Sandstorm Page 4

  With unhurried movements he slid the towelling robe from her shoulders, his mouth tracing its passing with lingering pleasure. Then, when she was desperately trying to recover her modesty, his hands loosened the cord that circled her waist so that the robe fell open before him.

  'Rachid, no ...' she gasped, but her denial was submerged beneath the sharp thrill of indulgence she felt when his long fingers cupped the swollen fullness of her breast.

  'Beautiful,' he said, his voice low and husky with emotion. 'So perfectly formed. So round and pink and delicious. I musk taste ...'

  'Oh, Rachid,' she whispered tremulously, as his tongue probed the roseate peak, and his eyes narrowed with emotive anticipation.

  'You do not really want me to stop, do you?' he murmured, as the towelling robe fell to the floor. 'Do not be ashamed of your body. It is a temple at which I worship, and never have I held so much beauty in my hands.'

  Abby was totally bemused. She had never shared such intimacy with any man, but when he tossed off his own jacket and tie, and unfastened the buttons of his shirt, the lingering memory of Brad's insinuations returned to torment her.

  'I—I can't,' she got out chokingly, as he swung her up into his arms and lifted her on to the bed. 'Rachid, I haven't—I've never‑'

  'Do you think I do not know that?' he demanded huskily, lowering his weight beside her. 'But do not be afraid. I Will not hurt you. I will just caress you—so, and you will have nothing to fear.'

  Abby's trembling limbs were weak with longings she hardly knew or understood, but still she had to understand him. 'You mean—you mean—you're not going to— to‑'

  '—make love to you?' he finished, nuzzling her shoulder with his lips. 'Not if you do not want to, no. There are— other ways of pleasing one another, and if you are afraid ...'

  'Oh, Rachid ...'

  Relief made her wind her arms around his neck, bringing his mouth down to hers with hungry urgency, and the burning pressure of his mouth ignited the stirring flame inside her. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she moved beneath him eagerly, arching against his hard length, until only the layer of his clothes separated her from his throbbing possession.

  'Abby ...'

  Now it was Rachid who protested her innocence, but the imprisoning weight of his body drove all desire to resist from her, and her mouth opened beneath his.

  The smooth expanse of his chest spread beneath her palms, warm and male, and only slightly roughened by the fine dark hair that was abrasively virile to the touch. Her hands investigated his shoulders, her nails probing the » hollows of his ears, the strong column of his neck where the hair grew down to his nape. She wanted to know every inch of him, and time and place were forgotten in the delights of exploration.

  Rachid's mouth devoured hers as his hands searched the curve of her waist and the swell of her hips. His touch aroused her to unknown heights of excitement and anticipation, and she was all yielding woman in his arms.

  She heard his muffled imprecation when her fingers found the buckle of his belt, but by then neither of them was capable of thinking beyond the moment, and the moment demanded surrender. With a groan of submission, Rachid lost what little control he had left, and his legs parted hers.

  The heat of him against her promoted its own consummation. What happened was as natural as the turning of the season, and Abby's cry of pain was stifled beneath the probing hunger of his kiss. She was hardly aware of the moment when he started to move within her, or indeed of the moment when the pressure began to build. But it happened, and they climbed together, scaling the boundaries of human experience, reaching the peak of sensual fulfilment. It was an unbelievable sensation, and looking up into. Rachid's sweat-moistened features, Abby knew that he was feeling it too. They sank together through the veils of shimmering ecstasy, and it was she who sought his lips with hers in the glorious aftermath of their lovemaking.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Abby's body was moist now, as she moved restlessly beneath the bedcovers, striving to dispel those images that threatened to destroy her new-found peace of mind. Rachid was good in bed, they were good together, she told herself, with enforced detachment, but that did not mean he was not equally good with someone else.

