The Belly Dancer and the Billionaire

{Set sometime in the 1980's]

Barbara Brooks sat alone at a table for two at the edge of the dance floor. The room was large and done up lavishly in jewel tones and golds with pierced lanterns hanging from the ceiling. It was meant to look like some exotic Middle Eastern interior. The walls were painted with trompe l'oeil curtains pulled back to show a garden oasis. It blended into the real curtains in the back that looked like tents along the back wall with one side open so those inside could see the dance floor. Inside, the "tents" had low divans with round brass tables in front of them for communal eating. Occupants could lounge on the divans while they ate. It fed into the decor and Orientalist fantasies of the opulent and decadent East.

Barbara enjoyed her succulent lamb with honey and almonds while waiting for the band to start and to see her friend perform. She felt a little self-conscious sitting there all alone, but she was an independent girl. She sipped her wine as the band tuned up and began to play a popular song by Warda. Barbara tapped her foot to the beat.

She was on vacation in London before starting a new job in the Reference Department at the big County Library back in the US. She was staying with her friend, Kathy, who lived in a poor section of London that was quickly being taken over by starving artists and performers of all types looking for cheap rent and easy access to the Tube.

Kathy was an American. She had been a language major in college and got a great job on graduation with Marriott Corp. Now she was living in London learning the ropes, preparing to climb the corporate ladder, and working as a belly dancer on weekends. That's how she and Barbara met. At a Master Class in Philadelphia. They became fast friends travelling to Master classes from New York to DC. Now here was Barbara in London waiting to watch her friend perform.

There was a rather noisy group in one of the tents. She could hear lots of female laughing and giggling. Drunk socialites, she imagined making a face. She hoped they piped down when Kathy performed. She knew Kathy would get her up to dance so she had carefully chosen a sleeveless black dress that hugged her curves. It had a low neckline, but not that low. It promised more than it delivered. She wore her favorite shoes for clubbing. Even though they had 4-inch heels, they were comfortable. She could dance all night in them. She wore her red-gold hair loose in waves to the middle of her back. She liked wearing her hair long, she just wished it would grow longer. She loved tossing it around when she danced. She had gone much heavier on her makeup than she normally would, but knowing she'd be on the dance floor with Kathy, she decided to go heavy on the eyeliner and red lipstick. Normally she went with a more natural look, or no makeup at all, unless she was performing, then she went all out with what she called her Drag-Queen face with Cleopatra eyeliner, gilded lids, false eyelashes and heavy stage-makeup contouring.

Her waiter came over and asked if she wanted a refill on her wine. She covered the glass with her hand and asked for water instead. Her meal was being comped, but not her drinks and she wanted to save her money for touring around.

The band got louder and Barbara heard clang of finger cymbals, a telltale sign that a dancer was about to emerge. She sat up and gave all of her attention to the dance floor.

Leaning back in the pillows of his divan Prince Walid bin Ismael al Anaq followed the conversation of his company with bored disinterest. His cousin Mahmoud had arrived from New York, his nephew Abdel from Marbella, each bringing with them their entourage for the meeting in London. They had come to London to discuss the recent development in oil prices, especially the worrying increase of the USSR’s production. But really how much did he or the other young men have a say in it? It still was their fathers and uncles who made the decisions. For Prince Walid and his generation it was a life of lying in wait. A splendid life of luxuries and pleasure, yet a life without much of a purpose.

His light brown fingers reached for his whisky glass as he idly listened to an argument between Mahmoud and Abdel. Was it wise to buy yet another yacht instead of investing in real estate – building a hotel complex on the Costa Del Sol? Mahmoud saw investment opportunities everywhere, while Abdel was on a spending spree again. Soon though the argument was abandoned and the discussion turned to falconry instead. Prince Walid now finally cut in, making a remark about the elegance of his new acquisition, comparing the grace and beauty of the animal to that of a svelte young woman. The other two seemed to have no sense for beauty though. Mahmoud just seeing the breeding of falcons as a potential investment, and Abdel just caring for the prestige associated with owning one of the most prized animals. When he talked about his own falcons, he didn’t even bother to describe their beauty, their qualities, only their lineage and the fact that the Saudi King and the Emir of Doha owned a falcon from the same line.

It was no wonder his two companions were of lesser lines of the family. None of them possessed the same sheer appreciation for the beautiful and extraordinary that Prince Walid did. No longer interested in the chatter of the other two men, Prince Walid took a puff from his Cuban cigar as he listened to the band now getting louder, the intensity of their music increasing. Soon a dancer would enter the stage before them. And he wondered if she would be worth his attention. He liked to toy with these dancing girls. Often they were western girls, their interest in belly dancing part of a deeper interest in his regions culture and tradition. A deeper interest than his own sometimes.

Tradition was good when it could be savored, enjoyed, be it the beauty and speed of a thoroughbred horse, the deliciousness of a well-prepared lamb dish, or the graceful yet erotic movements of a belly dancer. Those were traditions he cherished. Tradition that didn’t bring pleasure but hindered and stifled him was worthless to him though. Fortunately at least in this matter all the men in the group agreed despite their differences in many other matters.

