Читать книгу Desert Nights: Falcon's Prey / The Sheikh's Virgin Bride / One Night With the Sheikh - Пенни Джордан, PENNY JORDAN - Страница 11

FEMALE voices rose and fell, punctuated with laughter and the rattle of coffee cups. Umm Faisal had invited her friends round to meet Felicia, and judging by the number of women crowded into the room, Felicia suspected that her hostess numbered the entire town amongst her acquaintances.

Most of the visitors were of Umm Faisal’s generation, and from an upstairs window Felicia had seen them hurrying from opulent cars, their bodies draped in heavy black cloaks, glancing neither to the left nor the right. Once inside, though, the cloaks were discarded like so many unwanted chrysalises to reveal Paris couture fashions and jewellery to rival the contents of the Tower of London.

From her cross-legged position on a damask cushion Felicia listened to her neighbour describing a recent visit to America. All the women spoke English, although sometimes with accents which made it almost impossible for her to recognise her native tongue.

This was the first time she had observed the formal ritual of receiving guests, Arab fashion; the gracious welcome and lavish hospitality; and above all the enthusiasm with which the visitors greeted her. Most of them had visited London at one time or another, and they all displayed an almost childlike curiosity about her life there.

The maid, Selina, came round with fresh coffee, and Felicia sighed. Her stomach was awash with the bitter liquid, but since no one else seemed to be refusing, she felt she could hardly do so herself. Umm Faisal caught her eye, smiling understandingly. She whispered something to Selina and to Felicia’s relief the dusky serving girl passed by without filling her delicate porcelain cup.

Marble floors, and damask cushions; they were a far cry from her small bedsit with its second-hand furniture. Felicia found that she no longer thought of the austerity of plain white walls as a strange contrast to the luxurious silks and satins the Arabs used for furnishings. She had grown used to seeing Umm Faisal sitting cross-legged on a cushion on the floor, although most of the rooms were furnished in a more Western style, but she doubted if she could ever come to terms with the segregation of male and female; the absolute and all-embracing dominance of the male. However, Zahra told her that even this was less strictly adhered to than had once been the case, and she was forced to admit that where his family were concerned, Raschid was a very forward-thinking man indeed. A pity that his enlightened views did not extend to include her!

Someone knocked on the door, and instantly women were reaching for their veils, without haste or pretension, slipping them into place, as Selina opened the door. Servants, Zahra had told Felicia, did not need to veil.

‘It is the Master, sitti,’ the girl told Umm Faisal.

‘Ah, yes, he has come to collect you, Felicia. Raschid is going to show Felicia Kuwait,’ she explained for the benefit of her guests, adding something in Arabic that brought a twinkle to more than one pair of dark eyes.

‘She says that it is as well that Raschid is a man of impeccable honour,’ Felicia’s companion whispered. ‘In our day such a thing would not have been allowed, but times change.’ She shrugged as though to say who was to tell whether or not such changes were for the better, laughing when Felicia got unsteadily to her feet. No wonder these women were so graceful and fluid; their limbs would be trained from childhood to accept such a pose, while hers protested agonisingly, pins and needles stabbing painfully through both feet.

After their confrontation in the garden, Felicia had never expected that Raschid would pursue his promise to take her sightseeing—if indeed a ‘promise’ it had been—but pride would not let her back down and refuse to go with him.

She had dressed for Umm Faisal’s guests with special care, but as she opened the door, the horrible thought struck her that Raschid might think that she had donned her attractive outfit for his benefit.

She was wearing a peach linen suit, perfect with her warm colouring, a simple cream silk blouse underneath the neatly fitting jacket. Cream shoes and a slim clutch bag toned perfectly with subtle peach linen, and thin gold bangles chimed musically as she moved. They had been a gift from Faisal, and one which she had tried to refuse until he told her that unless she accepted them the bracelets would be thrown away. She thought of the emerald ring he had bought her—now with him in New York—and his anger when she had refused to wear it until his family accepted their engagement. Now, when it was too late, she wished she had brought the ring with her. Perhaps the sight of it might help to restore some of the high hopes with which she had come to Kuwait.

In Eastern garments she knew that she could never hope to rival the grace of girls who had been wearing them from babyhood, but as she glanced in the full-length mirror set into the wall, she reflected that she had every reason to feel pleased with her appearance, and knowing that she looked her best lent an air of confidence that bloomed in the soft colour of her cheeks and the warm glow of her eyes.

