Читать книгу Sandstorm - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 7

HER father was in his study. He looked up rather myopically as she put her head round the door, removing the thick-lensed spectacles to blink at her in surprise.

‘You’re early aren’t you?’ he asked, trying to focus on the dial of his pocket watch. ‘I thought you were going to Liz’s party.’

Abby tried to keep her tone light. ‘I was. I did. I just came home sooner than I expected, that’s all.’

‘Why?’ Professor Gillespie scratched his scalp through the thinning strands of grey hair. ‘Wasn’t it any good? I thought you usually enjoyed Liz’s company.’

‘I do, usually,’ agreed Abby, withdrawing her head again, in two minds whether to mention Rachid to her father or not. ‘I’m going to make some coffee,’ she called. ‘Do you want some?’

‘I’d rather have cocoa at this time of the night,’ replied her father absently. ‘It’s ten o’clock. I think I’ll have a sandwich.’

‘I’ll make it,’ Abby assured him, her voice drifting back to him as she walked into the kitchen.

The Gillespie house was one of a terrace, matching its fellows on either side. Tall and narrow, it stretched up three floors, with the kitchen, the dining room, and her father’s study on the ground floor, and living rooms and bedrooms above. It was easier for Professor Gillespie to work at ground level, even though it would have been quieter on the upper floors, but since his retirement from the University, her father had taken private students, and it was less arduous for him not to have stairs to negotiate every time he had to answer the door.

He came into the kitchen as Abby was spreading the bread with butter, filching a piece of cheese from the slices she had prepared. Although he was only in his early sixties, he looked older, and Abby knew he had aged considerably since her mother’s death a year ago. Nevertheless, he enjoyed his work, and it had become both a pleasure and a distraction, filling the empty spaces he would otherwise have found unbearable.

Now he studied his daughter’s bent head with thoughtful eyes, before saying perceptively: ‘What’s happened? Have you and Liz had a row or something? You’re looking very flushed.’

Abby sighed, turning to the kettle that was starting to boil and lifting out earthenware beakers from the cupboard above. ‘Oh, you know Liz,’ she said, trying to sound inconsequent. ‘She’s not the type to row over anything. She’s far too together for that.’

Professor Gillespie grimaced. ‘Together!’ he repeated distastefully. ‘Where do young people find these words? Together means in company with someone else.’

‘Well, she’s usually that, too,’ remarked Abby, hoping to change the subject, but he was not to be diverted.

‘Did something go wrong at the party?’ he persisted, helping himself to a second wedge of cheese, and Abby was forced to accept that she was going to have to tell him the truth.

‘Did—er—did you see Rachid while I was working in New York?’ she asked carefully, and Professor Gillespie made a sound of resignation.

‘You know, I half guessed that’s what it might be,’ he exclaimed, shaking his head. ‘Come on, you might as well get it off your, chest. Was Rachid at the party?’

Abby nodded. ‘Liz’s boss—Damon Hunter—he arranged it. I didn’t know anything about it until I saw him coming in.’ She moved her shoulders awkwardly. ‘I got out of there as soon as I possibly could.’

‘But not soon enough, obviously,’ observed her father dryly. ‘I gather you and Rachid had some conversation.’

‘You could say that.’ The kettle began to sing and she moved to make the cocoa. ‘But not at the party. Rachid brought me home.’

‘Did he?’ Her father looked surprised, and Abby hastened to explain.

‘He was waiting for me outside. He had two of his muscle men with him, so I couldn’t exactly argue.’

Professor Gillespie sighed. ‘I suppose he told you, he came to see me just after your mother died?’

Abby nodded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Her father grimaced. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to worry you. I mean, living in New York, away from all your friends and family—I thought it was unnecessary to alarm you.’

‘I did make friends in New York, you know,’ she pointed out quietly. ‘But I know what you mean. If I’d known Rachid was looking for me, I’d probably have anticipated the worst.’

Professor Gillespie looked troubled. ‘I thought about this for a long time before I asked you to come home,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I knew if you came back to England, Rachid was bound to find out sooner or later, but I felt, rightly or wrongly, that with my backing he might hesitate before upsetting you. But he has upset you, hasn’t he? I can see that. What does he want? A divorce?’

Abby’s lips trembled, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth so that her father should not see that betraying sign. ‘He wants me to go back to him,’ she said flatly, avoiding his startled gaze. ‘He said that was why he asked you for my address.’

