Lord of the Desert

by Diana Palmer

  “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.

  Chapter Five

  It 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.r />
  “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.

  He left abruptly and without a backward glance, motioning imperiously to Bojo, who followed him quickly out of the hotel.

  Gretchen managed to get into the elevator and went at once to her room, grateful that the little scene hadn’t been witnessed. The concierge had been on the phone and the lobby had been empty. Philippe had literally thrown her away, as if she disgusted him. She groaned out loud and leaned her forehead against the cold metal of the elevator. Now she’d offended him by being forward, and he’d never come near her again. She should go to her room and pack, leave for Qawi, forget that she’d ever been in Tangier!

  Philippe made it into the waiting limousine and had Bojo take him back to his own hotel, further along the street. He went straight to his room, into the bathroom, closed the door, turned on the shower, and stripped. For the first time in years, he forced himself to look in the mirror at his nude body.

  He gritted his teeth as he stared at the damage the land mine had done to him. The scars were no more than white lines against his olive skin now. There, on his lower abdomen, were the worst ones. These he could show to no one, to no woman, ever. But the doctors had told him that he would never again function as a man, and for the first time in all those years, he questioned what he’d accepted as truth.

  He closed his eyes and pictured Gretchen’s body, her silky innocent body, pressed against him with no fabric between them. Again, he felt the strange new stirring of his body. He opened his eyes and looked in the mirror. As he watched, the thoughts he pictured…aroused him.

  “Mon Dieu!” he gasped reverently at the sheer power of the arousal.

  Nine years. Nine long, endless, agonizing years of impotence that everyone said was permanent. And he was ar
oused by a virgin. Not only that, but the one woman on the planet that he couldn’t seduce.

  Irony of ironies, he thought. Now there was a tiny possibility that he could still be a man, and it was no use, no use at all. He could never dishonor a virgin, even for this motive. And even if he could be aroused, there would be no guarantee that he could maintain it long enough for a true sexual encounter with a woman. Over the years, there had been fleeting phantom darts of pleasure, but with no woman had he achieved even this reaction. His eyes narrowed. But, of course, he hadn’t tried to achieve it. He’d believed the doctors, and he’d never so much as touched a woman in those nine long years. He’d never tested the truth. And now that he had, now what? Even if he gave in to his hunger for her and kept her with him, she would be in danger here in Morocco from his enemies.

  What Bojo had just learned made him furious. His worst enemy had just been released from a Moscow jail and given his freedom. Several of the man’s old mercenary buddies had simultaneously disappeared. It wasn’t much of a leap to the certainty that retribution was in the planning stages. He had to get out of Morocco soon, and get Gretchen out as well. She had already become the weak link in the chain, because she attracted him. The man who had her could name his price, whatever it might be. He would do anything to save her. And it wasn’t just because she reminded him so much of Brianne…

  He had only two courses of action. He could tell Gretchen the truth and let her make the decision. Or he could make it for her and send her home before she got into even more danger, or raised hopes that would never come to fruition. She’d been badly hurt emotionally. He didn’t want to be the cause of any more grief for her. On the other hand, he had to know if she had the power to make him whole again. Surely that wasn’t so much to ask of fate. All he wanted was a taste of life again. He must know. Whatever the cost to either of them. He could protect her. After all, letting her go home would put her even more at risk. Besides, he didn’t want her around that man she’d been infatuated with. Not now.