Today she had overcome an important hurdle. Umm Faisal’s friends had accepted her, despite the differences in their cultures—East and West could blend happily, no matter what Raschid said. With the light of battle in her eyes, Felicia went to meet the man waiting for her in the paved courtyard.

Dim light filtered in through the tall narrow windows of the entrance hall, and at first she could not see him. Then he moved and she caught the white flash of his shirt, the cuffs immaculate as he shot one back to glance at his watch. The gesture, so typically male, made her smile, and that was when he turned and saw her, poised in the doorway, the dark wood a perfect foil for her translucent beauty, laughter trembling the generous curve of her mouth, her eyes calm and composed.

He came towards her, his expression unreadable. This time Felicia was determined to retain the upper hand.

‘I’m sorry if I kept you waiting,’ she apologised formally, ‘but your sister’s friends….’

‘You have no need to explain the female of the species to me, Miss Gordon. I’m perfectly conversant with its addiction to senseless chatter.’

His arrogance all but took her breath away.

‘If it’s senseless, it’s because men like you refuse to give them the opportunity to be anything else,’ she retorted, the serenity dying out of her eyes to be replaced by anger, but Raschid merely looked amused.

‘Is that what you have been doing? Lecturing Fatima’s guests on the rights of the liberated woman? You will not be very popular with their husbands, Miss Gordon.’

‘I don’t care whether I am or not,’ Felicia announced recklessly.

‘Foolish of you,’ was Raschid’s only comment. ‘For those same husbands have the power to forbid their wives to have anything to do with you, if they wish, and Faisal would not approve of that. He may appear Westernised to you, Miss Gordon, but he will expect his wife to adhere to the rules of his own society, I assure you.’

Ignoring the warning, Felicia tossed her head, walking past Raschid to where the car was parked. Where once she had wanted to gain his approval for Faisal’s sake, now she seemed to derive intense satisfaction from deliberately needling him—a trait so alien to her personality that she wondered a little bitterly why it had to be Faisal’s guardian of all people who should arouse it within her.

‘Faisal and I will not be living in Kuwait,’ she told Raschid, remembering what Faisal had said.

‘No?’ His sideways glance was mocking. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something, Miss Gordon?’

She refused to look at him, preceding him across the courtyard, where the scent of early roses already hung intoxicatingly on the warm air.

‘If I am I’m sure you’ll remind me of it.’

‘Exactly so,’ Raschid agreed urbanely. ‘As an employee of the bank—and make no mistake, Faisal is an employee—he has a duty to go where the Board decides he will be of most use.’

‘The Board?’ Felicia queried bitterly. ‘Don’t you mean yourself?’

‘In these circumstances I think I can agree that the two are synonymous.’

His suave satisfaction jarred, like a nerve in an aching tooth probed by an unwary tongue. Felicia hesitated, on the point of refusing to accompany him, but then she remembered Zahra’s approaching birthday, and accepted that there would probably be no other suitable opportunity to buy her a present. Swallowing the words, with her pride, she contented herself with a cold glare in Raschid’s direction.

For the last few days the household had gone busily frantic over the arrangements for transporting Umm Faisal, Raschid, Zahra and herself, as well as the staff and everything that they would require, to the oasis for the duration of the birthday celebrations. Only that morning Zahra had laughingly confided that without Raschid to master-mind the move she doubted if they would get any farther than Kuwait City. Felicia had suggested rather hesitantly that perhaps she ought to return home, in case her presence at such a time proved to be a nuisance, but Zahra’s swift dismay soon reassured her. In point of fact, she and Zahra had become very close, and it was only her growing affection for the younger girl that prevented Felicia from giving full rein to her growing antipathy towards Raschid. As he had so rightly said, it would hurt Zahra if she thought they were quarrelling, and Felicia had as little desire to cast a blight over the birthday festivities as Raschid. For that reason an uneasy—on her part at least—truce had developed between them.

‘A wise decision,’ Raschid drawled suddenly, startling her. She glared at him suspiciously, caught off guard when he said smoothly, ‘Don’t bother denying that you were contemplating refusing my company. I dislike liars almost as much as I despise fortune-hunters.’

