The Book of the Seven Delights (34 page)

"'Begin by disrobing,'" she read, then lowered the scroll. "It's too darned cold to take our clothes off.

And what's that got to do with dancing, anyway?"

"I suspect they'll find a way to heat things up." He kissed and bathed her neck with hot breath. "Read on and find out."

"In loving there will always be rhythms. The swaying of bodies walking side by side… the pounding of hearts… the lapping of body against body… the rise and fall of breasts in breathing… the undulations of hips in a dance of seduction… the utterances of lovers as they ride the crest of fulfillment…"

"See?" His fingers slid under her golden breastplate. "You're getting warmer already."

She inhaled sharply, taking command of her senses and forcing her attention back to the book.

" 'Lovers must explore the rhythms of their togetherness and find those which are most pleasing… for, the combinations of movement and frequency will be as unique to each pair of lovers as their individual faces and bodies are unique from all other faces and bodies. To begin… kneel and join hands… rocking slightly back and forth until you feel yourselves moving as one. Then stand and hold each other in an embrace, rocking slowly together, side to side. When harmony is reached, vary it and rock so that your bodies brush lightly against each other and separate at the end of each passing. Slowly increase the pressure as you brush against one another, until you can no longer part. Then you are ready for the next step…

Apollo's voice was low and provocative in her ear.

"I think I could skip right to step two."

The delight of
dancing
sounded almost too simple, but in practice was surprisingly enthralling, even with a few garments left in place. When they finally did progress to step two, where they were directed to rock and rub and thrust in a variety of rhythmic encounters, they were hard-pressed not to sink into wild, spontaneous lovemaking. Not surprisingly, the book seemed to foresee that impulse and warned against abandoning control and the spoiling the learning. " 'To persevere and learn control is to learn the essence of wisdom in loving.'"

So they lay together, mostly naked and not yet joined, exploring the rhythms of each other's bodies and the resonance their rhythms could find in each other. The sensations were delicious. But it was more than pleasurable, it was enlightening. And it brought them both to a wild and shattering climax.

As they lay together later, wrapped in her doeskin sheet and several blankets, it seemed they had enough heat to warm the entire countryside. Apollo watched the sky and pointed out a shooting star. A good omen, he said.

"I hope so," she said, snuggling her head against his chest and enjoying in a whole new way the sound of his heartbeat. "You know, I've been thinking… about LaCroix."

"I can see I'm going to have to step it up a notch. Can't have your mind wandering while we're doing this." He gave her breast a teasing stroke.

"I'm serious." She turned his face to her. "I know it's never far from your mind either." He couldn't argue that. "I was thinking… LaCroix said he does a lot of trading and such in Marrakech… he had a caravan headed there shortly after I had dinner with him. Somebody has to know something about his plans.

Does he have offices there? Property? Documents? It wouldn't hurt to take some time in Marrakech to find out."

"All of that while I was making love to you?" He sighed and pulled her closer. "I can't wait to see what you'll be like when I have your full attention."

"Ooooh," she said, brightening, already miles ahead on the road. "We could stay at the Raissouli again.

They have those lovely marble bathing tubs…"

On the fourth morning, when they donned
jellabas
and descended the main road toward the glowing red walls of Marrakech, their thoughts turned from their romantic explorations to the difficulties they could confront in the city. Both felt a rise of tension stemming from memories of their last stay in the city.

From the minute they rode through the Bab Hmar—midday—they seemed to feel eyes lingering on them, judgments being made, and whispers being passed. Whether truly sinister or not, those impressions made them eager to be off the streets and to find a safe place for the amphora.

After they secured a room at the Raissouli, Abigail went immediately to the French Consulate to inquire about LaCroix's local business contacts. She presented herself as a new friend of LaCroix, visiting the city and hoping to contact him. When she exited the consulate, she made straight for The Europa Café, which was known to be frequented by European merchants and businessmen. Apollo was there asking discreet questions of staff and patrons. "Any luck?" he asked. "This place is a dry well." "The consulate staff were less than helpful at first," she told him as they took an out-of-the-way table. "But, then I implied I had a more-than-platonic interest in
le monsieur
and they practically tripped over their feet to give me this address." She held up slip of paper with a triumphant expression. "What Frenchmen won't do for a woman who bats her eyelashes."

