Lord of the Desert (6 page)

“I've never had wine before,” she said, watching his eyebrows go up.

“Would you prefer something else?”

She lifted a shoulder. “I suppose I should know something about wines. If the sheikh isn't Muslim, he probably has a wine cellar and will expect me to know all sorts of things about wines.”

He pursed his lips. “Probably,” he murmured. “But one can rarely go wrong with a good white wine, like a Riesling or a Chardonnay. Although I prefer an Alsace wine, like a Gewürtztraminer. It is an acquired taste.”

She shook her head. “I'll never learn.”

“Of course you will. Each night, we'll sample a different wine from the list. By the time you leave Morocco, you'll be knowledgeable.”

She smiled. “You're very sophisticated.”

“I was educated in Europe,” he told her. “One matures rapidly in a sophisticated environment.” His black eyes narrowed. “But I wasn't born to wealth, and I never forget my beginnings. Poverty is the true plague of the twenty-first century, Gretchen. And greed is its blood brother.”

“Do you feel that way, too?” she asked softly.

He chuckled as the waiter returned and took their order. When the wine came, he taught her how to taste and savor it. “This is a Riesling,” he said. “Not too heavy, not too light.”

“Just right,” she mused, and liked the way it tasted. “We had a little grapevine, but the foreman ran over it with a tractor.”

“Barbarian,” he said.

She chuckled. “That's what I used to call him,” she murmured. “Conner the Barbarian. Not one flower in the yard was safe if he ever got on the tractor. He's a great horseman, but he has a knack for running lawnmowers over flower beds and into trees.”

He chuckled, too, at the imagery. “And this is the man you trust to keep the ranch for you?”

“Oh, but he's great with horses and cattle,” she told him defensively.

“And I suppose you adore him?”

“I had a terrific crush on him in my teens,” she agreed. “But I grew out of it.”

His eyes narrowed. He didn't speak again until their salads were delivered, along with coffee for Gretchen and sparkling water for her companion.

“You like flowers, then,” he continued.

“I love them,” she said dreamily. “I grow prize tea roses and an assortment of flowering shrubs.”

He toyed with his salad. “My father has a mania for orchids,” he told her. “He calls them his ‘grandchildren' and gives them all names.” He smiled affectionately, lost in thought. “When I was a child, I was jealous of them. He actually had a servant taken to jail for forgetting to water a sick one, which later died. A very vindictive man, my father.”

She chuckled. “I can imagine how he felt. I have a special fondness for sick roses. I seem to have the touch for making them bloom again.”

He studied her intently. “Some sicknesses, alas, cannot be cured by even the most loving of hands,” he said absently, and bitterness made harsh lines in his face.

He was a man of many contrasts. She watched his long-fingered hands move and was fascinated by their dexterity and grace.

He caught her scrutiny and tensed. “You find the scars distasteful.”

She looked up at once. “Good Lord, no,” she said at once, and with obvious sincerity. “I was watching how you use your hands. Everyone in this part of the world seems to move gracefully, especially the men. It isn't like that back home.”

He relaxed and finished his salad. It was his own guilt at deceiving her, he thought, that was bringing on these bad moods. He had to stop it. What was, was. Nothing in the world could ever change it.

“We move as we live, unhurriedly,” he said simply.

“I'll bet you don't have half the rate of vascular problems that we have in the States,” she remarked.

“That is most likely true.” He finished a last bite of salad and pushed the bowl from him. His dark eyes searched hers. “You go to a country vastly different from your own, much less sophisticated than Morocco. Many modern conveniences do not exist there, and even electricity is a recent addition. The people of Qawi were largely nomadic until the early part of this century. When it was parceled out among the Europeans, the people resisted and many families were decimated. It will require a great deal of tolerance for you to adjust to such archaic surroundings.”

She put down her own fork. “Do you think I should go home?” she asked bluntly.

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to tell her to run, now, while she still could. But he looked into her eyes and felt as if part of him were sitting across the table. He couldn't make the words come out.

“I know it's a risk,” she said, glad that he hadn't said anything immediately. “But I already love Morocco. I think I'm going to be very much at home in Qawi, if the sheikh is patient with my ignorance about local customs.”

His dark eyes narrowed. “I think you will find him patient, in all things.”

