Lord of the Desert. Diana Palmer
I imagine her husband encouraged her,” he added darkly. “He knows how much I admire long hair.”
Her eyebrows arched. “Her husband?”
He glared. “They have a son, almost two years old.”
“She turned you down, I gather?”
His chin went up. “I would not offer marriage,” he said evasively. “He did.”
“Why, you rake,” she teased.
He didn’t smile. If anything, he looked grim and introspective.
“Sorry,” she said at once. “I suppose she meant something to you?”
“She was my world,” he said abruptly. “But there again, fate robbed me.” He glanced beyond her and frowned.
She turned, in time to see the man in the beige suit now standing with the bodyguards. One of the two men in black suits on the side of the street was making an urgent gesture with one hand. The man in the beige suit motioned to Philippe.
“We must go at once,” he said, propelling her down the walkway to where their guide was waiting with the black-suited men. He was quite suddenly someone else, someone who exercised authority and expected instant obedience. When they reached the black-suited men, they were standing with the one in the beige suit—the man Philippe had described as an employee of a Saudi prince. But the man wasn’t behaving like royalty at all. In fact, he was acting in a totally subservient manner, almost pleading from the tone of his voice.
Philippe snapped out questions and then orders in a language that sounded different from the one he’d used in these shops. He glanced down at Gretchen with concern and guided her back toward the car, with their guide in front and the other three men behind and to the side of them.
Gretchen didn’t speak. She had a sense of urgency and danger which made her move quickly and keep quiet. She felt Philippe’s quick, approving gaze as they made their way back to the car and got inside. The suited men got into the car behind them, another Mercedes she noticed, and they pulled out into the street and quickly back onto the highway that led to Tangier.
In scant minutes, she realized that they were gaining speed and that a third car was apparently in hot pursuit.
She glanced at Philippe with visible apprehension. He had pulled a cell phone from his pocket and was speaking into it rapidly in a foreign tongue. The car behind them, apparently following orders, suddenly whirled and blocked the narrow road so that the pursuing car had to swerve or hit them. As they raced away, the sound of rapid gunfire echoed behind them. Gretchen’s hands clenched so hard on her plastic bottle of drinking water that she almost burst it.
“It is all right,” Philippe said in a soft, comforting tone, his face hard and somber. “We are perfectly safe. You react well to a crisis,” he added with gentle praise.
“That was gunfire!” she said breathlessly.
“It was not meant for us,” he said nonchalantly. “We have only helped the young man in the beige suit avert a kidnapping attempt. I assure you, the Moroccan authorities are even now on the way to apprehend the perpetrators.”
“But they were armed,” she persisted.
He waved a hand. “Armed, but hardly in the class of Ahmed and Bruno.”
“Who are they?”
He chuckled. “Bodyguards.”
“Oh, yes. The prince’s bodyguards.”
He lifted an eyebrow and smiled at some private joke. He slid back his sleeve and checked his watch. It was thin and gold, expensive-looking. “I regret having to cut short our sight-seeing tour, but we would have had to leave soon, just the same. I have a rather important business meeting later this afternoon.” He lifted his dark head and searched her eyes. “Will you have dinner with me this evening?”
Her heart skipped and she smiled whimsically. “If you…I mean, I really would like that.”
“Bien. I will call for you at a quarter till eight.”
“All right.” She wasn’t used to having dinner so late, but the hotel didn’t serve meals until that hour. She was already hungry. Perhaps she could find something to nibble on in the small refrigerator in her room.
“Did you have breakfast?”
She hesitated. “Well, yes.”
He smiled warmly. “But no lunch. You do know that the hotel serves a marvelous little buffet beside the swimming pool around 3:00 p.m.?”
She sighed with relief and smiled back. “I do now. You see, the menus are all in French and I’ve had to have waiters translate them for me.”
“I will do that for you this evening.” He pulled out his phone again, pushed in numbers and spoke into it rapidly. The reply came at once. He listened, said something else, and put it away with a sigh. “The would-be kidnappers are in custody.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that in my life,” she said on a heavy breath.
“Sadly, I see it far too often,” he said absently. He said something to the driver, who nodded. He leaned back again and crossed his legs. “I must have Bojo drop me off at the embassy,” he told her. “But he will drive you back to the hotel and escort you inside. I have instructed him to make the concierge aware of our…adventure…this morning, and to look out for you.”
She felt as if he were wrapping her up in soft cotton, like a treasure. She barely knew him, yet he wasn’t a stranger. “Thank you,” she said, feeling that the words were hopelessly inadequate to express what she really felt.
“The entire incident was my fault,” he muttered darkly. “I was careless.”
“I don’t understand. We were only sightseers.”
They approached a group of imposing buildings in the middle of the city and the driver pulled up to the curb and stopped.
“I must go.” Philippe took her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly just above the knuckles, with his black eyes holding hers the whole time. “Don’t brood,” he added gently. “You are safer right this moment than you have ever been in your life.” He turned his head and said something sharp in that gutteral language. Their driver chuckled and replied with a wave of his hand.
Philippe left the car without a backward glance, but as the driver pulled away from the curb, Gretchen noticed that the black car with the two bodyguards slid quickly to the curb in the wake of hers and the two dark-suited men got out and followed close behind Philippe.
She frowned, wondering why they were following him instead of the Saudi prince. “Those bodyguards…” she began.
“Mademoiselle must not worry,” the driver said easily. “Monsieur is in good hands.”
“But aren’t those men supposed to be the Saudi prince’s bodyguards?”
He hesitated. “They are not in the employ of the prince,” he said finally. “They are often called upon to escort visiting dignitaries. And important businessmen,” he added hastily and smiled.
“I see. Thank you.” She smiled and leaned her head back against the seat, relieved and still a little puzzled. Now that she had a friend in Morocco, she didn’t want to lose him so quickly.
Bojo got out of the hotel’s Mercedes, which he had driven, and escorted Gretchen in to the concierge. He seemed different now, very focused and intent as he related, in the language she didn’t understand, what had happened. She noticed that while he was wearing the long striped, hooded robe favored by many Moroccan men, that underneath it he was wearing a suit. She studied him unobtrusively, noting the expensive watch on his own wrist and a diamond-studded ring on his left middle finger. He didn’t look like a hotel guide at all. But then he turned back to her, motioned to one of the bellboys and had her escorted