Professor Gillespie sought one of the tall stools that flanked the narrow breakfast bar, and stared at her aghast. ‘He wants to take you back to Abarein?’

‘Yes.’

The Professor shook his head. ‘But what about his father?’

‘Rachid says that his father will accept me.’

‘And are you going?’

Abby gave him the benefit of her violet gaze, her pupils wide and distended. ‘Do you have to ask?’

Professor Gillespie looked more disturbed than ever. ‘But Abby—’

‘I didn’t leave Rachid because of what his father said,’ she retorted. ‘At least, only in part. You know why I left, and that situation has not changed. Nor is it likely to do so.’

Her father cradled his chin on an anxious hand. ‘I know, my dear, but have you really considered what you are refusing?’

Abby gasped. ‘Do you want me to go back to him?’

‘I want you to be happy,’ her father insisted gently. ‘You know that. And I also know that you love Rachid despite—’

‘Loved, Dad, loved!’ she contradicted him tightly. ‘I did love him, you’re right. I—I loved him very much. And I thought he loved me. But the Muslim way of loving is obviously different.’

‘Abby, Rachid’s a Christian, you know that. And besides, even if he were not, even if he embraced the faith of his ancesters, nowadays even kings and princes have only one wife at a time.’

Abby closed her eyes against the pain his words evoked. Even now, the remembrance of Rachid’s treachery hurt, but that would pass. In time, everything passed; even hatred, which was all she felt for Rachid.

Opening her eyes again, she applied herself to the sandwiches. Then, sensing her father was waiting for a reply, she said: ‘I have no intention of returning to Abarein, or to Rachid, for that matter. I made one mistake, but I don’t intend to make another. Believe it or not, I like my work, I like being independent, and while I appreciate your concern, Dad, I think I know what I want from life better than you do.’

‘And what about later on? When you get older? When I’m dead and buried? What then?’

Abby sighed. ‘There’s always the possibility that I might get married again,’ she said, handing him the plate of sandwiches. ‘But whatever happens, it’s my decision.’

Professor Gillespie took the plate, but he was still uneasy. ‘Abby, men are not like women,’ he insisted, as they walked back to the warm security of his study. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a little unrealistic?’

Abby took a deep breath. ‘I thought you were supposed to be on my side.’

‘I am, I am.’ Her father sought the comfort of his armchair with a troubled expression engraving deeper lines beside his mouth. ‘But I must admit, I expected something different from Rachid, and his attitude definitely restores a little of my faith in him. Abby, in his country, it must be extremely difficult to sustain continuity without a direct descendant. He’s the eldest son, perhaps unfortunately, and it’s his role to beget an heir.’

‘Beget! Beget!’ Abby gave a groan of exasperation. ‘Honestly, Dad, you’re beginning to sound like the book of Genesis! Rachid’s brother has two sons already. Isn’t that direct enough for you?’

Her father hesitated. ‘If Rachid divorced you, there’s every possibility that he could find a wife who would produce him a son,’ he commented mildly, and Abby realised she had spoken as if she was still in the picture.

‘As you say,’ she agreed shortly, picking up a sandwich. ‘And as far as I’m concerned, I wish he would do just that.’

Later that night, undressing in the quiet isolation of her room, Abby wondered what she would do if Rachid divorced her. It was all very well, talking blandly of getting married again, but somehow she knew that was most unlikely. Her experiences with Rachid had left her badly scarred, and where once there had been warmth and tenderness, now there was just a cold hard core of bitterness and resentment. She doubted any man could breach the defences she had built around herself, and she didn’t really want anyone to try. It was better to be free, and independent, as she had told her father. Better not to love at all than to go though the pain and turmoil of those last months with Rachid. She was safe now, immune from the arrows of distrust and jealousy, secure within the shell of her own indifference. She had no desire to expose herself again, to lay open the paths to vulnerability and suffering. If she ever did allow another man into her life, she would make sure her involvement was not emotional. Emotions caused too many tortured days and sleepless nights.

Nevertheless, for the first time in months she found herself viewing her own body with something other than dissatisfaction. For so long she had regarded herself with discontented eyes, finding the lissom curves of her figure less than gratifying. She had seen no beauty in the swelling symmetry of her breasts, in the narrow waist and gently rounded thighs, that hinted of the sensual depths Rachid had once plumbed. All she had seen was a hollow vessel, lacking the essential constituents which would have made her a whole being. She was that most pathetic of all creatures, a barren woman, and all the allure and enticement of her body went for nothing beside such an elemental deficiency.