The curtain opened and the dancer stepped on stage, Prince Walid’s dark brown eyes already examining her, just like he would examine a sports car before buying it in Maranello or Sant’Agata Bolognese, or a horse or a camel on the market in Dubai. He had an eye for beauty, and he knew what he wanted and had the means to get it.

Kathy made her entrance with her veil wrapped around her American Cabaret style. While middle Eastern Dancers typically held their veils like sails, swished them back and forth a few times then discarded them like a used dishrag, the American style made an entire dance of removing the veil, teasing, revealing and concealing until finally the entire veil came off and was left on the side of the stage, or sometimes draped over an audience member.

Kathy was a good dancer. She had to be to get a job here with their large Middle Eastern clientele. Kathy was Italian-American with olive skin and thick dark hair. Many thought she was actually from the Middle East which made her more exotic to her American and London audiences. She was taller and thinner than Barbara. Club owners from Middle Eastern countries preferred their women with more meat on their bones, but she was pretty and the audiences liked her. And she was an excellent dancer, which was the number one thing needed to get hired.

After removing her veil she came down the steps off the stage to the dance floor area where she could get closer to the tables and work the room. Barbara already had a pound note out to tip. When Kathy got to her table she let her tuck the bill into her belt near her hip, then pulled her up to dance with her.

Barbara eased into things, mainly mirroring Kathy's moves. It was wonderful to dance to a live band. Barbara was shorter and curvier than Kathy, her style was more earthy, more flirtatious. Where Kathy was like air or water, floating, ethereal; Barbara was Fire and Earth, grounded but passionate. Barbara emanated a true love of the dance, she practically glowed.

Barbara danced through the Balady section of the routine, then gracefully bowed to Kathy and sat back down feeling a little flushed and out of breath. The audience clapped in appreciation. Barbara felt very flattered. Kathy went back to her dance moving among the tables giving each their own little show. She wasn't supposed to go into the tents unless they asked her in, so she danced at the entrance for a little bit then moved on.

At the drum solo near the end of her set, Kathy got Barbara up to dance with her again. Barbara fumbled the moves a few times but she thought she did a decent job of it. She bowed to Kathy, to the band, and to the audience then scurried back to her table. Kathy did a little finale and then moved to exit the stage.


_____________
Not the greatest quality but a great dancer. I'm not familiar with her. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B5w1H9FEWJc

Delilah in the 1980's doing floorwork. If Barbara gets a gig in London and there's a stage she might do floorwork like this as part of her routine, but certainly not when she's in her dress and having fun with Kathy. Or she might do this for Walid at some point. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qGLFWC5QhVw

I picture Kathy's style more like this, more balletic. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5brwhalCG0

And Barbara's style more like this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bhKO7ElrFrw

For a moment all of Prince Walid’s attention was focused on the stage. The woman who entered the stage was very beautiful. With her dark hair and olive skin, she could have been of middle eastern origin. At least that was what he overheard Abdel guess. But Walid shook his head at the man. The way she held her veil made it obvious she had at least learned to dance in the west. Her fingers, her toes, and when she removed her veil, her nose, were definitely not Arab either.

Mahmoud chuckled about the younger man’s mistake, and soon the too were arguing again. About women this time, the qualities and disadvantages of different races and body types. Knowing this argument could turn sour quick considering the temperament of both men, Walid, with a quick and stern gesture of his hand, motioned them to stop it, which they grudgingly did, accepting the authority of the man from a nobler line of the family.

Each man applauded briefly, and motioned one their servants to discretely pass a few pound notes to the dancer, then returned to their conversation. Soon a second dancer was lead on stage by the first. “Too pale”, Walid overheard Mahmoud mutter. ‘Marbella has ruined your taste, boy’ Prince Walid thought, but didn’t say. He had no interest in any kind of argument right now, as his dark eyes were centered on the movements on the woman on stage.

This was his kind of woman. Her skin spotless, so petite you would think her porcelain body would break if you touched her roughly. Well if not for those muscles, this strength that looked so perfectly effortless, even during the more challenging moves. Yet she this was not the showcase of an athlete. She moved with a passion and fire, a sensuality rarely seen even in the best of those dancers. This indeed was true beauty.

He was not a fool though, not a man to be completely won by first impressions. So as the pale woman’s dance ended, he watched her even as she sat down back at her table again. The first dancer now begun to dance again, Mahmoud this time had a rather generous tip delivered to her. Then the petite blonde, the one Prince Walid favored, was back on stage again. His keen eyes noticed one or two little slips, small mistakes most of the audience certainly was completely unaware of. She was good, but she had not been devoted to dance from early childhood on. The passion was there though. In every movement of her lithe body. Its fire was calling to him. Calling for the strong hand of man not afraid to kindle this fire. To mold her to his will like a piece of white hot iron in the fires of a forge. So much he could to with her, do to her, show her passions her mind yet was unaware of, even though her body yearned for it.

He made sure his eyes met hers for a brief moment as she exited the stage, then it was him who waved one of his servants to his side, handing the man a bundle of pound notes and instructing him to discreetly pass it to the blond, together with his compliments and an invitation.

