"Effendi, thou wilt not refuse me this?" Her hands— the small-boned, exquisite hands of the Touareg aristocrat— held his gently as a child's soft fingers. Destins shivered under their touch.
He was so enchanted that for long moments he could only stand there stiff and stupid as a waxwork, watching the play of her features, her fathomless eyes under tear-wet lashes, her skin smooth and creamy as a deep tea-rose, and her mouth— crimson as her rich robe— pleading, lovely, irresistible.
He stooped to her, lifted her from her knees, holding her as if he feared his touch might break the spell, that she might melt and vanish in his clasp.
Her night-dark eyes were on a level with his own, and he saw that they were blue, not black, as he first believed. He drew her closer to him... closer, his e
