Steamy cairo nights, p.1
Steamy Cairo Nights, page 1
Table of Contents
Steamy Cairo Nights
Publication Information
Dedication
Praise for Author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Also Available
Also Available
Thank You
Steamy Cairo Nights
Passport to Pleasure
by
Nicki Pascarella
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Steamy Cairo Nights
COPYRIGHT © 2022 by Nicki Pascarella
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by Diana Carlile
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Publishing History
First Edition, 2022
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-4321-1
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Toni Petroski. Thank you for being an inspiring dance partner and the perfect best friend.
Praise for Author
Nicki Pascarella
“Nicki Pascarella is a fresh and fun new voice in women’s fiction…”
Paula Niziolek, author
“Nicki Pascarella has written one of the best novels I have read in a long time. Pascarella’s writing style takes you to a town that we all want to live in with its modern yet neighborly feel. Her dialogue is fresh and sassy.”
Jennifer Peer, author
“With humor and pathos, Nicki Pascarella provides a heart-wrenching tribute to her grandfather’s heroic journey in World War II from a contemporary fiction perspective…”
Laura Simpson, reader
Chapter One
Tia
The uniformed man with the squint stepped closer.
Tia Livingston ignored him as she dropped her garment bag onto the ground and retrieved her suitcase from the rotating conveyor. She yanked on the oversized luggage and wobbled like an unevenly weighted teeter-totter. After righting herself, she searched for her faux-leather carrier.
Aha! The odd-shaped bag glided toward her.
The man locked her in his laser-focused gaze.
She tossed him a friendly smile, and he shot her with eye darts.
Tia cringed. Augh. You know better! Smiling at an unknown man in an airport is a bad idea—especially a cranky sourpuss who’s probably overworked and exhausted.
She tapped her toe and studied the far wall. When she refocused on him, he still wore his furrowed-brow leer. She checked her hemline to make sure her skirt hadn’t caught in her waistband. She’d done that once and almost mooned her first graders at recess. Her clothing was in place, so that wasn’t the cause of his glares. She wiped at her mouth in case cookie crumbs coated her lips. That was a definite possibility, since they’d covered her lap while on the plane.
He crossed his arms over his chest and clenched his jaw.
At a loss for what else might be distressing him, she focused on her long, thin bag. It was no use; his negative energy slapped at her skin, eliciting a wave of goose pimples. She bit her lip and shuddered.
LuAnn, the famous American belly dancer, told stories about a performer kidnapped by a taxi driver.
However, this official-looking man couldn’t possibly be a threat to her safety, could he? Her unjustified anxieties were a pain in the ass. Why did the darn conveyor belt move so slowly? She’d be gray by the time the luggage reached her.
LuAnn loved to tell stories and give advice. “Let me see. What are the dangers?” She laid an index finger on her cheek as she looked to the ceiling. “Most Egyptians will adore you, but whatever you do, don’t get into a scrape with an angry authority figure. Raks Sharki dancers are arrested and deported all the time.” The woman had chuckled. “Also, try not to die of second-hand shisha smoke.”
Tia had doubled over with laughter at the hookah comment. However, the first piece of advice weighed on her. Her internal bell chimed, and her heart skipped a few beats. Seriously? Five minutes in Cairo, and somehow she’d pissed off a security guard?
From the other side of the globe, she heard her father’s incessant nagging.
“I told you Egypt was dangerous.”
Three more feet.
Their eyes locked.
Two more feet.
He stared at her bag.
Almost.
So close.
At last!
She shook off her heebie-jeebies, grabbed the handle, and slung the strap over her shoulder. No way could she move quickly, loaded down with her possessions, although she’d sure as hell try. He could find someone else to intimidate. Adrenaline kicked in, and she took off for the baggage-claim exit.
He stomped in front of her and held up a palm. “Áetini haqibatak.” He wiggled his fingers in a give-me gesture.
He wanted her props? She dropped her luggage onto the floor and stared at the container that concealed a glittery cane, two tahtib bamboo sticks, and iridescent Wings of Isis. Since fleeing was no longer an option, she bent, picked up the carrier, and set it in his outstretched paws.
She had followed LuAnn’s advice and made a reinforced bag that organized her props, and she checked them in the States. As a precaution, she’d even left behind the curved scimitar she sometimes balanced on her head. And still, this had happened? Tia closed her eyes for a moment and willed her breathing to steady.
The guard whistled and twirled his finger, indicating she should turn. Once her back was to him, he pressed the end of the carrier between her shoulder blades and pushed.
Although the pointy items were sheathed inside layers of bias tape, felt, and sturdy fabrics, it hurt. He might not be able to stab her to death, but he could sure as heck leave bruises.
He prodded her down the busy corridor, then nudged her into an empty room. His final shove sent her toppling forward.
