Sandstorm

‘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 won. 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.

CHAPTER TWO

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.

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 quietly. ‘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 ancesters, 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 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 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 were no longer a Middle Eastern prince and a secretary, but a man and a woman caught in the oldest spell since creation.

Even so, she had clung to some semblance of dignity, scrambling off the couch and putting the width of the room between them. She couldn’t leave. Her shoes still lay near Rachid’s straightening figure, and she could imagine the scandal which would ensue if she ran from the room in her stockinged feet. But she needed a breathing space, and the palpitating beat of her heart was evidence of the powerful effect he had on her.

Contrarily, Rachid had not pursued the issue. With a gesture of indifference he had left her, returning minutes later wearing a fine mohair lounge suit and the tie that proclaimed the exclusiveness of his public school, and much to Abby’s bemusement, they had dined downstairs without another word being said about what had happened upstairs.

The following morning he arrived at her hotel before she was even dressed. Her room was still druggingly scented with the perfumes of the roses he had had delivered the previous day, and the chambermaid gushed admiringly as she brought an armful of pale pink orchids to join them.

‘Que Monsieur est romantique!’ she exclaimed, fingering the thick luscious petals, but Abby thought single-minded was probably a more apt description.

Nevertheless, she was aware her fingers had trembled so much she had dropped the soap in the shower, and she had deliberately dressed in her least feminine outfit to combat the emotions she was trying hard to suppress. She knew what he was doing. She had heard stories of other girls courted in this way. But somehow, imperatively, she must keep her head.

Unfortunately, despite what she later learned of Rachid’s dislike of women in trousers, the wine silk shirt and toning velvet pants she had chosen merely accentuated the delicate swell of her woman’s body, and with her hair straight to her waist and confined at her nape with a leather thong, she had looked both absurdly young and infinitely feminine. Rachid had not been able to take his eyes off her when she met him in the lobby of the hotel, and in spite of her earlier determination to refuse him, she found herself accepting his invitation to drive with him to Versailles.

He drove himself, an infrequent occurrence, she later learned, but in this instance essential to their privacy. They had wandered together through the magnificent park and gardens of the palace, gazing at the flowerbeds and ornamental lakes, the statuary and the fountains, and when Rachid captured her hand to draw her attention to the spectacular chariot rising from the waters of the Bassin d’Apollon, it seemed natural that her fingers should remain within the firm coolness of his.