She twisted restlessly, turning sideways, looking at the pale oval of her face over her shoulder. On impulse, she reached up and released the coil of hair at her nape, and shards of silk fell almost to her waist. Her hair was one thing she would not change, straight and silky, and moonbeam-fair. Rachid had loved its soft fragrance, had liked nothing better than to bury his face in its lustrous curtain, and it was pure indulgence that she had not had it cut when she left Abarein. It was really too much for a working girl to handle, but it was her one extravagance, and she was loath to destroy it.

Now, spreading smoothly across her shoulders, concealing the thrusting peaks of womanhood, it accentuated her femininity, and she reflected sadly on the fates that had given her so much, yet denied her so much more.

Between the cotton sheets, she tried to dispel the unbidden fruits of memory. She didn’t want to think about her life with Rachid. She had thought about that too much already. Too many nights, in those early days after their separation, she had cried herself to sleep for the cruel tragedy of it all, and now she preferred to forget that it had not all been bad. On the contrary, in the beginning she had almost too much happiness, and each morning she had awakened eager to start the day. She could not get too much of Rachid, nor he of her, and she had resented those occasions when business, or the affairs of state, had taken him from her.

Unwillingly she recalled the first time she had seen him—at that party in Paris, which had proved such a fateful affair. She had gone to Paris with Brad, to attend a conference called by the oil-producing states, and the request to attend the gathering at the Abareinian Embassy had been just another invitation among many. Abby had not even wanted to go, eager to sample the more exciting night life to be found in Montmartre, but Brad had been persuasive, and she had succumbed. After all, they were to be there for several days more, and besides, he had promised to take her sightseeing as soon as they could decently make their escape.

In the event, it had not been Brad who showed her Paris, but Rachid. The party at the Embassy had not turned out at all as she had expected, and looking back on it now, she could still feel the thrill of excitement that had coursed through her veins when he had first laid eyes on her. It was the first time she had experienced such a tangible reaction to an intangible contact, and she remembered how put out Brad had been when Rachid relieved him of his companion.

Parties at Middle Eastern embassies were usually sumptuous, with plenty of food and drink provided for their European guests. Arabs, or at least Muslims, did not touch alcohol, but they had no inhibitions about providing it for their visitors. They were extravagant affairs, with a great deal of business mixed in with the socialising, and even Abby, who was not unaccustomed to the attentions of the opposite sex tended to cling to Brad like a lifeline in a stormy sea.

Meeting Rachid was different however. He had been there, with his father, Prince Khalid, welcoming their guests when Abby and Brad arrived. Tall and dark, with strong, tanned features, and eyes so deep as to be almost black, he nevertheless possessed a less hawklike profile than his father, whose looks were distinctly those of an Arab. Rachid displayed his English ancestry, in the thick length of his lashes, in the lighter cast of his skin, and the sensually attractive curve of his mouth. He had a sense of humour, too, which was something she learned his father lacked, and his lean muscular frame complemented the well-cut dinner suit, that contrasted sharply with his father’s robes and kaffiyeh.

Abby, at nineteen, had considered herself well capable of handling any situation. She had been Brad Daley’s secretary for over a year, and during that time she had countered the advances of men from various backgrounds, and while she was attracted to Prince Rachid, she was immediately suspicious of his motives. Men of his wealth and education did not get seriously involved with secretaries, and while she enjoyed his attention, she tried not to respond to his undoubted sexual magnetism.

It proved difficult—and ultimately, impossible. Despite the quite obvious disapproval of his father and the rest of his family, Rachid neglected his other guests to remain at her side during the course of the evening, and afterwards, with Brad’s grudging consent, he took her back to the hotel. He had been quite circumspect then, merely kissing her hand on departing, and wishing her a good night’s sleep, and even when the sheaves of white roses began to arrive in the morning, she had had no conception of how hopeless would be her attempts to resist him.

He arrived at ten o’clock to take her sightseeing, and sweeping Brad’s objections aside with the assurance that he would arrange for a temporary secretary to replace her, he took Abby on a tour of the city that left her speechless and breathless. He knew Paris intimately, having spent some time studying at the Sorbonne, and instead of whisking her from place to place in a limousine, he made her walk miles and miles through the fascinating heart of the city, until her feet ached, and she begged for relief.

