Sandstorm. Anne Mather
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had spoken as if she was still in the picture.
‘As you say,’ she agreed shortly, picking up a sandwich. ‘And as far as I’m concerned, I wish he would do just that.’
Later that night, undressing in the quiet isolation of her room, Abby wondered what she would do if Rachid divorced her. It was all very well, talking blandly of getting married again, but somehow she knew that was most unlikely. Her experiences with Rachid had left her badly scarred, and where once there had been warmth and tenderness, now there was just a cold hard core of bitterness and resentment. She doubted any man could breach the defences she had built around herself, and she didn’t really want anyone to try. It was better to be free, and independent, as she had told her father. Better not to love at all than to go though the pain and turmoil of those last months with Rachid. She was safe now, immune from the arrows of distrust and jealousy, secure within the shell of her own indifference. She had no desire to expose herself again, to lay open the paths to vulnerability and suffering. If she ever did allow another man into her life, she would make sure her involvement was not emotional. Emotions caused too many tortured days and sleepless nights.
Nevertheless, for the first time in months she found herself viewing her own body with something other than dissatisfaction. For so long she had regarded herself with discontented eyes, finding the lissom curves of her figure less than gratifying. She had seen no beauty in the swelling symmetry of her breasts, in the narrow waist and gently rounded thighs, that hinted of the sensual depths Rachid had once plumbed. All she had seen was a hollow vessel, lacking the essential constituents which would have made her a whole being. She was that most pathetic of all creatures, a barren woman, and all the allure and enticement of her body went for nothing beside such an elemental deficiency.
She twisted restlessly, turning sideways, looking at the pale oval of her face over her shoulder. On impulse, she reached up and released the coil of hair at her nape, and shards of silk fell almost to her waist. Her hair was one thing she would not change, straight and silky, and moonbeam-fair. Rachid had loved its soft fragrance, had liked nothing better than to bury his face in its lustrous curtain, and it was pure indulgence that she had not had it cut when she left Abarein. It was really too much for a working girl to handle, but it was her one extravagance, and she was loath to destroy it.
Now, spreading smoothly across her shoulders, concealing the thrusting peaks of womanhood, it accentuated her femininity, and she reflected sadly on the fates that had given her so much, yet denied her so much more.
Between the cotton sheets, she tried to dispel the unbidden fruits of memory. She didn’t want to think about her life with Rachid. She had thought about that too much already. Too many nights, in those early days after their separation, she had cried herself to sleep for the cruel tragedy of it all, and now she preferred to forget that it had not all been bad. On the contrary, in the beginning she had almost too much happiness, and each morning she had awakened eager to start the day. She could not get too much of Rachid, nor he of her, and she had resented those occasions when business, or the affairs of state, had taken him from her.
Unwillingly she recalled the first time she had seen him—at that party in Paris, which had proved such a fateful affair. She had gone to Paris with Brad, to attend a conference called by the oil-producing states, and the request to attend the gathering at the Abareinian Embassy had been just another invitation among many. Abby had not even wanted to go, eager to sample the more exciting night life to be found in Montmartre, but Brad had been persuasive, and she had succumbed. After all, they were to be there for several days more, and besides, he had promised to take her sightseeing as soon as they could decently make their escape.
In the event, it had not been Brad who showed her Paris, but Rachid. The party at the Embassy had not turned out at all as she had expected, and looking back on it now, she could still feel the thrill of excitement that had coursed through her veins when he had first laid eyes on her. It was the first time she had experienced such a tangible reaction to an intangible contact, and she remembered how put out Brad had been when Rachid relieved him of his companion.
Parties at Middle Eastern embassies were usually sumptuous, with plenty of food and drink provided for their European guests. Arabs, or at least Muslims, did not touch alcohol, but they had no inhibitions about providing it for their visitors. They were extravagant affairs, with a great deal of business mixed in with the socialising, and even Abby, who was not unaccustomed to the attentions of the opposite sex tended to cling to Brad like a lifeline in a stormy sea.
Meeting Rachid was different however. He had been there, with his father, Prince Khalid, welcoming their guests when Abby and Brad arrived. Tall and dark, with strong, tanned features, and eyes so deep as to be almost black, he nevertheless possessed a less hawklike profile than his father, whose looks were distinctly those of an Arab. Rachid displayed his English ancestry, in the thick length of his lashes, in the lighter cast of his skin, and the sensually attractive curve of his mouth. He had a sense of humour, too, which was something she learned his father lacked, and his lean muscular frame complemented the well-cut dinner suit, that contrasted sharply with his father’s robes and kaffiyeh.
Abby, at nineteen, had considered herself well capable of handling any situation. She had been Brad Daley’s secretary for over a year, and during that time she had countered the advances of men from various backgrounds, and while she was attracted to Prince Rachid, she was immediately suspicious of his motives. Men of his wealth and education did not get seriously involved with secretaries, and while she enjoyed his attention, she tried not to respond to his undoubted sexual magnetism.
It proved difficult—and ultimately, impossible. Despite the quite obvious disapproval of his father and the rest of his family, Rachid neglected his other guests to remain at her side during the course of the evening, and afterwards, with Brad’s grudging consent, he took her back to the hotel. He had been quite circumspect then, merely kissing her hand on departing, and wishing her a good night’s sleep, and even when the sheaves of white roses began to arrive in the morning, she had had no conception of how hopeless would be her attempts to resist him.
He arrived at ten o’clock to take her sightseeing, and sweeping Brad’s objections aside with the assurance that he would arrange for a temporary secretary to replace her, he took Abby on a tour of the city that left her speechless and breathless. He knew Paris intimately, having spent some time studying at the Sorbonne, and instead of whisking her from place to place in a limousine, he made her walk miles and miles through the fascinating heart of the city, until her feet ached, and she begged for relief.
Then he took her back to his hotel, instead of hers, much to her alarm, insisting that she must eat dinner with him, and that he did not intend to share her with Brad Daley. However, when she discovered that he intended ordering the meal served in his suite, she firmly declined, and only accompanied him upstairs to avoid standing alone in the lobby while he changed.
The hotel room had been magnificent, she remembered, with soft pile carpets and lots of concealed lighting. While Rachid disappeared into his bedroom, she kicked off her shoes and curled on a soft couch, and would have fallen asleep had not nervousness kept her awake.
He returned wearing not the casual pants and matching jerkin he had worn all day, but a robe, similar to the one his father had worn the night before, only striped in shades of blue and purple that accentuated the raven darkness of his hair.
Abby remembered she had been studying a painting on the wall above a polished escritoire, and her first intimation that she was no longer alone had come when firm, strong fingers had begun massaging her aching instep. She had been shocked to find Rachid squatting at her feet, performing the menial service, and had begun to protest when he had lowered his head and caressed her toes with his lips.
Her skin had burned through the fine mesh of her tights, and when he had lifted his eyes to look at her, her head had swum with the message she read in their depths. For the first time in her life she had encountered a man, and a situation, she could not control, and her preconceived ideas of the relationship between the sexes were violently revised.
Her startled use of his name was a further demonstration of how his actions disturbed her. All day she had maintained the formality between them, but suddenly they