Romance / The Demon Lover Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Several hours later, Angel stood surveying herself with a frown in the full-length-mirrored doors of Karim’s closet. According to the digital radio clock on the dresser, it was not quite 7 p.m. but he’d said—be ready, sevenish—so she was starting to feel jumpy and nervous.
Earlier this afternoon, Karim had left, come back in to check on her several hours later, then breezed out again with a black garment bag over his shoulder. He’d also taken black dress shoes and pilfered a few smaller items from his dresser, which he tossed into his beat-up gym bag. He did say he was going down to visit with Abed, but otherwise, he’d scarcely looked at her. He’d tossed a few instructions over his shoulder on his way out the door, one of which included—along with the time she needed to be ready, ‘black dress… Look nice.’ And something about a party… The thought of which seemed strange beyond belief to top off an already strange day…
So he was going to squire her, the prize hostage, around at an event which required cocktail attire? But after the day she’d had—this most bizarre day of her life, pushing to the back of her mind even memories of highjacking and basement dwelling—she’d ceased to ponder all but the most unsettling of incongruities that had happened with such frequency this day, minute by minute, that she was left now with only a surreal kind of numbness. So she had on the black dress like he‘d ordered—except that she couldn’t reach the zipper to get it up all the way up in the back.
She turned slowly from side to side while glancing in the mirror, pulling the fabric taunt across her breasts, biting her lip as she surveyed herself with a critical frown. Even though she couldn’t read the tag, which was in French, she could tell the fit was going so much nicer when she got it zipped than the too-tight red dress she‘d worn this morning. She sighed in relief. (That other one had made her look like a hooker, which she guessed was the point of it anyway.)
Angel tried not to dwell on the whole red dress experience again, but stared back at her reflection, watching as a fiery blush crept its way back up her neck for the zillionth time. Well at least she still could… blush. She’d wondered earlier if she would make it through to this point with even a shred of dignity or moral fortitude intact. Of course, if she stopped to dwell on everything she’d had to blush or cringe about since last night when Dr. Abed had put her to bed, she’d never be ready when Karim came for her.
She couldn’t believe how casually—in fact how intimately his name seemed to glide in and out of her thoughts now. She felt her cheeks flame again—in fact, her whole body suddenly went warm and tingly—at least in all the places he’d explored with his mouth and hands, which left out, maybe, anything below her knees… And he’d certainly not missed any part with his eyes—not even her ankle with the ankle bracelet, or the polished toes.
…And he’d expected her to get some rest this afternoon? Again, he’d pretty much ordered it. But what she’d actually done was just lay there, simmering—which alternated with tremble, singe and slow burn, and she couldn’t lie to herself further—it hadn’t been due to the summer heat creeping in through the laboring air ducts in the room.
Angel attempted to insert into her ear lobe one of the exquisite, rhinestone earrings Majed had produced for her, but her hands were so unsteady she dropped the earring twice before she finally got it through the tiny hole, then started working on the other one. She felt like a terrified teenager getting ready to go out on the big date with the best looking guy in school. Her hair had all but wilted in the tepid shower she’d taken earlier, so she‘d washed it again. Rather than do the whole roller-thing over again, she’d relied on her hair’s natural body and loose curls, then lightly teased up the front and sides back from her face—like Ruth Ann had performed on her a thousand times before for a date or special event.
Of course, she would have preferred to have worn it up in an elegant twist. This would have flattered the more classic styling of the dress. But she’d had to cover the ugly marks Karim had put on her neck. It still filled her with disquiet that he’d done that to her. However, the reasons behind what he did were far more disturbing to her at this point than what he‘d done and how he‘d treated her this morning… Far more sinister. She did understand this now. In fact, she saw a lot of things in clearer light, but there was so much more that remained fuzzy. Karim wasn’t completely exonerated in her mind—not by a long shot, but one thing she knew without a trace of doubt was that in spite of his surly, foul-mouthed and far too blunt manner, he really was trying to protect her.
She might have felt like she’d descended into a Twilight Zone rerun ever since she‘d come to this place, but this morning’s meeting with the real Chief Terrorist had proven to her that things could always get more menacing—bordering on the macabre. Last week, yesterday or even last night—the Angel who pouted because her sensible underwear had been removed from her bag would certainly have been shocked down to her toes (that were not polished red) by a man who would eat grape jelly off her thigh. But she realized now, this man was her life line, all that stood between her and a far worse fate.