Barbara sat down. She had barely caught her breath when a well-dressed older Middle Eastern man approached her table. He used his body to block the view of those at nearby tables and handed her a bundle of money. Pound notes. There could be one hundred or more in the stack. The man leaned close, she could smell his spicy cologne. "My master invites you to join his party. He was most impressed with your dancing." He smiled perfunctorily and nodded to the middle tent. She followed his gaze and saw the man whose eyes she had met when she exited the stage.

"I really can't accept this." She pushed the money back. "I was just having fun dancing with my friend. She deserves the tip." Not that Barbara couldn't use the money, but she didn't feel she could take it. She was worried there would be strings attached. She knew some in the Middle East (and elsewhere)equated belly dancers with prostitutes, or at least women of easy virtue. "I don't make it a habit of sitting with men I don't know. But please tell your 'master' that I am flattered."

"Miss, you must accept, please." His accent was heavy. "My master will be most upset with me if you do not." He looked pained as he pushed the money back her way.

"Fine." Barbara said. She stood up. "I'll return it myself."

"Miss, please." The man stood in her way and she realized just how big and broad he was. "The prince--" He cut himself off. "My master is not a man one says no to. Please join him for the remainder of the evening--he is most generous to his companions."

"I bet he is." She pushed past him and marched into the tent. She set the money on the large brass table. "I am sorry, I cannot accept your gift, though I am very flattered." Her heart was beating fast as she felt all eyes on her. She turned to go.

Leaned back in the pillows of his divan, Prince Walid watched the blond dancer make her entrance to the tent. She looked determined, almost furious. It seemed she had felt insulted by his gift. He watched Said position himself behind her, to either block her way, or escort her out, depending on what his master would signal him to do.

The prince raised an eyebrow as she set the money down on the table. Such foolish pride. He was sure she was just toying with him now, either trying to raise the price or try to make him play by her rules. The first was always an option – as the negotiations had just begun, the second one to acceptable for him. Women. Always claiming they could not be bought, but in the end it was just a matter of the right amount and the right way of presenting it.

“My compliments to your dance, you have impressed me very much. In my country though” he started his reply to her, “what you just did would be considered an insult in not just one but two ways.” Said was blocking the woman’s way now, which gave Prince Walid time to explain his point. “First for turning down a gift that was given of honest appreciation, second for refusing my hospitality.” His dark eyes studied her before he sat up, gesturing to an empty divan. “Please be my guest for as long as you wish. Even if you chose to stay just for a few minutes. You cannot be so cruel to leave without at least answering me one question.”

The other men had been looking up at the dancer as she entered, but after that continued their conversation. But Prince Walid knew they were still watching the situation. If he had to let the woman go, or if this ended up with her making a scene, he’d certainly lose face in his relatives’ eyes. He had the reputation of being a man who always got what he wanted.

Barbara didn't know what she expected to find when she entered the tent, the the three handsome men were not it. The one in the middle must be her would-be benefactor. For a moment she forgot why she had come. His dark eyes captivated her. She stood like a deer in the headlights for what felt like minutes before she could break the spell.

She took a breath, she could feel the bulky bodyguard looming behind her. "I meant no disrespect or insult. My friend, Kathy--Leyla is her dance name--is the one you should be tipping. She is the performer tonight. She just invited me to dance with her. But it does make me happy to know that someone actually from--a Middle Eastern country actually thinks I'm a good dancer. I have studied with dancers from Egypt and I learn as much as I can about the history of the dance." She realized she was babbling and wasn't there to discuss dance culture. "As for your invitation--I am very flattered. But I do not make it a practice to drink with men I don't know. Surely, you must understand that. Would you let your sister sit in a restaurant with men she didn't know?" Her cheeks had colored a bit. "I truly am flattered though."

She saw the way the other men looked at the man before her. She wondered if they had made a bet or something about whether she would go or stay. She straightened her shoulders. "I will stay so that you can ask me your question." She went to the divan and perched on the edge of it.

She had to admit that she was curious about what he wanted to know. And since he hadn't offered his own name or asked for hers, she said. "My name is Barbara. Barbara Brooks. From the US--but I guess you can tell from my accent."

Be unconcerned your friend is not going home empty handed”, the young Arab replied. Like the other men in his group he was clad in the long white kandura gowns and keffiyeh headdress typical for the Gulf states. He smiled mildly, but raised his eyebrow at her remark about his sister. There was no need to bring his family into this. Western women were strange sometimes in the comparisons they made. Of course he wouldn't let his sister drink with men he didn't know. But he wouldn’t let his sister dance half-naked among strangers either. Which man of any honor would allow such a thing?

His dark eyes studied her as she walked to sit down on the edge of the divan, a bit uneasily. Like a gazelle invited into the den of the lions. “My name is Walid”, he replied. First names were enough, again there was no need to bring his family into this. “This is my cousin Mahmoud”, he gestured towards the man with the modern American style haircut, “and this my nephew Abdel”, he nodded towards the youngest of three, the one with the rather rotund physique and the baby face.

