Roberta Leigh - Flower of the Desert

by Roberta Leigh

  "Persian women are far less downtrodden today than they were ten years ago," she said diplomatically.

  "I'm not."

  "Your life is extremely emancipated compared with your grandmother's," Fleur insisted. "You should look on the positive side of things, not the negative."

  "Now you're speaking like a teacher."

  "I am a teacher."

  "I don't think of you as one." Nizea edged forward in her chair, careful not to move her left leg. "You're far too beautiful to be a teacher, Fleur. You should be a film star or a model. Some job where you can use your looks."

  "I prefer to use my mind. I'll have that far longer than I'll have my looks."

  Nizea frowned. "It's hard to argue with you. You're too logical."

  "Did I hear someone say that a woman is logical?" a melodious voice asked in amusement.

  Both girls swung round as the heavy green leaves parted, and Karim Khan's tall, lithe figure emerged. As always he was well dressed but, because of the heat, his suit was of the lightest silk.

  "What woman is logical?" he repeated.

  "Fleur is," said his sister.

  The man turned and allowed his eyes to move over the golden-limbed body of the tall, slender girl lounging on the basket chair in front of him.

  Fleur knew she made a striking picture with her red- gold hair vivid against the green background of leaves. Even so she was unprepared for the long and appraising stare to which she was being subjected, and her body grew warm. Resisting the urge to set her feet on the ground and run away, she lowered her lashes and tried to look unconcerned.

  "The rest here has done you good, Miss Peters," Karim Khan said. "You look like your old self again."

  "My old self?" She lifted her head but made sure their eyes did not meet.

  "The way you looked the first day you came to my father's house."

  She noticed he did not say "our house," the way an Englishman would have referred to the home he shared with his parents. But then the Persians, though they had a strong sense of family, also had a strong sense of property and, as long as Ibrahim Khan was alive, the family house would be referred to as his.

  "I'm beginning to think I've been idle too long," she murmured. "I must think of returning to Teheran."

  "In this heat you are better off here." The voice was liquid soft, but the eyes were narrow slits.

  "You can't talk about going back so soon," Nizea interpolated. "You promised you'd stay at least a month."

  "I'm not going back this week," Fleur said hastily. "I was merely telling your… telling Mr. Khan that I was thinking about it."

  "What Miss Peters means," the man said, looking first at his sister and then returning his gaze to Fleur, "is that she wants me to know she is keeping her options open."

  "I don't understand what that means," Nizea said and was prevented from having her curiosity satisfied by the arrival of a manservant and a nurse, who carefully placed her in her wheelchair for the return trip to her room.

  "I'll be in to have dinner with you at the usual time," Fleur said and half rose to leave the garden with her pupil.

  But her way was barred by Karim Khan and, not sure if he wished to talk to her about his sister, she resumed her seat. They were both silent until the wheelchair turned a bend in the path and was out of sight. Then the man spoke.

  "Why are you always in such a hurry to run away from me?"

  Fleur was tempted to say, "Because I'm afraid of you," and though one part of her was curious to know how he would have replied to such a statement, common sense told her it would be a foolish thing to admit. He would see it as flirtatiousness and, since he was obviously attracted to her, she must avoid doing anything to arouse him further.

  "You haven't answered my question," he said. His eyes were fixed on her, his body so close to her chair that, short of pushing him away, she could not rise and leave.

  "I find you… you make me nervous," she murmured.

  "Why?" His eyes narrowed further. "It can't be anything I've done, so it must be something I've said. Is it because I don't agree with you about my sister?"

  She seized on this as being a reasonable excuse for her to avoid him. "Yes, Mr. Kahn, it is."

  "But there's more to it than that, I think," he continued. "It isn't only my attitude toward Nizea that you dislike. There's something else about me that worries you; that puts you on the defensive—like a frightened doe."

  "A frightened doe." The words had a poetic ring and were also a remarkably apt way of describing how she felt. More than ever he seemed to represent strength and authority, and her fear of him deepened. She stared at him, not seeing a man of the twentieth century but an image of an earlier Khan. The pale suit turned into a rich satin one, lavishly jeweled. The thick black hair that grew low on his nape suddenly grew even lower, though most of it was hidden by a heavily swathed turban. The finely cut mouth was hidden too—by a heavy black beard that gave fierceness to his face. Her breath caught in her throat, and she put up her hand, feeling her heart beating fast beneath her fingertips.

  "What is it?" Karim Khan said and caught her arm. "Why are you looking at me so strangely?"

  "I'm sorry." She gave a shake of her head. The picture of the past and present fused into one and the Mogul became the man. "For a moment I saw you as if… as if you were one of your ancestors."

  His mouth parted to show gleaming white teeth, though the movement could never have been palled a smile. "From your expression I doubt whether it was a pleasant picture. How did you see me, Miss Peters—as a masochistic conqueror looking for infidels or as a tyrant beating one of my many wives?"

  "Neither," she said coldly, hiding her amazement at the quickness of his mind. "But I admit I… I put you into something more colorful than the suit you're wearing."

  He looked down at his jacket and at the same time released his grip on her arm. "I will be glad to change into something less formal," he said. "Perhaps you will join me for a swim?"

