Desert Man Read online

  On the final approach she checked herself out in the full-length bedroom mirror. The tailored suit in an ivory-oatmeal shade was smart and expensive. With it she wore white pumps and a matching bag. Her hair was combed back off her face into a chignon. She looked smart and professional, and that’s how she would behave from now on.

  The plane circled lower. Melea came to the bedroom door and said, “Please to come to the salon, madame. We will be landing in a few moments.”

  “Thank you, Melea.” During the flight the young woman had worn a white robe, but she had not been veiled. Now, however, she had changed to a dark robe and her face was covered from just below her eyes to her chin.

  Josie stared for a moment before she looked away. More than anything, this sudden change in Melea brought home to Josie that she was indeed entering a land where men were the rulers and women had but to obey.

  Melea took the seat across from her, and offering a smile, said, “It will be a smooth landing. Please do not worry.”

  Josie tried not to, but three feet off the narrow landing strip she clenched her teeth and closed her eyes. The plane touched down, sped like a silver arrow across the tarmac and finally slowed. Only then did Josie open her eyes, unfasten her seat belt and look out of the window. A long black stretch limo with the purple-and-white Abdu Resaba flag waited next to the plane.

  While she watched, workers in dark robes and head coverings hurried to affix stairs to the now open door of the plane. Nawab al-Haj came out of the cockpit and motioned Josie forward. Melea and Fatima stepped aside to let her pass.

  The hot air hit her like a physical blow. She gripped the railing, but before she could start down the stairs, Fatima said, “A moment, madame.“

  Two robed men quickly unrolled a red carpet from the bottom of the steps of the plane and laid it out so that it reached the rear door of the limo where a robed chauffeur stood at attention. When the carpet was in place the chauffeur opened the door and Prince Kumar Ben Ari stepped out into the sunlight.

  Josie looked down at him. Shock took her breath as he strode purposefully forward. When they had met in California he had worn western clothes, tailored suits, a tuxedo and he had looked not unlike any of the other men who had attended Jenny’s wedding.

  He was different now. Attired in a white djellaba, with his dark hair covered by a ghutra, the typical Arabian male headdress, he looked foreign and mysterious, a man from a world she knew so little about. His skin seemed darker, his brows heavier, his eyes, when he gazed up at her, more sensuously threatening.

  That very first day at the airport in Los Angeles she had thought him good-looking, but in Arabian clothes he was every woman’s idea of a desert sheikh, devastatingly handsome, so outrageously masculine she wanted to duck back into the plane and run for cover.

  He walked across the red carpet toward her. “Marhaban,” he said. “Welcome to my country.”

  Josie took a deep breath and started down the stairs. When she reached the bottom step, he held out his hand. She took it, nodded and said in as formal a voice as she could manage, “Good morning, Prince Ben Ari.”

  “Good morning,” he responded in an equally formal voice. “I hope the trip was not too tiring.”

  “Not at all. I was quite comfortable, thank you.”

  “I’m glad.” He took her arm. “Please, let me escort you to my car.”

  Car? It looked half as long as the Queen Mary.

  The chauffeur bowed and opened the door. She slipped inside. The air was cool, the leather seats as soft as silk. Kumar came in beside her. He said something she didn’t understand to the chauffeur, and with a soft purr of the engine the limo started.

  “I’m so pleased you decided to come to Abdu Resaba,” Kumar said.

  Josie turned her cool green gaze in his direction. “I had no choice,” she said stiffly. “I’m here because I was ordered to come. If I hadn’t, I would have lost my job. I couldn’t afford to do that.”

  He looked at her as if to say something, then frowned and turned away. A few days ago when he’d received word that Josie was coming to Abdu Resaba he had felt a sense of triumph. Now, he felt only shame. That bothered him more than he had thought it would. Never before had he forced a woman to do anything she didn’t want to do. Women had always come to him willingly, eagerly. For all his life he’d had but to beckon to a woman who struck his fancy, whether a dancing girl or a lady of the French aristocracy.

