Those Wicked Pleasures (32 page)

The ring was such an enormous symbol. There was something in the way he held her hand, surveyed her and the jewel on her finger. She felt possessed by him as she had never felt by Sam. A kind of finality came upon their
relationship. She shrugged off the feeling with a shiver. ‘That is exactly what Mother will say. It is very, very beautiful. I will treasure it always, Jamal. Thank you.’

During lunch he was particularly amusing, at his most seductive and winning. Replete with food and wine and love, they lingered over coffee. He lit a cigar and had the good grace to laugh before instructing her, ‘Say yes.’

‘Oh, here we go again. OK, yes. Yes what, Jamal?’

‘Yes, it’s a marvellous idea to fly to Marrakesh this afternoon.’

‘It is, actually.’

‘Good, then let’s go.’

Chapter 22

They landed long after dark. A car awaited them. Lara’s feet hardly touched the ground before she was swept into the limousine. Its headlights probed the darkness across the landing field. They raced through the night towards the city. It was much warmer than Florence. They rolled down the windows to let the strong scent of Morocco lull them into the joy of being there.

On the outskirts of the city they took secondary roads, past roadside stands lit by the sickly white light of paraffin lamps, and piled high with lemons and oranges, others with tomatoes or fat, glossy aubergines. There was a stand of flowers. Jamal prodded the driver, and they skidded to a stop. He hopped out, to return with two barefoot boys in striped burnouses, who laid long-stemmed blossoms, armfuls of them, like a carpet at Lara’s feet. They sped off again, and heard snatches of Moroccan music, strange and undeniably sensuous, the beat of African drums, the sound of oboes. All from portable radios, with which groups of swarthy turbaned men in
djellabahs
, long hooded robes, whiled away hours of their lives, squatting on the ground and smoking beautiful slender carved wooden pipes with clay bowls packed with
Kif
. They were drinking hot sweet mint tea. Their talk and passionate gestures were their contribution to solving the world’s problems.

Morocco always smelled to Lara like lemons and garlic
and olive oil, oranges and saffron and cardamom, a hint of jasmine and roses. There were more pungent odours too. She loved the colours of Morocco, so brilliant under a North African sun: red, hot pink, cobalt blue, emerald green, the opulent beauty of its old palaces and grand houses, its secret gardens of fruit trees and bougainvillaea and plumbago hanging from raspberry-coloured walls. And from lazily working fountains, the sound of water that glistened in the sun. All around, potted plants burst with brightly coloured blossoms, and jungly shrubs with shiny green leaves. The embellishment of rich tiles and marbles and mosaics, creating style that could only be Moroccan, had always enchanted Lara. Morocco had for her that same power of seductive magic that Jamal embodied. It also had overwhelming hospitality, heat and dust, mountains, sea and desert, sunlight that heightened the senses, the dark, sometimes seedy side of life that cajoled them. Where, in secret, everything was acceptable, nothing denied. The mystery and excitement and passions, the opulence and the poverty, could stir the dullest of senses. Its effect upon Lara was electric.

She reached for Jamal’s hand and held it. She suddenly felt an urgency to be once again in the midst of the hubbub of Moroccan market places. Who could not be fascinated by the life of the old Arab
medinas
of Marrakesh, Rabat and Fez, or the
casbah
of Casablanca? Winding alleys and narrow crooked streets; the clamour, the sights and the smells. The crowded passages of open-fronted shops, spice or vegetable markets, silver and brass and coppersmiths, sandalwood carvers, and leatherworkers. Spilling from doorways, they practised their crafts in the streets. One turn and then another led through the maze to silent side-streets of walled gardens, secret courtyards and trickling fountains. Deeper, ever deeper, into the very private world of the
medinas
.

Lara was not naive about this bewitching country that was about to become so much a part of her life. She had seen the face of cruelty, harshness: it could show just as naturally as the warmth and smiles. Through previous visits, she had come to love this country, and could quite understand how the mélange of foreigners that made up its large expatriate community had lost their hearts to it. How they could so easily walk away from lives that had given them so much less. It suddenly occurred to her how lucky she was to be able to add this place and the life it might afford her to her already rich and full existence. And Bonnie – how visits to Morocco would enrich her child’s life, all her future children’s lives. Now, speeding into Marrakesh with Jamal, she could think of no other place in which she would rather be wed.

Well into the suburbs of the city now, she saw women standing in groups, heavily robed and veiled, with nothing showing but a tiny crescent of eye. They sat on doorsteps, leaned against the walls of their houses, or perched in open windows.

