Читать книгу Desert Nights: Falcon's Prey / The Sheikh's Virgin Bride / One Night With the Sheikh - Пенни Джордан, PENNY JORDAN - Страница 12

TALK about the best laid plans of mice and men! Felicia thought ruefully as she dressed for dinner. A cowardly corner of her heart prayed that Raschid would be absent from the meal. She stared critically in the mirror at her too-pale face. She had known from the start that her self-imposed task was hopeless, but after this afternoon she could never hope to convince Raschid that she would make Faisal a good wife. She shrugged bravely. What did it matter, after all? He could hardly swear on the Bible that there had been no provocation! Provocation! Colour washed over her skin as she remembered the sensuous movement of his thumb against her flesh, and the peculiar weakness that had made her legs feel as though they had turned to an unset jelly.

All sheer magnetism, of course. She wielded her hairbrush fiercely for a few seconds until the auburn curls framed her small face in a silky cloud. Raschid had done it deliberately—there could be no doubt about that! Playing on her fears and uncertainties, unleashing the powerful aura of his masculinity. And how near she had come to succumbing!

Slowly she put the brush down, staring at her trembling mouth and wary eyes. There was the crux of the matter. She had been dangerously affected by Raschid’s caresses; so much so that shame scorched her as she made herself relive those seconds in her arms. She had deliberately encouraged him to unleash his anger against her, but she had never dreamed it would take such a damagingly sensuous course, or that she herself would be swept away in its fierce tide. In vain she told herself that it was merely an automatically feminine reaction, trying desperately to drive away the tormenting image of Raschid’s taunting smile by replacing it with Faisal’s loving smile. But for some reason she found it impossible to reconstruct his boyish features; the memory eluded her, as though overpowered by Raschid’s stronger personality. The harder she tried to cling to the memory of Faisal, the more difficult she found it to superimpose his features over Raschid’s. Honesty had always been one of her strong points, and now she was forced to question the strength of her feelings.

Could there be a grain of truth in Raschid’s accusation that her love for Faisal was founded on what he could give her—Oh, not wealth, that mattered little—but security, warmth, the affection and companionship of a family. The more she contemplated this point, the more plausible it became. Faisal had surrounded her in warmth and love, and she had sunk into its security without deeply questioning her own feelings. It had been enough merely to be loved. But would it always be enough? And wasn’t she cheating Faisal as surely as though she had merely wanted him for his money?

She was glad when the dinner gong put an end to these useless speculations. She was bound to have doubts, second thoughts, but once she and Faisal were together again…. Not even in the tiniest corner of her heart was she willing to admit that her real doubts sprang from the untenable discovery that while Faisal’s lovemaking affected her hardly at all physically, Raschid had merely to touch her to send her pulses racing, her body flooded with sexual awareness.

Dislike could be as powerful an emotion as love, she reminded herself, as she zipped up her dress and added a quick touch of lipstick to the soft curves of her mouth. It toned with the pink in her dress, swirls of pink and pale green chiffon, an unusual combination for a redhead, but one that brought an indefinable touch of the exotic to her appearance, darkening the colour of her eyes and highlighting the richness of her hair. A lacy white stole covered her shoulders, although the dress had small cap sleeves and a neckline that was discretion itself. Untouched on the dressing table was the perfume Raschid had given her. She refused to open it; for a moment tempted to dispose of it in the same way as she had disposed of the glass paperweight, but acknowledging that the perfume had come from the perfume-maker and not Raschid. Even so she was reluctant to discover what sort of woman he had thought her, and she pushed the small package to the back of her drawer, unwilling for Zahra’s curious eyes to alight on it.

She was the first downstairs, and on impulse she hurried into the gardens, to where she had thrown the blue leather box. It had been stupid to try to destroy a thing of so much beauty out of momentary pique, but although she searched diligently among the rose bushes she could find no trace of the package and surmised that the gardener must have disposed of it.