  A pain twisted in her stomach, and to disperse it she allowed the images to return. She remembered how appalled she had been when the drugging mists of their lovemaking had cleared, and she had to acknowledge to herself what she had done, what Rachid had done. She had wanted to escape him there and then, but his hands had secured her beside him, and in a calm but decisive voice, he had told her he intended to marry her.

  She had been at first incredulous, then hysterically amused, and finally tearfully reproachful. She told him he should not joke about so serious a matter, and in consequence he had become quite angry. He was perfectly serious, he insisted. He had thought of little else but her since he first laid eyes upon her, and this evening he had waited in proven impatience to tell her so Abby recalled how doubtful she had been, how anxious to believe him, and yet so unwilling to accept that he actually loved her. She had brought up his avoidance of her at the previous day's reception, and how she had cried herself to sleep the night before, and far from feeling ashamed of himself, Rachid had been quite delighted. He had attended the reception deliberately in the hope that he might see her, he said, and her reactions had been exactly what he had hoped for. Unfortunately, he had not been able to avoid his own responsibilities the following morning, and by the time he arrived at the hotel Abby had already left on the sightseeing outing Brad had arranged.

  Rachid's words had both exasperated and flattered her. His sincerity was no longer in any doubt, and gradually she had started to believe him. He meant what he said, he insisted. She was all he had ever wanted in a woman, and by the following morning she was totally convinced.

  Brad's reactions had been predictably aggressive. When he learned what had happened, he had been absolutely appalled, and far from wishing her well, he had told her she was a fool if she believed Rachid's father would countenance such a marriage. He had almost persuaded her that she had imagined Rachid's proposal, so that when she saw him again she had been cool and aloof, and nervously sceptical of his ardour.

  Looking back on it now, Abby realised how tenacious Rachid had been in his pursuit of her. Whether there had been a certain amount of jealous determination mixed in with his professed love for her, she could not be completely sure, but whatever his motivation, she had not been allowed to ignore him. And besides, she hadn't wanted to. She had loved him, that was never in question, and it was only later that she had discovered his ideas of love ancj hers were vastly different.

  Even so, in those early days, he had been all she had ever dreamed of in a lover, and the weeks and months after their wedding had been the happiest of her life. Even his father had not been able to hurt her then, and Prince Khalid's initial opposition to the marriage had melted beneath his obvious delight in his eldest son's contentment. Abby's own parents had had misgivings, too, but they trusted her and wanted her happiness above all things, and in the first flush of her relationship with Rachid, Abby had been idyllically so.

  With a groan, Abby buried her face in the pillow now, trying to expunge the agonies that memory could bring. She had gone far enough in her recollecting. She didn't want to remember what came after. She didn't want to think of pain and humiliation, and ultimately disillusionment. That was all over now, and she was determined it would remain so.

  The next morning she was pale and heavy-eyed when she entered her office and she was glad Brad was late in arriving. It gave her time to get busy at her desk, so that when he appeared she could greet him with an absent smile, as if absorbed with the quota schedules she was typing.

  Brad, however, was more astute than she thought, and his thoughtful appraisal deepened to a concerned regard when she barely lifted her face to his.

  'You look tired,' he said, stopping in front of her desk and tapping its surface with
his fingers. He was not a tall man, but he was stockily built, and his sturdy figure had a blunt persistence. 'What time did you get home from Liz's last night? I've told you before about burning the candle at both ends. You should listen to me.'

  Abby summoned a faint smile. 'Honestly, Brad, you sound more like a mother than an employer! All right, so I'm tired. I didn't sleep very well, as it happens. Does that satisfy you?'

  'You didn't answer my question,' retorted Brad dogmatically. 'I asked what time you got home from Liz Forster's. I know she was giving a party—you told me so. yourself.'

  'Did I?' Abby was finding it incredibly difficult to remember anything that happened the previous day before that fateful encounter with Rachid. 'Oh, yes, so I did. Well, yes, I went—but I got home quite early. A-about ten o'clock, I think.'

  Brad studied her determinedly downbent head with veiled impatience. 'And did you enjoy it?'

