by Mary Lyons
ESCAPE FROM THE HAREM
Mary Lyons
It would be like returning to a prison
For five years Leonie had tried to put the past behind her, make a new life for herself and Jade, the daughter her husband had never seen. Now, Badyr's sudden appearance in London had shattered her orderly life.
Leonie remembered Dhoman--its traditional Arab way of life, the hours of loneliness, the increasing strain between herself and Badyr. She couldn’t quite believe Badyr’s assurances that now he was the Sultan, things were different.
And yet, what choice did she have? He was still her husband and, in spite of everything, she still loved him ....
"Why didn't you tell me this all in London?"
"Would you have believed me?' Badyr asked. "Since you still regard me as a wicked, lascivious villain."
"Well,' Leonie blushed, stunned by the intimate warmth and charm of Badyr’s smile.
"I’m still awaiting your answer," he murmured. "Are you willing to help me develop my country? Or do you feel its a task beyond your mental and physical capabilities?"
"No, of course it isn’t!" she protested. "But there's so much to discuss...and I haven't exactly agreed to anything."
"Oh, yes you have and I’m quite confident that you will perform the services I require to perfection." With a low husky laugh he drew her into their bedroom, closing the door. "Just as certain as I am that you will perfectly perform the, er, service I require tonight!"
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER ONE
'OH Leonie, honey, I really can’t decide...’ Mrs Kaminsky gave a helpless shrug as she looked around the large, draughty warehouse. ‘I never imagined--I mean, honest to God, honey,’ she added plaintively, 'I’ve never seen so many damn rugs in all my born days!’
'Yes, it can be confusing,' Leonie gave the petite American woman a brief, sympathetic smile before turning to consult some papers on a clipboard, which rested on a pile of carpets beside her tall figure.
A shaft of autumn sunlight streaming down from the high, dusty window illuminated the fiery glow of her reddish-gold, long curly hair, piled loosely up in a knot on top of her head. Her wide sapphire-blue eyes, heavily fringed with dark feathery eyelashes, gazed pensively at the notes she had made earlier in the day. This was the third warehouse that she and Mrs Kaminsky had visited that morning, and they were getting nowhere. Her client was obviously wilting at the knees, and becoming increasingly bewildered by the enormous variety of rugs and carpets available on display.
'My husband told me that London is the centre of the world market for Oriental rugs and carpets, but he never said anything about having to trudge around all these nasty old buildings,' Mrs Kaminsky moaned, clutching her pale mink coat about her slim figure. 'It sure seems a weird way to do business--and mighty tough on the feet!’ she added wearily, seating herself on a pile of glowing silk Isfahan carpets.
Leonie smiled patiently, before attempting to explain the position yet again. 'It’s my task, as an Oriental carpet broker, to take you around the various warehouses and help you to buy the best and most suitable rug at the keenest price. The stock you see here has come from all quarters of the globe, and because my firm, Kashan’s, doesn’t have expensive store premises to maintain, and only charge a small buying commission, you get a completely unbiased opinion on the merchandise for sale. That means that you save a of money and we personally guarantee the quality of the item you choose.’
The American woman gave a heavy sigh. ‘Okay, honey, I get the point—dollarwise. But why can’t I just have a few rugs sent to the hotel? That way I could take my time deciding which one I want?’
‘I know it’s not an ideal situation,' Leonie agreed. ‘But everything you see here is being held under a customs and excise bond. Which means that when you’ve picked a rug you like, we can ship it straight over to your home in Palm Springs, and thus avoid you
having to pay customs duty--a sum which would have to be charged if the rug left this warehouse.’
‘I guess you’re right, but I’m feeling ab-sol-utely pooped--and in no shape to traipse around any more of these damn, dusty buildings!'
‘I’m sure we’ll find just what you’re looking for,' Leonie said brightly, trying to sound more optimistic than she felt and resisting the temptation to look at her watch. If she didn’t come up with the answer to Mrs Kaminsky’s problem soon, she was going to be late for her lunch date.
‘You told me that you were looking for a rug to go in your main living-room. Can you tell me about the room’s colour-scheme--walls and curtains, etc?’
‘Well, it’s just been redecorated in shades of gold and white by a simply divine young man I found. My husband complained that it cost the earth, but I think it looks great--really classy, if you know what I mean?’
As Mrs Kaminsky waved her hands enthusiastically in the air, Leonie’s eyes were drawn to a large turquoise and diamond ring on the older woman’s finger.
