Dark Oasis

‘They really are goats!’ she breathed in surprise, her eyes stretched wide.

Gerard laughed softly, delighted with her astonishment. ‘These trees are not found anywhere else in the world,’ he said quietly as he started the engine again after several long minutes, ‘and the goats adore the fruit. The seeds you see on the ground there—’ he pointed to the mass of fruit seeds scattered under the trees ‘—are gathered up and washed and cracked and from the inner nut is drawn a fragrant oil used for cooking. Not that the goats care about that, of course.’ He eyed her lazily before drawing on to the dusty road again.

The little incident had broken the tension for a time, but the very nearness of that big masculine body in the close confines of the car made her as jumpy as a cricket. Did he really find her attractive? she asked herself silently as the car purred on. That last look he’d given her, there had been something in the slumberous depths that had caused her lower stomach to tighten in immediate response, and she had hated herself for it, hated herself without understanding the reason why. But then there was nothing she did understand at the moment anyway, she told herself flatly. She was a mess.

They reached the small airfield where Gerard’s private plane was kept amid a cloud of dust, and it wasn’t until she was airborne, with Gerard at the controls, that she thought to ask about the location of Marrakesh. Everything had seemed so unreal, so nebulous, since she had woken up in the hospital that she still was finding it hard to convince herself that she wasn’t in the grip of a dream...or a nightmare.

‘Marrakesh?’ Gerard’s deep voice was thoughtful. ‘Let me see. Well, it is the most African city of Morocco, at the foothills of the High Atlas Mountains due south of Casablanca. The region is dry but water has been piped down from the mountains into reservoirs, so a bath will be no problem.’ He eyed her fleetingly, his expression searching and she flushed hotly. It was just as if he had undressed her.

‘We have the normal old and new side by side,’ he continued, after the twist of his mouth informed her he knew exactly what she was thinking. ‘Modern agriculture, training schools and various industries as well as a camel market every Thursday that dates back into ancient history, and a fair in the great square of Djemaa-el-Fna that involves snake charmers, magicians, jugglers, acrobats and even the odd medicine man demonstrating miraculous cures in their bottles. I’ll show you around once you are settled in; there are some wonderful medieval palaces and monuments—’

‘No, there’s no need for that.’ She had interrupted him so abruptly that she hastened to qualify her refusal. ‘I mean, I don’t want to inconvenience you at all, Mr Dumont, you’ve been very kind and I’ll be gone within a day or so—’

‘Gerard.’ Suddenly the handsome face was intimidatingly cold and harsh, the profile flinty. ‘And please do not try to spare my feelings. Colette will do just as well as your guide.’

‘I didn’t mean—’

He interrupted her again, his voice dry. ‘I know exactly what you meant; you neither like or trust me so let us leave it at that. I hope you will be reassured when you reach my home but, as you so graciously pointed out, it will be a matter of days until this matter resolves itself so your opinion of me is really of no importance to either of us.’

She deserved it. She knew she deserved it but nevertheless the icy autocratic tone made her see red. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ she said tightly, her voice tense. ‘If it’s any consolation I don’t understand why I’m acting like this, but when all’s said and done I didn’t ask to come with you, did I? Why did you insist—?’

‘I am damned if I know,’ he bit back angrily.

‘Well, just turn the plane round and take me back to Casablanca—’ she began furiously, only to stop abruptly as she realised the import of what she had just said. Casablanca? Why had she said Casablanca? The accident had happened on the streets of Essaouira, hadn’t it?

‘Casablanca,’ Gerard repeated thoughtfully at her side, obviously catching the importance of her words too. ‘I think we should perhaps ask the police to direct their enquiries more specifically in that city, yes?’

‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head wearily, the spurt of rage dying as quickly as it had flared into life as she stared down at the white cotton trousers and neat coffee-coloured blouse that had been pressed and cleaned by the cheerful little nurse at the nursing home. Some time, in another life, she had actually chosen these things, walked into a shop and made the purchases of her own accord. How could she not remember?