Jamal saw the enthusiasm for his country in Lara’s face. Pleased, he offered, ‘I’ve always loved this country. It is mine after all. But in the last few years, since I have inherited my father’s estate, it has a new hold on me, one that allows me to appreciate it even more. I’ve no doubt you will learn to adapt to it. Make it your own.’

He was right. Here, it seemed to Lara, she might begin again. Life with Jamal, an erotic adventure, a journey of love, matching the other adventure of learning to live in a new country, a new culture. She remembered Tangiers, a city hemmed with hills and fringed by the sea. A city on the shores of Africa. Its sugary sand and undulating surf. Its seemingly endless shoreline of magnificent beach. A cosmopolitan city in an Arabian Nights fairy tale dream. She wondered if she would end
up like the expatriates she had met there. Travellers who had landed for a brief holiday were unable ever to leave while the years slid by. She remembered a previous visit there with Max and Jamal. The days would glide by. It was a timeless place, self-contained. It had worked its magic on Lara before.

‘Remember all that time we used to spend sitting in the Petit Soko, watching the world go in and out of the
casbah
in Tangiers? That square so cluttered with cafés? What crowds, what fun! I look forward to that. To being swallowed up by the mists in the
casbah
. What a place! Everyone doing his thing, among the prostitutes and drug pedlars, the two-bit spies, the high-lifers and low-lifers, and all the simpler, less complicated people just sitting and drinking their evening aperitifs. That seven o’clock hum of voices rising from the Petit Soko at the aperitif hour. Like swarming bees.’

‘We were a lot younger then.’

‘What’s youth got to do with it? It’s one of the special places in the world, and I expect we’ll be there just like everyone else in Tangiers.’

‘You are probably right.’

‘Will we live there, or in the house in Marrakesh when we are here in Morocco?’ she asked.

‘Divide our time I think.’

He saw the pleasure shining in her face. It made him smile to himself. He had made the right choice. Not that he had ever doubted it. Ever since he had made that filial vow at his father’s death-bed, to marry, Jamal had made spasmodic efforts to find a Moroccan girl whom he thought he could settle down with. Every eligible girl of his class had been assessed for him, vast dowries declared, near-engagements entered into. Three bargains had been struck, but each time he had finally abandoned the idea. Then had come the French aristocracy, his second hunting
ground. An actress followed after that. All had been judged in the end too dull, either in bed or out, or both. And none had been wealthy enough. He didn’t want their money: he just didn’t want them to want his. The woman he married would have to want him only for himself. There had been one other factor: most had been too unbending.

Then, ten days ago, he had seen a photograph of Lara with Roberto, taken at a party in Rome. It had been in the
International Herald Tribune
. It occurred to Jamal that Lara would do. More than do – was exactly right for him. He had always loved her. She was infinitely more interesting in bed than most. She had more money than he did – so would not be after his bank balance. She was fecund, and Bonnie was a beauty. And she was pliant, vulnerable, and he believed she loved him more than any man she had ever had.

He had once moulded her into the sensual creature she was, and knew he could mould her into the wife he wanted. Perfect. How to get her? For the second time in his life, many hours went into plotting the seduction of Lara Victoria Stanton Fayne. And then he called Roberto. A friend of twenty years’ standing, and someone who owed him a very great favour. Fate? Well, one day, when their moods were right, he would tell Lara about fate.

They were recognised at once by the doorman at La Mamounia, who made a fuss of them. Walking through the public rooms with their slim pillars topped by ornate capitals balancing graceful high arches encrusted with jewel-like tiles, the sound of water, playing its delicate music against the hum of conversation, Lara could not but think of the happy times she had had there with David and Max and Henry. It was her first pang of doubt. The second was that they had decided on a very private wedding ceremony. A civil affair, rather than religious. No fuss, no complications. Most of all, no publicity. They
had agreed to tell the family after their extensive tour of the country. But Lara’s doubts dissolved when she was distracted by the arrival of the manager of La Mamounia, his assistants, and several members of staff who handed bouquets of flowers to her.

In the suite a young girl was waiting for them. ‘This is Wafika. Her mother was Egyptian and her father Moroccan. She has been with the family since she was four years old. She speaks English, French and Arabic. She was my mother’s maid and companion. Now she is yours.’