Tonight the delicious spicy aromas coming from the dining room did nothing to tempt her appetite. Her stomach muscles knotting with tension at the thought of having to face Raschid, she felt as though the merest morsel of food would choke her.

Zahra greeted her in her normal ebullient fashion, smiling approvingly at the cool picture Felicia made; the fresh green colours of an English spring flowering in the desert.

‘Uncle Raschid will not be joining us tonight—he is entertaining business acquaintances,’ Zahra explained as they sat down.

Felicia relaxed with relief. So at least one of her wishes had been granted. Now all she needed was for her good fairy to wave her wand twice more—once to bring Faisal home and a second time to dissipate Raschid’s dislike—but such wishes were hardly likely to be granted, not if Raschid had anything to do with it.

‘Did your sightseeing tire you?’ Zahra asked solicitously. ‘You look very pale.’

‘A little.’ But it wasn’t her tour of the shops and town that had left her feeling so drained, it was her clash with Raschid and the disturbing thoughts it had aroused. Now wasn’t the time to question the strength of her feelings for Faisal, but for some reason she was finding it increasingly difficult not to compare Faisal to his uncle. Raschid would never allow anyone to dictate his way of life! She was being unfair, she reminded herself. Faisal had very little choice in the matter. Raschid had the whip hand!

‘Has Zahra told you that my elder daughter and her family are to pay us a visit shortly?’ Umm Faisal asked, as Selina heaped Felicia’s plate with savoury saffron rice.

Felicia shook her head and looked enquiringly at Zahra.

‘Yes, it is true,’ the younger girl acknowledged. ‘Nadia is to join us at the oasis. You will like her, Felicia, she looks very much like Faisal.’ She smiled understandingly when Felicia flushed; which only increased her own feelings of guilt, for it had been of Raschid’s darkly sardonic features of which she had been thinking and not Faisal’s.

She toyed listlessly with her food while Umm Faisal and Zahra discussed the arrangements which had to be made for the trip to the oasis. Was the memory of this afternoon’s unpleasantness destroying Raschid’s appetite? Did a mental image of her face torment him? Somehow she doubted it.

Refusing coffee, Felicia excused herself. Her small white lie that she had a headache was not entirely untrue. The beginnings of tension in the back of her neck had spread to her temples and she was glad to lie down on her bed and let her mind wander at will, relaxing under the hypnotic hum of the air-conditioning and the perfumed velvet of the Eastern night.

A tap on the door roused her, and she sat up and smiled reassuringly at Selina when she poked her head round the door.

‘The Sitt is wanted downstairs in Sheikh Raschid’s study.’

At first Felicia thought the girl had made a mistake, and knowing that her English could not always be relied upon, she shook her head kindly. ‘Sheikh Raschid is entertaining some friends, Selina, I do not think he would want me to join him.’

‘Friends all gone,’ Selina replied firmly. ‘Sheikh alone now. Everything quite proper. If the Sitt will come.’

It was obvious that she intended to wait and escort her downstairs, Felicia realised in exasperation. Her dress was slightly creased where she had been lying on it, but there was no time to worry about that now, nor to drag a comb through her unruly curls and wish that tiredness did not give her face such a look of soft vulnerability.

What could Raschid want? A further reiteration of his disapproval? She hesitated, and Selina paused enquiringly at the bottom of the stairs. Giving herself a mental shake, Felicia followed. After all, what could Raschid do? Eat her?

Raschid’s apartments were reached by a corridor linking them with the harem quarters of the house. They had their own private entrance and a large square hall furnished with soft Persian carpets and an intricately carved brassbound chest, plainly of great antiquity. Old-fashioned oil lamps threw a soft glow across the well polished floor.

There was richness here, and simplicity too, the one harmoniously blending with the other to give a feeling of timeless serenity which had the immediate effect of soothing her ragged nerves. The tall, narrow windows were open to the night, and the sharp scent of the lime trees stole in with the dusk.