  Josie McCall was different. She was the only woman who had ever looked at him with something very like disdain. Even worse, she had judged him without knowing him. She had stepped on his male ego and he had been determined to bring her to Abdu Resaba to prove...what? That he had the power to do it?

  He’d never done anything like this before. Why had he now? Why with this particular woman?

  He shot her a sideways glance. She sat regally beside him, looking straight ahead. Her face in profile was classically beautiful. The pale skin was smooth and soft as the underbelly of a nightingale. She had high cheekbones and a patrician nose, and lips so sweetly curved it was all he could do, even now with that look of severity, not to sweep her into his arms and press his mouth to hers.

  He remembered, with a tightening of his body, how those lips had softened under his the night of Mike and Jenny’s dress rehearsal, how for that brief instant her body had heated and swayed to his.

  That was why he had brought her here; that was why he would keep her until she surrendered to him. When he’d had his fill of her, he would let her go.

  It was true, of course, that he wanted to improve the medical facilities in Abdu Resaba. But it was also true that anyone on the staff of the International Health Organization could have done the job. He hadn’t wanted anyone else; he had only wanted Josie McCall.

  He began to tell her about the buildings they were passing. “The Ministry of Foreign Affairs,” he said, indicating a thirty-story building of polished stone and glass. “The Abdu Resaba National Bank, the National Assembly Building, the Great Mosque, the Abdu Resaba Oil Company.”

  The buildings looked modern, clean and cool in the early morning heat. The boulevard was lined with stately royal palms. There were parks with fountains of water sparkling in the sun, and the street was filled with robed men and veiled women.

  “We’re entering the Diplomatic Quarter now,” Kumar explained. “The building on the right is the French embassy. The Italian and the Spanish embassies are next. Across the street is the Saudi embassy, the Libyan and the Nigerian consulates. On the next street are most of the South American consulates.”

  When they turned the corner and Josie saw a two-story building surrounded by a tall iron fence, Kumar said, “That is the building of the Unites States consulate. Your office is in the right wing. Mr. Aubrey Bonner is the consul in charge. Edward Petersen is his assistant. Their residences are right next door.”

  “And mine?” Josie asked.

  “Yours is not. I have arranged a house for you on another street. That is where we’re going now.”

  Josie looked at him, surprised and disturbed because she would much rather have had a place next to the consul and his assistant, where she would have felt some measure of protection.

  Before she could offer an objection the limousine turned into a palm-lined driveway and there, beyond high hedges, a tall iron fence and a gate, she saw the house. It was one story, of pure white stone, with gleaming mosaic arches and a blue door.

  A uniformed guard saluted as the limo passed through the gate, and when they reached the house a robed woman, followed by two other women and a man, hurried out.

  The limo stopped and the chauffeur hurried around to open Josie’s door, then Kumar’s. The four people in front of the house bowed.

  “This is your secretary,” Kumar said to Josie, indicating a short, rather stout woman. “Sarida Barakat.”

  The woman bobbed her head.

  In her mid-thirties, with a hawklike nose and bushy black eyebrows, she was not
an attractive woman—until she smiled. When she did, her eyes warmed and welcomed. She wore a dark brown robe and her hair was covered by a brown cloth.

  “How do you do? I’m afraid I don’t speak your language very well yet,” Josie said.

  “I speak the English, madame. I studied at the University of Beirut before all of the trouble in that city, and I have worked for the American-Abdu Resaba Oil Company here. I hope I may be of service to you.”

  “I’m sure you will be, Miss Barakat. I’ll be grateful for your help.”

  “And these are your servants,” Kumar said. “Zohra and Karmah.”

  They bobbed their heads and smiled.

  Kumar motioned the man forward. “This is Saoud,” he said.

