Sandstorm (7 page)

She took a taxi to the hotel and entered the lobby, not without a certain amount of trepidation. It was impossible not to feel apprehensive where Rachid was concerned, and besides, her surroundings alone were intimidating enough. He always stayed at the most exclusive hotel in London, and she was glad the velvet suit had been bought in New York and would therefore pass muster among so many glitteringly gowned and jewelled escorts. For herself, she wore little jewellery, only a thin gold chain around her neck, and the slim gold watch Rachid had bought her at Cartiers. The extravagant necklaces and bracelets he had bought had been left behind when she returned to England, and as she had never worn a lot of jewellery, she didn't miss them. All the same, her head turned as diamonds and sapphires and emeralds sparkled on ears and wrists, and she felt like the slender boy she resembled, wide-eyed in the cave of Aladdin.

There was no sign of Rachid, however, and as it was already after eight o'clock she approached the reception desk. Perhaps he had been unavoidably detained, she thought hopefully, or maybe he had had to return to Abarein at short notice. Still, she knew in those circumstances he would have contacted her, and her nerves were sketched tautly as she crossed the cushioned pile of the carpet.

The receptionist was female, and more inclined to be generous to members of the opposite sex. One look at Abby's pale, luminous face was enough to convince her that this was no effeminate boy but a slim and beautiful woman, and her lips tightened perceptibly as she asked if she could be of assistance.

'I have an appointment,' said Abby uncomfortably. 'With—er—with Prince Rachid. He is staying at this hotel, isn't he?'

The girl frowned. 'You are‑' she consulted a pad in front of her, '—Princess Hiriz?'

Abby felt herself colouring. She wanted to say, no, her name was Abigail Gillespie, but that would have been a deliberate distortion of the truth. Besides, the receptionist's expression was such that she almost enjoyed acknowledging her identity, even if it did evoke certain raised eyebrows.

'You are?' The girl was clearly taken aback, but she recovered herself quickly and went on: 'I'll get someone to escort you to Prince Rachid's suite.' She prodded the bell on her desk. 'Suite 1101 please!'

'No—wait! That is‑' Abby glanced about her in embarrassment now. 'I was supposed to meet—to meet Prince Rachid here, in the lobby.'

The receptionist's supercilious gaze returned to her anxious face. 'You're sure you are Princess Hiriz?'

'Of course.' Abby was impatient now.

'Then surely you know that Prince Rachid was taken ill yesterday evening, and hasn't left his suite since?'

Abby's heated cheeks lost a little of their hectic colour. 'No,' she said definitely, shaking her head. 'No, I didn't know. I—er—I saw Prince Rachid yesterday evening and he seemed all right then.'

The receptionist shrugged. 'He left word that you were to be shown up to his suite upon your arrival. Do you wish me to arrange this or not?'

Abby shifted uncomfortably. 'You're sure he is ill?' she ventured, and then cringed at the look the other girl gave her. She was vaguely aware that one of the porters had come to stand beside her, no doubt acting upon the receptionist's instructions, and with a gesture of defeat, she gave in. 'Thank you,' she murmured, essaying her permission, and with a polite inclination of his head the man indicated the lifts.

They wafted up to the eleventh floor, the smoothness of their ascent cushioned by air pressure. There was a lingering aroma of perfume in the lift, evidence of its previous occupants, and the floors they passed in swift succession were discreetly-lit windows through the meshed glass doors.

All too soon, it seemed, they had reached their destination, and Abby stepped out on slightly unsteady legs on to the softly-woven carpet of the corridor. The porter led the way, and they traversed its honey-gold surface until they reached double-panelled white doors, edged in gilt. The numbers 1101 were secured in gold also, and at the porter's summons the doors were opened.

It was the man Karim, resplendent in his white robes and matching kaffiyeh. He bowed politely in Abby's direction, pressed a note of some denomination into the porter's hand, and then ushered his guest into the sitting room behind him.

It was a spacious apartment, carpeted in green, with yellow and cream striped sofas and chairs, and little polished tables holding vases of flowers. The room was redolent with their scent, a heady mixture to someone whose senses were already reeling from this unexpected turn of events.

'Princess!' Karim bowed again, and realising this might be her only opportunity to question him, Abby hurried into speech.

