Читать книгу Lord of the Desert - Diana Palmer - Страница 9

“It isn’t something I’ve said, is it?” Gretchen asked, breaking into his thoughts. “I know that I’m very opinionated. I didn’t mean to be rude…”

He brought her fingers to his lips and then released them. “It isn’t anything you’ve said. In fact, I quite admire your attitude,” he added with a smile. “Muslim women value their virtue. But it is a rather unusual trait in this day and age.”

“That’s what everyone says, all right,” she agreed whimsically. She averted her eyes. “My parents were very strict and deeply religious.” She toyed with a button on her shirt. “I suppose you’re Muslim?”

“No,” he said unexpectedly.

That brought her face up. She searched his eyes curiously.

“I am a Christian,” he said unexpectedly, and without explanation. “And so are many of my people. We are almost equally divided between Muslim, Christian and Jew. It makes for interesting politics,” he added with a grin.

“I’m surprised at how much I don’t know about this part of the world,” she told him. “I thought everybody was Arab, and Muslim. But I’ve learned already that many of the people who were born in Morocco are Berbers, not Arabs.”

“A people very proud of their ancient heritage,” he agreed. “The Berber language is not a written one, either. It is passed down from generation to generation verbally, and its history is woven into the carpets they sell, story by story.”

“I’d love to see them,” she said.

“Tomorrow,” he promised. “I’ll have Bojo take us on a walking tour of the city.”

“I’ve already been, but I didn’t want to look at carpets,” she said sadly. “I didn’t realize what I was missing.”

He chuckled. “Something to anticipate,” he said. “Now, I still have some telephone calls to make, so I must leave you. I’ll be along for you just before eight.”

“I only have one dress with me,” she told him. “It’s a lacy white Mexican dress…”

He guessed her thoughts from the worry on her face. “And you think I may be ashamed of you, because you aren’t wearing something very expensive?”

“Yes,” she said honestly.

He smiled. “I’m sure that whatever you wear will be charming,” he said gently. “I look forward to tonight.”

He left her there on the swing and she watched his elegant back as he walked away. One thing this country had already impressed on her was the grace of movement that these people seemed to share with Arabs. Nobody ever seemed to hurry. It was a wonderful slow pace that suited the easy manner of life and business, unrushed, unharried. She wondered whimsically if anyone here ever got ulcers. She really doubted it.

She dressed with more care than ever that evening. It had been months since Daryl had taken her out and pretended to be in love with her. She thought of him with mingled shame and self-contempt. She’d been easy prey for him, in love for the first time in her life and flattered that such a handsome young man should be so interested in her. He’d even come to sit with her at the hospital during the last terrible days when her mother was dying.

Only after the funeral had she understood his interest. He stopped by the ranch after work and offered to marry her and manage her inheritance for her. When she explained that there was no inheritance, he’d looked shocked and then angry. Muttering something about a waste of time, he’d walked away and never looked back. Her brother, Marc, had tried to warn her about him, but she’d only gotten angry and refused to listen. It was the first time a man had made her feel special and loved. What hurt was that she’d been naïve enough to believe him. But, then, her mother had been so possessive and dependent on her that she rarely got to date anyone while she was in her teens and early twenties. Even then it was mostly blind dates that were one-time occurrences. Marc had commented once that she needed to assert herself more with their mother, despite her illness, but Gretchen’s soft heart had been her undoing. When she asked for more freedom, her mother agreed, and then cried and cried about being left alone. Gretchen settled for those rare blind dates until Daryl came along.

She’d met him at the law office where she worked. He’d had Mr. Kemp do some legal work for him and in the course of talking to Gretchen, he’d learned that her mother was terminal and that she lived on a large ranch. Suddenly, he was around when she went to lunch at the local café, and she ran into him often at the supermarket. He asked her to go with him to Houston to a ballet, but she told him her circumstances. He’d laughed and said they could have a picnic in her house and her mother could join them.