‘This is the Sheikh’s study, sitt,’ Selina said respectfully, motioning her towards an iron-studded wooden door. Felicia gave her a wan smile, uncertain as to whether she should go straight in or knock. The decision was made for her when the door opened abruptly.

In the half light Raschid seemed to tower above her, and Felicia bit back a gasp. She would never have recognised him. He was wearing a dishdasha—the traditional white flowing robe of the Kuwaitis—his headdress hiding the night-black hair, a dark cloak lavishly embroidered with gold thread worn casually across his broad shoulders.

‘What is the matter, Miss Gordon?’ he asked urbanely as he ushered her into the room.

‘N-nothing,’ Felicia stammered, but her eyes remained glued to the undeniably impressive figure he made, outlined against the starkness of the white walls.

‘When dealing with my compatriots I find it better to wear the traditional garb of our country. In point of fact the dishdasha is more comfortable by far than Western-style suits.’

‘And far more impressive.’ She could have bitten her tongue out, when he turned and stared coolly at her. A frisson of awareness tingled across her skin, and she shivered slightly, despite the warmth of the night.

‘And what, I wonder, does that remark imply? That you think me a posturing fool, practising for a part in The Desert Song?’

Anger underwrote the cold words. Horrified, Felicia stammered a denial. No European could ever have worn the flowing garment with the grace of his Arab counterpart, and her surprise had sprung merely from the fact that this was the first time she had seen Raschid dressed in the traditional manner. Although she would not have admitted it to a soul, when he opened the door to her, for a moment he had embodied every single one of her romantic teenage dreams.

And now to crown all her other follies she had offended Raschid’s pride, touching the most sensitive spot of his personality. She bit her lip, wishing they were on good enough terms for her to explain that he had misunderstood.

‘What? Nothing to say for yourself?’ he asked harshly, surprising her with the raw anger she sensed beneath the words. He moved with the stealth of the desert fox and the sureness of an Arab stallion, coming to stand at her side and spinning her round to face him.

Felicia moistened her lips, wetting them with a nervous tongue, the movement instantly stilled as Raschid’s gaze pounced on the betraying gesture.

‘Why did you send for me?’

He released her, and she could feel her nerve ends quivering with relief as the tension eased.

‘Merely to give you this,’ he replied, handing her an envelope bearing an airmail stamp.

Her heart lurched. It was from Faisal; it must be! With eager fingers she reached for the envelope, and her hand brushed against Raschid’s as she did so. It was like receiving an electric shock. She shrank back, recoiling from the contact, her face pale as she gripped her letter.

‘You may cease the charade, Miss Gordon,’ Raschid mocked. ‘The ordeal is over. You have your letter, which you can take to your lonely bed to read and perhaps remember the nights you have spent in my nephew’s arms. Faisal is no stranger to the delights of the flesh, but then I have no need to remind you of that, have I?’

‘No, you have not,’ Felicia agreed, suppressing her instinctive denial of his accusations. For some reason allowing Raschid to believe that she and Faisal were lovers made her feel safer, although why she could not have said.

She saw his face darken, tightening with anger and contempt. No doubt she had just confirmed his initial impression of her, but she no longer cared. Secretly in the hidden recesses of her heart she was beginning to doubt her own ability to make Faisal happy, but her pride would not allow her to admit her discovery to Raschid. Time enough to know that he had been right when she was safely back in England, away from those mocking grey eyes.

By the time she reached her room she was trembling with a mixture of anger and pain. Feverishly she ripped open Faisal’s envelope, withdrawing the letter with a fast-beating heart. Surely here she would find the reassurance that she so badly needed? Surely the written words of Faisal’s love for her would banish all her doubts?

The letter was depressingly short, barely more than a few scrawled lines, with none of the tender reassurances she had hoped for. Indeed, it struck Felicia, as she read the letter for a second time, that Faisal too might be having second thoughts. He had written more as though to a friend than a lover; the phrases stilted and cautious; one betraying sentence almost leaping off the paper.