Lara thought it would be churlish to remind him that she had a maid of her own. Coral had not been with her in Florence only because she had given her maid and secretary two weeks off to go touring through Italy. Later perhaps. Behind Wafika loomed a hulk of a man bursting out of a grey suit.

‘This is Rafik. You go nowhere without him. He’s a driver-cum-bodyguard-cum-manservant. Between Wafika and Rafik you will have everything you want.’

There was something in the tone of his voice, an attitude towards her since they had entered the hotel, perhaps especially since they had arrived in the suite, that she found off-putting. He was behaving so proprietorially. He had not acknowledged her ability to arrange her own domestic affairs, and she felt a loss of freedom. She turned to the half dozen men, the hotel staff, and Jamal’s personal retainers who had carried up the flowers, and thanked them generously. Then, with infinite charm and discretion, she made it quite clear that they were dismissed. Once they had left the room, she turned to face Jamal. He slipped his arm through hers and said as he walked her towards the bedroom and opened the doors, ‘You were a bit obvious, darling. I think next time you just wait patiently until I dismiss them.’

Start as you mean to go on. An old English nanny had instilled that into Lara when she was no more than five years old. Nanny’s recipe had usually worked for her. She none too discreetly separated herself from Jamal. He sensed at once there was something on her mind, but said nothing. He waited. She walked from table to table in the marvellous room, admiring its many arrangements of flowers, the bowls of fruits and nuts and Moroccan sweets Jamal knew she was partial to. Finally she turned around and, giving him her full attention, said, ‘You have thought of everything. All the things I like. Don’t think me ungracious, Jamal, but I expect to have everything I want, with or without Wafika and Rafik. I will of course work them into our household, but have you forgotten I have a life of my own that I am bringing into this marriage? A daughter, and a staff that keeps my life ticking over. All that baggage comes along with me, Jamal. For a moment there in the other room I had the disturbing sensation that you had forgotten that. That you think me incapable of directing my own life. Don’t make that mistake. I am very much in love with you. I think of nothing, night or day, except what a wonderful life we will have together, of all the things I want to do to make you happy. But I think you had better remember I will never again get lost in you, as I once did. I’m my own woman. Yours, yes – oh, yes – but mine too.’

Strong words, well said. Too well said. Jamal tried to hide his amusement. She was as vulnerable as ever, in spite of her bravado. If she wasn’t, then why the pretty little speech? He took little notice of what she said, only pretended to. His sole reaction was, as ever when he was sure he had control over Lara, sexual.

‘I am already lost in you, and our life together has barely begun.’

That was not what she expected. But she caught the
glint in his eye. He was looking at her as if she had nothing on. It was a look that always excited her. She tried to calm herself, put from her mind erotic thoughts of how he was likely to take her. She turned away and walked to the windows overlooking a romantic, quiet courtyard. It was subtly lit. A place of enchantment. White doves fluttered around in it. A pair settled on the rim of the fountain; one hopped in and quivered its wings in the water.

She felt him come up behind her. Caress her hair. Kiss her on the side of her neck. She was still dressed as she had been for lunch in Florence. They had gone from The Loggia in the Villa San Michele directly to a waiting plane. He placed his arms around her waist and drew her back against him. He unbuckled the wide belt that cinched her waist and drew it slowly from around her, whispering in her ear, ‘You say you’re mine? Show me how much you are mine.’ He raised the linen skirt up over her thighs, which he caressed, and then up over her bottom until he had it around her waist. He whispered again, ‘I have a yen to drink cum from your cunt. Fill your cunt for me so I can quench my thirst.’ He knew she could not resist talk like that from him. He felt her slipping under the spell of Eros. Felt the gentle pelvic gyrations beneath his touch. ‘Lara, you’re the loveliest, most sensual lady, it’s so easy to lose myself with you.’ Gently, he pushed her away from him, and leaned her over the balcony rail. There was hardly a sound but for the cooing of the doves below, the occasional flutter of their wings as they flew from ledge to fountain to ledge in the courtyard.

She could scarcely speak: huskiness afflicted her voice. ‘Someone will see.’

‘Only the doves.’

He had no need to ask her. She widened her stance so
that her legs were as far apart as possible. He raised her bottom and gently slid his fingers along the already moist slit. She sighed, coming in gentle orgasms. He tortured her with the slowness with which he entered her, and, once deep inside her, lifted her off the balcony rail and carried her thus back into the room and on to the floor. He withdrew slowly then replaced his cock with his mouth, and did indeed quench his thirst for her.