She’d met true evil face-to-face today, and she’d recognized with instant clarity the difference between that horrible scar-faced man who’d decided she was his property and what Karim was trying to pull off. She just wished he would tell her when he was acting, and when it was time to take him dead-serious. Who was the real Karim El Azhar?
Angel frowned again at herself in the mirror. She didn’t like the way her hair seemed untouchable. She knew he liked her hair, so she combed through it again with her fingers for a more loose affect.
She flushed red again, but there was no use lying further to herself. It made her angry. It made her feel ashamed. But she might as well admit it. She wanted to look good for him. Her knees felt like they might buckle any minute as she slid into the black high heels, but right now—to her—he was Superman, her unlikely hero. This morning, when the terrorist leader had tossed her like a so much garbage—a scrap of leftover food—toward The Animal, Karim had coolly reached out for her. He seemed unfazed that Ian’s hand was going for his gun, and that the tension in the room had increased to the level of igniting sticks of dynamite. When she’d reached the protective circle of his arms, it was the first time since she’d stepped onto the plane in Rome that she’d felt truly, absolutely, one-hundred percent safe.
Feeling that spreading tingle again, Angel took it out a little on her hair, achieving a bit more of a wild look than she was trying for. She hurriedly started over.
So what are you going to do now, she fumed with herself, reward him with your body in gratitude to him for not being the one to toss you to the dogs today? She reminded herself that he had, after all, been the one who’d brought her into this situation in the first place…
When he tired of her… What about when that happened? And it was sure to happen—just as the terrorist leader had pointed out, and Karim himself had admitted to as much. A man like him surely went through women like a precision bowler laid down pins. He certainly knew when to dish out the sizzling glances, how to use that low, seductive growl that crept into his voice… He sensed just exactly where to put his hands, his mouth, and what to do with them at just the right moment when you’d thought you’d made up your mind you could resist…
Angel felt a new wave of heat boil a path from her pounding heart down to her lower extremities. She swayed under the assault and wondered if she should sit down for a minute.
No, he’d be here anytime now… The thought was not one of comfort. She felt like she was melting, and he hadn‘t touched her in hours.
Oh my God, Angel, get hold of yourself, she commanded, but even that prompted more distressing thoughts of him—the way he said her name—like a silken caress, but brimming over with sexual innuendo.
‘What is it that you want, Angel?’ He’d ask her that before lunch, and even now, she wasn’t sure. One thing she was clear on. He wanted her. He’d told her point blank and she was still reeling from shock at the frank way he expressed himself sexually, like he was suggesting a casual game of checkers. But he kissed like it was a life or death proposition. His heartbeat when she’d placed her hand against his chest had been like the revving up of an engine going into overdrive. The intensity of him frightened her, even as it intrigued and drew her like a magnet. Maybe she was that kind of woman. Maybe it just took someone like him to bring out in her all these wanton, decidedly unladylike passions. Or maybe it was inherited, because Ruth Ann had never tried to cover up the fact that she was also the more earthy sort.
Poor excuse, Angel. And there really was no one like him. He was one of a kind—of that she was certain—unless one counted the dangerous beauty of Milton’s Lucifer before the fall… That was the best thing she could think of for now—unless she started once more detailing his physical attributes in her mind, and that, right now, would be complete, utter stupidity…
She made herself focus only on finishing up so he’d have no reason to scowl and rattle doors when he arrived. She did hope he’d control his temper a little better tonight. If not, she was certainly in for a trying evening.
She paused, staring at her reflection in the mirror, more satisfied. Her hair looked more sleek now—still full enough, but more like something he could run his hands through.
She sighed and held up the necklace that matched the rhinestone earrings now sparkling and brushing against her cheeks when she leaned forward. She decided against the necklace as it seemed a bit much with curve of the dress‘s heart-shaped bodice and its the off-shoulder styling. The earrings were more flash than she was used to by far and she tried not to think of whose expensive jewelry, designer dresses with French tags and wispy, barely there black panties and sheer thigh high stockings she was wearing now.
No, she was not going to go there either… It made no difference at all in the scheme of things. Look nice, black dress—those were his orders. She doubted he’d care a whit if she minded that she was wearing another woman’s clothes. One woman was probably the same as any other to him anyway. As in, ‘Sweetheart, whatever your name is…’
Well, at least he’d established—pretty well by now—that he did know her name…
Bastard.