‘…. New York is much more fun than I had imagined….’

With a sinking heart Felicia remembered what Raschid had told her about Faisal’s propensity for falling in and out of love. At the time she had thought he was merely trying to upset her, but now she was not so sure. Faisal’s letter was not that of a man deeply in love and committed to that love. Now, when it was too late, Felicia wished passionately that she had not allowed him to persuade her to come to Kuwait, and worse still, to spend her hard-earned savings. With a feeling of sick despair she acknowledged that had it been possible she would have gone straight to the airport first thing in the morning and booked her flight home.

She even toyed with the idea of contacting her aunt and requesting her help with the fare, but she knew she could not. It seemed ironical that the one person who would have been more than glad to finance her return to England was the one man in the world she would never ask.

No, distasteful though it was, she would have to write to Faisal and sort things out. Once he knew that she was no longer expecting to become his wife, he would probably be delighted to pay for her ticket, she thought wryly.

As she switched off the lamp and slid down between the cool sheets, she wondered morosely why the discovery that Faisal no longer loved her should affect her so little. Less than a week ago he had formed her entire world; now all she wanted was to return home. And yet she would miss this land, she admitted. Despite its alienness it had touched her heart, and she felt that she could have adapted had her love for Faisal been strong enough.

Her last thought before sleep claimed her was that at least she was having a small measure of revenge against Raschid. While she slept in the knowledge that she and Faisal would never marry, Raschid was probably lying awake thinking of ways to part them. Strangely enough the thought brought her precious little comfort.

ALTHOUGH SHE FELT no guilt at deceiving Raschid, it was far harder having to pretend with Zahra. She would have liked to have the younger girl as a sister-in-law, she acknowledged, as Zahra waylaid her on the way to breakfast, bouncing up and down in excitement.

‘Look what Raschid has given me as a pre-birthday present!’ she exclaimed, waving a cheque in front of Felicia’s bemused eyes, and gloating gleefully over its size, enlarging enthusiastically on how she intended to spend it.

‘There’s a shop in Kuwait that sells the most dreamy lingerie!’ She rolled her eyes dramatically. ‘How about coming with me this afternoon?’

Felicia hadn’t the heart to refuse her, and Zahra’s grateful hug when she nodded her head was more than reward enough.

Ali drove them into Kuwait, dropping them in the area of Fahd Salim Street, where Raschid had taken her the day before.

As Felicia had half expected, Zahra tended to linger over the glittering displays of jewellery.

‘Those pearls come from the gulf,’ she told an interested Felicia. ‘Until oil was discovered, pearls were Kuwait’s richest source of income.’

Ali hovered protectively behind them, reminding them that they had not come to window-gaze. As before, Felicia was impressed by the graceful boulevard with its trees and flowers.

‘Our government is spending a great deal of money on irrigation schemes and desalination plants,’ Zahra told her. ‘In the fruit markets you will find all manner of fruits and vegetables grown on specially developed farms. The sun, once our greatest enemy, is being harnessed to provide the energy to grow perpetual crops. Saud is studying agriculture at the university,’ she added by way of an explanation for all her knowledge. ‘His family own lands near to our own at the oasis and he and Raschid are hoping to develop a fruit farm there eventually.’ She pulled a wry face. ‘I’m not sure what he loves best—me, or his precious greenhouses.’ She touched Felicia’s arm, motioning towards one of the shops. ‘In here. Ali will wait outside for us.’

The shop was small—no more than a boutique really—the walls hung with pale green silk panels, tiny gilt chairs covered in the same fabric, standing on an off-white deep-pile carpet. No pretensions to Eastern origins here; the boutique was blatantly Bond Street, or Fifth Avenue.

A mouthwatering selection of satin and lace underwear was produced for Zahra’s inspection, and as she fingered a peach satin nightdress lavishly trimmed with coffee lace, Felicia reflected rather enviously on the advantages of possessing a wealthy and generous uncle. Not that she would want Raschid to pay for her trousseau. The thought made her go hot and cold, and the peach satin dropped from her fingers as though it had burned.