She caught herself and feigned bravery by pulling her shoulders back and lifting her chin. “Do I need to contact the American Embassy?”
He grunted, “American,” before saying the Egyptian words for American, search, weapons, and drugs into his radio.
What the heck? The bamboo sticks didn’t have enough heft to smash a rat. Maybe the chiffon wings could smother someone, but the same could be said of a blanket. And drugs? She hadn’t used an illegal substance in her twenty-seven trips around the sun.
Two chattering women crashed through the door, carrying the rest of her belongings.
One guided her to the side as the man pulled on the drawstring of the bag in question.
Tia let out a pained exhale as her precious items tumbled to the floor. “I’m a Raks Sharki dancer. I use those in my show.”
“Haram.” The guard grunted again. “Indecency. We should call the police.”
The pretty woman standing beside Tia spoke almost perfect English. “Don’t be so uptight, Yousef. Get with the times. I don’t think it is indecent or forbidden by God. I love dancers.”
The other woman retrieved the sparkly cane from the floor, expertly twirled it between her fingers, and grinned.
Then the three guards argued at breakneck speed as they rummaged through her belongings.
“My papers are in my bag. I can show you.” Since no one protested, Tia took her passport, work visa, and dance contract from a front pocket and offered them to the friendly females.
The two women nodded and pointed at the documents as they looked them over.
The nasty man grasped them, held them close to his eyes, and scrutinized them.
“Yousef, we don’t need to call the police. There are no weapons or drugs,” said her pretty savior.
The woman’s partner nodded.
Tia’s heart crashed through the floor when harsh-sounding words zinged, and the battle over her fate continued.
Grumpy Yousef must’ve won the argument, because his chest puffed up and his chin lifted.
Tia held her breath. They were going to call the police. She was going to be deported, and she hadn’t even left the airport.
“You may go, Miss Tia Livingston,” the pretty woman said.
Yousef smirked. “I’m keeping your bag. These items shouldn’t be in an airport.”
The female guards swapped synchronous eye rolls, and then they took forever to repack her belongings. They chatted as they escorted her from the room.
“Sorry that Yousef took your dance things,” the pretty woman said.
Giving up her props to have the entire debacle behind her was well worth it. She had a costume fitting scheduled with the famous seamstress, Madame Nadia of Cairo, so she’d be able to replace the confiscated items.
“Good luck, habibiti,” said the woman who liked to grin.
They left Tia with her legs shaking, luggage surrounding her.
Time for pep talk number two thousand four hundred. Just a tiny bump in the road. No big deal. After all, she was no longer an elementary school teacher with a Type-A personality. She was an adventurous performer pursuing her dreams.
She shook herself as if she were a puppy coming in from the rain, and her anxiety swished away. First, to make sure she had all of her belongings. Then she’d find her agent, Ali.
Stamped passport? Check.
Work visa? Check.
Dance contract with The Royal River Hotel? Check.
Stupid prop bag that had almost been the death of her? She sighed. Next time she’d choose a glittery fabric that could in no way be confused with a criminal’s contraband.
Before navigating travelers and beeping airport carts, Tia pinned a silk rose into her hair so Ali could find her in the crowd.
A week after she’d sent her promotional package, her video app had pinged.
A smiling Ali brought three fingers to his lips, blew her a kiss, and announced with widespread fingers and puckered lips, “Miss Tia, beautiful!”
Within a month, Ali messaged with the dream-come-true news. He’d booked her at a prestigious five-star hotel, where she would perform six nights a week. It was one heck of a schedule, but a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
Now, Ali waved from across the terminal and pushed through the crowd to wrap her in an embrace. “Salam, habibti. Hello, dear.” He kissed her on each cheek, then reached for the largest of her bags.
“As salamu alaikum, Ali.”
“Peace unto you too. Very good! I see you have been studying.” He also relieved her of the absurdly heavy dress bag. “You will get man-sized muscles carrying this.” He chuckled and scooted low, pretending to stagger under its weight.
Tia laughed at his antics.
As they exited the airport, she extended her stride in her four-inch heels to keep up. The beautiful chaos that greeted her made her ears hurt and her heart sing. She had imagined Cairo precisely—gridlocked cars, beeping horns, dusty air, and an uncontainable pulsing life force. The second she stopped to gawk, a car swung wide, honked, and shot past her. She gasped, then laughed. How interesting. Her pep talk had worked. Even an almost-death experience and an ass of a security guard didn’t dampen her joy.
Ali tucked her and her luggage into his car, grinning all the while. He hopped into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. “Let’s review the rules of my beautiful country.”
“Of course.” She’d tell him her props had been mistaken for weapons later.
“Rule one. Stay away from men. They are trouble, and you will get a bad reputation. Rule two. Do not do drugs.”