The sheer rage engendered by his dismissive tones rendered her speechless, totally unable to retaliate, and it wasn’t until he walked round to the opposite side of the parked car and opened the driver’s door that Felicia realised that Ali would not be accompanying them. Raschid leaned across the passenger seat, unlocking the door and pushing it open.

‘I think I would prefer to sit in the back,’ she said stiffly. ‘Isn’t that what you think good women should do—dutifully take a back seat and leave the driving to their lords and masters?’

‘On this occasion I think we will opt for the Western custom,’ Raschid replied drily. ‘Otherwise I shall be endangering both our lives by constantly having to look over my shoulder to converse with you— Or do you perhaps read a more sinister purpose into my request? Your imagination runs away with you, Miss Gordon.’

If anything his voice had become even more cuttingly unkind, and Felicia flushed painfully, knowing he was deliberately taunting her.

‘Even if such was my desire,’ he continued, ‘which most assuredly it is not, I never, but never make love on the open carriageway between my home and the city. Kuwaiti drivers are not the most polite in the world, nor the most tolerant of dawdlers, as you will soon discover. I am sorry if I don’t match up to the prowess of your previous escorts in this regard, but in the East we prefer to suit the activity to our surroundings.’

Felicia stood by the car, longing to slam the door shut, wishing she could think of a suitably cutting retort to burst for once and for all the complacent arrogance with which Raschid surrounded himself. She had forgotten that even though she was standing by the side of the Mercedes, Raschid could still read her expression quite accurately in the driving mirror, and she jumped when he drawled mockingly, ‘I can almost feel the knife entering my heart, Miss Gordon. Be careful. In this country we believe in taking a life for a life.’

‘Heart? What heart?’ she retorted, too furious to pay much attention to the rest of the sentence. ‘You don’t possess such a thing, Sheikh Raschid!’

‘Get in the car, Miss Gordon, and save your anger to fuel something more profitable than pitting your wits against mine.’

The arrogance of it! Felicia seethed as she slid into the seat, ignoring his smile as he leaned across her to close the door. At such close quarters an aura of taut masculinity emanated from him. She was pulsatingly aware of the warm sheen of his skin, drawn tightly over the narrow bones of his face; the way his eyelashes lay, long and dark against the sculptured bone; silk against satin, she thought irrelevantly, shiveringly aware of him in a way that she had never been aware of Faisal, but underneath lay a core of pure steel.

‘Do I pass muster?’

She flushed as vividly as the roses blooming in the inner courtyard, hating to be caught out paying him any attention, no matter what the reason—and in this case, pure curiosity had drawn her eyes to his face, unwilling admiration keeping them there to wonder at the perfect symmetry of the bone structure underlying the smooth skin, even while the arrogant profile made her anger rise like a river in a flash flood, coming out of nowhere to appal her with its ferocity. How strange it was that a mingling of East and West should have produced this lordly, sensual man, while Faisal’s pure Arab blood had produced a man in a much softer mould.

While she battled with her anger, she told herself that for Faisal’s sake she must learn to tame it, to sit meek and docile under the razor-sharp tongue and probing glance. She had once read that a falcon could focus on its prey from many thousands of feet above it in the sky; so it was with Raschid. Those grey eyes held all the latent power of a modern laser beam.

They took the coast road. The day was deliciously warm, the merest breath of fresh air from the air-conditioning fanning her hair as they sped towards the city. The leather seats reclined to contour the body, and the radio emitted soothing music, but Felicia could not relax. She was as tense as a coiled spring, unwittingly betraying her anxiety in her tightly clenched fists.

‘Relax,’ Raschid surprised her by saying. ‘Or is it merely the fact that you are a passenger rather than the driver which makes you so tense? How you European women rob yourselves of your very femininity by insisting on doing everything for yourselves!’

‘Perhaps because our experience of your sex has taught us how unwise it is for us to rely on them for anything,’ Felicia retorted unwisely, thinking of Uncle George, and how selfishly he had refused to allow either her aunt or herself the slightest little pleasure, begrudging every small thing he had done for them.