‘Something wrong?’

‘What? Oh no—nothing. I think you should have the peach, Zahra, and the pale blue nightdress and negligee set.’

‘What about this one?’

Felicia examined the nightdress she was holding up for her inspection. It was a filmy mist of sea-green shifting to jade, in a silken shimmer of the finest gossamer chiffon.

‘It’s lovely,’ Felicia admitted.

‘And most suitable for a bride,’ the sales assistant pressed.

‘Would you not like something like this for your own marriage?’ Zahra asked, much to Felicia’s embarrassment. She closed her mind to a vision of herself clad only in the whispering chiffon, held in the arms of. Not Faisal, that was for sure, she told herself, shaking her head and handing the nightgown back to Zahra.

Ali was still waiting patiently outside, and something about the set of his shoulders suggested that they had been gone rather a long time.

‘Anything else you want?’ she asked Zahra, and the other girl shook her head.

They were crossing the wide pavement when Felicia saw the familiar figure striding towards them, and her heart gave a double somersault before hammering urgently against her ribs.

‘Isn’t that Raschid?’ she asked Zahra, surprised when the younger girl compressed her lips and immediately turned in the opposite direction.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Didn’t you see that woman with him?’ Zahra hissed.

Felicia had. The woman was tall and dark, dressed with an understated elegance, wrapped in an aura of wealth. Felicia had guessed her age to be somewhere in her late twenties.

‘She must be his mistress,’ Zahra decided. ‘She cannot be a woman of good family, otherwise she would never walk openly in the street with him.’

So Raschid had a mistress! Why should Felicia feel so surprised? She already knew how potently male he was; surely it should not be surprising that there were other women in his life besides his sister and niece. So why had her legs suddenly turned to quivering jelly; the muscles in her stomach cramping in agonised protest? The hypocritical pig! Resentment fanned the flames of her anger. How dared he insult and revile her, when she was quite innocent of all his accusations, and yet openly flaunt his mistress through the streets!

Suddenly she longed to confront him; to sneer contemptuously at him as he had done at her, and when she hesitated, Zahra grabbed her hand, shaking her head.

‘It would embarrass Raschid if he saw us. He could not acknowledge us, while he is with her!’

Embarrassed? Raschid?

Zahra, correctly interpreting her expression, added seriously, ‘He would be embarrassed, as I would myself. Naturally a single man has certain… needs, but….’ She shrugged comprehensively, trying to convey the impossibility of introducing the women who served those ‘needs’ to the sheltered females of his own family. Felicia stared unseeingly ahead. Was that how Raschid thought of her? As the woman who served the ‘needs’ of his nephew? Shame and rage scorched her, and her fingers balled into two small fists.

‘What’s wrong?’ Zahra asked. ‘You look so fierce.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ But she knew she was lying. A queer little pain had lodged somewhere in the region of her heart, but she steadfastly ignored it. Why should she care if Raschid chose to walk side by side with some dusky beauty, his dark head inclined towards her in a gesture of attentive protection? She had no need of his protection, nor his attention. How could she, when all that existed between them was open dislike?

NATURALLY ON THEIR return to the villa Zahra had to inspect her purchases all over again, although Felicia was surprised when she did not unwrap the sea-green chiffon. Perhaps she was frightened of soiling it, she decided. Together they enthused over the peach satin, as Felicia held it against Zahra’s skin.

‘I doubt your Saud will have eyes to spare for anything but you,’ she teased. ‘Which one will you wear on your wedding night?’