‘I will take care of it.’ He spared her a quick glance, his face expressionless. ‘And I do not intend to eat you alive, my thorny rose, but for the sake of my sanity, if not yours, could you please refrain from the cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof syndrome? My ego is beginning to feel a little fragile.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She stared down at her hands miserably.

‘So you said.’ The deep rich voice was cynically mocking again and immediately the guilt she had been feeling was replaced by hot anger. A fragile ego? Him? Not in a million years.

The fierce heat of the day was dying when they reached the huge strip of ground on the outskirts of Marrakesh which formed part of Gerard’s estate. As he taxied the light plane into the hangar she saw a beautiful white Ferrari parked some distance away, its tinted windows and enormous side grilles proclaiming it a Testarossa. ‘Your car?’ She gestured resignedly towards the magnificent vehicle.

‘My car,’ he agreed gravely, his voice bland. ‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s very nice.’

She heard a snort at her side and turned to see that he was surveying her with a dark frown, his eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he drawled slowly, the relaxed tone belying the sharpness in his eyes, ‘for some reason you disapprove of the car.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘Why do I get the feeling that if anyone else had owned it you would have given it the appreciation such functional beauty deserves?’

‘I said it was very nice,’ she protested carefully, aware of the truth in his words, ‘but a car is just a car, isn’t it? A grown-up child’s toy?’

‘A toy?’ He shut his eyes briefly after killing the engine of the plane, and then opened them slowly, the narrowed slits gleaming gold. ‘There is a six-year waiting list for this toy, as it happens.’

She hadn’t noticed the middle-aged Arab standing to one side of the hangar but now, as Gerard jumped down from the plane and reached up to assist her, she saw the hangar doors being closed before the small man hurried across to them.

‘Assad...’ The two exchanged greetings and then Gerard turned to her, his face relaxed and smiling now. ‘This is my great friend and man of all trades, Assad. You would not have noticed him at the time, but as chance would have it he was just entering my office building when you were attacked and saw it all,’ Gerard continued quietly, ‘not that it proved much help in the event. He speaks French, Spanish and Arabic but little English incidentally. None of my house staff does, unfortunately.’

‘Oh.’ She stared at them both feeling completely out of her depth, and as she turned away to glance again at the Ferrari she missed the softening of Gerard’s mouth that indicated he was aware of just how she felt.

‘The house is just a few hundred yards away but I asked Assad to bring the car in case you were tired. Shall we?’ He indicated the car with a wave of his hand. ‘Assad will see to the plane and follow shortly.’

She found, as she walked to the car, that she was tired, a deep exhaustion taking hold of her body and mind that made even the smallest response a superhuman effort. As Gerard held open the door she climbed slowly into the luxurious interior, her head pounding. ‘Thank you.’ She raised dull eyes to his and saw him frown slightly before he left to walk round the bonnet and slide in beside her.

‘You need a warm bath and plenty of sleep,’ he said levelly as he nosed the car out of the hangar and along a dry dust road towards a mass of trees in the distance. ‘Both of which will prove no problem at Del Mahari. My home,’ he added at her glance of enquiry.

‘Del Mahari?’ She let the foreign name slide over her lips. ‘That sounds nice.’

‘It means “Racing Camel”,’ he said expressionlessly, although she was sure there was a thread of amusement colouring the deep voice. ‘My father enjoyed the sport, although I prefer to keep horses rather than camels. I find the latter singly unattractive creatures and more than a little bad-tempered, although that trait is not confined to camels, of course,’ he added smoothly as he kept his eyes fixed ahead. She glanced at him warily, knowing it was a gibe at her but unable to respond to such an indirect insult. ‘At the moment I have several beautifully trained horses of great speed and stamina who have mingled Arab and Berber strains in their blood line. Do you ride?’

The question was casual and she answered before she considered, the reply instinctive. ‘Oh, yes, I love...’ Her voice trailed away for a second before she recovered. ‘Yes, I know I ride,’ she said more firmly. ‘I don’t know how I know but I do.’