‘Is that why you want to marry Faisal?’ Raschid asked astutely. ‘Because you see in him a shoulder on which to lean? Strange—I had not thought of you as a clinging vine; I see I shall have to revise my strategy. Clinging vines are notoriously difficult to remove, but Faisal is weak, Miss Gordon; whoever marries him will need to be mother, lover, and even jailer at times. Are you sure you are able to fulfil all those roles?’

‘It’s easy to list his failings when he’s not here to defend himself,’ Felicia retorted hotly, trying not to acknowledge the truth of what Raschid had said. Hadn’t she sometimes noticed an inclination to adopt the role of helpless little boy by Faisal, when all was not going his way?

‘You are loyal at least,’ Raschid responded in clipped accents, as though the admission displeased him, then changed the subject to draw her attention to the British Embassy. Because he hoped that she would soon be entering that building, asking to be sent home, all her dreams of marriage to Faisal turned to so much dust.

Not for the first time Felicia wondered at her own foolish impetuosity in allowing Faisal to persuade her to come to Kuwait. He had paid for her air ticket; her own slender savings had gone on her new wardrobe, but Faisal had glibly assured her that it would not be long before he was able to join her in Kuwait, taking it for granted that she would remain with his family until their marriage. If that was not to take place until he was twenty-five she would have to return to England. Which meant that she would have to write and ask Faisal for the money for her ticket, for she was convinced that Raschid would never allow him to return to Kuwait while she was there.

As soon as Zahra’s birthday was over she would write to him, she promised herself, comforted by this gesture of independence.

They drove past the Sief Palace, where guards stood stiffly to attention. A flag flew from the tall, square clock tower.

‘His Highness the Emir is holding his majlis,’ Raschid told her.

‘And I’m sure I’m safe in assuming the Emir’s government is overwhelmingly male,’ Felicia could not resist retorting.

‘You seem to have an outsize chip on your shoulder regarding my sex, Miss Gordon—or is it that having gained your independence, you find you no longer want it?’

Felicia turned away from the malice-spiked glance. She had never been an advocate of Women’s Lib, being quite happy to play the role for which nature had intended her; a role which she did not in any way consider to be subservient, however, so she now found herself saying quite heatedly, ‘You do not deny that in your country women often still have to fight for equal status?’

‘And that arouses your crusading instinct? Would it surprise you to know that women do have rights here; that they can vote or run for office?’

‘But they didn’t have those rights until very recently,’ Felicia responded briefly, looking away, suddenly conscious of the insolent appraisal of narrowed grey eyes.

Raschid swung the car over, throwing her heavily against him, his arm brushing against her breasts and leaving her tingling with an awareness she had never experienced in Faisal’s arms. What was this tension that seemed to vibrate in the air whenever she was near him? Whatever it was she did not like it.

‘We are now entering the main souk and banking area, Miss Gordon,’ Raschid informed her. ‘I suggest that I park the car so that we can do the rest of our tour at a more leisurely pace.’

They left the car in a huge underground car-park beneath a towering plate glass and chrome office block.

‘This is where we have our head office,’ Raschid explained. ‘In fact this building was one of our first ventures into the construction industry.’

‘But not your last,’ Felicia commented, remembering Faisal saying that the Bank had helped to finance the building of a hotel, amongst other things.

Raschid’s hand was under her arm, a courtesy she had not expected, and she stumbled slightly as they emerged into the bright sunlight, his hard body taking the full impact of her tensed slenderness as they collided. Even that brief contact was enough to disturb her; the grey eyes cynically amused as they took in her flushed cheeks and angry eyes.

‘No, not our last,’ he agreed. ‘Although this particular venture was extremely profitable. As I am sure you already know, construction finance accounts for some forty per cent of our profits.’ He looked at her averted profile, and gave her another thin-lipped smile.

‘Am I boring you? Surely not. It is my experience that most women find the making of money almost as absorbing as the spending of it.’

‘Well, I’m not most women,’ Felicia replied shortly, pulling up with a start as they rounded a corner.

The wide street in front of them was laid out with trees and flower beds, greenery and tropical colour rioting everywhere. Where once there had been barren desert, fountains played, and instead of walking beneath the scorching glare of the sun, cool shady trees spread their green cloak invitingly over the strolling shoppers.

‘Kuwait’s Bond Street,’ Raschid offered sardonically, as Felicia stared at the bewilderingly exotic display of precious stones in a jeweller’s window.