“I hope so,” she added fervently. “It's like a leap of faith,” she added slowly. “A step into the unknown. Maggie said that I was vegetating in Texas, and I think she was right. I've never been anywhere or done anything adventurous in my life. I never realized the world was so big and its people so diverse. I'll never forget any of this, whatever happens.”

“Nor will I,” he said quietly, and it sounded as if the words were torn from him. He was holding his wineglass so tightly that Gretchen wondered if the stem was going to snap. She wondered what was making him so broody, if it was his usual manner.

The entertainer sat down on the small platform with her accompanist and began to sing a poignant love song in Spanish. Gretchen sighed and closed her eyes, to enjoy it even better.

“Do you understand the words?” Philippe asked.

“Yes.” Her eyes opened and looked into his. “It's a song about a man and woman who fall madly in love but can't marry because he's going off to war. They're saying goodbye. It's very sad.”

He smiled. “You understand Spanish.”

“Yes. I speak it badly, but I can read it and understand it if it isn't spoken too rapidly.”

“It is one of my favorite languages as well.”

His hand slid across the table and his fingers linked slowly with hers while he turned his attention back to the singer. Gretchen stopped listening to the beautiful song. Philippe's lean, warm fingers holding hers pushed away her reason. She closed her eyes again and gave in to the sensual delight of his touch.

The program was only a short one, and all too soon, the singer took her bows and left the microphone. When Gretchen came back to reality, Philippe had let go of her hand and was getting ready to pay their bill with a credit card—a gold credit card, she noted, reinforcing her opinion of his station in life. He was obviously a wealthy man, that was evident from his clothing. She wondered if he might think she was playing up to him because he had money. She was certain he'd experienced that sort of woman.

He gave the card to the waiter and tucked a large tip under the lip of his plate for the man.

She hadn't considered it, but she was certain now that he was going to escort her back to her room and leave her. He hadn't said anything about his plans for the next day, but they probably wouldn't include her. She had a poor batting average with men as a rule. She didn't know how to flirt, she wasn't a brilliant conversationalist, and she was only passably attractive. It depressed her to think that she'd assumed far too much after Philippe had found her in the swing. His attention had made her giddy with hope, but he looked as if he was carrying a heavy burden, and his eyes didn't meet hers after the waiter returned his card.

He pulled out her chair with that same old-world courtesy that seemed such a part of him and held her elbow as he escorted her up the small row of steps that led to the lobby.

“I must go out,” he said without looking at her. “I have a business engagement this evening which must be honored.”

“I understand. It was a wonderful day. Thank you. Maybe I'll see you around the hotel…”

He stopped at once, drawing her out of the pattern of traffic, and stood looking down at her with a dark scowl. “Are you tired of my company so soon?”

Her face mirrored her surprise. “I…I thought perhaps you were tired of mine,” she faltered.

He relaxed. “Would that I were,” he said under his breath. “I would be doing you a favor.”

“Can't you tell me what's bothering you?” she asked boldly.

“No.” He glanced at his watch. “Tomorrow, we'll take Bojo and go to the carpet showroom. But not early. I have a breakfast meeting as well. Shall we say ten o'clock, in the lobby?”

“Ten o'clock,” she said with helpless eagerness. “I'll be waiting.”

He smiled gently. “Are you always so enthusiastic about things?”

“I'm afraid so,” she said sheepishly. “It comes from having so little. We were very poor when Marc and I were growing up, so we learned not to expect much. We tend to appreciate things more than ordinary people, I guess. We lived in hard times.”

His black eyes narrowed. “I, also, grew up in abject poverty. It is why I must do what I can to help my people escape it. Education is the key, Gretchen. There must be good schools, good teachers, and all the latest technology in them, especially computers.”

She smiled. “So that you can compete in the world market,” she guessed.

He nodded. “Exactly. I never want to watch another child starve to death as long as I live.”

Her breath caught. She was getting a painful picture of his youth.

“Such compassion in those soft eyes,” he murmured quietly. “Lucky Qawi, to attract such a gentle spirit.”

“That's just the thing,” she pointed out. “They're expecting Maggie, who's sophisticated and well-traveled and a born organizer.”

