Cleopatra's Perfume. Jina Bacarr

didn’t fool him.

      “Liar.” I smiled. Instead of hating him, I wanted him more than ever.

      “Me?”

      “Yes, you, you bastard. You made love to me then disappeared with my—”

      Before he could explain, the woman with the dark velvet eyes sitting at his table cleared her throat. Ramzi nodded in her direction and said,“Lady Marlowe, may I introduce Laila Al-Rashid from Cairo.”

      “Cairo? How convenient, Ramzi,” I said, blowing smoke in her direction. “A girl in every port.” I turned to the woman and attempted a smile. “Do you plan to stay in Port Said long, mademoiselle?”

      “Long enough to complete my business,” Laila answered, rising from her chair and positioning herself between Ramzi and me.

      “I can imagine what kind of business,” I said, not backing down. I removed my long white gloves, indicating I wasn’t leaving.

      She laughed. “Ramzi said you had a sense of humor, Lady Marlowe.” She looked me up and down, her eyes resting on my nearly exposed breasts. My nipples hardened under her gaze, disturbing me. “In fact, he told me a lot about you.”

      “Really?” I turned away, flicking my ashes into the cigarette tray, my manner bored. “I’ve heard nothing about you.”

      “I’m not surprised. My brother prefers to forget he has a sister when he’s chasing a woman. He believes it tarnishes his playboy image.”

      My head shot around. “Your brother?”

      “Yes, didn’t he tell you?”

      “No,” I said, rounding the vowel for emphasis.

      Laila took my hand in hers. “I couldn’t help but notice your long, sharp nails.”

      “Yes, I engaged a local girl to give me a manicure when I heard Ramzi brought a woman back with him.” I pulled my hand away. “It seems I wasted my time.”

      She smiled. “Shall we dine then? I’m famished.”

      Ramzi rubbed his hand up and down my bare shoulder, making me shiver. A different hunger made me draw in my breath. “So am I.”

      I don’t remember what we talked about, only that the conversation centered around Ramzi, as it always did. He ordered the wine and picked out each course, whether it was a buttery puff pastry filled with flaky fish and decorated with swirled cream sauces and shredded vegetable, or balls of seasoned minced lamb in a rich tomato sauce served over saffron rice. He ordered everything in his charming accent, passing around the silvery tray decked with the caviar, olives and cheeses, while his sister, Laila, entertained me with stories about the pasha’s harem and his wives with their gold teeth, numerous chins and fondness for sweets.

      I sensed something more than familial interest between them, especially the way Laila put her hand on his arm at frequent intervals, as if she possessed an unfulfilled longing, but I chose to ignore it. He’s mine,