‘I have no doubt that you would far rather tour this area in Faisal’s company than mine,’ he drawled coolly, intimating that Faisal could have been persuaded to do more than merely glance disparagingly at the glittering diamond display that commanded the front of the window.

‘I would have preferred to. But not for the reasons you suppose,’ Felicia stressed pointedly, peering a little closer into the plate glass in the hope of finding something a little more modestly priced that she could buy for Zahra. Already she had learned of the younger girl’s love of jewellery, and she smiled a little as she contemplated her reaction to the display of gems in front of her. She gave a faint sigh. There was nothing here to suit her slender pocket, and the shops, although luxuriously expensive, were disappointingly Westernised.

‘What did you expect?’ Raschid asked in thinly veiled amusement when she ventured to say as much. ‘Souks in the traditional manner, complete with beggars with alms bowls? At one time the blind men of the city were employed to call the muezzin from the minarets, lest strange male eyes perceived an unveiled woman—such are the wonders of modern science that nowadays the minaret towers are fitted with loudspeakers which do the job far more effectively, and our poor are supported by the State.’

‘Blind men were deliberately employed for such a purpose?’

Intrigued despite her hostility, Felicia hesitated, to turn an enquiring face up to the saturnine dark one above her.

‘You find such safeguarding of the modesty of our women amusing, I am sure. But not so long ago for a man to look upon the face of another’s wife was a gross insult to them both—in your country a worse crime than sleeping with one’s best friend’s wife—although I learn that nowadays such occurrences are commonplace.’

Felicia’s face flushed.

‘Not in the circles in which I move,’ she denied energetically.

Raschid’s eyebrows rose and he shrugged dismissively. ‘It matters little to me one way or the other, so you may save your protestations for other ears. Now, if you have seen enough, I suggest we return to the car.’

‘But I haven’t bought Zahra a present,’ Felicia began in dismay, faltering into silence as Raschid turned to stare at her.

‘That was why you agreed to come? What did you have in mind?’

He looked so bored and remote that Felicia almost stamped her foot.

‘It isn’t what I have in mind, but what I can afford,’ she said bluntly, gesturing towards the jeweller’s window. ‘Certainly nothing in there.’

For a moment she thought she saw his mouth curl in faint, amused condescension.

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Sadeer’s is probably the most expensive jeweller’s in Kuwait, and anyway, you could not hope to rival the gifts Zahra will receive from Saud and her family.’

‘It isn’t a question of “rivalling”,’ Felicia stormed, furious at his lack of understanding. ‘It would be embarrassing and impolite if I had no present for her.’

‘Are you asking for my help?’

Was she? She fought against a desire to tell him to go to hell and instead nodded her head mutely.

Was that satisfaction she read in his smile? Seething, she stared across the road, not really seeing the constant stream of opulent cars flashing past.

‘Very well, Miss Gordon.’ He took her arm, guiding her across the road towards a narrow alley, but before they could enter it a young woman hailed them, her eyes heavily kohled and her jeans and thin cotton blouse a replica of the uniform worn by her Western sisters. Felicia judged her to be around her own age, perhaps a little younger. She had the impression that Raschid would have preferred not to acknowledge her, and yet his smile was polite enough, and he listened attentively enough while she talked in rapid Arabic.

‘Yasmin is the daughter of a friend of mine,’ he explained for her benefit, commanding the other girl to speak in English. ‘She was at university in England for a while. Miss Gordon is a friend of Faisal’s, Yasmin, and is staying with us for a while.’

‘While Faisal is in New York?’ She tossed her long, dark hair and eyed Felicia assessingly. ‘I wonder if he knows how friendly you are with his “friend” Raschid, or perhaps he no longer minds sharing.’

She was gone before Felicia could say anything, and Raschid watched her depart in grim silence.

‘If you found Yasmin’s hostility strange, perhaps I should explain that she is one of the casualties of Faisal’s ability to fall in and out of love. They became very close when she was in England, and I suspect she read more meaning into my description of you as Faisal’s “friend” than I would have wished. No matter…. She is hardly likely to broadcast the true nature of your relationship. Not in view of her own feelings for Faisal.’