“I feel very honored that you accepted my invitation”, he paused. “I am sure you must be thirsty after such a passionate dance,” he added , ignoring her previous statement. Soon a waiter filled a glass of champagne for her. “My question is, were did you learn to dance like this? Your dance style was that of an American, but the passion, the passion was not western at all. Such fire is rare indeed.” Few women had such fire, and he who had witnessed it knew he had to possess her, he had to be the one who controlled this flame. And Prince Walid bin Ismael al Anaq was a man who was used to get what he wanted.

Barbara sat demurely with her knees together and her legs crossed at the ankles. When sitting her dress settled a few inches above her knees. There were 4-inch slits at each side seam that showed a little a little more thigh, but all-in-all it was a demure little dress that promised much, but showed off little.

She nodded to each man in turn, "Walid, Mahmoud, Abdel...a pleasure to meet you all." She pronounced their names passably well even making the difficult H sound in Mahmoud. Dancing in restaurants with owners and staff from various Middle Eastern countries helped her with her pronunciation. She even spoke a bit of Arabic, mostly from learning song lyrics, but she knew a few every day phrases and things like, "Please seat this table for four" and "Bring out the kabobs to table six."

She found Walid and Mahmoud both to be very handsome in that dark way of Middle Eastern and Mediterranean types. Maybe because her father's side of the family were all dark she found herself attracted to men with those features.

Perhaps because Walid was deferential and complementary about her dancing, Barbara relaxed a little. She was naturally a gregarious person and her anger, when roused, seldom lasted very long. She looked at this as a chance to learn more about the culture of the Gulf states. It was obvious they had oil money, probably best to stay on their good side regardless. She didn't want to cause a scene and problems for Kathy.

"The honor is mine." She accepted the champagne and took a sip. It was very good, but she wouldn't be able to tell the difference between a $10 bottle and Dom Perignon.

She smiled and blushed a little at the compliment. "Yes, I've learned what's called American Cabaret style. But I have taken some master's classes with teacher's who studied in the Middle East. And with a few well-known Middle Eastern dancers who have come to the US. I love to dance." She warmed ot the subject. "I started classical ballet lessons when I was two years old. I learned tap and jazz and modern. I love any kind of dancing. I'm so glad that love shows when I dance. I have loved Middle Eastern dance from the first lesson I took. It is such a natural dance. So easy on the body. Fluid. And the music." She smiled. "I love the music. Western music seems to simple and boring after dancing to Middle Eastern music." She drank a little more of her champagne and the waiter topped it off.

While the woman talked Walid sat leaned back in his seat, his dark eyes studying her features. Her light skin made the blushes more intense and more visible. The same passion with which she danced also was in the way she talked about her dancing. He smiled as he imagined to which heights the right man could possibly kindle these flames.

Wasn’t it ironic how fascinated she was towards Middle Eastern culture when there on the other hand were so many people in his native land who embraced everything western and no longer cared much for the culture and traditions of their homeland? Prince Walid was not a man who rejected the amenities of western luxury – the Armani suits, the Ferraris and Lamborghinis, the whisky and the champagne – in favor of stifling old traditions, yet he valued the code of honor of his one society over the chaos of the west.

“Isn’t it strange”, he remarked after she told him about herself, “that a woman from the US, the center of western civilization, favors the culture of the Middle East over that of her own? While on the other hand so many people from my land seem to forget all these beauties: our music, our dance, our traditions?”

Smiling as he watched her drink from the champagne, he added, “when I travel the Western lands, I see many things that fascinate me. Look at the architecture. London, New York, Paris. Such beautiful cities. Yet when you look around, when you talk to people, something seems lost.” He paused for a moment, then went on.

“Look at what you see on the TV, what you see in the streets. Men no longer are men, women no longer women. So much beauty, so much passion gets lost.” He paused for a moment, then continued, “when you dance you are all beauty, all woman. This is how things should be.” He raised his glass now after both hers and his had been refilled. “Lets drink to beauty, to passion”

"You misunderstand me. I do not favor Middle Eastern culture over my own. Not at all. I just enjoy the various dances very much, especially belly dancing. Because of that, I wanted to learn more about the traditions and culture. But most has been focused on the dance itself." She paused and took a sip of her champagne and put her hand over the top so the waiter couldn't refill it.

"It makes me sad that the religious conservatives have pushed to stop the dancing. It also makes me sad that dancers have been seen as no better than prostitutes and at how badly they are treated. It seems there has always been a love/hate relationship with belly dancing in most of the Middle East."

She felt like a bug under glass the way Walid looked at her. "I have heard stories about young wealthy men from the Middle East. They come to the West and the smoke and they drink and they, they fornicate. All things I believe are looked down on by Islam. And yet, we are the ones who are decadent."

"Do you mean with men wearing bright colors and long hair and women wearing pants? Or people being gay?" She shrugged. We have more freedoms to express ourselves. Isn't that part of being passionate?" She blushed again and drank to his toast. "Thank you for the compliment. It means a great deal to know someone who has grown up with this dance." She blushed more and drank her champagne. She didn't get her hand over ti in time and the waiter refilled it." She felt a little buzzed.

"Do you dance? I've seen videos of men dancing among themselves at parties. Men doing the Taktib ((a folk dance done with staves/sticks)). I even saw a video of men dancing on horses."