Gretchen had been floating on air. Not only did he charm her, but he charmed her mother. He really did make her remaining few weeks happy and cheerful. Gretchen treasured her few stolen minutes with him, thrilling to his kisses and caresses. He’d proposed the week her mother died, and she’d had at least that future happiness to anticipate while she mourned the only parent she had left.

Then, like all dreams, it had ended abruptly. The shame and humiliation she felt was only heightened by Daryl’s very public avoidance of her after the funeral. People felt sorry for her, but she didn’t want pity. She wanted escape. Then Maggie had phoned and asked if she’d like to go to Morocco…

She came out of her depressing thoughts and back to the present. She looked at herself in the mirror. With her long blond hair loose and faintly waving down her back, and the white dress flowing around her slender curves, with pearls at her ears and neck, she looked different. She wasn’t pretty, but she wasn’t ugly, either. She felt vulnerable, too. She hoped her new friend meant what he said about not wanting a passionate affair, because for the first time, she might be at the mercy of her own repressed needs. He was far more attractive than Daryl had ever been, and he aroused a fiercer hunger in her than even Daryl had. She could tell already that Philippe was sophisticated. Probably, he’d left a trail of broken hearts and affairs behind him. She had to make sure she didn’t end up as one of them. She’d had enough grief lately.

Promptly at a quarter until eight, there was a knock on the door. She opened it, to find Philippe in a beautifully tailored dark suit with a white shirt and patterned blue silk tie. He looked elegant and rakish, like a photo in a fashion magazine, and she felt inhibited and tawdry by comparison in her chain-store dress and shoes.

His black eyes fixed on her long mane of hair and he seemed mesmerized. Slowly, his hand lifted to it, smoothing down it, savoring the feel and scent of it. His indrawn breath was audible. “And you hide it in a braid,” he murmured deeply. “What a waste.”

She smiled self-consciously. “It worries me to death when I wear it like this.”

“But you did it, for me, yes?”

She moved restlessly. “Yes.”

He tilted her chin up and searched her eyes. His thumb moved over her chin. “We are strangers, and yet we have known each other for a thousand years,” he said under his breath.

Her heart bumped in her chest. “How very odd,” she replied in a hushed tone. “I was thinking that, only this afternoon.”

He nodded. “It is, perhaps, the most cruel cut of fate,” he said enigmatically as he removed his hand. “Come along. I understand they have belly dancers from Argentina this evening,” he added with a wicked smile.

She moved a little closer to his side. “Decadent man.”

“I’m not decadent. I appreciate beauty.” He took her arm just below where the black shawl she’d bought reached with its fringe. “Believe me, I find you far more intriguing than a dancer, no matter how adept.”

“Thank you.”

“It isn’t flattery,” he said as they walked down the carpeted hall past the curtained windows that looked down on the open patio below. “I know you well enough already to know that you loathe insincerity as much as I do.”

She smiled. That was reassuring. They went down in the elevator and walked down the steps that led into the courtyard, where a central fountain was surrounded by beautiful mosaic tile. Tables with white linen tablecloths and napkins and pink china were set with silver utensils and crystal glasses. Several couples were already seated, and a beautiful dark-haired woman in a white dress with lavish colored embroidery was sitting on a stage with her accompanist, both with guitars in their hands.

“Tonight’s entertainment,” he informed her. “She is from the Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico, and she sings like an angel.”

“Do you know her?”

He shook his head. “No, but I came here from Madrid. She was appearing in a hotel there, too.”

“Madrid?”

They paused while a white-jacked waiter in a burgundy fez led them to a table. Philippe seated Gretchen and then himself. The waiter left menus and departed. “I do business all over the world,” he told her with a gentle smile. “You might call me an ambassador, of sorts.”

“That explains the bodyguards, I guess.” He looked puzzled and she shrugged. “I saw them follow you into that building this afternoon and asked Bojo about them. He said that they often watch out for businessmen as well as visiting dignitaries.”

He let out an odd sigh. “Yes, they do.”

“I enjoyed this afternoon very much,” she said abruptly. “It was kind of you to offer to go with me. It’s lonely now that Maggie’s gone. I suppose she’s in Brussels now, waiting for her flight back to the States.”