Yasmin and Faisal! Strange that the thought of them together caused her no jealousy, Felicia reflected. Indeed what she actually felt for the other girl was a vague pity, despite her insinuating remarks concerning herself and Raschid. ‘Sharing’ indeed! If only she knew! A bitter smile curved her mouth. She was the last woman Raschid would want in his life.

Raschid directed her down the narrow alleyway, shadowed and almost secret in the blank face it showed to the world.

Plainly he knew where he was going. He guided her through a labyrinth of narrow streets, some built from the original mud bricks from which the earlier town had been constructed.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked him at one point, alarmed by the sudden transformation from West to East, as cloaked figures shuffled silently past them, and exotic, unrecognisable fragrances filled the air.

Raschid chuckled.

‘Not to the slave market, if that’s what you think. Oh yes, they still have them in the more remote oases, where captured tribes are sold as slaves. It is illegal, of course,’ he shrugged, ‘but by the time the crime is discovered it is often too late to prevent it. All that one can do is to make sure that the unfortunate victims are set free.’

Felicia shuddered, suddenly glad of his tall presence at her side. They were walking through an old-fashioned covered souk, where merchants called to passers-by from their open doorways. Above one hung jewelled Eastern rugs so beautiful that Felicia stopped to stare.

‘They are made by Badu from Iran,’ Raschid told her. ‘They use patterns passed down from generation to generation.’

The merchant called out a greeting, sensing a possible sale, but although Raschid acknowledged his presence, he did not stop.

Eventually he touched Felicia lightly on the arm, directing her footsteps towards an open doorway.

When her eyes had accustomed themselves to the darkness within the small shop Felicia saw that the shelves were stacked with bottles and boxes, the air redolent with cedarwood, ambergris, sandalwood, and other scents too unfamiliar for her to recognise. With dawning delight she realised that Raschid had brought her to the shop of a maker of perfumes.

While she stared round her surroundings in an absorbed trance the two men talked in low undertones. The owner of the shop was as wizened as a walnut, his face dried and seamed by time, but the dark eyes that glanced at Felicia were shrewdly assessing. He said something to Raschid and Felicia saw him shake his head, his expression cold.

‘Will he be able to mix something for Zahra without seeing her?’ Felicia whispered anxiously, wondering what they had been saying.

‘The perfume is for Sitt Zahra?’ the old man asked, betraying a knowledge of English Felicia would not have expected. Under her fascinated gaze the old man ran his eyes along the shelves, at last removing one small bottle. ‘I have here the perfume I made for her the last time she came. If the Sitt cares to purchase some?’

It was dark in the interior of the shop, but Felicia saw Raschid nod his head, as she glanced at him for guidance.

‘Yes, please,’ she murmured.

A wide grin split the merchant’s face.

‘May Allah curse me, I had almost forgotten that the Sitt is to be married shortly. We must add something for fertility, and something else to enhance the womanhood that will shortly be hers.’

While they waited he measured and poured, sniffing occasionally, and then he was transferring the mixture to a small crystal jar.

‘May I smell it?’ Felicia asked eagerly.

To her disappointment he shook his head.

‘This perfume is not harmonious to the Sitt’s beauty.’ He turned to Raschid and said something in Arabic, before saying to Felicia, ‘Your beauty is that of the rose before it opens fully; a bud which has not yet blossomed, and so it must be with your perfume.’

Felicia was glad of the darkness to hide her blushes, as he handed the small package to her. She dared not look at Raschid, fearful of what she might see in his face. And yet the old man had been uncannily correct; she was still a ‘bud’, the petals of innocence furled tightly about her, awaiting the warmth of a man’s lovemaking, before she could blossom into full flower.

In silence she followed Raschid from the shop, dazzled by the bright glare of the sun. It was the hour when the shops closed for the afternoon and everywhere shutters were being placed over windows, and doors closed against the heat. They were just emerging into the street when the perfume blender called something after them, and Raschid turned, glancing back into the scented darkness they had just left.

‘One moment,’ he said curtly, and disappeared back inside.

Felicia hesitated, unsure whether or not she ought to follow him. The two men were deep in a low-toned conversation, and unwilling to appear curious, she hovered in the doorway.