‘Of course!’ Leonie clicked her teeth, annoyed with herself for not having thought of the answer to the problem before now. Smiling at the assistant, who had been waiting patiently for the last ten minutes, she pointed down to the end of the large, cavernous warehouse.
‘Sorry to take so long, George. Can we look through that pile of large Qum rugs?’ she said, before turning to her client. ‘I know you’ve been thinking in terms of deep blues and dark reds, but I’m going to suggest that maybe you might decide to choose something more in harmony with your colour-scheme.’
Leading the way past the piles of rugs and carpets heaped one on top of the other, Leonie thought, as she had so often, that it was like walking through a treasure vault of precious gems; the incandescent glow of the jewelled silks almost dazzling beneath the strong arc lights set high in the ceiling.
‘It was your ring which gave me the idea,’ she explained to Mrs Kaminsky as the assistant began to turn over a fresh pile of carpets. ‘These come from the holy city of Qum, in Iran. The political climate in that country is not too good at the moment, and so these pieces are becoming increasingly rare.’
Leonie bent down to stroke the soft, turquoise-coloured silk which formed a background to a garden of paradise design in gleaming tones of white, cream and gold.
‘Now, that's more like it, honey!’ the American woman enthused. ‘l just love that shade of blue.’
'It’s unique to all the pieces made in Qum. You’ll never find that colour in any other Persian rug. . .’
‘A telephone call for Miss Elliott,' a disembodied voice from a loudspeaker high on the wall cut into Leonie’s words. ‘Will Miss Leonie Elliott please come to reception.'
‘I can’t think who...?’ Leonie stood up, looking startled. ‘I’m sorry, I’d better go and take the call. Don’t hurry. Take plenty of time and look at all the various designs,’ she instructed the older woman. ‘I won’t be long.’
Hurriedly threading her way across the floor and down the stairs towards the warehouse office, Leonie had a sudden moment of panic as she realised that it might be her mother on the phone, calling about Jade. Although the little girl was only four, her irrepressible high spirits had already resulted in a broken arm from falling out of a tree, and a severe burn on her leg due to experimenting with a forbidden box of matches.
Smiling briefly at the receptionist, she picked up the phone, sighing with relief to hear the voice of her secretary.
‘Leonie?’
‘Yes, Gwen, what’s the problem?’
‘Nothing dramatic,' Gwen said. ‘But we’ve had an urgent request for a valuation. The client has to go abroad in two days’ time, and is frantic at having to leave a valuable Heriz carpet uninsured. Can you manage to see the carpet at six o’clock tonight?’
Leonie grimaced. ‘l was hoping to get home early for once. Any chance of my doing the valuation tomorrow moming?’
‘I’m afraid not. It’s the only time that the client has free, and both Henry and Philip are fully booked this afternoon. I’m still trying to sort out Mr Dimitri’s diary. Goodness knows where I’m going to fit everyone in.’
‘Yes, I know it’s a problem,’ Leonie agreed. The bad car accident which had kept her employer, Dimitri Kashan, away from the office for the last four weeks had meant an increased work-load for the other members of the firm. ‘Okay, Gwen, I’ll see to it--just as long as it is only an insurance valuation, and not someone wishing to arrange a sale. I simply wouldn’t have enough time for that.’
‘I’ve already made that point clear to the client,’ her secretary assured her before rattling off an address in Mayfair. ‘Just ring the doorbell and ask for Sheikh Samir, okay?’
‘An Arab? You never said . . .’ Leonie’s voice trailed away as she realised that Gwen had put down the phone.
Thanking the receptionist and walking slowly out of the office, Leonie tried to banish a strange feeling of apprehension. How could there be any problem? Especially since she already had many clients from the oil-rich Arab states, who considered the purchase of oriental rugs and carpets to be a better investment than stocks and shares. Although, of course, the fact that she could speak Arabic was another reason why many of them preferred to deal with her firm.
Totally absorbed in her thoughts, it wasn’t until Leonie felt a hand grasping her arm, that she realised she wasn't alone in the dusty corridor.
‘Ah ha--at last! I’ve been hunting high and low for you, ever since my secretary said you were in the building.'
Leonie looked up, startled to see Jeff Powell’s handsome face beaming down at her. ‘I’m sorry . . .’ She shook her head in confusion.
‘What for? I only wish I could persuade you to leave Kashan’s and join the wholesale trade,’ he grinned.