“Organization can be learned. I think that the sheikh will have a delightful time…teaching you.”

“Does he have a harem?” she asked worriedly.

He burst out laughing. “No. He is a modern ruler.”

“Oh, thank goodness!”

“So you have no desire to grace his bed, then?” he teased.

She flushed. “Stop that. I'm going to be a social secretary, not a scandal in high heels.”

He nodded. “So you are.” He glanced up and looked at the concierge, who looked back and made a gesture, as if some private, silent conversation had just taken place. “Don't leave the hotel alone,” he reminded her.

“Not at night,” she promised.

“Nor in the daytime, either,” he emphasized. “I must leave you at the elevator. Bojo is waiting for me in the hotel limousine.” He lifted her soft hand to his mouth and lightly brushed the knuckles with his lips. She felt a pleasant tingle all over her body as she met his eyes. “Until tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Tomorrow.”

He gave her a warm smile and walked away, elegant as always. She watched him go with a long sigh. In such a small amount of time, her life had been turned on its edge. She hoped she wasn't going to live to regret spending her holiday with a man who knew more about women than she knew about Texas. But her pleasure in his company was impossible to deny, whatever happened.

She went up to her room in the elevator and undressed. It was early, but she went to bed anyway. Tomorrow would come more quickly if she went to sleep now, and she wanted it with all her heart. She gave a thought to poor Maggie, who must be at least halfway home by now.

She turned out the lights and closed her eyes, pillowing her cheek on the hand that Philippe's firm mouth had kissed so tenderly.

I
t had been a mistake to go to bed early, Gretchen decided, because she woke at five the next morning and couldn't go back to sleep. She got up, dressed in neat white slacks and a pink knit shell with a white cotton jacket, donned socks and sneakers, snapped her fanny pack into place and paced the room and watched television until she could go down to the elaborate breakfast buffet.

She knew that Philippe wouldn't be there, because he'd already told her that he had a breakfast meeting, but this was the table where she sat with him the night before and listened to the talented singer. It was the next best thing to being with him.

She loved the small gurgling fountain and the beautiful inlaid tile that hallmarked the architecture. She remembered the palace in Asilah and the beautiful shades of blue ceramic tile that had graced it. She would never forget that, or her ride on the camel, with Philippe alternately taking photographs and laughing at her delight. It amazed her that a man she'd known for such a short time had become such a vital part of her life. She had to try not to let herself go crazy over him. Her job was in Qawi, and inevitably she was going to have to leave here, and Philippe.

He'd said he wasn't from France. She wondered where he called home. It was some comfort that he had business interests in Qawi, though, and she would at least see him again from time to time. And when she got her photographs developed, she would have some souvenirs of their time together. She picked at her yellow melon listlessly. She didn't want to look ahead to a time when Philippe would be out of her life.

As she looked around at the fresh flowers on the tables, she remembered how her mother had loved them. She still felt her recent loss, as she was certain Marc did. She hadn't seen him since after the funeral, when she'd had to stop him from going after Daryl with both fists when he heard what the man had done. For a conservative law-enforcement type, her older brother was amazingly uninhibited when it came to expressing opinions. He'd used words she'd never heard to describe her errant ex-fiancé.

She toyed with her bread knife, wondering what her brother would think of the elegant, sophisticated man she'd attracted here. He'd be suspicious, she decided, as she should be. It was odd for such a man to take an interest in an innocent like Gretchen. She'd better remember that and watch her step. He might really be some international scoundrel looking for a convenient “cover,” if that was what they called it. She didn't look at all suspicious, and she couldn't discount the idea that he might be only using her for reasons of his own. She was helpless to stop herself from seeing him, just the same, whatever his motives. She'd been alone a long time. Too long.

The thought that he might like her for herself she discounted at once. She felt absolutely miserable when she considered her lack of looks and sophistication. Maggie would have been Philippe's ideal sort of woman. She hoped her poor friend was going to be able to cope with a blind Cord Romero. From what she remembered of him, he was hell on two legs with both eyes working. Blind, he'd be a handful even for a veteran nurse.

The waiter poured coffee into her cup and asked if she was hungry. With a shy smile, she went to the table and filled a plate with fruit and rolls, never one for the traditional sort of breakfast.