But a very persuasive one to be sure, when he chose to be…
On her wrist, Angel secured the bracelet that went with the set, then tugged at the low-cut bodice, relieved that this dress also had a built-in bra so she didn’t have to wear the borrowed strapless push-up bra like she’d worn this morning. It had underwire and had left red marks when she’d pulled it off.
She tugged at the off-shoulder straps to get just the right line, and decided, yes, she did like this dress better. It had more taste and elegance about it. Clingy, but not vulgar—and not too, too short either—but still about five inches above her knees. The black heels were also more of a classic design than those torture devises from today, and not so ridiculously high and impractical.
She checked her makeup one more time, glad she’d gone with her own deep rose pink lipstick, and that she’d skipped the eyeliner. She’d went with a little more smoky eye shadow for evening, and the thick, full-lashed-look with the mascara, which, thank God—unlike hers she’d lost when she’d dumped her purse—this was waterproof. Around this place, one had to be prepared at any moment for drama.
She thought about using just a dab of the other woman’s French perfume behind her ears, but also decided against it. Actually, even with a bit of annoyance. She’d rather smell like strawberry shampoo than be reminded constantly, all night, that he knew and appreciated another woman’s scent. Another stupid thought, and another new revelation about herself. She was not sure she’d ever had a jealous thought like that in her life. It was just not in her repertoire of faults, although she certainly had plenty. And she’d certainly never struggled with such wild, strange emotions like this—and in particular—over a man. She’d always thought that was for women like Ruth Ann, who could not control their impulses when a good-looking face went together well with a hard, muscular body and a seductive gleam in their eyes. While most of them could not have Karim’s propensity for smoldering stares, she now had more sympathy.
Okay, Angel… So, suck it up… She gave herself a final warning. After all, what possible difference could it make how many women he’d had or was planning to have in the future? She realized she’d suddenly made up her mind. No matter his persistence, her goal had to be—moral fortitude. Resistance. At least for as long as she could hold out…
She renewed her struggle with the zipper, but the back of the dress dipped to just below her shoulder blades where she couldn’t reach. She had her back to the door and hadn’t felt the need to slide the deadbolt in place with the young guys out in the main room. They were always polite enough to knock. She was still so lost in thought that she didn’t hear the soft click of the door opening, but saw Karim out of the corner of her eye in the mirror, also clad in black, approaching her from behind.
Angel froze, dropping her hands as she felt his breath stir her hair. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for strength as she felt his hands at her back, lifting away her hair and draping it over one shoulder. She heard the quick, efficient slide of the zipper before he leaned down to press a light kiss at the curve of her neck, then brushed his lips along her bare shoulder. There was passion behind the seductive slide of his mouth, but also an unnerving coolness, like he was holding back on some of the ardor he’d burned with earlier.
“Mmmm, Angel,” he breathed softly. This time his lips grazed her ear. She felt the tingle all the way down to her toes.
She turned to face him, opening her eyes when she felt his hands come to rest lightly on either side of her waist. He didn’t pull her against him as she half-expected, but held her at a little less than arm’s length. He might have seemed more reserved tonight, but for his eyes—which seemed on fire, burning a slow path downward, traveling over her full-length. Coming back up, his gaze lingered on her bust line and the hint of cleavage which this dress more tastefully accented. When he finally met her eyes he broke into a breathtaking smile that lightened his gaze to a warm mahogany color.
“You look stunning,” he said, drawing her just slightly closer.
“Thank you,” she whispered, barely able to find her voice. She knew she was also staring, but while she’d thought it a dozen of times now, tonight confirmed that he was absolutely the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. He was dressed in an expensive-looking black suit—no tie, and a crisp white linen shirt, opened at throat just enough to expose a glimpse of chest hair. He did wear a single gold chain that gleamed against his tan skin, and black Italian leather shoes. The evening’s humidity had his hair curling a little more than usual so that dark loose curls and feathery waves brushed with striking contract against the white collar of his shirt. He smelled faintly of the same spicy aftershave she’d detected on his sheets.
“So I clean up well, do I?” He said with a charming sweep of inky lashes like Nidal had tried on her far less effectively, even using a similar line.
