Desert Wedding. Alexandra Scott
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hands clenched till she could feel her fingernails biting into her palms. Her expression was icily detached, and when she spoke it was with a brittle edginess. ‘I think...’ She bent to pick her bag up from the floor, taking a first step in distancing herself. ‘I think—’ again she was aware of being the focus of attention and so forced herself to speak more lightly ‘—in fact I’m sure everyone present will remember, but as for me...’ She shrugged, but her final cutting remark died on her lips when she saw the expression on Grev’s face, and she knew that she couldn’t add to his humiliation. The words were choked back and she took another step then turned briefly. ‘Oh, and thanks for the drink, Grev. Kind of you to take pity on me.’ Then, calm as she could, chin high, Georgia threaded her way through the tables, her entire manner underlining her detachment.
Nevertheless, her hands were shaking slightly, her cheeks were on fire and there was the shaming sting of tears behind her eyes by the time she reached the desk at the end of the room, where she began to ask the steward to arrange a car for her.
‘Cancel that.’ Again she had failed to notice someone approaching from behind, and the flashing upward look she turned on the man was not meant to disguise her anger at the intrusion. ‘I’m going your way, Miss...?’
The cool, assessing look, the enquiringly raised dark eyebrow did little to dispel her idea that he knew exactly who she was, and she still had this feeling that she had seen...
‘Miss Maitland, isn’t it?’
‘How clever of you!’
Disregarding her simmering anger, he transferred his attention to the steward, who had paused with one hand on the telephone. ‘I’m going in Miss Maitland’s direction.’ And, quite as if she had co-operated in the plan, he put one hand under her elbow to propel her in the direction of the door—a touch which she was so burningly aware of that she shrugged it off the moment they stepped away from the desk.
She spoke through clenched teeth. ‘But what makes you think that Miss Maitland has any inclination to go in the same direction as you?’
His grin—a momentary flash of white against tanned skin—was disconcerting in its mischievousness. ‘I promise you, you have. If only to put one over on your erstwhile adversaries back in there. But, apart from that, we’re living in the same block of flats.’
‘But that’s not to say...’ Of course. Now she remembered seeing him in the foyer one day.
‘Of course it isn’t. But, as I say, it will add a dash of spice to the afternoon gossip. It would be a pity to deprive all the ex-pats of a little idle speculation, wouldn’t it? Besides, I thought you would want to get out of there as quickly as you could, and that a little moral support might be welcome.’
‘I’m not in need of support, especially not the moral kind,’ she snapped. ‘And if I were—’
‘I know,’ he sighed. ‘I know. If you were I’d be the last man you would—’
‘Not exactly,’
Though her manner was irritated, Georgia was struggling with a disconcerting inclination to grin. It was, after all, such a stupid scenario. She was even faintly amused that she was allowing him to control the situation, permitting herself to be guided with quite implacable gentleness out through the smoked glass doors towards the parking area.
‘I was going to say that if I ever decided I was in need of moral support then a man would be the very last person I would approach.’
‘Ah, like that, is it?’ A flick of his finger brought a long rakish saloon forward.
The parking attendant got out and held open a door for Georgia, who, before she had time to consider, found herself being driven along the palm-shaded drive towards the gates of the club and into the traffic madness of downtown Raqat.
For a time she just sat there quietly fuming, though her brain was busy registering all the sights and sounds which were still comparatively novel. Then familiar landmarks made her realise that they were approaching the block of flats which had for the past two weeks been home.
She glanced at her companion. ‘Thank you very much, Mr...?’ How strange that until this very moment she hadn’t thought to ask his name.
‘Trehearn.’ He slid the car into the shaded parking area, ‘Nathan Trehearn.’
‘Nathan?’ Already she had noticed the accent. ‘American?’ It was close to being an accusation.
‘Guilty as charged.’
‘I should think so too.’ Self-mockery was the only defence for her bad manners. She began to smile. ‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘I should think so too.’ By now he was holding open her car door, and she was walking with him towards the foyer of the block of apartments. ‘Anyway, only half-guilty, since my mother is English and I’ve spent a lot of time there.’
‘I was being a bit touchy about...oh, about that silly episode back at the club.’ The flicker of amusement had been swiftly replaced by vexation. Tears were closer to the surface than she liked. ‘I’m sick of married men who...’
‘Ah.’ The range of understanding implied by that single sound, especially when compounded by, ‘I see,’ uttered in such a thoughtful tone, was impossible.
‘No, you don’t see.’ How could anyone see, or understand the humiliation which she...? ‘You couldn’t possibly.’ No man could.
They were being swept upwards by the lift.
‘No one could,’ she said aloud. The movement stopped. In relief she took a step forward, then said, ‘Oh, I thought... But this isn’t my floor.’
‘No, mine.’ Again his hand was on her arm—a touch which made her hold her breath, grit her teeth—propelling her across the hallway towards the single door. ‘And since we are neighbours I thought it was time I offered you a cup of coffee.’
‘No.’ She pulled away. ‘Really, I’m not in the mood.’
He stood looking down at her—half-amused, half-exasperated, if his expression was anything to go by.
And to underline his intentions he held up his hands. ‘No strings.’
Through the open door she glimpsed a dark-skinned, white-clad figure hovering, and for some reason the presence of the servant weakened her resolve. She found, even as she repeated her protestations, that she was being ushered inside, through the cool marble hall into a spacious, shady salon, where she stopped, holding her breath. Wide, fretted arches led onto a veranda where palms, hibiscus and bougainvillea bloomed, filling the air with their fragrance.
A wonderful room. A delight to her artistic senses. Such calm and simplicity was a salve for her ruffled feelings. Subdued gentle colours, sofas covered in natural raw silk, light walls. Two glazed oriental vases—man-size—in dense blue and white were the only touches of colour in the room. At least...
Her eye was drawn to an alcove where, carved in polished black stone, was a head. Ancient Egyptian, she would have thought, and catching marvellously well that haughty bearing that so many of the local people seemed to have.
Intrigued and momentarily forgetting her companion, she took a step forward until a movement in the mirror behind the sculpture startled her and she flicked a glance to the reflection of the man behind her. And he, there was little doubt, was intent on her.
He was tall—she tried to be objective—taller than she had at first realised—at least six-two—slim but somehow giving an impression of power, though that could have had something to do with his total confidence. Not exactly good-looking—too contained. Except... She began at once to shift her ground. Except for the eyes; that luminous grey was unusual, and when fringed with the longest sooty lashes that she had ever seen...
Still he was looking at her, one slender eyebrow raised assessingly so she blushed, one hand going up to fiddle with