a linen jacket and fedora, tells the group in heavily accented English that the palace was built to house courtesans for the king’s vizier.
“How many?” one tourist asks.
“Four wives, and twenty-four courtesans,” the guide announces, to a chorus of laughter.
“Twenty-eight women,” Zara murmurs, with a glance at me. “How did he find the time? There are two women in The Prince’s Kiss , and that seems complicated enough.” Her mouth curves.
I want to kiss her so badly. “Two female stockbrokers? That seems progressive.”
Her smile deepens.
“I don’t know how anyone would find the time.” I’m serious now. “I’m a one-woman man, myself. More so than ever.”
She isn’t smiling anymore. But her face is soft, and I don’t think I mistake the longing in her eyes.
I wrap my arms around her so she presses against me, her body fitting so perfectly against mine. I don’t care about the tourists or where we are, or anything at all. I just care about her.
Her arms come around my neck, her eyes closing.
I lower my head to hers.
No chance of any motorcycles interrupting us this time.