Sandstorm (2 page)

Abby felt a little of the sense of betrayal leave her. 'It makes no difference‑'

'It does to me,' Rachid thrust the hands he had been holding behind his back into the pockets of the dark overcoat ha was wearing, glancing about him almost irritably. 'Abby, I did not come here to stand arguing with you in the street. Have the goodness to accompany me back to my car. I promise, I am not intent on abducting you without your consent. I merely wish us to—to talk.'

'What about?' Abby was suspicious.

'Allah give me strength!' Rachid half turned away from her. 'Why will you not do as I ask you? Just this once? Surely it is not so much to ask? You are still my wife, after all.'

'Am I?' Her brows arched.

'What do you mean?' He turned to look at her with dark intensity.

Abby shrugged, a little unnerved by his hard scrutiny. 'I thought—that is—you might have divorced‑'

'Enough!' There was no mistaking the fact that he was angry now. 'You are my wife! And so you will remain. Now, will you come with me without protest, or must I ask Karim and Ahmed‑'

Abby's eyes blazed. 'You'd do that? You'd forcibly make me go with you?'

'Be still, Abby.' He drew a heavy breath. 'This conversation is rapidly becoming ridiculous! Is it so unreasonable that having not laid eyes on you for almost two years‑'

'Eighteen months.'

'—I might wish for a little speech with you?'

'I told you in my letters‑'

'—that you did not wish to see me, yes, I know.' Rachid's breathing indicated his impatience. 'But I do not accept that. I have never accepted that. I waited—not patiently, I admit, but I waited even so, for you to come to your senses. When you did not, I came after you, only to find you were no longer in London.'

'When was that?' Abby was curious.

'I do not know exactly. Six months, maybe nine months ago. It seems much longer, but I cannot be sure.'

Abby shifted her weight from one foot to the other. 'You saw—my father?'

'Yes, I saw him.'

Abby frowned. 'He didn't tell me.'

'Would it have made any difference if he had?' Rachid moved his shoulders indifferently. 'He would not give me your address.'

Abby's lips twisted. 'No? And didn't you threaten him? Couldn't you blackmail him into doing as you wanted?'

Rachid's features hardened. 'You have a viper's tongue, Abby. I had forgotten that.'

The mildly spoken comment infuriated her. Despite his anger, he was still able to control his speech, and her response was childishly vehement. 'Then no doubt you're well rid of me!' she taunted, only to break off abruptly when he possessed himself of her arm.

'Come,' he said, and the warning brilliance of his eyes silenced the protest that trembled on her lips.

Inwardly seething, she had no choice but to accompany him along the narrow street that opened into the square beyond. Karim and Ahmed moved obediently ahead, and by the time Abby and Rachid turned the corner, the two men were already unlocking the doors of a sleek black limousine that awaited them. Like Rachid, they too were dressed in Western clothes, but whereas his features were arguably European, theirs were unquestionably Arab.

Rachid escorted Abby to the nearside door and when one of the men opened it, he propelled her inside. She panted briefly, 4p the aftermath of keeping up with his long-strided gait, and then hastily scrambled to the far side of the car as he climbed in after her. The two men took their seats in front, and the glass partition between successfully isolated them in a cocoon of supple leather and tinted glass.

The engine fired at the first attempt, and Abby sank back uneasily against the upholstery as the long Mercedes moved away. It was almost two years since she had ridden in such arrant luxury, and while resentment simmered at this unwanted encounter, her limbs responded to the sumptuous comfort of her surroundings.

But she was no longer seduced by such things. Time, and experience, had taught her that it was people and not possessions that ultimately governed one's life, that no inanimate object, no matter how extravagant, could compensate for disillusionment.

'You have been working in New York,' Rachid said now, half turning towards her on the cushioned seat, and Abby made a gesture of acknowledgement.

'I thought you didn't know where I was?' she countered, and he expelled his breath on a sound of impatience.

'Since your return to London, I have learned everything about you,' he retorted. 'Daley is not as secretive about his employees as you would obviously like. With the better half of a bottle of Scotch malt beneath his belt, he had few inhibitions.'

Abby pursed her lips. 'You mean—you pumped Brad?'