“You do look nice…” Angel tried to sound nonchalant, but it was obvious from his comment and his lingering grin he knew she’d been checking him out. For once, his arrogance didn’t seem so infuriating.
“So, let’s go.” He took her hand, brushed his mouth against the back of it, then put himself in the lead, pulling open the door then hanging back to guide her through with a light hand to her back. He also let her walk down the hall for herself, with him falling in behind her. He said casually. “They’ve got the air up and running again downstairs, so its pleasant.”
The three young men and Hassan were seated on the couch and chairs around the T.V. except for Majed, who stood halfway between the center of the room and the hall doorway with his rifle. It was obvious he was still on duty and seemed relieved to see Karim and Angel emerge. He still wore jeans and a tee shirt, but the rest—like Karim—were spit-and-polish. Nidal was also in black but with a light blue silk shirt. Mustafa looked more mature for him in a russet brown and cream. They both stood to their feet when Angel appeared, and she noted that their suits looked almost as expensive-looking in cut as Karim’s, and were certainly European designer quality. Hassan wore a light blue leisure suit that had a 1970s look, with a colorful floral patterned shirt. He still looked a bit rumpled—but nice for him. He also stood up and cut off the T.V., reaching for his rifle.
Karim took Angel’s hand lightly in his and threaded her through the other men toward the door. Nidal fell in behind and the rest followed. She noticed that once out the door, Majed headed in the opposite direction from them—toward a back staircase they’d used this morning. Hassan had his rifle, but she didn’t think Karim, Nidal and Mustafa were armed until they started down the hallway and all three—almost simultaneously—produced handguns from somewhere inside their coats as the group neared the elevators. At first, Angel felt alarmed, but the men continued to talk to one another in Arabic in normal tones, so she relaxed her shoulders and focused on walking effortlessly and with grace in high heels. At least Karim kept his pace moderate and hadn’t jerked or pulled her along yet like his usual style. Once in the elevator, he stepped into the corner to make room for the others, gently pulling Angel backward against him without force. Angel darted a quizzical glance over her shoulder at him, but he seemed to be watching Nidal as the younger man did his usual punching buttons and banging on the control panel before they could start their descent.
Karim made an acidy comment to no one in particular as the doors swished open onto the lobby. After a quick glance around, he secreted the gun back into an inner pocket in his coat.
Angel wondered if she’d stepped into another world. The red carpet she stepped out onto was now vacuumed clean and there were no smells. Strings of tiny white lights twinkled in the potted palms and there were no sweaty, fatigue-clad men with guns and Al Quds scarves—just more men in suits and a few in dress uniforms. There were pretty women hanging from some of the men’s arms, and interspersed about within the groups, dressed similar to herself. Looking around, she actually saw no ugly women at all, but the men seemed to come in all shapes and sizes.
They started across the lobby with Karim’s hand still casually clasping hers. Men and women stared, but Karim seemed unbothered by all the attention. He was probably used to being stared at, but Angel had to resist the impulse to lift a hand up to her face to shield herself from the steady bombardment of eyes on her.
She told herself, Remember, the Queen of all Tennessee—just like the last time she’d crossed this space…
She found that she was able to keep her shoulders back and her head high if she focused. So she wouldn’t have to return the stares, Angel kept her eyes glued on the back of Karim’s head as he wove them around both the large and small groupings of people milling about with cigars, cigarettes and drinks in their hand.
Hassan had separated from them just out of the elevator. Now she could hear Nidal and Mustafa, still behind her, calling out to people they knew—mostly in the younger groups. When she glanced behind her, the two had also drifted off in their own direction.
Karim suddenly paused and shoved a hand into his pants pocket. He pulled her in closer to him but let go of her hand for just long enough to slide onto a finger of his right hand the gold ruby ring he’d worn on the plane. When he took Angel’s hand again, she fancied she could feel the coolness of the ring against her palm. She had the sudden urge to pull away from his grasp, but knew the gesture would be an exercise in futility. As if he sensed her disquiet, his eyes met hers, but his expression seemed closed-off, unreadable.
With his hand now at her back, Karim started to guide her around another group of people in their way who were staring at them and whispering behind drink glasses and clouds of smoke. A slender but well-built man with a receding hairline and eyes almost as dark as Karim’s turned and greeted him. Clinging to his arm, he had a striking blonde girl who looked no more than about nineteen. The man looked about Hassan’s age. The way his eyes flecked over Angel as he and Karim talked made her uncomfortable. She found herself backing up against Karim, who wound a hand casually around her waist and continued the light exchange.
