Sandstorm. Anne Mather
had not nervousness kept her awake.
He returned wearing not the casual pants and matching jerkin he had worn all day, but a robe, similar to the one his father had worn the night before, only striped in shades of blue and purple that accentuated the raven darkness of his hair.
Abby remembered she had been studying a painting on the wall above a polished escritoire, and her first intimation that she was no longer alone had come when firm, strong fingers had begun massaging her aching instep. She had been shocked to find Rachid squatting at her feet, performing the menial service, and had begun to protest when he had lowered his head and caressed her toes with his lips.
Her skin had burned through the fine mesh of her tights, and when he had lifted his eyes to look at her, her head had swum with the message she read in their depths. For the first time in her life she had encountered a man, and a situation, she could not control, and her preconceived ideas of the relationship between the sexes were violently revised.
Her startled use of his name was a further demonstration of how his actions disturbed her. All day she had maintained the formality between them, but suddenly they were no longer a Middle Eastern prince and a secretary, but a man and a woman caught in the oldest spell since creation.
Even so, she had clung to some semblance of dignity, scrambling off the couch and putting the width of the room between them. She couldn’t leave. Her shoes still lay near Rachid’s straightening figure, and she could imagine the scandal which would ensue if she ran from the room in her stockinged feet. But she needed a breathing space, and the palpitating beat of her heart was evidence of the powerful effect he had on her.
Contrarily, Rachid had not pursued the issue. With a gesture of indifference he had left her, returning minutes later wearing a fine mohair lounge suit and the tie that proclaimed the exclusiveness of his public school, and much to Abby’s bemusement, they had dined downstairs without another word being said about what had happened upstairs.
The following morning he arrived at her hotel before she was even dressed. Her room was still druggingly scented with the perfumes of the roses he had had delivered the previous day, and the chambermaid gushed admiringly as she brought an armful of pale pink orchids to join them.
‘Que Monsieur est romantique!’ she exclaimed, fingering the thick luscious petals, but Abby thought single-minded was probably a more apt description.
Nevertheless, she was aware her fingers had trembled so much she had dropped the soap in the shower, and she had deliberately dressed in her least feminine outfit to combat the emotions she was trying hard to suppress. She knew what he was doing. She had heard stories of other girls courted in this way. But somehow, imperatively, she must keep her head.
Unfortunately, despite what she later learned of Rachid’s dislike of women in trousers, the wine silk shirt and toning velvet pants she had chosen merely accentuated the delicate swell of her woman’s body, and with her hair straight to her waist and confined at her nape with a leather thong, she had looked both absurdly young and infinitely feminine. Rachid had not been able to take his eyes off her when she met him in the lobby of the hotel, and in spite of her earlier determination to refuse him, she found herself accepting his invitation to drive with him to Versailles.
He drove himself, an infrequent occurrence, she later learned, but in this instance essential to their privacy. They had wandered together through the magnificent park and gardens of the palace, gazing at the flowerbeds and ornamental lakes, the statuary and the fountains, and when Rachid captured her hand to draw her attention to the spectacular chariot rising from the waters of the Bassin d’Apollon, it seemed natural that her fingers should remain within the firm coolness of his.
It was another wonderful day, and by the time they drove back to Paris, Abby had almost forgotten the reasons which had brought her there in the first place. Unfortunately Brad had not, and the row that ensued on her return made her realise how selfishly she was behaving. His diatribe, too, on the recklessness of what she was doing did not improve the situation, particularly as he was only saying the things she herself had thought previously, and which even now were struggling for existence. He said she was a fool, and an innocent if she imagined the Prince Rachid Hasan al Juhami wanted anything more than to satisfy his lust for her body, and that if that didn’t trouble her the way Arabs treated their women would. They were just chattels, he maintained, there to satisfy a purpose, but without any rights to take enjoyment from it.
Abby had been shocked and appalled by the things he had said. Brad was not a prude, and he had no way of knowing whether or not she was still a virgin, and she half believed his outraged indignation. The fact that she had never been with a man made his words that much more terrifying, and while her senses rejected his angry denigration, her frightened logic could not.
In consequence, when Rachid arrived the following morning she refused to see him, and spent the day with Brad, attending a business meeting in the morning and lecture in the afternoon. She had told herself it was the sensible thing to do, and even though that night had been the first of the many when she cried herself to sleep over Rachid, she was convinced it was the only thing to do.
Unfortunately, the following day brought her into contact with the Abareinian delegation once more. Attending a reception at one of the other embassies, Rachid was the first man she saw on their arrival, and in spite of her determination, her eyes were drawn again and again to his dark-suited figure. Not that Rachid appeared to notice. He seemed quite content to remain with his own party, listening to what his colleagues had to say in that distinctive way he had of inclining his dark head in their direction, a faint smile of acknowledgement tugging at the corners of his mobile mouth.
Naturally Brad had been well pleased that his advice had appeared to work, and if he noticed that Abby’s lips were a little tighter when they left the Embassy, and her smile a little forced, he feigned ignorance. With supreme indifference to the fact that she had already been there with Rachid, he took her to the Louvre, and they spent the rest of the afternoon walking through the museums that house the most important artistic collection in the world, before returning to their hotel to take dinner in the restaurant.
By the time she left Brad in the foyer of the hotel, Abby’s head was aching and there was a curiously hollow feeling inside her, despite the excellence of the food she had just consumed. She put it down to fatigue and nervous exhaustion, but as she rode up in the lift she knew it was due in no small part to Rachid’s defection. It was to be expected, of course, after the way she had behaved, but she was amazed at the turmoil it had left inside her.
Her room was on the tenth floor, overlooking the Place de la Concorde, but this evening she had no interest in her surroundings. She felt raw and vulnerable, and it was not a pleasant experience. To alleviate her discomfort, she decided to take a bath, and minutes later, relaxing in the soapy scented water, she felt she had made the right decision. The water was warm and soothing, and swirled about her like a protective cocoon.
The knock that was repeated at the outer door dispelled the brief illusion of immunity. Guessing it was Brad with some instructions for the morning, she called to him to wait, and quickly patted herself dry before donning the ankle-length towelling robe which she normally used as a dressing gown. With her hair spilling from an improvised knot on top of her head, and the robe wrapped securely about her, she opened the door, and then expelled her breath on a gasp when she found Rachid on the threshold.
‘Can I come in?’ he asked, and she was convinced that no single item of her state of déshabille had escaped his notice. The dark eyes were all-encompassing, and she clutched the lapels of the towelling robe as if it was essential to hide every inch of burning flesh from him.
‘It’s late,’ she said foolishly, realising a more vehement refusal should have been forthcoming, but his unexpected appearance when she was feeling most susceptible had temporarily robbed her of calm reasoning.
‘I have to talk to you,’ he insisted, supporting himself with one hand against the door frame, the lapels of his jacket falling open to reveal the shadowy outline of his chest beneath the sheer silk of his shirt. ‘Abby, I beg of you, let me come in. At least for a moment. I would prefer not to be seen hanging about your bedroom