They headed for the address and discovered that it matched a ramshackle warehouse near the great clearing called the Jemaa El Fna. They tried knocking, then pounding doors, and finally found some steps that led to an upstairs office. The rooms had been recently vacated; there were sun-faded spots on the wooden floors where furnishings had once stood.

"He's gone, all right." Apollo ran a finger over one of the bare spots. "Recently, too. Taking everything that wasn't nailed down."

"We'll just have to go back to the Europa," she said, heading for the outside door. "Or perhaps we should inquire at hotels where Westerners stay… see if anyone has done business with him late—
ohhh

—"

"Ufff—" A Moroccan-looking man in Western dress smacked into her in the doorway. After a scramble for apologies on both parts, he straightened the crumpled brim of his hat and tugged down his vest as he took slock of them.

"May I inquire what you are doing on these premises?" he said in English that matched the language of their hasty apologies.

"I'm sorry—" Abigail began, but it was clear the man expected the explanation to come from Apollo, who took the cue and stepped up.

"We were looking for Ferdineaux LaCroix. We were given to believe these were the offices of his Marrakech trading company."

"They are his no longer. I, Abdallah bin Narjan, purchased this trading company from him just—where are the furnishings?" The man looked around the empty space, then at them in dismay. "What have you done with them?"

"We've done nothing with them, Monsieur Narjan," Apollo said adamantly. "I assure you. We arrived moments ago… were directed here by the French Consulate. You're free to check—"

"Then where are my desks and cabinets? My records? My bills of lading?" Alarm infused his face as he dashed past them to look in the other rooms. Finding them empty as well, he rushed back out the door and down the stairs to throw open the doors to one of the warehouse bays. It was as he seemed to fear:
empty
. He rushed to a second and then a third bay, finding in each the same unoccupied space.

He wilted with disbelief. Abigail and Apollo upended the empty barrel that was the sole occupant of the final space and helped the fellow to a seat on it.

"How could this have happened?" he mumbled. "I purchased the warehouse, the office furnishings, the contents of the warehouses, the trolleys… I have bills of lading. I have manifests." He looked up. "I have been robbed!"

"I fear, monsieur, that you may have been robbed by the very man who supposedly sold you the property," Abigail said. "How long ago did you make this agreement with Monsieur LaCroix?"

He thought for a moment. "A fortnight ago. Exactly. I came to these very offices and signed the documents and received the papers of ownership."

Abigail looked to Apollo, who shook his head. There was no way of telling whether that was good news or bad. Two weeks ago he was still arranging deals and engineering swindles. But, a lot could change in two weeks.

"One more thing, Monsieur Narjan," she asked, bending slightly to peer into the man's devastated face.

He lifted his head and struggled to collect himself. "In the transaction, did Monsieur LaCroix happen to mention what had prompted him to sell his holdings, or what he intended to do afterward?"

Her heart nearly stopped when the dispirited Moroccan nodded.

"He said he was going home. To France."

After accompanying Narjan to the French Consulate and then to the Sultan's palace to lodge a complaint and ask that a police inquiry be launched, Abigail and Apollo headed back to the Hotel Raissouli.

"Can it really be that simple?" Apollo said, standing in the lobby looking sheepish and feeling like a fool.

"An inheritance. Why else would he want me dead?"

She pulled him into the hotel bar where she ordered him some of the Irish whiskey he had declared was the mother's milk of Legionnaires.

"He was your mother's brother, right?"

"The black sheep of the LaCroix family. That was how he ended up in Morocco… the family banished him from France." His face grayed as he pulled out old memories for examination under new light. "I felt worldly and wicked… looking up the prodigal son of the family… discovering what a rich man he'd become… sampling his jaded hospitality. Food, liquor, gambling, women… he provided it all… until that night in the kasbah…"

"Which he himself arranged. Small wonder he didn't respond to your pleas from prison. He wanted you out of the way," she said. "He must have already had thoughts of returning to France."