‘Neither,’ Zahra replied seriously. ‘Our wedding will be completely traditional. It is my wish and Saud’s. I shall be dressed in my bridal caftan with its one hundred and one buttons down the front, and round my neck will be the gold necklaces given to me by my family and Saud’s.’ When Felicia still looked puzzled, she explained, ‘It is our custom for the bridegroom to remove the necklaces one by one while the bride keeps a modest silence. Then he unfastens the buttons, starting at the hem,’ she blushed a little. ‘You find it strange, perhaps, that I should want to be married in this way, but…’

‘No stranger than the wearing of a white dress in the West,’ Felicia assured her. In point of fact a small lump had lodged in her throat, but the image shimmering in her mind was neither that of Zahra nor Faisal, but another dark, masculine head bent painstakingly over the tiny buttons, lean fingers making nonsense of their many fastenings. A deep shudder trembled through her, and her stomach churned with disturbing sensations. Dear God, what was she thinking? Imagining Raschid of all people kneeling tenderly at his bride’s feet, his normally sardonic expression replaced by one of intimate desire. What was happening to her? She felt sick and dizzy, and had to sink down into a chair to try and gather her composure. If only she could go home. If only she had discovered that gratitude was not and never could be love, before she had come to Kuwait. If she had not left England she would never have discovered that it was possible to respond to the potent maleness of a man without even liking him; that one could be aware of everything about him, and yet still know nothing. Her mouth had gone dry, the strange ache in her heart seemed to grow with every breath she took.

‘Did Faisal tell you when he would be coming home?’ Zahra asked innocently. ‘Last year he flew back from London just to give me my birthday present. Raschid arranged it.’ Her face brightened. ‘Perhaps he will do the same thing this year.’

Felicia shook her head. There was no point in raising the younger girl’s hopes.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Raschid might do something if you went to him and told him how much you are missing Faisal. Why don’t you, Felicia? You must be longing to see him.’

She was. But not for the reasons that Zahra supposed. If Faisal were to return she could ask him to help her get home, but of course she could not say this to Zahra. Thank goodness she had not allowed him to persuade her into wearing the ring he had bought her.

‘I’m sure you could coax Raschid round,’ Zahra continued. ‘He isn’t a complete monster, you know.’

‘That wasn’t the impression I got this afternoon,’ Felicia reminded her drily, remembering the younger girl’s desire not to be seen.

‘That was different,’ Zahra replied promptly. ‘Mother worries because Raschid does not marry. The responsibility of caring for her and us has aged him, I think, although he never lets us see it. Perhaps when I am married he will look for a wife, although it will not be easy. Mother fears that his English blood makes him impatient of our own girls.’ She glanced speculatively at Felicia. ‘Faisal must have told you how like Raschid’s grandmother you are. I wouldn’t have put it past him to have deliberately sent you out here to tease Raschid. When we were little I remember our father saying that Raschid, as a child, had been fascinated by the portrait of his grandmother. I think he has a softness for you, Felicia, even though he hides it.’

A softness for her! Felicia nearly told her how wrong she was, and why. So Zahra thought that Faisal’s motives in sending her to Kuwait might not have been entirely altruistic. Felicia suspected that she might be right. It was obvious to her that there had been differences of opinion between Faisal and Raschid in the past, and she wondered if Faisal had announced their ‘engagement’ to Raschid, in a deliberate attempt to annoy him. It was not pleasant to realise that she might have been used in this fashion, and she was coming to accept that Faisal was not the charming young man he had seemed on the surface.

ONCE AGAIN Raschid did not join them for dinner, and when Umm Faisal explained that he was dining with friends, Felicia smiled rather mirthlessly to herself. Friends, or friend, in the singular? She was tired, and excused herself, going to her room.

Each day the temperature seemed to rise a little more and Felicia had grown quite used to rising each morning to a cloudless blue sky; the muezzin no longer a weirdly unfamiliar sound, but part and parcel of everyday life. She was coming to love this country of stark contrasts, she admitted, and would miss it when she left. She had still not written to Faisal, and she knew that it was a task she must complete, but her pride shrank from having to beg his aid. Sensitive to the opinions of others, she was reluctant to have him think that she expected him to pay her fare home. And yet what alternative did she have?