Rachid shook his head. 'Not me, personally, no. But I do have some friends.'

Abby felt a surge of indignation. 'You mean you have influence with people!' she asserted coldly. 'You use people, Rachid.' Her lips curled. 'You always did.'

Rachid's expression was hidden from her, but she sensed his heated reaction to the insult. Wives of Middle Eastern princes did not answer back, that much she had learned in her years in Abarein. At least, they hadn't, until she came on the scene. But she had been stupid enough to imagine she had been different, that she and Rachid had had a deeper relationship than those foolish acolytes who only hovered on the brink of their husband's notice.

'This conversation is getting us nowhere,' he said at last. 'I have been very patient, Abby, but now my patience is wearing thin. I want you back. I want you to return with me—to Xanthia.'

Abby choked. 'You're not serious!'

'But I am,' he assured her, in that calm, implacable tone. 'You are my wife, Abby, and as such you belong in my house. I do not intend that this situation should continue any longer. I need a wife—I need you. I expect you to adhere to my wishes.'

Abby felt a rising sense of incredulity that threatened to explode in hysterical laughter. He couldn't be serious, but he was! He actually expected her to give up the new life she had made for herself and return with him to Abarein, to the palace at Xanthia, which he shared with his father and the rest of his family.

Abby pushed forward on the seat and reached for the handle of the door. 'I think you're right,' she said, momentarily surprising him by what he thought was her submission. 'This conversation is getting us nowhere. If you'll ask your driver to stop here, I can take a bus‑'

Rachid's utterance was not polite, and she turned startled eyes in his direction. 'You are not getting out of this car until I have the answer I seek,' he told her grimly, 'and I suggest you give the matter careful consideration before creating circumstances you will find hard to redeem.'

Abby gasped. 'You said you were not abducting me!' she burst out tremulously. 'And now you say‑'

'For God's sake, you are my wife, Abby!' he overrode her harshly. 'How can I abduct my wife? You belong to me!'

'I belong to no one,' she retorted, her breathing quickening again. 'Rachid, you have no right‑'

'I have every right. By the laws of your country and mine--‑'

'Laws!' Abby cast an anxious look through the windows of the limousine. 'Rachid, marriage is not governed by laws! It's governed by needs—by emotions! And most of all, by trust.'

Rachid leant towards her. 'I trust you.'

'But I don't trust you!' she averred unsteadily. 'Rachid, can't you see you're wasting your time? Our—our marriage is over, as surely as if we had untied the knot ourselves.'

'I will not accept that.'

'You'll have to. I'm not coming back to you, Rachid. I—I don't love you.'

'I love you.'

'Do you?' Abby's mouth quivered. 'I'm afraid your ideas of love and mine are sadly different.'

Rachid's hand was suddenly hard upon her knee. 'Listen to me, Abby. I need you‑'

'You need a woman,' Abby corrected tautly. 'Only a woman. Any woman‑'

'No!'

'Yes.' She tried to dislodge those hard fingers which were digging into the bone. 'You only think you want me because I left you. When I was there ...'

'Yes? When you were there? Did I not treat you as the much-loved wife of my father's eldest son?'

Abby bent her head. 'You treated me—honorably, yes. But you know as well as I do, that—that isn't enough.' She shook her head. 'Rachid, you know you must have an heir. And we both know that you're not to blame for not producing one.'

'Abby!'

His tone was impassioned now, and she knew she had lit some flame of remembrance inside him. It was hard for him, she knew that, but where there was no fidelity there was no trust, and she would not—she could not— share him with his mistresses.

'Abby,' he went on now, 'I know my father spoke with you‑'

'You do?' She stiffened.

'Yes.' He uttered a harsh oath. 'Sweet mother of the Prophet, do you think I did not turn heaven and earth to find out why you had left without telling me?'

'You knew why I'd left,' she reminded him, as memories fanned the fires of her resentment. 'Your father's words were no news to me. You'd made the position quite clear enough.'

'Abby, listen to me ...'

'No, you listen to me.' She succeeded in thrusting his long fingers aside and moved as far away from him as she could. 'When I married you, I was an innocent, I realise that now. I believed—I really believed you loved me‑'

'I did. I do!'

