Sandstorm (3 page)

Now he studied his daughter's bent head with thoughtful eyes, before saying perceptively: 'What's happened? Have you and Liz had a row or something? You're looking very flushed.'

Abby sighed, turning to the kettle that was starting to boil and lifting out earthenware beakers from the cupboard above. 'Oh, you know Liz,' she said, trying to sound inconsequent. 'She's not the type to row over anything. She's far too together for that.'

Professor Gillespie grimaced. 'Together!' he repeated distastefully. 'Where do young people find these words? Together means in company with someone else.'

'Well, she's usually that, too,' remarked Abby, hoping to change the subject, but he was not to be diverted.

'Did something go wrong at the party?' he persisted, helping himself to a second wedge of cheese, and Abby was forced to accept that she was going to have to tell him the truth.

'Did—er—did you see Rachid while I was working in New York?' she asked carefully, and Professor Gillespie made a sound of resignation.

'You know, I half guessed that's what it might be,' he exclaimed, shaking his head. 'Come on, you might as well get it off your chest. Was Rachid at the party?'

Abby nodded. 'Liz's boss—Damon Hunter—he arranged it. I didn't know anything about it until I saw him coming in.' She moved her shoulders awkwardly. 'I got out of there as soon as I possibly could.'

'But not soon enough, obviously,' observed her father dryly. 'I gather you and Rachid had some conversation.'

'You could say that.' The kettle began to sing and she moved to make the cocoa. 'But not at the party. Rachid brought me home.'

'Did he?' Her father looked surprised, and Abby hastened to explain.

'He was waiting for me outside. He had two of his muscle men with him, so I couldn't exactly argue.'

Professor Gillespie sighed. 'I suppose he told you, he came to see me just after your mother died?'

Abby nodded. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

Her father grimaced. 'I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to worry you. I mean, living in New York, away from all your friends and family—I thought it was unnecessary to alarm you.'

'I did make friends in New York, you know,' she pointed out quiedy. 'But I know what you mean. If I'd known Rachid was looking for me, I'd probably have anticipated the worst.'

Professor Gillespie looked troubled. 'I thought about this for a long time before I asked you to come home,' he said thoughtfully. 'I knew if you came back to England, Rachid was bound to find out sooner or later, but I felt, rightly or wrongly, that with my backing he might hesitate before upsetting you. But he has upset you, hasn't he? I can see that. What does he want? A divorce?'

Abby's lips trembled, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth so that her father* should not see that betraying sign. 'He wants me to go back to him,' she said flatly, avoiding his startled gaze. 'He said that was why he asked you for my address.'

Professor Gillespie sought one of the tall stools that flanked the narrow breakfast bar, and stared at her aghast. 'He wants to take you back to Abarein?'

'Yes.'

The Professor shook his head. 'But what about his father?'

'Rachid says that his father will accept me.'

'And are you going?'

Abby gave him the benefit of her violet gaze, her pupils wide and distended. 'Do you have to ask?'

Professor Gillespie looked more disturbed than ever. 'But Abby‑'

'I didn't leave Rachid because of what his father said,' she retorted. 'At least, only in part. You know why I left, and that situation has not changed. Nor is it likely to do so.'

Her father cradled his chin on an anxious hand. 'I know, my dear, but have you really considered what you are refusing?'

Abby gasped. 'Do you want me to go back to him?'

'I want you to be happy,' her father insisted gently. 'You know that. And I also know that you love Rachid despite‑'

'Loved, Dad, loved she contradicted him tightly. 'I did love him, you're right. I—I loved him very much. And I thought he loved me. But the Muslim way of loving is obviously different.'

'Abby, Rachid's a Christian, you know that. And besides, even if he were not, even if he embraced the faith of his ancestors, nowadays even kings and princes have only one wife at a time.'

Abby closed her eyes against the pain his words evoked.

Even now, the remembrance of Rachid's treachery hurt, but that would pass. In time, everything passed; even hatred, which was all she felt for Rachid.

Opening her eyes again, she applied herself to the sandwiches. Then, sensing her father was waiting for a reply, she said: 'I have no intention of returning to Abarein, or to Rachid, for that matter. I made one mistake, but I don't intend to make another. Believe it or not, I like my work, I like being independent, and while I appreciate your concern, Dad, I think I know what I want from life better than you do.'

'And what about later on? When you get older? When I'm dead and buried? What then?'

Abby sighed. 'There's always the possibility that I might get married again,' she said, handing him the plate of sandwiches. 'But whatever happens, it's my decision.'

Professor Gillespie took the plate, but he was still uneasy. 'Abby, men are not like women,' he insisted, as they walked back to the warm security of his study. 'Don't you think you're being a little unrealistic?'

Abby took a deep breath. 'I thought you were supposed to be on my side.'

'I am, I am.' Her father sought the comfort of his armchair with a troubled expression engraving deeper lines beside his mouth. 'But I must admit, I expected something different from Rachid, and his attitude definitely restores a little of my faith in him. Abby, in his country, it must be extremely difficult to sustain continuity without a direct descendant. He's the eldest son, perhaps unfortunately, and it's his role to beget an heir.'

'Beget! Beget!' Abby gave a groan of exasperation. 'Honestly, Dad, you're beginning to sound like the first book of Genesis! Rachid's brother has two sons already. Isn't that direct enough for you?'

Her father hesitated. 'If Rachid divorced you, there's, every possibility that he could find a wife who would produce him a son,' he commented mildly, and Abby realised she 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 ipust 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.