“This is Sayyid,” Karim said to her at some point. He added, with a hint of the same suggestive sarcasm in his voice he’d used with Ismaili this morning, “Sayyid, this is our guest… We call her Angel.”
“Yes, I heard.” Sayyid also reverted to English. Obviously, he’d been one of the ones in the room this morning. His gaze settled on her chest area before rising with a leer to her face. He took Angel by surprise by seizing one of her hands and planting a slow, lingering kiss on the back of it. He muttered something in Arabic that made Karim laugh, but he also reached out and lightly disengaged Angel’s hand from Sayyid’s grasp.
Angel noticed that neither man bothered to introduce the girl at Sayyid‘s side. It struck Angel as odd that the young woman had pretty much continued to stare down at the floor throughout the entire conversation.
To Angel’s relief, Karim finally decided to move on, heading toward several tables set against the far wall that were draped with white linen table cloths and spread with elegantly arranged hors d’ Oeuvres. Karim went for the table with liquor bottles lined up in precise rows.
He ordered a rum and coke from the waiter dressed in a white jacket and black tie behind the table.
“Angel… champagne, wine?”
She shook her head no.
“Volnay Premiere Cru Champans, this year’s if you have it—for the lady,” he said anyway to the waiter, who produced a bottle with proficiency, poured, then handed Angel a champagne glass with effervescence rising.
They turned from the table. She looked at Karim questioningly. “I really don’t drink…”
“Yeah, I heard all about it.” He grinned back at her. Angel frowned. She thought she’d picked up the word “Arak“ in his conversation with the doctor over lunch. “Just look like your sipping it… They’ll be calling us into dinner soon. And by the way—I forgot to mention this, but do use that bolt lock when you‘re in the bedroom alone. You have my permission.”
“Oh, well I guess I was afraid you might break the door down in one of your moods,” Angel grumbled.
He laughed, but said firmly, “Well, just don’t give me any excuse…”
Angel’s attention was suddenly seized by a commotion near the lobby entrance. Others in the room turned as the doors to the outside opened and about 30 men in green military fatigues with rifles filed in. They pointed the rifles at the crowd, barking gruff orders and gesturing for everyone to back up. These were followed by several no-nonsense looking men in dark suits, buttoned up and with ties. Some actually wore mirror sunglasses even though it was indoors and night was falling. They also entered at a brisk pace, hands tensely thrust inside their suit jackets. At their approach, Karim pulled Angel back, then held her loosely against him with one arm, the other hand still casually holding his drink. He seemed unconcerned, so Angel tried to not to be too alarmed when she caught site of several of the huge black men she’d seen standing guard over the Terror Leader this morning. These fell in behind the men in suits, followed by more men with rifles spread out in a cluster around a central figure, which Angel realized was the Terror Lord himself, in a dress military uniform, making his grand entrance. She was amazed that several flashes from cameras went off from around the crowd as he passed.
Walking just a few paces behind him, within a mixed group of mostly men and a few women, was a small, strikingly beautiful dark-haired woman. She had on a Grecian-style beige gown that matched the beige tones of her skin. She had most unusual oblique eyes and walked with a fluid grace that reminded Angel of sleek, pampered cat. More of the black guards followed, then more men in suits.
Angel tried not to cringe when she caught sight of the blonde Englishman, standing almost a head taller than the other men around him. He was dressed head-to-toe in all-white, except for a black silk shirt and vest. He’d been in with the group walking behind the terrorist leader, and was dragging along a very young, terrified-looking oriental girl who didn’t come up to his armpits. The girl looked like she’d been crying.
Angel was startled when Karim steered her into the mixed entourage directly behind the dark-haired woman, moving in slightly ahead of Ian and the young girl.
The first wave of armed men had thrown open double doors to another cavernous room that appeared to be a former ballroom set up with banquet tables with more white linen table cloths, napkins, gleaming silver utensils and water and wine glasses positioned in proper order at each seat. Floral centerpieces and votive candles added another touch she hadn’t been expecting that reminded Angel—rather bizarrely—of a wedding reception. Similar to the morning set-up, the head tables formed a squared off horseshoe shape with open space in the middle. There were more round tables situated around the main horseshoe. At the far end of the room, on the opposite wall from the head table, she saw that a band was setting up. They had on clothing that seemed Egyptian—like the Shriners at home she’d seen in parades. There were potted palms and groupings of couches, coffee tables and chairs lining the walls and another table with more liquor bottles in the wide open space between the band and the banqueting area. A series of disco balls on the ceiling and colored track lights gave the effect of being in a nightclub setting, although right now there was normal lighting, dimmed only enough to bring out the twinkle of the candles on the tables.