"He expected I would either be killed in combat or die of some dread disease. Only I didn't die. No wonder he was so shocked when I approached him in Marrakech." He finally sipped the drink. "If everyone else has kicked off, I suppose there might be a ramshackle old house or some land somewhere in France… probably deep in arrears for taxes. He's made barrels of money here. Maybe he's going back to salvage the old estate."

"There must be something of value in France that would have come to your mother and now is yours.

But more important, once he learns you're still alive… he's a thief and a murderer who will stop at nothing to get rid of you. You won't be safe until he's dead or in prison. You have to do something."

"With what? My army of white knights?"

He downed the rest of the drink in one gulp. She had never seen him so dispirited. He was letting his guilt over his former conduct stop him from—

"You know,"—he stared with bitter amusement at the bottom of his empty glass—"if I was still in the Legion, I'd just order up a couple of bottles of whiskey right about now, and my comrades and I would all get pig-eyed and start a—"

He sobered as he stared at the glass in his hand for a long moment, then he straightened abruptly.

Purpose flooded back into his face and frame.

"The Legion," he said, smacking the glass on the table-top, tossing down a few coins to pay for the drink, and heading for the door.

"Where are we going?" she demanded, breathless as he grabbed her hand and pulled her along.

"I have a few friends in Marrakech, remember? They may not be knights, but they
do
wear white hats."

The Marrakech headquarters of the French Foreign Legion were a stone and stucco hodgepodge of Moroccan construction adorned with fussy French embellishments that looked unmilitary and entirely out of place. Exactly as he remembered it, Apollo said, pausing to take a deep breath before ushering Abigail through the gates and into the quadrangle formed by offices and barracks. It was early evening and the men of the garrison were gathered at tables under dusty canvas shades, eating their suppers.

It took a moment for anyone to notice Apollo, but Abigail the men spotted right away. Murmurs of "a woman" and "a proper lady" reached her and she tried not to react to the stares. When Apollo pulled her arm through his and clamped a hand on it, someone with a lilting Indian accent recognized him and called out his name. "Smeeth! Apollo!" Instantly, they were thronged by Legionnaires eager to greet an old comrade and angle for an introduction to the woman on his arm.

In short order, Abigail and Apollo were seated, supplied cups of "barracks beer," and were recounting their adventures since they left Marrakech. After pausing for breath, Apollo told the true story of his induction and revealed his need for help in chasing down his grasping and murderous uncle. In Casablanca.

"Lor'—I'm in!" Will Crocker was the first to declare. "I'll go wi' ye. Things 'as been a mite dull hereabouts. We could use a right old rumble, eh lads?" He boxed the air with bony fists. "Keep the ol'

fightin' blood up."

"I'll go, too," Joseph Ryan Flynn declared. "I've just been sayin' it's high time we trounced some wicked old bugger wi' a ton of loose cash."

That sparked a wave of laughter and prompted a response from Apollo.

"I can't promise you payment… except in camaraderie and chow."

"Anything digestible," Ravi Phant declared with a hand to his lean stomach, "would be an improvement over our sad excuse for a mess."

"But surely they can't just leave, Apollo," Abigail said, seeing in his friends' eagerness to help, a fresh disaster in the making. "Won't that be considered desertion? You know what the Legion does to deserters."

"Roight noice of ye to be concerned fer the likes o' us," Crocker said. "But ye needn' fret. The Legion's like yer ol' granny—tough at times, but alwus willing to take ye back wi' open arms."

"As long as you come back within six days," Ravi added.

"Aye, even old grannies have their limits," Flynn said with a grin.

There was agreement all around and the decision was made. Half a dozen men charged off to grab their marching kits and rifles and arrange to "borrow" several of the Legion's finest mules.

Apollo and Abigail were exiting through a passage leading to the main gate when a knotty little fellow wearing clerks' armbands on his sleeves, stepped out of a nearby office straight into their path.