Tia had no intention of touching men or drugs.
“Did you read the entertainment laws I sent you?” He slammed on the brakes.
Tia’s arm flew forward, and she braced herself against the dashboard. “Yes, and I understand I can be arrested, fined, and deported if accused of being lewd. I promise, all of my costumes are tasteful. I have shorts to match each outfit, and to be on the safe side, there are no cutouts in my skirts.”
“You are a good girl.” Ali cut across three lanes of traffic and pounded on his horn twice, calling out, “Khliebalk! Ya usta!” He hit his horn again, yelling out the window, “Watch out!” Once he was calm, he turned the radio on full blast. He resembled a bobblehead doll as he beat on the steering wheel as if it were a drum and chanted the chorus. “Layali, layali, layali.”
The low bass and the heavy downbeat pounded deep in Tia’s belly. She joined him singing about the night—undulating, tapping, and crooning away. Mispronouncing the occasional word didn’t diminish her enthusiasm.
“You know this song?” Ali grinned at her.
“Yep. It’s one of my favorites. I love The Prince of Cairo. His voice is fabulous.”
For the next four tunes, the two of them performed a duet worthy of a theatrical award.
After they took seated bows for their nonexistent audience, Ali turned down the music. “Not all agents want to work with foreigners. But I tell everyone, ‘This American with hair the color of fire will be a star.’ ”
“Thank you, Ali.”
“The other foreign girls all look the same.” He took his hands from the steering wheel and held them palms facing in. “Same. Same. Same.” Like a chopping knife, his hands hit the wheel three times. “Cutter cookies with all the surgery. Same hair. Move same.”
Tia grimaced and willed him to drive with his hands in the safe three o’clock and nine o’clock positions that all sixteen-year-old Americans learned in driver’s education classes. “You mean cookie cutters?”
“Yes! Bluck!”
“It’s hard. We want the Egyptian people to embrace us.”
“We don’t care about boobs and noses. We care about the dance and music.” His hand left the steering wheel to tap on his chest. “And this.”
Tia warmed, forgiving him for his terrifying road etiquette since he believed she had an Arabic heart. What a splendid compliment! Devotion to her craft had paid off.
She’d traveled all over the United States, studying with master instructors, dancing until her feet bled and her body ached. Not to mention, she’d foregone sleep to watch videos of the great dancers, analyzing their movements with the same intensity a mad scientist applied to physics. Plus, she’d devoured books on Arabic culture and driven three hours every Tuesday evening to study conversational Egyptian at a community college—all while teaching first grade.
Her parents balked when she announced she was leaving her career in education to head to Cairo. Although they were wonderful parents, they didn’t understand her fascination with a culture half a world away. Her mother blushed whenever admitting Tia had given up ballet for belly dancing.
And her father saw dancing as a hobby, not a career. “You must work before you can play,” he constantly reminded her.
Despite their misgivings, her dream of performing the most beautiful and passionate dance form in the world had become a reality. She’d been rewarded with an opportunity that was the equivalent of making an Olympic team.
Ali’s voice brought her back from her reverie. “I have everything arranged for your first rehearsal. The house band will be ready early tomorrow morning. They have your playlist.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“But soon, you will have your own band because you will be a great star.”
“And you’re a great agent, Ali.”
His chest swelled. “I am the best agent, Miss Tia.”
“Wow!” Tia sat forward. “Is that Zamalek?” She pointed at the bridge and the cityscape behind it.
“Yes! Our beautiful island.”
“Oh.” She sighed and drank in the sights.
The lights reflecting from the buildings shimmered like gold glitter across the black water.
Her body tingled with excitement. “It’s magnificent.” As they exited the bridge, she pointed at a neon sign. “There it is. The Royal River Hotel.”
“Yes. And your flat is close. I hope you and Paulina will be like sisters.”
The hotel grew smaller and eventually disappeared from the side mirror.
“We’ve been in touch, and she seems wonderful.”
Perhaps Ali read her nervous body language because his hands controlled the car as he used a jutting chin and an elbow to point. “Do you see your new home?”
The majestic five-story Egyptian-Revival building was bubble-gum pink in the glare of the streetlights. Alternating floors had square windows with balconies. In between were mosque-like arches adorned with colorful mosaic tiles fit for a palace. The first floor housed a coffee shop with outdoor seating, pots of flowers, and red umbrellas. At the tip-top perched a fancy dome that contained a penthouse.
She clamped her lips tight to contain a squeal of joy.
“You have arrived, Miss Tia!” Ali slammed his hand on his horn, yelled harsh-sounding words out the window, then swung the car into an alley.
****
Ali lifted a knocker, and it clonked on the wooden door.
A young woman with shiny black hair hanging to her waist peeked out at them. She grinned and threw the door wide.