While Ismaili settled in, his burly guards taking their places along the wall behind him, Karim led Angel around the horseshoe and at first, she feared they were heading up to the lead table. Instead, he stopped at a point about mid-way down from where the perpendicular table joined the terrorist leader’s table. He pulled out a chair for her and placed his hand on her back to ease her into the chair. The tables were not set up in a crowded manner. He took the chair beside her to her right, and once seated, Karim scooted Angel’s chair and her place setting closer to him. So close in fact that her thigh brushed his under the table. He took the full champagne glass she still grasp in her hand and swallowed it down to about halfway. “You should try this—its good. This year’s won a medal,” he commented, setting the glass back in front of her. She noticed his own drink had more than half still left. The ice was starting to melt.
“Thank you, but I’d better not,” Angel said, reaching for her water glass. “I’m Scots-Irish, with a little Indian thrown in. Take my word, its not a great combination for drinking. In my family, its usually all-or-nothing.”
Knowing what he obviously did from the doctor about her experience with Arak, Angel thought he was trying the tactic of plying her with alcohol, but he seemed strangely pleased with her answer. His arm went around to her back, playing through her hair before settling around her shoulders. His eyes flecked distractedly around the room as the other guests from the lobby began to trickle in and take seats.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked, not really knowing what prompted her, but his eyes looked so far away—pensive again.
His gaze returned to her face, eyes showing a flicker of surprise that she would ask. He gave a short laugh. “Cowboys and Indians,” he said smoothly, the warm mahogany gleam making its return to his eyes.
His thumb began to lightly stroke her bare shoulder. Angel was surprised when the chair next to her pulled out and Hassan sat down, his rifle nowhere in sight. Nidal and Mustafa also appeared, pulling out the chairs directly across the table from them.
“Angel, I didn’t have a chance to tell you earlier, but you look gorgeous,” Nidal said, casting a look over at Mustafa that Angel now knew meant he’d used ‘gorgeous’ successfully in a sentence. As usual, his eyes danced with excitement. With a big grin, he plucked a red carnation from the centerpiece in front of her and leaned over the table to tuck it in her hair before he sat down.
She honestly couldn’t help but smile back at him. Karim reached up and plucked the flower out, then inserted it more carefully behind her ear. He seemed amused but slightly miffed.
“Don’t work too hard at it,” Karim grumbled, but Nidal laughed and downed the rest of the beer in the bottle he’d sat down on the table in front of him.
“You said we could get loose tonight. You’re not taking it back on us, Cuz,” Nidal said.
Mustafa nudged him, and they both turned around to check out two girls of about their age walking behind them. One was a curvy blonde, and the other a more slender Arabic-looking girl with a sweet face and the gentle doe eyes. Nidal wasted no time scrambling back up from his chair and grabbed the passing blonde by the hand. She turned and smiled at him. He whispered something in her ear and both girls followed him over to where Mustafa sat, now looking slightly red-faced.
“There’s room,” Nidal said, and wasted no time locating two empty chairs down the line. Mustafa jumped up and helped grab them. He also ran back and swiped the more important parts of the table settings. Angel noticed that Nidal—in imitation of Karim, placed his hand lightly on the back of each girl in turn to help her into her seat. He put the two girls in the middle, but seated the blonde next to himself.
He flagged down a passing white-coat-with-black-tie waiter and ordered another beer for himself and Mustafa, Chablis for the girls, then looked at her. “Angel, would you like something?”
“I’m good, thank you,” she replied.
Karim handed Nidal his watered down but still over half-full glass to give to the waiter. “Tell him to bring me a fresh rum and Coke… And bring Angel more water.” He added with a scowl, “I wish they’d hurry up with the food, I’m starved.”