“Have you ever been to Brussels?” he asked curiously.

“Yes. Maggie and I flew from Brussels to Casablanca and then here. I’m going back through Amsterdam on my way home…” She hesitated. Her eyes lifted to his. Suddenly the thought of home was unpleasant. “Well, not now, of course,” she added slowly. “I’ll be going to Qawi instead.” She looked down at her neatly folded pink napkin. “Philippe, I don’t suppose you ever get to Qawi?”

“In fact,” he said slowly, “I spend a great deal of time in Qawi. I do business with the ruling sheikh. Quite a lot of business.”

Her eyes lifted and dreams danced in them. It really was like a fantasy, as if she’d given up ordinary surroundings and had been caught up in mystery and joy. It was all there, in her face, the delight she felt.

He smiled at her, his black eyes searching her excited expression. “And now, Qawi seems less frightening to you, does it not?” he asked softly. “As you see, we won’t say adieu when you leave Tangier. We will say au revoir.”

“I’m glad.”

His long fingers touched the back of hers where her hand lay on the table beside her glass. “So am I. Although,” he added broodingly, “I am not doing you a favor to let you go there.”

“Why not?”

“You may discover that appearances can be very deceptive.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Don’t tell me. You’re really an international jewel thief or a spy on holiday.”

He burst out laughing. “No,” he said. “I can assure you that isn’t the case.”

She studied his hand. It was his left one, and there were scars on the back of it, white lines against his olive complexion. She touched them lightly. “From the accident?”

His whole body clenched at the memory of the injuries. “Yes,” he said reluctantly, withdrawing his hand.

“That was clumsy,” she said, grimacing. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

He stared at her with conflicting emotions. “You will have to know before you leave Tangier,” he said quite calmly. “But I prefer to put it off for a few days. Honesty can be a brutal thing.”

“Then you’re an ax murderer,” she said thoughtfully, nodding. “I understand. You don’t want to shatter my illusions of you as some elegant scoundrel.”

He laughed again, caught off guard. “You remind me of her, so much,” he said without thinking. “The first thing that attracted me to her was a sense of humor that made me laugh at myself, something I was never able to do before.”

“She?”

He shifted, as if he hadn’t meant to say that. “A woman I knew,” he hedged. “A blonde, like you, with a very open personality. I thought she was one of a kind. I am delighted to find that the earth contains another woman similar to her.”

“Maggie thinks I’m a certifiable lunatic.”

“You’re refreshing,” he said, leaning back in his chair to study her. “You might be surprised at how many people say only what is expected of them, out of fear of giving offense. I abhor being toadied to,” he added quite fiercely, and his eyes blazed for an instant.

He must be, Gretchen decided, someone very important. She wanted to ask him about his life, his background, his work. She was curious about him. But he seemed not to like discussing his past.

She glanced at her menu and grimaced. “French. Everywhere we go, everything’s written in French,” she moaned.

He laughed softly. “I must make it my business to teach you to read a menu. Here.” He shared his menu with her, pronounced each entry and made her pronounce it after him, and then explained what it was. She started with an appetizer of prosciutto and melon, followed by a main dish of lamb done in a Moroccan sauce. He ordered fish and a bottle of white wine.

“I’ve never had wine before,” she said, watching his eyebrows go up.

“Would you prefer something else?”

She lifted a shoulder. “I suppose I should know something about wines. If the sheikh isn’t Muslim, he probably has a wine cellar and will expect me to know all sorts of things about wines.”

He pursed his lips. “Probably,” he murmured. “But one can rarely go wrong with a good white wine, like a Riesling or a Chardonnay. Although I prefer an Alsace wine, like a Gewürtztraminer. It is an acquired taste.”

She shook her head. “I’ll never learn.”

“Of course you will. Each night, we’ll sample a different wine from the list. By the time you leave Morocco, you’ll be knowledgeable.”

She smiled. “You’re very sophisticated.”