This woman not only was passionate in her dance, she also was very passionate in her opinions. Prince Walid nodded as she mentioned the religious conservatives. With his whisky glass in hand he obviously was not one of them. On the other hand they might become useful in a few years, when he would make his move to wrest some of the power from the older generation. In all Arab countries aspiring leaders had made their pacts with the religious fundamentalists, some with more some with less success. But this was politics. And he was not in the mood to discuss the intricacies of Arabian power politics with a western woman. A belly dancer.

“I cannot speak for all of the Middle East.” He replied to her remark about the treatment of the belly dancers there. “But have you ever been to Dubai? If not how can you say something like this about us. You should come visit and see for yourself. No one would treat you badly.”

Her words had made him a little angry, but not that much that he’d allow to really let it show. What she said next though sounded more like a personal attack on him. It sounded like she, who was making her living from his lifestyle was now attacking it. “I believe you have a saying in your country. ‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds you’.” He stated somewhat coldly, even though his eyes looked like they were burning with rage.

Mahmoud and Abdel had looked up now, and Abdel laws rather upset by the woman’s words, while Mahmoud seemed amused, and curious to watch how his older relative would handle the situation.

Leaning back in his seat Walid suppressed his anger again, for now. “Yes we do dance among ourselves”, he nodded. “But that’s only among the men, we do not dance for the amusement of women.” He paused for a moment than added. “Being a decadent, as you claim, I learned to tango in Paris though. I would love to invite you for a dance, as passionate a woman as you are and as skilled a dancer I am sure you you’d be marvelous at it. So yes. Let’s dance. But not here.” There was a stern look in his eyes that made sure he would not accept a rejection of his invitation.

“I cannot speak for all of the Middle East.” He replied to her remark about the treatment of the belly dancers there. “But have you ever been to Dubai? If not how can you say something like this about us. You should come visit and see for yourself. No one would treat you badly.”

"No. This is actually my first trip out of the US. I would love to see more of the world." She got back to the conversation at hand, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't make blanket statements like that. I only know what my teachers who have traveled to the Near and Middle East have told me. Most of my knowledge is about Egypt."

When the conversation turned to decadence, she realized she had hit a nerve. She had only meant to point out a bit of hypocrisy, But Walid obviously felt personally insulted.

“I believe you have a saying in your country. ‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds you’.” He stated somewhat coldly, even though his eyes looked like they were burning with rage.

It was true the US was dependent on Middle Eastern oil. Just look what happened during the oil crisis. The lines to get gas for her car, a VW Beetle, had been horrendous. But she didn't think he was speaking about oil. She realized as his eyes flashed in anger, that he was referring to the large tips he had doled out her and to Kathy. She had put her foot into it this time. She really needed to learn to curb her sarcasm. Just her luck she'd cause an international incident.

"I only meant to tease. Please excuse my poor attempt at a joke." She smiled at Walid hoping to defuse the tension.

"When I dance, I do it to please myself, but I also love giving enjoyment to my audience, whether they are men or women." She brightened when he mentioned the Tango. "I actually don't know how to Tango. I know some other ballroom dances. it's hard to find men who dance in the US. Let alone ones who do ballroom dancing. And of the few who do, fewer dance well. I just--wow, you are full of surprises. I--wait, you want me to go some place with you so we can Tango? Now?"

He had the look of a man who always got what he wanted. Well, perhaps it was time for him to learn he couldn't always get his way. "But...I can't just leave Kathy here. And really, I don't make a habit of going off with men I just met." If he were just some random guy making a pass at her would she go off to Tango with him? Maybe. Probably. What if Random Guy was obviously independently wealthy? Maybe, but there would be more red flags. Why would a guy who could have models and movie stars, or at least women far more attractive than she, want with her. Was she being racist by automatically thinking he had nefarious reasons for getting her alone?

"If you are really serious. I need to talk to Kathy. If she can come too--and if she will come, then yes. I'd love to go dancing with you." Her heart was beating a mile a minute. However this night turned out, she was sure it would be a great story when she got back home.

Noticing the young woman’s embarrassment, hearing her apologize, Walid smiled mildly and shook his head. “All forgiven and forgotten”, he said. “I hope though you will give me the chance to give you a much better impression of Arab men. I have dealt with Egyptians in the past. Not all of them are men of honor.”

The conversation went back to dancing and nodded as he listened to her. “So many men are afraid of passion, afraid of their own bodies.” He said, adding, “they don’t know how to make a woman happy because they don’t know themselves. They are afraid of their own desires.” Is dark eyes sparkled as he focussed her. “One cannot tango like that.”

“And yes. Why should we sit around any longer, when we can go somewhere and dance. This night is still young, but it will not last forever. I know a very good place to dance.” Prince Walid knew a few very exclusive clubs in the city, places where only the affluent, the famous and the beautiful were allowed.

“I am always serious when I offer something”, Prince Walid looked into her eyes deeply, as he replied. “Kathy, your friend? Of course she should come with us.” It would not be a good idea to let the girl go and talk to her friend though. He would have been stupid if he allowed his catch to slip off the hook already. Instead Walid smiled and leaned towards his cousin Mahmoud, the two exchanging a few words in Arabic. Then Mahmoud waved one of the bodyguards towards him, saying a few words to the bulky man in the black suit and handing him an envelope. And off the bodyguard went to look for the other dancer.