'The Prince,' she said, 'your master—is he really ill?'

'Did you doubt it?'

The voice came from behind her, and for a moment she was totally disorientated. Then, identifying those dark, liquid tones, she spun round to find Rachid standing in the doorway to what was most likely his bedroom. He was dressed like Karim, in the robes of his forefathers, but without the encompassing headdress. The combination of East and West was doubly disturbing, and Abby glanced about her nervously, wondering exactly what Rachid's intentions were.

'They told me you were ill,' she said now, summoning all the anger and resentment she could gather, and he inclined his head in silent assent.

'Karim!' He snapped his fingers in sharp dismissal, and after the servant had left them he went on: 'It is true. I have been unwell. Something I ate, perhaps.'

Abby was still suspicious. 'You look all right to me,' she retorted, pushing her hands into the pockets of her sheepskin jacket, ignoring the fact that he did look a little pale.

'In any case, you're not incapacitated. You could have come downstairs.'

Rachid straightened from the lounging position he had adopted and came fully into the room. 'I was advised to rest,' he replied quiedy. 'And as I did not wish to postpone your visit, I saw no reason why we should not enjoy our meal here.'‑|

Abby pressed her lips together. 'I'd rather not. I think it would be better if we arranged another meeting, at another time. At the solicitor's, perhaps.'

Rachid's lips thinned. 'What is wrong with us sharing a meal here? Have we not done so many times before?'

'That was different.'

'How different?'

Abby hunched her shoulders. 'We—we were married‑'

'We are still married,' he snapped shortly. 'And if you wish me to treat this matter favourably, then I suggest you stop putting obstacles in my way.'

Abby looked reluctantly at him. 'Are you going to dress?'

'I am dressed,' he retorted, controlling his temper with difficulty. 'Now—please, take off your coat, and I will offer you a drink.'

Abby shrugged, and then complied. It was easier than allowing him to help her, easier than feeling those long brown fingers brush her neck or bring a tingle to the sensitive bones of her shoulders. She dropped the sheepskin jacket on to a chair by the door, and then stood apprehensively in the middle of the floor, aware of his eyes moving over her. She was wearing boots, her pants zipped inside their soft suede lining, accentuating the masculine stance she adopted, and with a faint quirk of his eyebrows he crossed the floor on silent feet.

'Martini, sherry? Or something stronger?' he queried, waiting for her decision, and she deliberately chose Scotch. She needed something to combat the feelings of inadequacy he aroused inside her, and it gave her a sense of reassurance to have a glass in her hand.

He poured the whisky without comment, dropping in several cubes of ice at her instigation, and then carried the glass back to her. Abby took it cautiously, taking care not to touch his fingers, and he watched her sip its contents with a strangely enigmatic smile.

'Aren't you having anything?' she enquired, self conscious in spite of her assumed arrogance, and with a shrug Rachid returned to the tray resting on a cabinet near the long windows. He poured himself a small glass of orange juice, and raised it in a silent toast before swallowing the sun-kissed liquid, and Abby's nerves tightened anew at this deliberate exhibition of abstemiousness.

'Will you not sit down?'

He indicated a low sofa, and although Abby would have preferred a chair, she refused to let him think she was afraid of him. She subsided on to the striped cushions, albeit rather stiffly, and crossing her legs rested her arm holding the glass across her knees.

Rachid studied her for a moment, then he went to summon Karim once more. 'We will eat now,' he advised shordy, giving his instructions, and Karim withdrew with his usual gesture of obeisance.

'I understand you have resumed your position as Daley's secretary,' Rachid commented, as they waited for the food, and Abby nodded. 'How convenient that he needed a secretary at just this time.'

Abby glanced quickly up at him. 'It wasn't arranged, if that's what you think. Brad had had a series of girls since I left, none of them satisfactory. He dismissed the last one the week before I returned to London.'

Rachid's lips curled. 'Is that what he told you?'

'It's true.'

'It is true that Daley had had several different girls working for him, but I find the latter part of your statement hard to believe. I think he dismissed his last secretary because he knew you were returning to London. He knew that working for him you would feel more loyalty than for some strange employer, who has not had time to win your, confidence.'

'What do you mean?'