The old Arab was busily searching his shelves, moving jars and bottles. She caught the elusive scent of English lavender, instantly evocative of home, and then a more subtle, spicy scent. The old man pounded something in a wooden bowl with a small pestle and the fragrance of wild violets drenched the air. Fascinated, Felicia watched. Raschid was buying more perfume? For his sister? Then why the low-toned conversation? Some other woman, perhaps? A sophisticated creature with the chameleon ability to make the transition from East to West? A woman who would guard her beauty from curious eyes in public but who had the self-confidence to reveal it without shyness to the man she loved—in private?

‘Miss Gordon?’

How many more times would she have to endure hearing her name called in those bitingly imperious tones?

Her errant footsteps had taken her beyond the confines of the shop and cool exasperation laced Raschid’s voice as he strode towards her.

‘Has all that my sister and I have said to you been as so many grains of sand dispersed by the winds, or is it merely wilful caprice that prompts you into such constant disobedience?’

Disobedience! Felicia spun round, her eyes darkened to jade green with anger. Dear God, she did not want to quarrel with this man, but neither would she let him walk roughshod over her pride, trampling it beneath the fiery scorn of his contempt.

‘I walked away because I didn’t want to intrude,’ she flung at him. ‘Your business was plainly private.’ Anger made her reckless. ‘A gift for some woman who is permitted to share your bed, but forbidden any other part in your life….’

‘You have described the type of person for whom the perfume was intended to a nicety,’ Raschid gritted at her. ‘But the perfume maker does not share my view of you, Miss Gordon. Oh yes!’ He laughed scornfully at her shocked expression. ‘Did you not guess? The old man was making the perfume for you—his own idea, not mine, I hasten to add. Here, take it,’ he commanded, thrusting a small package into her hand. ‘He insists that it incorporates the innocence which he claims is an integral part of your nature. I did not want to tell him that his eyesight must be failing if that is what he thinks. I know my nephew, Miss Gordon,’ he concluded grimly, ‘and I know the type of women who share his life.’

Felicia turned, intent only on escaping from his cruel words, but his hands reached out and stayed her, his expression cautionary.

‘Do not be foolish,’ he advised her. ‘Even nowadays the souks are not entirely free from danger for the unwary. Your careless footsteps might have led you down any one of a hundred alleys and before too long you would have been hopelessly lost—an experience I am sure neither of us wishes to endure.’

She pictured herself, lost and frightened, dependent on this cold, autocratic man for succour, and her chin lifted proudly.

‘You need not worry, Sheikh Raschid,’ she told him. ‘If I were lost, you would be the last man I would want to rescue me.’

She pulled away from him as she spoke and a piece of flint half buried in the sun-baked earth caught her unprotected ankle, lacerating the soft skin. She winced as pain shot through her and blood welled from the cut.

Raschid tensed, frowning as he heard her involuntary protest, then dropped on to his haunches, a muttered curse falling softly into the golden silence of the afternoon when he saw what had happened.

‘It’s nothing,’ Felicia protested unsteadily as lean fingers probed the wound with surprising gentleness.

‘It’s bleeding. It must be washed and cleaned,’ Raschid replied curtly.

There were some moistened tissues in her bag which she used to keep her hands and face fresh and she opened it, removing them.

‘I’ll do that.’

The authoritative tone could not be ignored, and in silence she handed Raschid the moistened pad, flinching a little at its coolness against her throbbing flesh.

‘How one admires the British in adversity,’ Raschid mocked as he straightened up. ‘So cool, so controlled… so prepared for every contingency.’

The light in his eyes reminded her that a few nights ago there had been a contingency for which she had not been prepared, but Felicia ignored it, murmuring lightly, ‘One tries….’

‘Indeed one does. But sometimes we must fail, for the good of our souls.’

Was he warning her that she would fail to convince him to allow her marriage to Faisal? She moved away, wincing afresh as she put her full weight on her ankle. Raschid’s hand on her wrist steadied her; a momentary contact—no more—but in that moment the air between them seemed fraught with some intangible emotion and then she was free, the clean male scent of him fading from her nostrils as quickly as the imprint of his fingers was fading from her wrist.

‘What’s the matter?’

Her eyelashes flicked down, but not in time to prevent him from reading the expression in her eyes. He laughed softly.

‘Ah yes, I see! You thought perhaps I might repeat our romantic scene of the other night. I’m afraid I must disappoint you, Miss Gordon.’