Then he took her back to his hotel, instead of hers, much to her alarm, insisting that she must eat dinner with him, and that he did not intend to share her with Brad Daley. However, when she discovered that he intended ordering the meal served in his suite, she firmly declined, and only accompanied him upstairs to avoid standing alone in the lobby while he changed.

The hotel room had been magnificent, she remembered, with soft pile carpets and lots of concealed lighting. While Rachid disappeared into his bedroom, she kicked off her shoes and curled on a soft couch, and would have fallen asleep 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 door at this time of night, if possible.’

His words hardened her resolve. ‘Then go,’ she said tightly. ‘No one asked you to come here.’

‘Abby!’

The night-dark irises pleaded with her, and combined with the magnetic appeal of the man himself, they were a potent seducement. Moving her head silently from side to side, not trusting herself to speak, she tried to close the door, but his foot was in the way and with a little sound of protest she fell back from him, seeking the farthest corner of the room. He must not know how he affected her, she thought desperately, but how could she disguise it?

Rachid came into the room slowly, closing the door behind him and leaning his broad shoulders back against the panels. Then, tipping his head on one side, he looked at her with half reproachful impatience.

‘Why are you frightened of me?’ he asked, dark brows drawing together above the faintly arrogant curve of his nose. ‘What did I do to make you afraid of me? And why did you refuse to see me yesterday? Do we not enjoy ourselves together? I was under the impression that you liked my company. Was I wrong?’

Abby didn’t know how to answer him. To tell him that she had not enjoyed their time together would be an outright lie, yet to admit the contrary would be to invite who knew what familiarities.

‘I—did find your company—informative,’ she ventured at last, choosing her words carefully. ‘You obviously know Paris very well, and your knowledge of Versailles—’

‘I did not mean that, and you know it,’ he exclaimed, pushing himself away from the door and moving towards her with a firm pantherlike tread. ‘We were beginning to know one another, that is the important thing, and I want to know why you chose to sever our relationship with the sensitivity of a camel driver!’

He came round the end of her bed, imprisoning her in a corner of the room with no escape except across the bed itself. Abby considered climbing across the counter-pane, but such behaviour seemed undignified, and besides, if he attacked her she could always scream. Brad’s room was next door, and by now he must surely have finished the drink he had intended to have in the bar before coming upstairs.

‘I think you ought to go, Prince Rachid,’ she insisted tremulously, endeavouring not to look as anxious as she felt. ‘It—it was good of you to give me your time, but—’

‘It was not good at all,’ he interrupted roughly, now only inches away from her. ‘I wanted to spend my time with you, Abby. I can think of nothing I have enjoyed more, and—’ he reached out a hand to touch her cheek, ‘—I do not believe you did not enjoy it, too.’

Abby’s instinctive flinching away from him brought a faint flush of anger to his cheeks. ‘Haji, what is wrong with you?’ he demanded, gazing down at her without comprehension. ‘What kind of man do you think I am that you tremble like a gazelle just because I lay my hand on you?’

‘Please go,’ she got out chokingly, panic rising unbidden inside her. ‘Please, I want you to leave. At—at once. And I never want to see you again.’

‘No? Is this so? And what has happened to change your mind?’

He was so close now that she could see the flecks of lightness in those dark eyes, approve the texture of his skin, that was firm and tanned, and only slightly shadowed by the shaven growth of his beard. She could see the strong column of his throat rising from the collar of his shirt, and smell the clean odour of his body, mingling with that of his clothes and his shaving lotion. His hair clung smoothly to the shape of his head, free of any of the greasy dressings some men needed to keep their hair in order, and beneath the flaring pendulum of his tie his quickened breathing strained the buttons of his shirt. Her eyes dropped lower, only to dart up again swiftly, in case he imagined she was as curious about him as he appeared to be about her.

‘Prince Rachid—’

‘Rachid will do.’

‘Rachid, then…’

She put out a hand to ward him off, but he was too close. Her fingers made contact with the taut silk that covered his chest, and as they recoiled in embarrassment he bent his head and touched her ear with his lips.

It was the lightest caress, a brief meeting of the flesh, but Abby quivered in the grip of emotions far greater than the touch warranted, and as if compelled in spite of himself, he slipped an arm around her waist and brought her close against his hard body.

‘Rachid—’ she began again, more frantically now, but the smouldering passion of his gaze rendered her speechless. Almost involuntarily her lips parted, and this time when he bent his head, his mouth found hers.

