“Your body may not come in contact with mine.” He looked down at her upturned face. “Lower your eyes. A lady never stares. Now arrange the pleats, and never leave a pile of clothing around. It’s in bad taste. Unbutton my coat from the top and go down on your knees. Gracefully. First on one, then the other knee.” He lowered himself on the edge of the divan. “Sit on the carpet and hug my slippers in your lap before you remove the right one first. Do your job efficiently, in the least time possible, but without seeming rushed.”

Gold Dust lowered her eyes, aware that he was in the process of removing his attire. Would the rest of him be as smooth as his face? Would he have hair on his chest? Was he a eunuch? Did she want to know? She raised her eyes. A silk wrap was tied loosely around his waist. Snow-white down gleamed on his chest. A henna-colored heart was tattooed above his left nipple. She lowered her gaze to his legs—solid muscles of a man. She rose against her will, or she would have crushed her pride, pressed her face to his thighs, and said, “Tell me about your tattoo. Have we met before? Have you been following me around?”

He rested his hand on her shoulder. “You may not get up until he permits.”

She lifted her face and asked, “Who?”

“The Shah, of course. A wave of his hand will indicate that you remain behind after eunuchs, servants, and other sultanas retire. Then you’ll undress.”

She watched him transform in front of her; his hair swinging, eyes scintillating, he spun on his toes, seeming slimmer, gliding about, his molded buttocks exposed through a slit in the loincloth. His palms stroked his own body, lingering on his chest—tattoo—and under the loincloth. He did not resemble a man as he floated toward her, closer, his breath warm on her forehead, lips, chin; closer, tantalizing, never touching, his hands tracing her aura, cupping the imaginary wreath on her head, the silhouette of her breasts, sliding a finger between her lips, eyes embracing, his mouth parting to accept hers. He stepped back. He was a man again. They had not kissed.

“Now undress as if you are in the process of a delicate dance.”

With the pulse of his words, she undid her chador and it settled around her feet. Like rosebuds, her nipples hardened against the chill of the unknown.

His tone was a balm. “I’m pleased with your grace. Even more control in your movements. Smoothly, Gold Dust. Now remove your skirts. Good. Don’t wriggle, glide harmoniously.”

She stood naked in front of him. Her impulses were to turn around and flee, or rush to him and ask: Are you a man, a woman, or a eunuch? But she restrained herself, stepped out of the skirts and veil that circled her ankles, folded them, and placed them on the clothes stool. If only he would wrap his arms around her, talk to her and unravel her clash of emotions. It didn’t matter who he was. What mattered was that he was different from the men she had gazed at through torn partitions.