“I was educated in Europe,” he told her. “One matures rapidly in a sophisticated environment.” His black eyes narrowed. “But I wasn’t born to wealth, and I never forget my beginnings. Poverty is the true plague of the twenty-first century, Gretchen. And greed is its blood brother.”

“Do you feel that way, too?” she asked softly.

He chuckled as the waiter returned and took their order. When the wine came, he taught her how to taste and savor it. “This is a Riesling,” he said. “Not too heavy, not too light.”

“Just right,” she mused, and liked the way it tasted. “We had a little grapevine, but the foreman ran over it with a tractor.”

“Barbarian,” he said.

She chuckled. “That’s what I used to call him,” she murmured. “Conner the Barbarian. Not one flower in the yard was safe if he ever got on the tractor. He’s a great horseman, but he has a knack for running lawnmowers over flower beds and into trees.”

He chuckled, too, at the imagery. “And this is the man you trust to keep the ranch for you?”

“Oh, but he’s great with horses and cattle,” she told him defensively.

“And I suppose you adore him?”

“I had a terrific crush on him in my teens,” she agreed. “But I grew out of it.”

His eyes narrowed. He didn’t speak again until their salads were delivered, along with coffee for Gretchen and sparkling water for her companion.

“You like flowers, then,” he continued.

“I love them,” she said dreamily. “I grow prize tea roses and an assortment of flowering shrubs.”

He toyed with his salad. “My father has a mania for orchids,” he told her. “He calls them his ‘grandchildren’ and gives them all names.” He smiled affectionately, lost in thought. “When I was a child, I was jealous of them. He actually had a servant taken to jail for forgetting to water a sick one, which later died. A very vindictive man, my father.”

She chuckled. “I can imagine how he felt. I have a special fondness for sick roses. I seem to have the touch for making them bloom again.”

He studied her intently. “Some sicknesses, alas, cannot be cured by even the most loving of hands,” he said absently, and bitterness made harsh lines in his face.

He was a man of many contrasts. She watched his long-fingered hands move and was fascinated by their dexterity and grace.

He caught her scrutiny and tensed. “You find the scars distasteful.”

She looked up at once. “Good Lord, no,” she said at once, and with obvious sincerity. “I was watching how you use your hands. Everyone in this part of the world seems to move gracefully, especially the men. It isn’t like that back home.”

He relaxed and finished his salad. It was his own guilt at deceiving her, he thought, that was bringing on these bad moods. He had to stop it. What was, was. Nothing in the world could ever change it.

“We move as we live, unhurriedly,” he said simply.

“I’ll bet you don’t have half the rate of vascular problems that we have in the States,” she remarked.

“That is most likely true.” He finished a last bite of salad and pushed the bowl from him. His dark eyes searched hers. “You go to a country vastly different from your own, much less sophisticated than Morocco. Many modern conveniences do not exist there, and even electricity is a recent addition. The people of Qawi were largely nomadic until the early part of this century. When it was parceled out among the Europeans, the people resisted and many families were decimated. It will require a great deal of tolerance for you to adjust to such archaic surroundings.”

She put down her own fork. “Do you think I should go home?” she asked bluntly.

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to tell her to run, now, while she still could. But he looked into her eyes and felt as if part of him were sitting across the table. He couldn’t make the words come out.

“I know it’s a risk,” she said, glad that he hadn’t said anything immediately. “But I already love Morocco. I think I’m going to be very much at home in Qawi, if the sheikh is patient with my ignorance about local customs.”

His dark eyes narrowed. “I think you will find him patient, in all things.”

“I hope so,” she added fervently. “It’s like a leap of faith,” she added slowly. “A step into the unknown. Maggie said that I was vegetating in Texas, and I think she was right. I’ve never been anywhere or done anything adventurous in my life. I never realized the world was so big and its people so diverse. I’ll never forget any of this, whatever happens.”

“Nor will I,” he said quietly, and it sounded as if the words were torn from him. He was holding his wineglass so tightly that Gretchen wondered if the stem was going to snap. She wondered what was making him so broody, if it was his usual manner.