‘Romantic? Is that what you call it?’ Felicia retorted bitterly. ‘Then you have very strange ideas of romance, Sheikh.’ She turned away, anger and resentment flaring simultaneously to heated life, possessed by an urge to escape from this man and his tormenting mockery; a desire to put as much distance between them as possible, heedless of the dangers.

In the empty souk her heartbeat thundered in her ears, steadily increasing as she hurried past shuttered shop fronts, like so many unseeing eyes, disdainful of the folly of the pale foreigner who ran unveiled along the shadowed alley. Pain throbbed through her ankle, but she disregarded it. The thudding of her heart drowned out every other sound bar one—the relentless footsteps behind her, firm and tireless, driving her like a terrified gazelle before the beaters.

He caught her, as she had known he must, his fingers biting into her waist as he swung her back against him, shaking her until she thought her neck must break.

‘You little fool! Don’t you know any better than to run in this heat? Do you really want me to give you a reason to run from me?’

Felicia looked up at the thin line of his mouth, harshly forbidding, and a tremor of something so alien and unwanted shot through her that at first she did not recognise it. When she did the shock was so great that she could barely comprehend that she, a girl who had never deliberately set out to arouse any man, and indeed shrank from physical contact, had felt a thrill of surging satisfaction at the blazing anger in Raschid’s eyes, and a desire to push him over the limits of his control, her own fury fuelled by his.

Common sense warned her that the ensuing conflagration could destroy her totally, but she no longer cared. She wanted Raschid to experience anger as consuming as her own; to endure the lash of her contempt against his pride, as she had been forced to endure his.

‘Well, Miss Gordon?’

‘You have already given me sufficient reason, but in your arrogance you will not admit it.’

His fingers curled round the soft flesh of her upper arms, frightening in their intensity. He smiled without pity when she winced at their crushing pressure.

‘This is the East,’ he reminded her. ‘I could punish you here and now for what you have just said and no man would raise his hand against me, not even if I beat you publicly in the streets. Beware! In every man there lurks the falcon; a streak of ruthlessness and thirst for power.’

His fingers lifted to her throat, trapping the wildly beating pulse she could no longer control. All at once the fight had gone out of her, and where there had been momentary elation there now was dread. He laughed mirthlessly when she shivered under his touch, nervous as the silky-maned Arab mares of the Badu.

‘You see?’ he taunted. ‘At last you realise that a man is not an equal, but an alien force, bent on destruction when he is aroused to anger.’

‘Stop it! Stop it at once,’ Felicia begged him. ‘I won’t listen to you!’ Her voice trembled, caught somewhere between indignation and fear. ‘You don’t deceive me at all. You’re hoping to drive me away; to frighten me into giving up Faisal. You think I’ll be overpowered by that potent masculinity you’re so proud of, like a timid, shrinking Victorian heroine, caught in the trap of her own senses. Well, you’re going to be disappointed! I’m well aware of the difference between my senses and my heart.’

‘Are you indeed?’ he challenged softly, the sensuous movement of his thumb against the silkiness of her neck making her aware too late of her danger. She trembled under the deliberate provocation of the caress and he laughed, deep in his throat.

‘And what do your senses tell you now, Miss Gordon?’

It was too late to pretend that his touch left her unaffected, too late by far to wish she had never allowed fury to betray her into this hopelessly untenable position. She closed her eyes and gritted bitterly:

‘They tell me that sex without love is like the desert without water—an arid wasteland where nothing can flourish.’

‘But that arid wasteland, as you call it, possesses a magic of its own.’

His thumb was stroking along her jaw now, the steel fingers forcing her chin to tilt upwards no matter how much she fought against their pressure. She opened her eyes. His were barely inches away, darkly grey, the sensuously curving mouth smiling thinly.

He bent his head towards her, and she was like the falcon’s prey, transfixed, accepting her fate. His faint breath stirred her hair.

‘Have you experienced the potency of the desert, Miss Gordon?’

Dear God, what was happening to her? With an anguished cry she tore herself free. What was he trying to do to her? Seduce her away from Faisal? Faisal! Why had she not thought of him before now? Why had the memory of his lovemaking not protected her from responding to Raschid?

Gathering the tattered remnants of her pride about her, she stared coldly at the man towering over her.

‘The desert holds no attraction for me, Sheikh Raschid—and neither do you.’