The town was built around a steep hill, a rock about three hundred feet high, that some geological quirk had deposited here. At the top of the hill stood the castle, now in ruins. A paved street curved up from the town’s main square. After a few hundred feet the houses on both sides ended, and the street, getting steeper, became a path. On the left side, if you walked up, carved into the mountain, was a row of caves, one next to the other — underground stalls that had been shops where on sunny days a steady stream of cheerfully jostling, laughing, shouting visitors, but also more quiet townspeople on a stroll up to the castle gardens, had bought refreshments, candies, shawls, hats, bags, local artwork, antiques and cheap jewelry fake and real, and, generally speaking, useful or useless trinkets of all kinds. Now only a few of those stalls were open, the rest either had their heavy iron-studded doors firmly locked and shut, or had been deprived of their doors, leaving bare gaping. She was nicely warmed up for the night ahead! ———- Situated one hundred feet above Kensington High Street, the Babylon at the Roof Gardens was simply sublime. It was one of the Sheik’s favourite London restaurants and it was soon clear why. The decor, the atmosphere, the service and the food had all been divine. Not that she’d eaten much, how could she when her stomach had been practically doing somersaults? Instead, she had focused on the champagne. They were into their third bottle already and the way her head was spinning suggested that her earlier martinis hadn’t been such a good idea after all. The only minor disappointment was that the Sheik was attired in a tuxedo, albeit an expensive one. She had half expected him to be dressed in his robes—Arabic men always looked so hot in their native dress. It was as if they were ready to carry you off into the sunset, back to their harem and ravish you senseless in whatever they way they deemed they wanted to. Geez, she was half-drunk.
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