Dark Oasis. HELEN BROOKS
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no mistake about it.’ His mouth was harsh now as his gaze wandered over the red-brown hair and pale creamy skin. ‘With your English looks and that air of untouched virginity, you would be snapped up within days.’ He leant back in the seat as her mouth twisted in disbelief. ‘You do not believe me? That alone tells me I was right. A babe among wolves...’
Was he going to sell her to some sheikh or white-slave trader? Was that it? She stared at him dumbly, unaware of the terror in her eyes. She had authorisation from the police to stay with him. They knew where to contact her. Lots of people did. Surely he wouldn’t have organised all that if he intended—
‘Colette exists.’ His voice was very dry now as he read her thoughts. ‘My home exists. I am a perfectly normal man who would not have slept particularly well at night if I had let you be cast adrift into an uncertain world. The telephone conversation with Colette was satisfactory?’
‘Colette?’ She pulled her thoughts together and moistened paper-dry lips carefully. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘You can spend some time talking with a female companion of your own age and perhaps something will be remembered, a spark that will unlock the door, yes?’ He put a very large hand over hers resting on her knees, and she forced herself not to jerk away although his touch fired the alarm button. ‘Now we have to drive to the small airfield where my plane is waiting. It will not take long.’
‘Your plane?’ She began to feel slightly hysterical. This wasn’t happening to her, it couldn’t be. She still wasn’t quite sure how she came to be sitting in this prowling beast of a car with its master, anyway. As his hands moved to the leather-clad steering-wheel and he manoeuvred the powerful car out of the tiny hospital car park, she forced herself to think rationally, to get her emotions under control. She had made enquiries, independent enquiries, that morning with the police and the surprisingly sympathetic doctor, who had spent some considerable time with her trying to probe for something, anything, from her past, all to no avail.
She had discovered Gerard Dumont was an eminently respected businessman in Morocco, owning several businesses in Casablanca, Essaouira and Marrakesh involving the processing of fish and fruit, as well as his own fleet of freighters for goods to be sent overseas, and homes in each of the towns. He was enormously wealthy, a dignified and decorous citizen of the land his parents had moved to before he was born and altogether, according to her reports, a paragon of virtue. Except... Her eyes narrowed as she remembered the doctor’s hesitation when she had asked if Gerard was married or involved with a particular woman.
‘Not a particular woman, no...’ The doctor had smiled carefully after a long moment of silence. ‘But he is a young man in the prime of life; obviously there are stories...’
‘Stories?’ she had squeaked nervously, but the elderly man had not allowed himself to be drawn into a discussion about such an illustrious personage, parrying her questions adroitly until she had to give up gracefully. He had told her Gerard’s parents had died many years before, that his sister was engaged to be married to a French Moroccan of impeccable breeding, and that if she accepted Gerard’s invitation, which the doctor made clear he thought was an extremely generous and benevolent one, she would be treated with great respect and care as befitted the guest of such an important man. The phone call from Colette had clinched her indecision. Gerard’s sister had sounded so bubbly and natural and genuinely concerned about her misfortune and anxious to help. It had all seemed cut and dried...until she had seen him again. Then all the doubts and fears returned with renewed vigour.
‘You do not like me much, little one, do you?’ It was a statement, not a question, and after one darting glance at the harsh profile she decided silence was definitely the best policy. There was nothing she could say, after all. She didn’t like him; in fact everything about him grated on her like barbed wire even though she kept telling herself it was the height of ingratitude when he had been so kind. His height, the powerful masculine body, his arrogance and total domination of everything and everyone around him... It bothered her. Bothered her and frightened her and—She shut off her thoughts abruptly. She didn’t trust him. Not an inch. She didn’t know why and probably there was no foundation for how she felt, but it was a fact.
She glanced again at his face and saw that the hard mouth was curved in a cynical, mocking smile. And that grated too.
‘I will be interested to find out who you are, my sharp-clawed kitten,’ he said softly after a few miles had passed in complete silence, the atmosphere tense and taut. ‘I like honesty in people, men and women, and you are not short of that commodity.’
‘You do?’
‘I do.’ She heard the thread of amusement in the dark seductive voice, and bit her lip tightly. ‘I am clearly the lesser of two very real evils and it is a long time since I have been cast in such a role, especially by a woman.’ The glittering gold eyes moved swiftly over her wary face before returning to the road. ‘Especially such a beautiful woman.’
‘You said you didn’t find me attractive,’ she retorted quickly in surprise before she had time to consider her words.
‘I lied.’ The deep voice was quite unrepentent.
As her stomach turned over in one flying leap she hunted for something to say, a casual remark that would defuse the sudden tension, but couldn’t think of a thing, and as the miles continued to be eaten up by the beautiful car she forced herself to relax and concentrate on the changing scene outside the car window. And it was fascinating. Varied as Morocco was in its geography and climate, ranging from dry, gravelly plains extending for hundreds of miles and bleak shifting sand-dunes to rich tablelands in the Middle Atlas Mountains that furnished grazing for sheep and goats, the higher slopes covered in oak, cedar and pine and rich in ski resorts for the wealthy where rocky springs, lakes and ponds abounded as well as streams well stocked with trout, still nothing could be more varied than the spectrum of people who inhabited the land.
Every town and city had its Moroccan and European businessmen in traditional European dress side by side with Berbers and Arabs in flowing robes and wide, loose hoods, the women veiled and dressed in sober grey and black. And the transport... As Kit stared out of the window, the odd sumptuous car rode alongside decrepit taxis, wicked-eyed camels, horses, donkeys, bikes and every other mode of transport known to man. The buildings were piercingly white, Moorish architecture showing its grace and beauty in sunlit streets lined with orange trees... She sank back against the upholstered seat with a small sigh, her senses sated. She couldn’t live here; she must be on holiday—it was all too new and exciting. Holiday? But she’d left because of an argument, a ring...? She glanced down at her ringless hands and her brow wrinkled and that sick feeling of dread reared its head, before both the image and emotion faded as quickly as they had come.
‘What is it?’ She suddenly realised Gerard had been talking to her and she hadn’t heard a word, and now saw they had left the confines of the town and were out on the boundary road. ‘You have remembered something?’
‘Not really.’ She rubbed a damp hand over her brow as she shut her eyes for a brief moment. ‘It was gone before I could make sense of it. I’m sorry, what did you say?’
‘I wondered if you had ever seen goats climbing trees before,’ he said drily. ‘Over there, look.’ As he brought the car to a standstill she peered where he was pointing, and saw a host of argan trees, their low spreading limbs covered with green leaves and small fruits that looked like olives, and then as her eyes rose upwards she was amazed to see several goats high in the branches nibbling away at the leaves and fruit, one or two of the sure-footed little creatures having ventured far out on the branches as they stretched for the tenderest morsels.
‘They really are goats!’ she breathed in surprise, her eyes stretched wide.
Gerard laughed softly, delighted with her astonishment. ‘These trees are not found anywhere else in the world,’ he said quietly as he started the engine again after several long minutes, ‘and the goats adore the fruit. The seeds you see on the ground there—’ he pointed to the mass of fruit seeds scattered under the trees ‘—are gathered up and washed and cracked and from the inner