Free Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes) by Georgia le Carre

is no commercial airport and only private jets are authorized to land. There are no queues, Immigration and Passport Control, or baggage to worry about. Instead, our passports are checked by two policemen, and then we step onto the runway.
    ‘Welcome to France,’ Shane says.
    I marvel at how easy and smooth travel is for the rich. ‘I can’t believe we’re actually in another country.’
    ‘Come on. We’ve got dinner reservations,’ he says, and leads me to a waiting car.
    Full of excitement, I look around me as the palm-tree-lined boulevards swish by as we get into the town. I gaze in awe at all the beautiful old buildings. In twenty minutes I am ushered into one of Cannes’ famous seafront restaurants, Le Palais Oriental. It is brightly decorated with blue seats, white tables, and mirrors on the ceilings.
    The place is in full swing, heaving with belly dancers and huge groups of noisy party-goers. We are greeted by a friendly Moroccan waiter who shows us to our table. The tables are low, and Shane has to sit with his knees spread far apart. He catches my grin and acknowledges the funny side. I love that he is able to laugh at himself. There is something so endearing about a man like that. My father couldn’t. My brother will never be able to, and Lenny will tear your head off before he’d even contemplate doing such a thing.
    Shane and I order tagine of lamb with prunes and couscous, which our cheeky waiter claims is terrific because it is cooked on the bosoms of angels.
    We drink mint tea and watch the dazzlingly graceful belly dancers as they advance, retreat as they snake their arms sinuously in the air, and shimmy their hips so hard and fast their luxurious costumes swim about their feet. I feel an instant affinity with them—the colorful costumes, the sun-drenched skin, and the bells on their bra tops remind me of the beautiful Indian dancers of my childhood. 
    Like those Indian dancers, they twist their bodies into shapes that express joy, laughter, sadness, grace, lust. This story is one of entrapment and beauty. One woman wears a veil and over it her dusky black eyes flash enticingly. Not only her body, but her eyes speak.
    I look around me and there are different reactions to them. To some, these women are cheap meat, but there are others who see what I do. All dancers are dreamers. There is no such thing as a sinful dancer.
    ‘I’ve never seen a belly dance in the flesh,’ I tell Shane.
    ‘Do you like it?’ he asks.
    ‘It’s simply beautiful,’ I say, watching a woman in a blue costume. Her personality and her sensuality flow through the timeless moves her body makes.
    ‘I agree.’
    I turn to look at Shane. He is watching me. ‘The one in the blue costume is so seductive.’
    ‘Yes, she’s so seductive,’ he says softly, but he does not turn to look at her.
    When the lamb comes, it is succulent, and the couscous could indeed have been cooked on the bosom of an angel. We eat our food and drink our wine, and slowly the beat of the Arabic music makes me tingle, and my body moves in tune with it.
    ‘Do you want to dance?’
    I shake my head. ‘Perhaps I could dance under a moonless sky, or if I was on my own and no one could see me.’
    ‘Great: Moonless Sky is my chosen Red Indian name,’ he says cheekily.
    ‘Forget it,’ I say.
    ‘Never say never.’
    We leave the restaurant late, our bellies full and the scent of adventure beckoning us as we drive to Shane’s chateau. In thirty minutes we arrive at a set of arched black iron gates. We drive up a road for a few minutes in total darkness and then, suddenly, we have reached our destination.
    Saumur.
    My mouth drops open with astonishment. This is no farmhouse or dilapidated chateau! How is it possible that Shane could own something so magnificent? Built from pink stone and trimmed in white, it rises from the ground in a truly imposing and majestic structure.
    ‘Wow,’ I exclaim opening the car door. ‘But this is a