Rachid flexed Iris shoulder muscles wearily. 'I mean that your estimable boss knew I was- looking for you, and was determined to put as many obstacles in my way as possible.'

Abby gasped. 'That's ridiculous! What could it achieve?'

'It could make the difference between your staying in London, or returning to Abarein.'

'No!'

'Yes.' He was inflexible. 'By restoring the—what do you say? Status quo?—Daley knew you would think twice before making a decision in my favour. Whereas,' he made an eloquent gesture, 'in a strange job, with a strange employer, and perhaps not entirely happy ...' he spread his hands, 'you might have weighed the consequences more— wisely.'

Abby drew a short breath. 'If you're implying that having a good job has anything to do with my decision, you couldn't be more wrong. I—I wouldn't go back with you whatever the circumstances.'

. K a rim's arrival with the food forestalled any further discussion at that point, and he wheeled the trolley into the room, laden down with an assortment of dishes. The sides of the trolley opened out to provide a comfortably sized table for two, and after laying out the cutlery and uncorking the wine, Rachid dismissed him.

'We will serve ourselves,' he told the man curtly, in Arabic, and Abby was amazed at how easily she followed their exchange. Languages were like that, she thought, once learned, never forgotten.

Karim had placed two of the upright chairs at either side of the improvised table, and Abby took the one Rachid offered with polite acquiescence. Her husband seated himself opposite, and then asked her what she would like of the various foods provided.

Abby looked at the table rather perplexedly. There was a bewildering choice of dishes, and in her present state of nervousness she found all of them a little overpowering. Egyptian caviare was rich and salty, luscious pink prawns nestled on a bed of tossed salad, a thick yoghurt was coiled creamily in a chilled dish, and a steaming bisque simmered over a tiny flame.

And they were only appetizers, she thought unhappily. To follow there was a choice of Middle Eastern dishes like kebabs, and a thick soup served with vegetables called moulukhiya, and more traditionally Western foods like steak, and lamb chops, and tiny whole ducklings, served with orange sauce. Obviously Karim had been instructed to provide a variety of choice, and Abby was overwhelmed by it.

'What will you have?'

Rachid was looking enquiringly at her now, and Abby made a helpless gesture. 'I'm not sure. There's so many things. It—it's hard to decide.'

'Then have a little of each,' suggested Rachid dryly, indicating the caviare. 'I can recommend this, although perhaps you Would prefer something sweeter.'

'I—no. The caviare would be fine,' murmured Abby uncomfortably, reaching for a cracker, and while Rachid served her, she gazed with wonder at the enormous bowl of strawberries just visible on a lower shelf, and the juicy figs beside a tray of cheeses.

Despite her misgivings, the food was so excellent that Abby made a good meal, following the caviare with kebabs, and finishing with strawberries and cream. Rachid, she noticed, ate next to nothing, and as the meal progressed, she wondered if she had not been a little insensitive about his illness. It was obvious the food had no interest for him, and she felt slightly ashamed when he had gone to so much trouble to offer her so many delicious things.

'That was—marvellous,' she said at last, finishing the wine in her glass, and refusing his offer of more. 'I didn't realise I was so hungry. I'm sorry you couldn't enjoy it with me.'

Rachid pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. 'I am glad you are pleased,' he remarked, summoning Karim once more. 'We will have coffee now, I think. Then we can talk.'

Abby nodded, leaving the table herself as the swarthy manservant appeared, wandering restlessly about the room as he wheeled the trolley away, examining the pictures on the walls. Rachid's words about talking had reminded her of her reasons for being here, and while she had not forgotten the outcome of this meeting, she was not looking forward to their proposed discussion.

Karim had the coffee prepared and waiting for them, and after it was served Rachid asked that he should not disturb them again. 'I will ring if there is anything else I need,' he instructed in their own language, and Karim retired with a gesture of understanding.

Alone with Rachid, Abby could feel her nerves tightening, as much from an awareness of her own weakness as from any fear of their isolation. Her husband was still a most disturbingly attractive man, and she was woman enough to respond to his vulnerability. His pallor now was not contrived, and although she despised his treatment of her in the past, she could not help the feelings of sympathy he aroused inside her. But they were feelings which had to be controlled, she acknowledged, half afraid they might arouse a physical response that would be wholly self-destructive.