‘Good.’ They had reached the trees now which she saw were fruit trees, mainly orange, surrounding the outside of a rosy pink extremely high wall in which two huge iron gates were set standing open ready for the Ferrari to pass through, but Gerard stopped the car just before the gates and cut the engine slowly, turning to her and touching her face gently with one finger as he turned her face to his. ‘Welcome to my home, little kitten,’ he said softly, seconds before his warm, hard mouth captured hers.

CHAPTER THREE

IF SOMEONE had poured boiling water over her head Kit could not have reacted more violently. For a split-second, just an infinitesimal moment of time, she had frozen as his firm sensual mouth had captured hers, the smell and feel of him all-encompassing, and then she jerked away so savagely that her head ricocheted off the car window with a resounding bang that caused the air to vibrate.

‘What on earth?’ Gerard looked as shocked as she felt as he surveyed her beneath dark frowning brows. ‘I was only kissing you, girl; what the hell did you think I intended?’

‘I...’ Her voice trailed away as she stared at him wide-eyed in the shadowed dusk, aware of the sweet odour of flowering jasmine being borne on the soft warm night air. ‘I don’t know, I’m sorry...’ As her voice petered out agam she took a deep breath as she tried to compose herself. ‘But I didn’t expect you to do that. I’m here as your guest, aren’t I? I thought—’

‘It was a kiss of welcome,’ he ground out tightly. ‘Nothing more, nothing less.’ His eyes raked her face angrily.

‘I’m sorry.’ There didn’t seem anything else to say and she was suddenly aware that she had made a terrible fool of herself.

‘Then let us try it again?’ It was the last thing she had expected him to say, and she stared at him with wide dove-grey eyes, the smudge of freckles across her nose standing out in sharp contrast to the pale creamy skin surrounding them. ‘A kiss, nothing more,’ he reassured softly as he leant forward again, his eyes liquid gold in the dim light. ‘I won’t hurt you.’

As he lightly stroked her sealed lips with his hard, sensual mouth she began to feel herself tremble, the sensations the gentle caress was producing warm and sweet to her shattered senses, and as he felt her helpless reaction the kiss deepened, his tongue invading the sanctuary of her mouth as she opened her lips to gasp at the heat spreading through her body. A kiss? This was a kiss? If she had ever been kissed like this before she would have remembered, she knew it.

One of his arms slid round her seat, his hand moving to the small of her back to urge her more intimately against his big frame, but he made no move to touch her beyond that, although she could feel the pounding of his heart against the solid wall of his chest. His lips left hers for a moment to wander languorously over her closed eyelids, her ears, her throat, before returning to her half-open mouth to plunder the soft interior yet again. And then he raised his head as he moved back into his own seat, and the departure was almost like a betrayal.

‘As I said, welcome to my home,’ he said softly as she opened dazed eyes to focus on the tawny brown gaze. ‘I hope you will be happy here.’

He had started the engine before she could reply, and as they drove through the massive gates into the lush garden beyond she tried desperately to control the trembling that had taken hold of her limbs. This was a man she didn’t like, didn’t trust and barely knew, and she could react like that to his touch? What on earth was she? She didn’t dare look at the big dark figure next to her, trying to focus her eyes and her thoughts on her surroundings and nothing else.

They appeared to be moving through an orchard, the wide winding drive snaking past olive, orange, almond and fig trees, and then the house was there in front of her, a magnificent white structure in traditional Moroccan design with delicate ornamentation and beautifully carved arches that looked as though they were covered in lace, so fine and intricate were the traceries on them.

Gerard drew the car to a halt in front of the massive arched front door studded in brass, which was immediately opened from within to reveal a small, slender woman of thirty or so who moved out on to the top step, her brown face wreathed in smiles and her body swathed in the Moroccan jellaba, a long loose robe of cotton. ‘This is Assad’s wife, Amina,’ Gerard whispered quietly as he raised his hand in greeting. ‘Assad’s brother, Abou, also works here with his wife Halima and their family. Unfortunately Assad and Amina have no children, which has been a source of great grief to them, although Assad has resisted the temptation to take a second wife, which is quite permissable for him under Moslem law, especially if his first wife is barren.’

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