She wore no belt, and the dress fell away. Under it was a white silk chemise without sleeves. Still standing behind her, he dropped his hands gently on her small, square shoulders and slid the chemise down. His eyes followed its fall, savoring her delicate shoulder blades, the shadowed hollow of her back. All that remained now were light green hose attached to a wisp of silk that girdled her hips. Sophia shivered, and he knew it was not the cold, though the storm was blowing a strong, moist breeze through the partly opened window. He put his hands on her shoulders, firmly now, and turned her around. She threw back her head and laughed as he stared at her breasts and bit his lower lip. What Daoud carried under his black gown felt as big and heavy as a mace. He dropped to one knee before her. He reached around to her buttocks, his palms tingling at their cool firmness, and he slid down the last of her garments. She stood, all exposed, before him. "Will I not see you naked?" she said with a throaty chuckle. "Is that the Turkish way, for the man to remain clothed?" "You will soon learn what the Turkish way is, my lady." He leaned forward, still genuflecting, and dropped a dozen light kisses on her belly and thighs, and then buried his face in the rich triangle of hair between her legs and kissed her deeply. She cried out in surprise and pleasure. Suddenly he stood up and swung her up in his arms like a Bedouin chieftain carrying his bride to his tent. She laughed delightedly. She felt as light as a child. He strode across the room to the bed and laid her down. He wrestled his black silk gown over his head and threw it off. Quickly he pulled off the locket Blossoming Reed had given him and dropped it on the gown. He stood over her, looking down at her, and letting her look her fill at him. "The blond Turk," she said in Greek with a small smile, and moved her hips from side to side. Slowly she reached up to her head and pulled free the net of pearls woven into her hair. Long locks, black as raven's wings, spread out around her head on the pillow. "I must look like Medusa," she said. "Who?" "A woman with snakes for hair. Men who saw her were turned to stone." He remembered now: In a bazaar at El Kahira he had listened to the story of the she-monster. "The sight of you would bring a stone to life," he said. "Ah, but part of you is already hard as stone. How long are you going to stand there? I want you." The yearning in her voice made something vibrate inside him, as if she had plucked a taut string in his very soul. He was seized by a violent urge to throw himself upon her and take her at once. And she would welcome it, too, he knew. But this moment was too precious to be allowed to pass so quickly. He sank to his knees and reached out to pull her hips to the edge of the bed. She squirmed across the bed to help him. * * * * *