It was a devastating experience, the firmness of his lips tasting hers with sensuous enjoyment. She felt a dizzying sense of imbalance in the increasing pressure of his embrace, and her hands groped blindly for his lapels in an effort to maintain some hold on reality. She was imprisoned against him, her breasts crushed by the sinewy strength of his chest, the bones of her hips melting against the powerful muscles of his thighs.

‘Abby…’

He said her name against her mouth, and a weak sense of inadequacy gripped her. She was no match for his experienced advances, and contrary to what Brad had told her, Rachid was no amateur in the matter of sensitivity. His whole approach was skilful, measured, and she was helpless against the sensual needs he was deliberately arousing. There was no need for brutality, no need to force her at all. In his hands, with the pulsating heat of his desire thrusting against her, she only wanted to respond, and her moan of submission was as much a plea for possession as a protest at his undoubted expertise.

With unhurried movements he slid the towelling robe from her shoulders, his mouth tracing its passing with lingering pleasure. Then, when she was desperately trying to recover her modesty, his hands loosened the cord that circled her waist so that the robe fell open before him.

‘Rachid, no…’ she gasped, but her denial was submerged beneath the sharp thrill of indulgence she felt when his long fingers cupped the swollen fullness of her breast.

‘Beautiful,’ he said, his voice low and husky with emotion. ‘So perfectly formed. So round and pink and delicious. I must taste…’

‘Oh, Rachid,’ she whispered tremulously, as his tongue probed the roseate peak, and his eyes narrowed with emotive anticipation.

‘You do not really want me to stop, do you?’ he murmured, as the towelling robe fell to the floor. ‘Do not be ashamed of your body. It is a temple at which I worship, and never have I held so much beauty in my hands.’

Abby was totally bemused. She had never shared such intimacy with any man, but when he tossed off his own jacket and tie, and unfastened the buttons of his shirt, the lingering memory of Brad’s insinuations returned to torment her.

‘I—I can’t,’ she got out chokingly, as he swung her up into his arms and lifted her on to the bed. ‘Rachid, I haven’t—I’ve never—’

‘Do you think I do not know that?’ he demanded huskily, lowering his weight beside her. ‘But do not be afraid. I will not hurt you. I will just caress you—so, and you will have nothing to fear.’

Abby’s trembling limbs were weak with longings she hardly knew or understood, but still she had to understand him. ‘You mean—you mean—you’re not going to—to—’

‘—make love to you?’ he finished, nuzzling her shoulder with his lips. ‘Not if you do not want to, no. There are—other ways of pleasing one another, and if you are afraid…’

‘Oh, Rachid…’

Relief made her wind her arms around his neck, bringing his mouth down to hers with hungry urgency, and the burning pressure of his mouth ignited the stirring flame inside her. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she moved beneath him eagerly, arching against his hard length, until only the layer of his clothes separated her from his throbbing possession.

‘Abby…’

Now it was Rachid who protested her innocence, but the imprisoning weight of his body drove all desire to resist from her, and her mouth opened beneath his.

The smooth expanse of his chest spread beneath her palms, warm and male, and only slightly roughened by the fine dark hair that was abrasively virile to the touch. Her hands investigated his shoulders, her nails probing the hollows of his ears, the strong column of his neck where the hair grew down to his nape. She wanted to know every inch of him, and time and place were forgotten in the delights of exploration.

Rachid’s mouth devoured hers as his hands searched the curve of her waist and the swell of her hips. His touch aroused her to unknown heights of excitement and anticipation, and she was all yielding woman in his arms.

She heard his muffled imprecation when her fingers found the buckle of his belt, but by then neither of them was capable of thinking beyond the moment, and the moment demanded surrender. With a groan of submission, Rachid lost what little control he had left, and his legs parted hers.

The heat of him against her promoted its own consummation. What happened was as natural as the turning of the season, and Abby’s cry of pain was stifled beneath the probing hunger of his kiss. She was hardly aware of the moment when he started to move within her, or indeed of the moment when the pressure began to build. But it happened, and they climbed together, scaling the boundaries of human experience, reaching the peak of sensual fulfilment. It was an unbelievable sensation, and looking up into Rachid’s sweat-moistened features, Abby knew that he was feeling it too. They sank together through the veils of shimmering ecstasy, and it was she who sought his lips with hers in the glorious aftermath of their lovemaking.