 

Ten o'clock would never come, she decided. She'd spent the next two hours alternately pacing her room, redoing her hair, reading the hotel menu, watching the news on the one English language channel on the television, and staring out the window at the harbor far in the distance. There wasn't a screen on the window, so when she opened the slanted wooden shutters, she could smell the exotic scents of Tangier on the endless breeze that came off the water. Somewhere far across that expanse was the Rock of Gilbraltar and, further, Spain. But there was a faint mist or fog, and she couldn't make out land.

The abrupt knock on the door startled her. She didn't need to check her watch to know the time, because Philippe seemed always to be early.

She opened the door, and there he was. He was wearing white slacks with a red knit shirt and a white jacket over it. He looked elegantly casual, and she decided that he probably didn't have any really casual clothes, like blue jeans and chambray shirts. He was a very citified sort of man. He'd make a strange contrast to people like her male acquaintances back home, who went around in denim and boots and spent their days pitching hay and working cattle. She remembered her brother breaking horses in the corral, after the sudden death of their father, and sticking like glue to a bronc.

“You look very nice,
mademoiselle,
” he teased with a gentle smile, interrupting her chaotic thoughts.

“I was just thinking the same about you,” she said, fumbling to lock and close the door. “I guess you've never ridden a wild horse in your life,” she added wistfully and with a sad little glance at him.

His expression was hard to read. “Why do you say that?” he asked with studied carelessness.

“Just that you dress so well,” she said, smiling apologetically. “My boss is the only man I know who dresses up and he's a lawyer. All the men around Jacobsville wear denim—you know,” she added when he frowned curiously, “jeans and work shirts and dirty boots.”

“Ah,” he said after a minute. “Cowboys.”

“That's right.” She fell into pace beside him as they walked down the long hall with its Moroccan motif. “I don't think I've even seen our foreman in a suit.”

The reference piqued him, for some reason. It sounded as if she thought him a fashion plate, a man without physical skills. “Do you ride?” he asked.

She smiled. “I used to. Like a monkey,” she said with a chuckle. “My brother Marc put me on my first pony when I was about three, to my mother's horror. I took to it at once. I had a beautiful Belgian mare of my own, once, and I loved to ride,” she added.

He pursed his lips and stared at the elevator. “I believe the sheikh has a nice stable of purebred Arabians,” he murmured.

“I don't suppose he might let me ride one?” she asked wistfully.

“Most of his Arabians are stallions, used for breeding only, and dangerous to handle,” he said evasively. “Besides the blood stock, he has mares and geldings that could be used for that purpose, of course.”

“Of course.” She looked sad, remembering the horses they'd had to sell because they could no longer afford to keep them—including her lovely Belgian mare.

Philippe noticed and stared at her curiously. “You love horses, yet speaking of them makes you sad. Why?”

He was far too perceptive. She smiled. “Oh, I was thinking about the ranch,” she said with deliberate carelessness. “Our horses were used for working cattle. They were mostly quarter horses.”

“I have heard of your famous Texas quarter horses,” he remarked.

“You never have told me where you come from,” she pointed out.

“First things first.” He helped her into the elevator and pressed the button for the ground floor. “Today, we enjoy the sights.”

 

It was an adventure following Bojo and Philippe around the Socco. Bojo knew all the local merchants and where to get the best prices. She sat in the carpet shop fascinated as the clerk explained the diversity of Berber designs and patterns to her. They were a little like hieroglyphics, she thought as she studied them up close. There was a huge selection, and not only of wool carpets. There were silk and cotton ones as well. She fell in love with a lime-green cotton Berber rug with figures on it.

Despite her protests, Philippe bought it for her and, having her write down the ranch address for him, gave it to the merchant and had it sent to her home. She told him that her housekeeper, Katie, and her husband would get the mail in her absence from the ranch. Along with the foreman, they ran things smoothly for Marc since he was away so much.

“And now you have a true souvenir of Morocco,” Philippe teased as they walked back down the narrow alleys that were sided by high adobe walls. “Look here,” he added abruptly and pulled her into a small alley that ended at a wrought-iron gate. Behind it was a beautiful garden in full bloom. “This is one of many vacation homes in Tangier where foreign people come to vacation.” He mentioned the name of a famous opera star and heard her intake of breath. “You like him?” he asked, surprised.