Angel glanced at him. She hoped he didn’t get too grumpy like Uncle John and Grandpa when he was hungry. Men tended to do that. She noted that at least he’d not said the “F” word yet all evening. But the night was young… He pulled her in closer to him, so that her head rested against his shoulder. He actually seemed quite relaxed with her leaning against him, but Angel wasn’t sure she could say the same for herself. His other hand came to rest on her thigh for a moment under the table, but the waiter returned fairly rapidly with the drink order, and he had to remove it to receive the rum and Coke and her water.
Nidal had introduced the two girls as Ekaterina (the blonde one) from the Ukraine, and Mona, who was native Lebanese.
Nidal gestured toward Angel. “Malaak,” he said to the dark haired girl.
To Angel, Karim said, “That’s your name in Arabic, Malaak. It means Angel.”
“What does your name mean?” she asked.
She was surprised when he laughed. “It doesn’t really fit…”
He took a sip of his drink, and at first she thought he wasn’t going to tell her, but then he said, “Generous… It means generous.”
“Karim thinks it refers to portions of his anatomy, not his disposition,” Nidal threw in.
“Habibi, not in front of the ladies,” Karim chided, but his hand had come back to her thigh under the table. She turned around toward him and saw that he was smiling again. He met her eyes with a suggestive lift of his brows. Angel blushed. He laughed again and brought the hand up to rest at her waist.
Nidal was saying, “Now Hassan here means beautiful, Mustafa is, lordly, masterful. Mine is like—a warrior, a gladiator—pretty cool, huh?” he turned to the blonde girl beside him, who giggled and allowed him to place his arm around her. Angel felt a deep sigh from Karim as if he was starting to get restless again.
“We all thought Nidal meant full of b.s…. That‘s American for bullshit,” Karim said, rather absently.
“Lame, really lame for you,” Nidal commented.
Karim didn’t answer, but Angel noticed that he was now staring over at the terrorist leader’s table. With the light banter, she’d almost forgotten their close proximity—a mere twenty or so feet—from the man Angel was sure Mustafa had correctly identified as Satan. Had she thought Karim was the devil at one point? She now knew the difference… Ismaili was not looking at them at this moment, but gesturing for one of the men in suits to lean down so he could whisper some instruction to him. The terrorist leader then cut his eyes in Karim and Angel’s direction before being distracted by something being said by the pretty dark-haired woman, now seated on his left. Adding to her disquiet, she noted that Ian and the little Oriental girl were seated to Ismaili’s right.
“How old is that girl?” Angel asked.
Karim followed her gaze then said tightly, “Angel sweetheart, let‘s don‘t do the twenty questions thing tonight, okay? Some things just are the way they are. You can‘t change them…”
She heard Nidal mutter, “And speaking of bullshit…”
Karim and Nidal exchanged glances. Sure enough, the man in the suit had come around the table and was heading directly for Karim. He politely nodded towards Angel and the others, then bent over and whispered something to Karim in Arabic, and gestured toward the terrorist leader. Karim stood up, and the man stepped back, staring toward the band as they started up with the first notes of a driving melody with heavy middle eastern flavor. Karim looked again to Nidal, then to Hassan, who had a hand inside his jacket. She saw the older man give a barely perceptible nod, which caused Karim’s frown to deepen for some reason. His hand lingered on Angel’s shoulder for a moment, as if he was torn between leaving or taking her with him.
“Angel, if you’ll excuse me for a just a minute. I’ll be right back. You’ll be alright, darling… Just stay right here with the guys.” Karim sent a short nod toward Hassan and left to follow the man in the suit.
Picking up on Karim’s concern, Angel she felt her own pulse quicken with alarm, but strangely, Hassan, who seemed concerned this morning that she might be an infidel—gave her his own reassuring nod before his fierce eyes stared back off into space.
Angel’s flower fell out of her hair. She absently tucked it back into the centerpiece. Nidal was making much of Ekaterina’s concern for his stitches, Mona and Mustafa were smiling and looking deep into each other‘s eyes, but Angel couldn’t take hers off Karim. He rounded the table, walking with his usual fluidity and easy grace. A woman grabbed his hand as he passed and he paused long enough to whisper something in her ear and leave her with a smile. Angel hated the way she felt a little pinch of annoyance as the woman’s calculating gaze continued to follow him until he approached the terrorist leader and leaned down. Several minutes ticked by. The two men talked, seemingly casual, both looking towards Angel at one point, then Karim straightened up and started back with an unreadable expression.