  'Enjoy it? Enjoy what?' Abby looked up almost blankly. 'The party!' Brad replied forcefully. 'Liz's party! I asked if you‑-'

  '—enjoyed it. Yes, of course.' Abby chewed on her lower lip. 'Yes, it was all right. You know what Liz's parties are like. Lots of food and wine and music. Good company‑'

  Brad shook his head. 'So why did you leave early?'

  'Is this an inquisition?' Abby jerked the sheets of paper out of the typewriter. 'Damn these things! I always have to do them twice.'

  Brad hesitated a moment longer, and then as Abby got up from her desk to marshall another batch of carbons, he shrugged and walked through the door into his own office. He was not appeased, Abby guessed, but short of demanding a resume of her evening's activities, he knew he was unlikely to get a satisfactory answer.

  The rest of his morning was taken up with meetings, and by the time he got around to dictating his letters that afternoon, he had other things on his mind. Besides, by then, Abby had applied a light blusher to her cheeks and erased the circles around her eyes with careful make-up, and he^ appearance evidendy allayed any lingering suspicions he had. Since she had returned to work for him, he had adopted a kind of proprietorial interest in her affairs, and while she appreciated his protection, there were times, as now, when she felt the restraints it put upon her. She knew he had her well-being at heart. He obviously blamed himself in some part for her disastrous relationship with Rachid. But he was a bachelor, after all, despite the fact that he was in his forties, and she knew the girls in the office saw his interest in an entirely different light. She sometimes wondered if he was attracted to her in that way, particularly if he showed his impatience when one or other of the male members of his staff displayed any interest in her, and maybe her own abnegation of their overtures was partly to blame. But she had never confided the whole truth of her separation from Rachid to anyone, and although the facts were blatant enough, no one knew how emotionally enfeebling the break-up had been. She doubted her ability to enjoy a fulfilling relationship with any man ever again, and she was tempted to tell Brad he was guarding an empty shell.

  It was dark when she left the office that evening, even though it was only a little after five-thirty. Winter was drawing in, and already there was an icy chill in the air. The lamps of Marlborough Mews cast a mellow glow, however, and beyond, the busier thoroughfares were a mass of changing lights. Abby could hear the roar of the traffic and the impatient honking of car horns, and she couldn't help a momentary pang of nostalgia. In Abarein at this time of the year, the weather would be just cooling after the powerful heat of summer. During the day it would be a pleasant seventy-five or eighty degrees, with blue skies all day long and velvety nights to look forward to. It was the time of year when it was possible to sit in the sun or swim in the pool, or laze in the coolness of a shadowy courtyard, redolent with the heady perfumes of flowering vines and fig trees.

  Shaking away the feelings of melancholy her thoughts had evoked, Abby hurried along the street towards the underground station. It was pointless indulging in sentimentality, particularly when sentiment had played so small a part in her life there, and she felt impatient with herself for allowing the past to haunt her. But it had been seeing- Rachid again which had triggered all these remembrances, and she guessed it had been his intention to arouse just such a reaction.

  Riding home in the train, she turned her attention to more immediate matters. The question of what she and her father were to have for their evening meal was her most pressing problem, and she spent the remainder of the journey turning the contents of the refrigerator over in her mind. There were always eggs, she thought wryly, considering omelettes, but somehow food had lost the ability to evoke any enthusiasm at the moment.

  Dacre Mews seemed dimly lit as she turned off Dartford Road. The tall, narrow houses clustered together, shutting out the stars, and etching themselves darkly against the night sky. There were lights in some of the windows, but it was early as yet, and many of the tenants had not returned home from their jobs in the city. It was a working community, and Professor Gillespie enjoyed his isolation during the day.

  The Mews was gradually filling with cars, and Abby picked her way between them, glad that she did not have to find somewhere to park. Her father's old Alvis spent most of its days in the garage, and since leaving Rachid she had not found the use for a car. She knew it annoyed her father that in the evenings there was invariably a car parked at their gate, but fortunately his days were left undisturbed.