  "I couldn't."

  "Couldn't or won't?"

  "'Shouldn't' is probably the better word," she explained. "I don't think it would be right for me to swim with you. I'm here as Nizea's teacher."

  "You are here as her friend," he said softly. "And if I were not afraid of scaring you even more than you are already, I would tell you that you were here because I want you to be."

  Fleur looked at the ground and determinedly took his words at their face value.

  "I'm glad you take an interest in your sister's welfare, Mr. Kahn. I'm trying to be a companion to her, but I still don't think it right for me to go swimming with you. Customs here are different from those in England."

  "You are behind the times. When we entertain European visitors, we follow European customs."

  "But you aren't entertaining a European, Mr. Khan. I'm not here as your guest."

  He moved back a step, as if irritated, and this gave her the opportunity of jumping to her feet. She still had to tilt her head to look at him, because he was so tall, but she felt at less disadvantage now that she was standing.

  "Please don't treat me as a guest, Mr. Khan. If you do, you will embarrass me and make it difficult for me to remain here."

  Slowly he surveyed her, his eyes crinkling at the corners as if he were amused. "All this because I asked you to have a swim with me! I had no idea that treating you as a guest was a sign of disrespect."

  "You know very well it isn't." Crossly she faced him.

  "Then why such strict adherence to protocol?"

  "Because your father expects it of me."

  The amusement left Karim Khan's face, and Fleur wished she had thought to mention his father earlier. Obviously this was the best way of bringing the younger man back to a recognition of his responsibilities; to remind him that this did not include flirting with European women.

  "I regret I will not have the pleasure of swimming with you," he murmured, "but at least I've had the pleasure of seeing you in a swimsuit."

>   "You haven't," she said, startled. "I never swim when you're here."

  "I'm well aware of that." His tone was ironic. "But I saw you once when you did not know I was nearby. You wore a green bikini—and you swam like a fish." His right hand gestured towards her hair. "With such a crowning glory perhaps I should say—goldfish!"

  "To know you were watching me through the bushes," she said with some austerity, "makes me feel like a goldfish. All I lack is the bowl!"

  He gave the same uninhibited laugh she had heard from him once before. It was at variance with the precise way he spoke and dressed, and she had the feeling there were many aspects of him that people did not know. It might even be more apt to say, had not been allowed to know.

  "If you will excuse me, Mr. Khan, I'd like to go to my room and rest."

  "You can rest here and talk to me."

  "I thought you wanted to change into something cooler."

  "I have already been sufficiently chilled by your manner!" Involuntarily she smiled, and he was quick to see it. "You have a dimple in your cheek," he said softly, "and it adds—if such a thing were possible—to your beauty."

  "Please don't say that," she said quickly.

  "Why not? It's true."

  "You mustn't talk to me like this."

  "Are you always embarrassed when a man pays you compliments?"

  "If he's my employer."

  "I'm not your employer."

  "You are his son; and in this country a father and son speak the same language."

  For a few seconds he surveyed her, his arms folded across his chest. "That is true, Miss Pteers. Here, a father and son try to speak with one voice, a fact that regrettably does not apply in many other parts of the world. In the West, for example, the young like to hold the opposite view from their parents—though they usually revert to it as they mature."

  "I wasn't being critical of what happens here," she said hurriedly. "I was merely stating a fact."

  "So was I. But I don't know many facts about you, Miss Peters. Were you emancipated when you were a student, or did you always follow the carefully thought out path you are following now?"

  "My parents always encouraged me to think for myself," she said stiffly.

  "They didn't mind you coming to Iran?"

  "Why should they have? It's only for a year and at the end of that time I'll be returning home."

  "To marry an Englishman?"

  "If I fall in love with one."

  "Would you allow yourself to fall in love with a man who wasn't?"

  "It isn't a question of allowing." Her words were chosen with care. "You make it sound as if one can decide with whom one falls in love."

  "One can." He spoke with a sharpness that surprised her. "One can, Miss Peters. I assure you of that"

  Abruptly he turned on his heel and walked away. He had never before left her without making some polite excuse, and she knew that something had annoyed him.

  The knowledge gave her an empty feeling deep inside. So he thought that one could choose whom one loved. Well, maybe a man like Karim Khan could, but she couldn't. To her, love would come whether she wanted it or not; overcoming her inhibitions and overwhelming her good sense. She would love first and, not until later, would she question whether or not she was right. It was odd that she should know this—almost as if she had already fallen in love and knew it would not come to fruition. Yet she was not in love. There was no man to whom she had given her heart, or even a tiny portion of it.

  Gathering up her books, she hurried away. It was too early to change, but at least in her bedroom she would be safe from intrusion.

  Seven

  As Fleur was changing, a servant brought her a message from Mrs. Khan asking her to join the family for dinner at eight o'clock.

  Fleur's instant reaction was that Karim Khan had suggested it, and her first impulse was to say no. Unfortunately, she could not think of a reasonable excuse and, reluctant to give a feeble one, she had no option but to accept. But she would make it clear to the lordly son of the house that he could not command her as easily as he commanded other women. She was sure he did command them—it was apparent in the way he looked and spoke to her—as if he knew the effect he had on the female sex. One look from those smouldering dark eyes of his, and a woman could easily be persuaded to lose her head. And all in the name of love when it was nothing more than sex.