  The man was almost seven feet tall. Josie guessed his age to be somewhere between fifty and sixty. His skin was like fine black parchment. He wore a dark gold robe of a heavy material and his head was covered by a clean white cloth. His eyes were kind, his smile was gentle. He was barefoot.

  He took a step forward, bowed from the waist, and murmured, “Marhaban.”

  “Thank you,” Josie responded, and offered her hand.

  His fingers were long and bony, his grip was firm. When he let her go he stepped back, said something to Kumar, then hurried to the car to get her luggage.

  “Come.” Kumar took her arm. “Let me show you your house. The women will unpack and prepare your bath when you’re ready. A meal has been prepared, in case you would like something to eat before you rest. If it’s not to your liking you have only to tell Zohra what you would prefer instead, and she will fix it.”

  He exerted a small pressure on her arm and she let him lead her into the house, if indeed house was the proper name for it. The columned arches they passed through were intricately carved. The entranceway was mosaic tiled in geometric designs in shades of blue and gray and pale pink.

  Kumar motioned her to proceed him into a small patio. Here there were orange and lemon trees heavy with fruit, and a white marble fountain that bubbled water colored the same pale pink shade of the tiles.

  Beyond the patio was the living room. Most of the tile floor was covered by an oriental rug in colors of deep red and gold. There were two seven-foot sofas, low easy chairs and tasseled floor pillows. Curtains that looked as if they had been woven from threads of gold hung at the windows. Bright and colorful glass lamps were placed on carved tables.

  Kumar turned one of them on. “Blessed is He who made constellations in the skies and placed therein a lamp and a moon giving light.” He smiled. “That is from the Koran,” he said. “I’m sorry that I cannot give you the moon, I can only offer light.”

  Josie felt a blush of color flood her cheeks, and though she had been strangely moved by his words, made herself say in as cool a voice as she could manage, “It’s a lovely room. And the house is very nice.”

  “But you have not yet seen the rest of it. Please allow me to show you a few of the other rooms.”

  He led her through marble pillars into an alcove off the living room. It was small and dimly lighted by a lantern of deep blue glass that hung from the filigree gold ceiling. The three walls were of even more intricately carved filigree work.

  Beneath the back wall was a wide blue velvet sofa and silk pillows in a softer shade of blue. A musical instrument that looked somewhat like a mandolin rested at one end of the sofa. One small table, inlaid with ivory, held a golden incense jar. Another held a single gold candlestick.

  It was a warmly intimate room, beautifully, strangely seductive, and Josie wondered as she stood in the entrance if lovers had ever made love on that wide blue sofa. With the thought her cheeks flushed and she backed away.

  She followed Kumar through long, cool corridors to the dining room and into a smaller salon that was, he said, for afternoon tea. In the library there were floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with books in Arabian, Spanish and French, as well as books in English in both fiction and nonfiction that she had seen a week ago on the New York Times bestseller list.

  He stood back as a smile softened her features, pleased that she was pleased. For though he had forced her to come to his country, he wanted her to have every comfort he could provide.

  The house had been pleasant to begin with, but during the past two weeks he’d had it redecorated. He’d flown in an interior designer from Paris and had brought in an artisan who had recently redesigned several rooms in the palace, to oversee all the work and the men and women who toiled from dawn to midnight to complete the job before Josie’s arrival.

  He led Josie through another patio to another corridor. “Your bedroom,” he said, indicating the closed doors. Then he opened them and motioned for her to enter.

  The room was a shimmering symphony of white-and-gold. The round bed in the middle of a raised dais was canopied in delicate handmade lace. The furniture was white, trimmed in gold, and on one of the dressers there was a bouquet of white roses.

  He indicated the mirrored closet that occupied the length of one wall. “I’ve taken the liberty of adding some things to your wardrobe,” he said. “Robes that I thought you might enjoy wearing.”

  Before she could respond he drew back one of the gossamer curtains and indicated a terraced garden. There were flowers everywhere, wide green ferns, blossoming trees and a swimming pool.