She shook her head. 'I know that it was partly my fault. I know you were disappointed when we didn't have a child‑'

'Abby!'

'—but these things happen, even in the best of families. There was nothing I could do.'

'I know that.'

'You should have divorced me then,' she went on in a low monotone. 'You should have set us both free. At least I would have been spared the humiliation of—of—and you could have married the—the wife your father chose for you.'

'Abby, I did not want the wife my father chose for me. I wanted you!'

'Not enough,' she said painfully. 'Oh, this is hopeless, Rachid. We're just going over all the old ground. Why couldn't you just have accepted that our marriage was over and freed yourself? I wouldn't have stood in your way‑'

'Abby, stop this!'

'I won't. I can't. I did love you Rachid, once. But I don't love you now. And I won't come back to you.'

'Abby, you're my wife‑'

'You'd have been better making me your mistress,' she retorted recklessly. 'Mistresses aren't expected to produce heirs. As it happens, I would have had to refuse that offer, but it would have saved us both a lot of heartache.'

Rachid took a deep breath. 'Abby, I don't care about an heir. For the love of God, listen to me! My father now knows how I feel. There will be no more of his philosophising‑'

'No, there won't,' Abby interrupted him shortly. 'Because I'm not coming back, Rachid. You'll have to drug me or knock me unconscious to get me to go with you, and somehow I don't think the Crown Prince would like it to be known that his wife is so unwilling.'

Rachid's eyes glittered in the dim light. 'You will fight me?'

'Every inch of the way.'

He hesitated a moment, and then picked up the intercom that connected to his bodyguard in front. '26, Dacre Mews,' he directed shortly, giving the address of Abby's father's house, and then sank back against the soft leather at his side of the car, resting his head wearily against the window frame.

Abby's silently expelled sigh of relief was tinged with unexpected compassion. So, she thought weakly, he had accepted her arguments. He was taking her home; and while she was grateful for the victory, she wondered if she had really wen. She had never known Rachid give up without a battle, and reluctant emotion stirred in the embers of discontentment. Once she would not have hesitated in giving in to him. Once he had controlled her every waking breath. But no longer. And although she was glad of the freedom, she remembered the sweetness of the past with unbearable bitterness.

Rachid let her out of the car in Dacre Mews, and waited, a tall, dark figure standing beside the limousine, as she fumbled for her key. It was only as she stumbled into the house that he climbed back into the vehicle, and she heard the whisper of its tyres as it moved away.

Her father was in his study. He looked up rather myopically as she put her head round the door, removing the thick-lensed spectacles to blink at her in surprise.

'You're early aren't you?' he asked, trying to focus on the dial of his pocket watch. 'I thought you were going to Liz's party.'

Abby tried to keep her tone light. 'I was. I did. I just came home sooner than I expected, that's all.'

'Why?' Professor Gillespie scratched his scalp through the thinning strands of grey hair. 'Wasn't it any good? I thought you usually enjoyed Liz's company.'

'I do, usually,' agreed Abby, withdrawing her head again, in two minds whether to mention Rachid to her father or not. 'I'm going to make some coffee,' she called. 'Do you want some?'

'I'd rather have cocoa at this time of the night,' replied her father absently. 'It's ten o'clock. I think I'll have a sandwich.'

'I'll make it,' Abby assured him, her voice drifting back to him as she walked into the kitchen. The Gillespie house was one of a terrace, matching its fellows on either side. Tall and narrow, it stretched up three floors, with the kitchen, the dining room, and her father's study on the ground floor, and living rooms and bedrooms above. It was easier for Professor Gillespie to work at ground level, even though it would have been quieter on the upper floors, but since his retirement from the University, her father had taken private students, and it was less arduous for him not to have stairs to negotiate every time he had to answer the door.

He came into the kitchen as Abby was spreading the bread with butter, filching a piece of cheese from the slices she had prepared. Although he was only in his early sixties, he looked older, and Abby knew he had aged considerably since her mother's death a year ago. Nevertheless, he enjoyed his work, and it had become both a pleasure and a distraction, filling the empty spaces he would otherwise have found unbearable.