The scent of the roses reached her from her bedroom window. Throwing a crocheted shawl round her shoulders, she went downstairs, through the silent hall and into the welcome coolness of the garden. They were particularly attractive, these enclosed courtyards with their fountains and shady trees. The sharp, acid scent of the limes mingled with the fragrance of the roses. Doves cooed softly from the dovecote by the fountain. She trailed her fingers in the water, watching the fish slide quickly away. With the moon full the garden was almost as bright as day, the landscape etched in stark silver and black.

She sighed and froze as feet crunched on the gravel.

‘Wishing there was someone to share the enchantment of our evenings with you, Miss Gordon?’

Raschid! Her hand crept to her throat to still the small pulse beating frantically there. He was dressed Arab-fashion once more, one leather-booted foot resting arrogantly on the rim of the pool as he surveyed her. She bit back a sharp retort, swallowing her dismay.

‘As a matter of fact I was,’ she lied lightly, her hands clenching impotently at her sides, as his cool glance slid over her small, flushed face, resting momentarily on the rise and fall of her breasts beneath their thin covering, before lingering thoughtfully on her neat waist and the narrow tautness of her hips. For some reason it had become desperately important to conceal from Raschid the truth about her feelings for Faisal.

His eyebrows rose, and again she bit back the burning anger clamouring for utterance. All her senses were urging her to escape, but she would not let him see her fear.

‘I believe you wish me to arrange for Faisal to come home? Zahra has been soliciting my forbearance on your behalf. Her tender heart aches for what she imagines to be the tragic parting of two star-crossed lovers. Naturally I have had to disabuse her of what is merely romantic fantasy.’

Forgetting her own doubts about her feelings for Faisal, she stared at him, her eyes blazing.

‘By doing what? Giving her your interpretation of our relationship?’

‘Oh, come,’ he mocked mildly, ‘why all the maidenly indignation? You made no demur the other night when I implied that you and Faisal had already shared the delights which Zahra only merely anticipates. You forget that I have lived in your country. I know in what scant regard your women hold their modesty and innocence.’

‘Which, of course, a woman of your race would never do!’

‘And what is that supposed to mean? Or can I guess? If you are referring to my companion of this afternoon—oh yes, I know you saw me, that hair of yours is instantly recognisable—she makes no pretence to being anything she is not.’

Felicia’s lip curled in a fair imitation of his own sneer. ‘Unlike you! I must admit that you surprised me. You don’t look the type of man who needs to buy a woman’s favours, but I suppose when all you can offer is physical gratification, the pill has to be sweetened somehow.’

His incredulous, ‘Why, you little…’ told her that she had managed to slip under his guard, but allied to trembling satisfaction was the certainty that she would be made to pay for that moment of victory.

Retribution came sooner than she had imagined.

‘I sought you out because Zahra was concerned for you. She tells me that you grow pale and do not eat, and she attributes this to the fact that you are missing Faisal. I know otherwise, but I will not be deceived by your playacting. I shall not allow Faisal to return now to be ensnared by you all over again. However, we cannot have you pining for lack of his lovemaking,’ he told her silkily. ‘It is fortunate that Zahra’s window does not overlook this courtyard—she may not approve of the methods I employ to assuage your need of him.’

Zahra wasn’t the only one who did not approve, Felicia thought numbly as her flaying hands were captured and pinned to her sides, as hard masculine lips plundered the trembling softness of her own, parted to voice her fury. She was forced backwards, imprisoned against Raschid’s arm, her throat and the swelling softness of her breasts exposed to his merciless scrutiny. His eyes glittered over the answering fury in her own, fastening on the erratic pulse beating frantically in her creamy throat before lingering on the pale blur of flesh revealed by the V neckline of her cotton dress.

‘Let me go!’ she muttered furiously, her mouth throbbing. ‘Save your kisses for the women who are obliged to endure them in return for some worthless trinket!’