More concerned with Karim’s frown and what it meant, it took a moment for Angel to realize that the beautiful dark-haired woman at Ismaili’s side was staring directly at her now. Their eyes met and Angel detected the hint of a warm, thoughtful smile playing about the woman’s lips before she turned away. Karim slid into his chair and pulled Angel close again. He took a long drink from his water glass before he said, “Everything’s fine.”
With a rare serious expression, Nidal leaned in. “What did he want?”
The waiters came now with baskets of bread and salad arranged artfully on plates. Karim reminded Nidal, “Start with the fork furthest from your plate…”
“Spill, Karim, damn, we’re all freaking out here…”
“He just wanted to know why I didn’t take my usual place,” Karim said, voice low. He glanced at Nidal with warning, then looked at the two girls. Like Hassan and Mustafa, they were looking at the band, and some male dancers who were starting to come forward into the room with swords and flaming torches. Angel could barely hear Karim over the sudden roar of approval of the crowd and the increasing tempo of the music. The lighting also dimmed. Swirling greens, blues and reds began to flash from the ceiling.
“And?” Nidal prodded, increasing his volume slightly.
“And—I told him the truth, that sitting up there would make Angel uncomfortable. I reminded him again that he did entrust me with her care.” He pulled his arm from around Angel so she could eat. Angel spread the fancy linen napkin over her lap and picked up her salad fork, but noticed that Karim still hadn’t picked up his. He threw Nidal another meaningful glance. “I told him he might think of showing some Arab hospitality to his other hostage. Perhaps treat him more in the capacity of a carefully guarded guest—rather than keeping him downstairs like some medieval war lord. It would impress his enemies—could even be entertaining…”
“What’d he say?”
“He said, ‘Why Karim, that is true. We want the world to know we are not animals, we are civilized people.’” Angel thought only she heard Karim add, “Fucker,” under his breath.
Karim swallowed more water, then drank a little of his untouched rum and Coke and watched Angel eat. His expression seemed very closed and forbidding now. Angel pretended to be more interested in the dancers, who swirled and leapt over one another and staged mock fights with their swords. After only a few bites, she put the fork on her plate and pushed it aside. A waiter standing in readiness nearby immediately came and whisk it away.
She felt a little shy about it, but she finally turned toward Karim. “I-I thought you said you were starving…”
It was almost as if her voice snapped him out a trance. His eyes slowly regained some animation as they searched her face—they had been flat black. But he continued to frown. He seemed almost disturbed by her concern. “Yes, pass the bread and butter,” he said finally. “I was actually just waiting on the real food. Damn, they know how to drag this shit out…”
She heard Hassan on her other side mutter something that sounded in agreement.
She picked up the bread basket in front of her and held it out first to Karim, then Hassan, both of which took two of the dainty looking braided rolls. She passed them butter. Hassan declined. He was already stuffing the second little roll into his mouth. Angel was thinking, ‘Good Lord, somebody please feed these men something other than edible art before somebody starts shooting at disco balls…’
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I haven’t read the previous chapter, so I don’t know how or why Karim put the marks on her. (I can guess what kind) It seems that either he wants to create an impression of her being no more than a western whore, or does he want to put a mark of “possession” on her.
Again, sometimes the pages describing what Angel is thinking/feeling/doing start to feel a little drawn out. It would be appropriate for her to be feeling confused, frightened, and with what Karim is doing to her, used. I would also at this point say that if Angel is not already starting to suffer from the “Stockholm Syndrome”, especially with her growing attraction to Karim, she will be very soon.
I just wish that Angel were a more interesting person. There seems to be no fire inside her, no spirit, nothing really evident that she has a strong will and ability to survive. Angel becomes a much more interesting character when she is put in a sitution where others are present, and her personality seems to feed off them. This is especially true when she is with Karim. She seems be become much less bland.
If I were to pick one thing to change, just one, I would try to find a different title for the “Terror Leader” or the “Terror Lord”, whichever he actually is. Here would be an especially good opportunity to make use of your Arabic and use whichever word would be appropriate. The word could be translated back to English, but I would continue with the Arabic. The title of this person needs something that reads less awkwardly.
Since this is taking place in Beirut, I am guessing that it’s around 1983. It’s a funny thing, but it could also be placed in present day Lebanon with the situation happening there, as well as with Hamas and the West Bank.
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