No matter if the other woman accepted the generous invitation or not, Prince Walid was absolutely determined to give Barbara no other choice but to go with him. He knew on the other hand she was just playing coy now. No woman of any class ever wanted to seem too easy. No matter what her profession, her culture or nationality was. Thus it was the duty of the man, the real man, to take the initiative, to push forward boldly. Only a fool would let a woman he wanted slip away. And Prince Walid was determined to be no fool.

Oh the things she wanted to say about men and their fear of their desires, particularly in terms of the Muslim world. Men were so afraid of their desires, that women had to cover themselves lest they drive men to heinous acts. Or was it women that they were afraid of? But she decided that discretion was a better plan.

Barbara thought Kathy had to do at least one more set before she could leave, but she supposed Kathy could work that out with the manager, or if she danced again her set wouldn't be that long. It looked like Walid was either offering money to Kathy to come with them, or to the manager to let Kathy leave early, or both. It must be nice to have so much money that you could throw it around like that and get whatever you wanted.

"Tell me when did you learn to Tango?"

They talked for a few minutes until the bodyguard returned carrying Kathy's gig bag with Kathy following a few steps behind.

Kathy looked around at the men then at Barbara. "I hear you want to go Tango. What club are we going to?"

Barbara shrugged and looked at Walid, "I don't know. Walid, what's the name of the club? Oh, and this is my friend Kathy. Kathy this is Walid, Mahmoud, and ... Ahdel--no, sorry, Abdel."

Kathy sat next to Barbara on the divan. "We should go to the restroom before we leave." She said quietly. "I don't think their limo has a restroom." She added lightly.

“When I learned to tango?” Prince Walid smiled at the woman’s question, his fingers tracing the outline of his beard before he told her, “It must have been about five years ago. I was in Paris on a business trip. The company we were negotiating with had a translator Arab-Argentianian descent…”. Still smiling he paused. “What made you decide to become a belly dancer?” He asked, but then as he saw the other woman arrive, brushed away the question he just asked with a gesture of his hand, “you can tell me this on our ride to the club.”

As she asked about the club, he mentioned a rather exclusive venue. “I am pleased to meet you Kathy”, he greeted the woman, “I was very impressed by your dance earlier on.” Mahmoud greeted the woman with some more compliments, only Abdel seemed a bit piqued at the mispronunciation of his name.

“And yes go ahead to the restrooms. In the meantime I will make sure they play the right music at our club.” He watched the women head their. While some of his men went to bring Prince Walid the telephone, he made a gesture to his security personnel, to follow the women discreetly as they went to the toilets. There was always the possibility of the woman named Kathy having second thoughts, and trying to convince her friend not to go.

The girls left the "tent" and headed toward the restrooms which were back near the kitchen and dancers' dressing room.

Kathy veered to the kitchen. "I need to tell James we're leaving." I'll be right there. She had a few misgivings about this, heading off with rich Saudis or whatever country they were from whom Barbara had just met. Better to let someone know where they were going.

Kathy knew a lot of the kitchen staff. She usually hung out in a corner out of the way between shows. It was more fun than sitting alone in the dressing room. Plus, they fed her and usually gave her something to bring home at the end of the night.

"James, Barbara and I are going to that really posh club in the West End--you know the one."

"The one where you have to be a celebrity or have a Platinum American Express to get in?"

"Yep, that's the one. Seems the big tippers in Tent 2 want to go dancing. At this rate, I might be able to afford a week in Crete this summer."

"Oi, you be careful just what they want for their money."

"We'll be sure to make it clear we're only going dancing. Although, I have to admit--the idea of a Sugar Daddy is appealing on some levels."

"Pish. You be careful, love. Call me when you get home or tomorrow morning--whichever comes first, so I know you got home okay. And be sure to order the most expensive champagne they have." He gave her a grin.

"Will do. For both. See you tomorrow night."

Kathy went into the restroom noticing Walid's large men lingering nearby. She gave them a smile, but it worried her a bit. Why would they need to follow her and Barbara around?

Barbara was just washing her hands when Kathy came in and went into a stall. "There's two goons out there just waiting, you know."

"Maybe Walid had to pee. Seems they hover around him all the time." Barbara spoke over the sound of the water as she washed her hands. "This is going to be so much fun. No one will believe me--I'm glad you're coming too, then you can corroborate my story."

Kathy flushed the toilet and joined Barbara at the sink. "James says to be careful. And we need to make it clear that this is just dancing--no sex. We aren't whores. You do know that they probably think we're loose women because we dance in public."

"Maybe I am a loose woman. I think Walid is pretty handsome. Those eyes of his kill me."

Kathy made a face. "It's all fun and games until someone mentions white slavery."

"Really? How can you say that? They can buy whatever they want. They don't need to kidnap girls. We're Americans, they wouldn't dare anyway."

They left the restroom and the two body guards were no where to be seen. "See, I told you Walid had to pee, too."

They walked back to the tent. The men were already standing. One of the bodyguards was carrying Kathy's costume bag.