  “This is your private garden and pool,” he said. “No one will bother you here.” The barest suggestion of a smile crooked his mouth. “Unless, of course, you wish to be bothered.”

  When she offered no answering smile, he let the curtain drop back into place. “You’re angry with me for bringing you here,” he said. “I’m sorry that you are.”

  “Why did you?”

  “I wanted to bring my country’s medical facilities up-to-date. There are many problems in Abdu Resaba. The hospital must be modernized. I want to build more clinics, educate more people in health care, birth control and proper diet. You’ve done this is other countries. I knew you could help me.”

  “So could a lot of other people in our organization.”

  “I didn’t want other people.” He gazed at her until the silence became like the stillness in that final moment just before the winds of a hurricane hit.

  “Let me go,” she said, although he had not moved to touch her.

  He shook his head. “I cannot,” he said softly.

  “Prince Kumar—”

  “Kumar. Only Kumar.”

  “You shouldn’t have brought me here against my will,” she said. “You had no right.” She lifted her chin and her green eyes were cold and angry.

  He stepped back a pace. “Nevertheless, you are here,” he said. And now there was no gentleness in his voice. “There is a reception at the palace tomorrow night for the United States consul and his assistant, also for the members of my cabinet and their wives. I will send my car for you at seven.”

  She wanted to refuse, but before she could speak he said, “It’s an official reception for your consul. I will expect you to be there.”

  Her mouth tightened. “Very well.”

  “Until tomorrow night, then.” And when she didn’t answer, he said, “If there is anything you desire, you have only to ask one of the servants. They are here to serve you.”

  He took her hand and she felt the touch of his lips against her skin before he turned away.

  The robe did not disguise the broadness of his shoulders as he strode from the room. She rubbed her thumb across the hand he had kissed, and when she felt the slight dampness from his lips, a quiver ran through her. He had brought her here against her will and she hated him for that. He had no right to do what he had done, to use his power to make her do something she didn’t want to do.

  And yes, she hated him because when he touched her she felt the same hot curl of flame lick at her insides. It was an attraction she could not deny, an attraction she would fight with everything that was in her.

  With a shake of her head she went into the bathroom to bat
he.

  The scent of her own special perfume filled the room. The woman Zohra turned toward her. “Yes?” she said. “You like?” She pointed to the dozen or so other oils on a shelf near the tub. “If no, we change. Yes?”

  “Yes,” Josie said. “I mean no. This is fine.”

  Zohra pointed to Josie. “I undress you now.”

  “No,” Josie said firmly. “I undress myself.”

  The other woman shook her head. “Prince Ben Ari say it is my job to do everything for you. I draw bath. I dress, undress. Master tell me—”

  “Your master, not mine. Thank you, Zohra. You may leave now.”

  Zohra hung her head and pointed a finger at her own chest. “You do not like me?” she asked.

  “I like you very much, but I will bathe myself.” Josie pointed at the door. “Until later.”

  Zohra went, and when the door closed behind her, Josie stripped out of her clothes and stepped into the steaming musky water. Sheer luxury, she thought, as she had on the plane, took some getting used to. If this was to be her home for a year, she might as well enjoy it.

  Tomorrow night she would go to the palace, because it was a matter of diplomatic protocol to attend a dinner at which the consul of the United States was to be the honored guest. And yes, because she was dying to see it. But other than occasions where her presence was demanded, she would stay as far away from Prince Kumar as she could. She had absolutely no intention of letting him anywhere near her again.

  She lifted the hand he had kissed from the soapy water and blew the suds away. Then, she did not know why, she kissed the skin his lips had kissed. “Kumar,” she whispered, and slipping farther down into the scented water, she closed her eyes.

  * * *

  She was even more beautiful than he remembered. And just as cool and remote as she had been in California. But she was here; that’s what was important. At last he had Miss Josie McCall right where he wanted her. In his land, his domain.