“Oh, I love opera,” she said genuinely.

He smiled. “I love it, too. Music is one of the few pleasures I have left,” he added with such solemnity that she looked up in surprise.

“What's happened to make you so bitter?” she asked softly.

His face hardened. “Nothing that should concern you,
mademoiselle,
” he said in a crisply formal tone.

“I wasn't trying to pry,” she said gently. “I'm sorry,” she added as she turned away and walked back the way they'd come. Obviously she'd hit a nerve there. He was a very private person. She'd have to remember that, and not be too inquisitive. Whatever it was must be painful.

He hated the very thought of what he must eventually tell her. He hated being reminded of his deficiencies, especially by this woman. In such a very short time, he'd become accustomed to her. He had no idea how she might react to his secret past, and he didn't want to have to think about it just yet.

He let her lead the way back to Bojo, who took a long look at Philippe's somber face and suggested lunch.

They left the Socco and went to a nearby restaurant where Gretchen felt too uncomfortable to eat more than a salad. Philippe spoke hardly a word while he picked at his food. While they were eating, Bojo's cell phone rang. He answered it, frowned, and spoke briskly before he hung up abruptly. He and Philippe spoke somberly in a language she didn't recognize. Now, they were both brooding.

She was certain that Philippe planned to escort her right to the hotel after lunch, and he did just that.

“Don't leave the hotel under any circumstances,” he told her firmly as they stood in the lobby. “And don't believe anyone who tells you I want to see you. If such a message comes, it won't be from me. You must promise this.”

Judging by his grim expression, something was very wrong. She remembered the men in the black sedan and the gunshots, and she was worried for him. “I don't suppose you'd like to tell me what's happened to make you this concerned?” she asked.

He ignored the question. “I should have put you on a plane back to the United States at once,” he said curtly. “Now, there is no such possibility. Your safety is linked to mine, and I am in very grave danger. I regret this more than I can tell you.”

Her eyes widened. He looked like a taut rope. She'd have given anything to wipe away that fierce uneasiness. “You mean you really are an international jewel thief?” she asked with a wicked twinkle in her eyes. “How exciting! Who's chasing us? Interpol?”

He laughed despite his fears. “No. Not Interpol.” The smile faded. “Gretchen, I want you to be afraid. It may save your young life.”

“Sorry, but I'm not afraid of much. I grew up on a ranch and I work for a criminal lawyer. Do I get a trenchcoat and a gun?” she persisted. Then she frowned. “On second thought, we might skip the gun, Marc says he's rarely seen a worse shot…Philippe!”

He caught her by both shoulders and shook her gently. “I know you mean well, but this is no time for humor. Be serious!” he said with intimidating authority in his tone.

The hard, strong touch of his hands was electric. She stared up at him with parted lips and sparkling green eyes. It felt as if her body had been struck by lightning. She could feel the heat of his body, almost taste the mint that clung to his hard lips. She'd never felt such an intense reaction to a man, and it made her reckless. Her hands went to his chest and pressed there as she lifted her face and looked up into stormy, wild black eyes that hypnotized her.

“Heavens, you're strong!” she murmured absently. Her hands were on his arms now, too, and her fingers contracted on the firm muscles there, as if to punctuate the words. He was incredibly handsome. She actually moved closer without realizing it.

He felt the barest brush of her breasts against his shirtfront in the opening of his jacket and he caught his breath. His eyes went down to her breasts, and the look on his face made her shameless. She took one more step and felt his legs brush hers. For the first time in her life, she was overwhelmed by absolute physical need.

When she moved, something happened to him…something…devastating!

A sound like a harsh groan passed his lips. He shivered. His eyes widened as if in horror as they met her uplifted, dazed ones. He cursed under his breath and pushed her away so quickly that she wobbled before she caught her balance.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked with evident concern and a little embarrassment.

He took a raspy breath. One of his hands clenched at his side. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't even form words. There was a red-hot ache in his lower belly, in his hard thighs. This was…impossible!

“I must…go! At once!” His face was like stone as his eyes glittered down at her. “Remember what I told you. Stay inside!” It sounded more like a command than a request, and in a tone that made her skin chill.