After the women had left, a discussion between the men begun. Prince Walid laid out a rather daring and ruthless plan to his cousin and nephew. A plan that at first was met with huge scepticism by the two younger men. But finally, the Prince’s determination to have his way prevailed and they agreed to play their part in the somewhat reckless scheme. Surprisingly Mahmoud was easier to win over than Abdel. It seemed this was because Mahmoud had developed a bit of an interest in the other dance, the Englishwoman named Kathy.

“Your reckless lack of patience still baffles me, cousin Walid”, Mahmoud spoke, “but yes on your insistence I will play my part in your scheme. Out of loyality to my kin, but also out of curiousity how this will turn out.”

As soon as the plan had been agreed upon, the bodyguards were given their instructions too, to make sure everything would go as intended by Prince Walid.

When the girls arrived back from the lavatory, Prince Walid and his entourage were ready to go. Said navigated them towards the parking lot. “We are taking this exit to avoid the attention of paparazzi”, Walid remarked. “They have become quite a nuisance since the Royal Wedding.”

They had two limos waiting, white Rolls Royce stretch limos, accompanied by a black Mercedes G-Class and a black Range Rover to serve as the front and rear end of the procession, a motorcade worthy of a head of state.

Leading Barbara to the first of the two white limos, Walid gently took her arm to help her into the spacious vehicle. The inside of the car was more luxurious than some hotel room, and possibly even more spacious. Behind the pitch black tinted windows there were black leather seats – or rather couches –, mahogany interior and a rather impressive bar. Mahmoud lead Barbara to the first limousine too. Abdel headed towards the second, slightly shorter Rolls Royce. He was in female company now too, a young blonde with a tad too much makeup, most likely an escort.

Soon they were seated and on the go through the night time city. “Said why don’t you make one of your Kir Royales for the ladies?” Walid for a moment turned towards the tall man, before focussing his attention back to Barbara. “You’ll be surprised, but he really is an excellent barkeeper.”

While the bulky bodyguard began to will two champagne flutes with Crème De Cassis and Moët & Chandon Champagne for the Kir Royale, Prince Walid’s dark eyes studied the face of his the woman that accompanied him. His keen eyes took in every detail of her beautiful face, just like an hunter taking note of every blink, every small gesture of his prey. Mahmoud had been right, Walid was impatient to have this woman bound to succumb to his will, have her under his control completely. But he was controlled enough to not let this desire shine through his polite and pleasant demeanour too much. Instead he chose to engage Barbara in conversation again. “So now please tell me, what made you become a belly dancer? It is quite an unusual choice of career for a western woman after all.”

"Ooh, Kir. That's one of my favorites. But I've never heard of a Kir Royale. What's the difference." Seeing bottle of Moet, she thought the difference was in the price of the champagne. "Have you ever had an Irish Kiss?" Barbara grinned. "It's champagne and Guinness Stout."

Kathy made a face.

"I know it sounds nasty, but the champagne cuts the bitterness of the stout. It's really quite good."

Walid's eyes on Barbara made her feel uncomfortable but special at the same time. Even when he disagreed with her, his intensity, the way he really listened to her made her feel like the only person in the world to him. It was quite a heady feeling. No man had ever treated her like that.

“So now please tell me, what made you become a belly dancer? It is quite an unusual choice of career for a western woman after all.”

"It's not actually a career for me. It's very hard to make it as a professional belly dancer unless you have a rich husband or a trust fund. But for me it is a good paying part-time job." She took the flute of Kir Royale from the big bodyguard.

"I'm a librarian when I'm not dancing." She smiled again. Most people found it pretty funny--the juxtaposition between the cliche prim and proper librarian and a belly dancer.

"I started dancing when I was ... two-and-a=half, maybe three. My aunt had a dance studio and I took lessons there for about four years then switched to a different school. Apparently, I was good for my age and I had a big solo when I was six. I was a music box doll that toy soldiers took me out of the box. I did classical ballet, then tap and jazz. I danced en pointe when I was twelve. My teacher really thought I had a chance to be a dancer in a professional company, but puberty hit and I got curvy and didn't grow very much. So, that dream never happened."

She took another sip. "This is very good. "I switched schools again in highschool and took semiprivate lessons with my best friend. I also learned some modern dance, but I didn't like it much. Too angular. I didn't find it expressive. In college, I took a few ballet classes offered as part of the physical education requirement and also ballroom dancing. But we didn't do any Latin dances. So I can jitterbug and waltz and foxtrot, but that's it. I'm looking forward to learning to Tango with you."

Barbara crossed her legs and sat back in the very comfortable seats trying not to act like a peasant getting her first taste of the high life. But, damn, she could get used to this.

“For Kir you mix white wine and Crème de Cassis, for Kir Royale it is champagne instead of the white wine”, Walid explained casually as Said handed the girls the glasses. Hearing her talk about the Irish Kiss, he looked at her curiously. “I was determined to stick with the whiskey for tonight, but I think I have to try this.”

Said already began to mix the drink, the bar of the limousine extensive enough to contain all that was needed. Meanwhile Walid leaned back, casually placing one arm on the edge of the seat behind Barbara as he listened. So she was looking to find herself a rich husband?