She heard the angry hiss of his escaping breath, hard fingers tightened on her wrists, and her flesh burned from the contact with his.

‘Never worthless, Miss Gordon. I can assure you of that.’

But despite the lazy drawl she knew that his anger was no longer held in check. She had unleashed it with her hasty words. She closed her eyes, against a sudden weak rush of tears, as his hands moulded her hip bones, forcing her against him. She would not cry now! She bit her lip. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her face, and stiffened, willing him to release her.

‘Oh no, Miss Gordon, you will not escape so lightly this time!’

She could feel the tensile strength of his chest muscles against her breasts; the faintly harsh rasp of the dark hairs exposed by the open neck of his robe, so compellingly masculine that reaction flooded through her on a shock wave, making her painfully aware of just how inexperienced she actually was. The contact—which obviously meant nothing to him—suffocated her with its implied intimacy of flesh against flesh, and she struggled to get away, panicking as his lips took their fill of the exposed column of her throat, lingering appreciatively against her skin. If she had once doubted his skill and experience she could do so no longer. The deliberately arousing caresses would have melted ice; but she struggled not to give in; not to admit the drugging sensation of rising desire as his assault of her senses was subtly increased.

There was no affection or tenderness in his touch—she knew that; she knew that all he offered was the hollow sham of sexual need, and that even that was probably counterfeit, but she could do nothing when his free hand slid downward from her shoulder, cupping her breast, and stroking the soft curves.

Fear and indignation shot through her. Not even Faisal had touched her so intimately—nor so insultingly as though her body held no secrets, no pleasures, but merely the familiarity of the oft-known. She shuddered as his fingers found her nipple, coaxing it into hardening desire without exhibiting either haste or urgency; the pain and shock of her body’s betrayal there for him to see in the widening of her eyes and tensed muscles.

Satisfaction gleamed in the night-dark eyes, as they raked her pale, shocked face.

‘Well, now you can join the ranks of those who have known my objectionable touch, Miss Gordon. Although unlike them your reward was not well earned,’ he taunted.

She reeled as he released her, hating the grim comprehension in his voice. There was a parcel in his hand, wrapped in tissue paper, and tied with green ribbon.

‘It seems that Zahra purchased a gift for you on my behalf this afternoon. I only trust you will think of me when you wear it.’

The package was flung at her feet. Speech would have been a complete impossibility, as she stared up at him with hate-filled eyes.

‘Pick it up,’ he commanded inexorably. ‘Otherwise I shall be obliged to deliver it again—in person, and since the gift has been given twice, it will have to be paid for twice.’

‘You’re nothing but a barbarian!’ Felicia choked. ‘I was a fool to think you could ever understand what I feel for Faisal… or any other human emotion!’

She bent down, picked up the parcel, and fled before he could retaliate, clutching the tissue paper in trembling fingers. In her room she flung it against the wardrobe door, and the fragile paper tore on the sharp edge of the handle, releasing a froth of sea-green chiffon.

She paled, staring at the silky fabric. The nightgown! Zahra had bought it for her! With Raschid’s money! She was shivering with reaction and despair. In the mirror she could see the redness on her lips from his kisses. Her neck and shoulder burned from the searing heat of Raschid’s practised kisses and her breast was on fire from the arrogant sureness of his hard caress. Her body stiffened with rage.

How dared he treat her like a woman he had bought for the night! She suppressed a wild sob. He had tainted her—stamped on her pride and destroyed the protective shield she had thrown around herself. Never again could she assert that desire was nothing without love and that she could never experience the former without the latter, because for one fleeting moment she had known desire; and it was that more than anything else that caused the hot tears to roll down her cheeks as her fingers curled furiously into her palms and she found some slight surcease in contemplating Raschid’s muscular body writhing in mortal agony.

As for the nightdress… She stared disparagingly at the fragile silk she had coveted not so many hours ago. She would burn it before she allowed it to come anywhere near her body!