  There was a car parked outside their house this evening, she saw, as she crossed the strip of grass that some enthusiastic gardener had planted between the flagstones. A big car, long and black and expensive‑

  She halted abruptly. She knew that car. It was the same car that had brought her home the previous evening. It was the Mercedes. Rachid's car!

  Briefly, panic gripped her. What was he doing here, at her house, talking with her father? 'Why had he come? Why couldn't he leave her alone? She didn't want to see him; she didn't want to talk to him. They had nothing to say to one another. Why wouldn't he accept that?

  She stood there, struggling to contain her emotions, her breathing shallow as her pulses quickened. She knew an almost irresistible urge to turn and run out of the Mews, and keep running until she discovered some place where Rachid would never find her. She didn't want to face him. She didn't want to fight him. She just wanted to be left alone.

  But as she stood there, and people passed her, looking at her with curious eyes, she knew she could not run away. It would achieve nothing. Sooner or later Rachid would find her again, and then the whole process would have to be repeated. Besides, if she ran away, it would appear that she was afraid to face him, that she had something to hide— her feelings maybe!

  She expelled her breath on a long sigh, endeavouring to regain her composure. This was ridiculous, she told herself severely. She was behaving like a schoolgirl. First, last evening, now today. She had to get a hold of herself, and stop behaving as if Rachid had some extraordinary power over her. He couldn't make her go back with him, he wouldn't force her. And surely, after all she had gone through, she had the determination not to let him intimidate her in this way. Remember Farah, she reminded herself harshly, and unconsciously her shoulders stiffened.

  Taking a deep breath, she walked the last few yards to the shallow steps that led up to the front door. As she fumbled for her key, she gave the car another swift appraisal. Yes, it was definitely Rachid's car, she confirmed tightly, with the man Ahmed, inclining his head politely to her from his position behind the wheel.

  Pressing her lips together, she inserted her key in the lock and opened the door. No matter how nervous she might inwardly be, she had to appear calm and controlled, but her fingers trembled as she dropped the latch behind her.

  Her father appeared in the doorway of his study as she was removing her coat. He looked anxious, too, she thought, and she wondered if he thought she might blame him for Rachid's presence. Forcing a tense smile, she tried to convey that she understood his dilemma, and his features relax
ed as he indicated the room behind him.

  'Rachid's here,' he said unnecessarily. 'We've been waiting for you. Have you had a good day?'

  His words were so trite and ordinary, he might have been speaking about the weather, but Abby decided it was probably the best way to behave. If they acted as though Rachid's arrival could in any way disrupt their lives, they were courting disaster, and the only thing to do was to treat him with the offhand courtesy of a casual visitor.

  'It's been—a busy day,' she said now, casting a fleeting look at her reflection in the mirror above the umbrella stand.. She looked flushed, she thought, wishing that she didn't, but at least her hair was neat, and the dark skirt and matching waistcoat were formal and businesslike. 'How are you? Did you go to the library?'

  'Actually, no,' answered her father quietly, his eyes darting meaningfully towards the room behind him. 'I didn't have time. Rachid arrived about three o'clock.'

  Abby nodded, and realising she could not put it off any longer, she allowed her father to step back and let her precede him into his study.

  Rachid had obviously risen when her father left the room, and now he was standing with his back to a glass-fronted bookcase. In the lamplight, he looked dark and faintly menacing, although his expression was enigmatic as Abby came into his view. He was wearing a dark suit this evening, a soft sienna-brown suede, the jacket parting over a bronze silk shirt, the trousers moulding the powerful muscles of his thighs. Long legs were spread, his hands locked behind his back, the smooth virility of his hair glinting with raven lights.

  'Abby,' he murmured politely, as she entered the room, making no move to touch her or offer a greeting, and she glanced behind her as her father joined them, wondering exactly what conversation had taken place in her absence.