“I’ve always seen myself as a sponsor of the arts” he remarked, then quietly listened to her again. Only when she talked about getting too curvy he shook his head. “That is something I never understood about the ballet. These are such beautiful dances, and such talented, artistic dancers. But so many bones.” His hand set the whiskey glass down for moment to make a gesture that described the bony rib cage of a skinny dancer. “That is not good.”

Barbara was slender too. But she looked healthy and not like a skeleton with some skin stretched over the bones. “You’ve got the perfect shape for a dancer. All supple and fit, but not too skinny.” He told her with a smile, his dark eyes for a moment moving over her body, taking in every detail with visible approval. So soon it would be all his...

“I will teach you to tango, and many things more.” He promised her. Obviously she was very much at comfort now, the uneasiness that at first was visible, when he had invited her into the tent all gone. With a little patience, a bit of dancing, a few more drinks and smooth words, he would easily be able to win her over. Except that unfortunately, he had never learned to Tango at all. He actually had started taking classes back then in Paris. But he had been too impatient. And even though a few years had passed Prince Walid was still an impatient man.

He had plans for this woman, and spending a whole evening dancing, and drinking and partying was none of them. With a slight lifting of his finger, he had given Said a signal. The bitterness of the Guinness was perfect to mask whatever drug the bodyguard would chose to knock her out. She had set the trap for herself, he couldn’t have chosen it any better. This was her fate. All that wouldn’t happen now, would happen because it was supposed to happen. It was written. And Prince Walid was no man to refuse what fate had given to him.

His finger very lightly danced on the woman’s shoulder. He knew the basic steps of a Tango, humming an old Argentinean song, “Por una Cabeza”, by Carlos Gardel, as his fingers moved. “This is how it starts”, he said softly, then removed his fingers, to reach for the glass of Irish Kiss to hand it to Barbara, while Said now made one for him, too.

Barbara and Kathy sipped their Kir Royales. "This is really good." Kathy nodded. "But you can keep your Irish Kiss." She made a face again.

Barbara laughed a little about the comment about bony ballet dancers. She blushed a little at the way Walid looked at her. "The Moroccan owner at the restaurant where I dance is always pinching my upper arm and saying I am too skinny. Then he gives me a big plate of food to eat and more to take home." Barbara didn't really consider herself overweight by any means, but she thought she could lose a few pounds and look better--have a flatter stomach and thighs that weren't quite so thick.

"I'm looking forward to learning to Tango." She leaned back in the plush seat against Walid's arm.

The Kir went down easy and she drank it faster than she would have preferred. The Irish Kiss would have to be her last drink for at least an hour. She was a lightweight when it came to drinking unless she was dancing to burn it off. Two drinks in an hour was pushing it and she didn't want to get stupid drunk and make a fool of herself in front of Walid.

"Mahmoud, you are being very quiet." Kathy said. "Do you dance at all?"

Barbara traded her empty Kir glass for the Irish Kiss. "I really want to know what you think of this." She smiled at Walid. "Do you want a sip? Just try it." She coaxed Kathy, who made a face again.

"I'll stick to Kir." Kathy said and lifted her glass in a mock toast.

Barbara sipped the Irish Kiss and smacked her lips on purpose. "Mmm, so good. You don't know what you are missing."

Of course things didn’t go exactly as they should. Walid shouldn’t have missed the face the other dancer had made when her friend mentioned the Irish Kiss. His smile didn’t leave his face though. Having received his own drink from Said now, he laughed. “I hope Said won’t consider it an insult that you refuse his Irish Kiss.”

He turned to Said and exchanged a few words with him, in Arabic. “Can you make a Kir like the other one?”, “Don’t worry, it will do.” Walid was satisfied with Said’s answer. The man was wizard when it came to his tasks. Always reliable. And Said began to mix another Kir Royale for Kathy.

Mahmoud meanwhile, at Kathy’s question shook his head. “See I never had the time to learn to dance. So much work, and so little time for play.” Walid laughed at his cousin’s remark. “He is always busy working. I had to coax him to come here and have some fun with us.”

Said now had finished mixing the second drink for Kathy. “Come toast with us!” Walid invited her. “Don’t people say that the Irish are lucky?” Walid said as he lifted up his glass to Barbara. “To us and our luck”. He toasted, looking the girl into the eyes.

"I don't like stout," Kathy said. "Too bitter. It's the ruin of a good champagne in my opinion. But this Kir Royale..."Very yummy." She grinned feeling a little buzzed and happy with the world.

"Always working? What is it exactly that you do, Mahmoud?" Kathy asked him trying to keep the conversation going.

She took the fresh drink from the bodyguard. "To us and out luck." She agreed.

"To luck," Barbara echoed and smiled back at Walid. He was really very nice and easy on the eyes. And yes, the money didn't hurt at all. This could be her best vacation ever. But she remembered what her dance teacher had cautioned: Middle Eastern men make great lovers but terrible husbands. Take the money and run if they start to talk marriage. It seemed to her Walid was just looking for a fling with an American girl to brag about to his friends. That was fine with her. Just wait till she got hole and told her girlfriends I had a Saudi Sheikh for a lover.