  Her lips curled scornfully. Sex. Nature's cunning way of making sure the human race continued. Fleur knew she was deliberately being cynical, using it as a defence against the emotional response this handsome man aroused in her. Yet all she was doing was making herself aware how strong one's instincts are and how hard it is to fight them. The attraction she and Karim Khan felt for each other came from their dissimilarities: from his desire to conquer and from hers to resist; from his determination to take and her refusal to give. More important still, she feared him and, because he saw her fear as the first sign of weakening, he was becoming all the more determined in his pursuit. But how could she openly warn him he was wasting his time when he had not made any definite move towards her and all she had to go on was her intuition?

  So intent was she on this problem that she finished dressing automatically. It was a good thing, for had she given it any thought she would have been dissatisfied with everything in her wardrobe. But the knowledge that her simple clothes could never compete with the luxurious! ones of the rich Persian women had at least prevented her from making the attempt, and she was amused to see she had instinctively chosen the simplest of her evening dresses: a white silk with a round neckline that only hinted at the soft curves of her breasts. A narrow gold cord encircled her waist and gold sandals glinted on her slender feet as her long skirts swayed around them.

  The sun had lightened her hair and tonight it was more gold than red. It fell in loose waves from a center part. It was a naive style that she hoped would warn Karim she was not the sophisticated Englishwoman he wanted her to be but a young schoolteacher who had led a cloistered life—despite the fact that she came from a country which, he considered, allowed its women complete freedom.

  On her way to the salon she went to see Nizea who, though dismayed at being left to have dinner with her old nanny, was delighted that Fleur was dining with her family.

  "Mama said they were having some interesting guests tonight," she said. "If you get finished early enough, come in and tell me how the evening went."

  Promising she would, if it were not too late, Fleur went down to the hall. The sound of voices and the clink of glasses came from the main salon, but she hesitated to enter it, embarrassed to go forward on her own.

  She was still standing by the stairs when Ibrahim Khan appeared through the doorway on her left. He wore a dinner jacket of the same excellent cut as his son's, and the resemblance between the two men struck her strongly. Add thirty years to the younger man—plus a beard—and he would be a replica of his father.

  "I'm delighted you were able to join us for dinner," her host said. "Are you nervous about entering the room on your own?"

  "A little."

  He proffered his arm and, taken aback by the gesture, she put her hand on it.

  Their entrance caused a momentary silence in the salon, then he led her towards his wife who looked every inch the matriarch of the house in a brocade gown that was almost stiff enough to stand on its own. A double row of large diamonds sparkled around her throat, and a waterfall of diamonds cascaded from each ear.

  "Lovely to see you." The woman smiled at Fleur as if she were a cherished guest and not her daughter's companion. "I have a little surprise for you."

  With a gasp of pleasure Fleur recognized the man standing beside Madame Khan as her godfather and erstwhile tutor from her university days, whom she had last seen a month before leaving England.

  "Uncle Desmond! What on earth are you doing here? And why didn't you let me know you were coming?"

  "It was all arranged at a few days' notice." He drew her forw
ard to kiss her.

  He looked exactly as she remembered him: untidy in an ill-fitting dinner jacket with a straggle of gray hair on the dome of his head and a long, lugubrious face. But the blue eyes were full of humor, and the lines around them were wise ones.

  "Why didn't you let me know you were coming?" she asked, still delighted by the surprise of seeing him when she had thought him safely ensconced in the cloistered quietness of the groves of Academe.

  "I only knew of my trip a week ago. Your father gave me your address at the school and…"

  "But I wrote and told them I was staying with one of my pupils," she intervened.

  "They weren't sure if you were still here. Your letter wasn't explicit on that point. Anyway, when Madame Nadar said where you were, I immediately rang up Mr. Khan," he smiled at his host, "whom I have known for many years and who had already extended an invitation to me to join him here."

  "Which he had thought he would be too busy to accept until he knew you were staying with us," Ibrahim Khan said with dry humor.

  "The excuse was genuine, my friend," Desmond Anderson said. "But once I knew Fleur was here, I rearranged my schedule. I dared not come all the way to Iran and not see my goddaughter."

  "Then I will leave you alone with her to satisfy yourself that we are not treating her harshly," his host smiled, leaving his two English guests to talk together.

  Fleur looked at her godfather fondly, surprised how pleased she was to see someone from England. It made her parents seem closer and also made her feel less of an alien.

  "Being a foreigner in someone else's country makes you feel terribly alone," she said. "You start to question your own attitudes—as if you can no longer take for granted all the things you've accepted and valued—and you start having doubts about everything."

  "That's why there's some value in having an English club where you can go," Desmond Anderson replied. "Why haven't you been to the Embassy? I'm sure the Ambassador would make you welcome. He and your father were at school together."

  "I don't want to get in with the diplomatic set," Fleur replied. "I didn't have anything in common with them in England, and I'd like them even less out here. They lead such insular lives."