'Maybe if you worked here, at Powell’s, I wouldn’t have such difficulty trying to convince you of my manifold charms! How about having dinner with me tonight?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t, I’m going to be tied up with business,' she murmured, moving aside as he tried to slip an arm about her waist.
‘What a pity.’ Jeff's mouth tightened slightly as he gazed at the girl standing beside him. Not only was she damn good at her job, but with her unusual colouring of large blue eyes set over a pale alabaster, almost translucent skin, surrounded by the fiery brilliance of her hair, she was a startlingly beautiful woman. A regular visitor to his warehouse during the last few years, she had steadfastly refused to respond to his advances. This had at first aroused disbelief and then, when he realised that she was impervious to his charm, he had become intrigued.
Without being vain, he was well aware of the fact that women found his blond good looks attractive, and being comparatively rich and successful, he had never had any trouble in finding girl-friends. He knew, from gossip within the trade, that there was a broken marriage in Leonie’s background, and that she had a young daughter to support. However, she was only twenty-four, and he was certain that she must have had many relationships with other men; she was far too sexually attractive not to have done so. Why, then, did she insist on keeping him at a distance?
‘What are you looking for, today?’ he asked.
Leonie smiled. ‘My client and I must have viewed practically every carpet in London! However, I think she’s going to settle for a Qum rug--always provided your price isn’t too steep.’
‘You know that I’ll always be happy to quote you a special price,’ he said softly, moving closer to her slim frame.
‘Yes, well . . . Oh my goodness—just look at the time!’ Leonie murmured, hurriedly glancing down at her watch as she edged adroitly away. ‘I must fly! Poor Mrs Kaminsky will wonder where I’ve got to,’ she added over her shoulder as she hurried off down the corridor.
Jeff Powell stood looking after her disappearing figure for some moments, before giving a helpless shrug and returning to his office. Over an hour later he was still finding it difficult to concentrate on the business in hand, the vision of Leonie’s lovely face coming between him and his work.
For her part, Leonie had no such problems. She was well used to dealing with the amorously-inclined Jeff Powells of this world, who more often than not regarded her as a challenge to their masculinity. She had, therefore, completely dismissed the handsome warehouse owner from her mind by the time she rejoined Mrs Kaminsky, who was happily enthusing over her choice of carpet.
It took some time to sort out the paperwork concerning the export of the carpet and Leonie was, as she had feared, already half an hour late for her lunch appointment when the taxi in which she was travelling turned into Jermyn Street
. Entering the restaurant, she made her way over to the table where her old school friend, Sally, was waiting.
‘I’m sorry to be so late, but it’s just been one of those days,’ Leonie said, sinking thankfully down on to a comfortable, velvet-covered chair. ‘First of all the car wouldn’t start this morning, then it was a matter of trundling from one warehouse to another, and just when I was about to leave the office, I had to take a long phone call from New York which...good gracious! Do I spy a bottle of champagne?'
Sally laughed at the startled expression in her friend’s wide blue eyes as a waiter placed the silver ice-bucket stand, containing a bottle of Dom Perignon, beside their table.
'If I can get a word in edgeways, I’d remind you that today is my birthday.’
‘Oh, no! I completely forgot,’ Leonie groaned.
‘And I’m also celebrating a promotion at work. I’ll have you know that you are in the privileged position of having lunch with Armstrong, Lord and Marshall’s newest account executive!’
‘Oh, Sally--how marvellous! I’m so pleased for you,' Leonie said, leaning back in her seat and beaming with delight. She knew that her friend had been hoping for this promotion within one of London’s top advertising agencies, and it was good to know that all her hard work and talent had been recognised at last. ‘Will you get a large rise in salary to maintain you in your new, exalted position?’ she teased.
‘I sincerely hope so--if only to pay for this lunch!’ Sally retorted with a grin as the waiter opened the bottle and poured the champagne.
‘Well, Happy Birthday, and congratulations,' Leonie said, raising her glass in a toast. 'Mmm, it’s delicious—a real corpse reviver!’ she added, savouring the cool dry taste of the sparkling liquid.
‘You certainly don’t look like a corpse,’ Sally said, gazing with envy at the beautiful girl sitting beside her. ‘What’s the problem? Nothing wrong with Jade, I hope?’
‘No, thank goodness. After her last escapade, she’s been as good as gold. She now knows that climbing trees can lead to a fall--and a broken arm!’ Leonie smiled as she remembered the indignant expression on her small daughter’s face, when she realised she would have to wear a heavy plaster cast for some weeks. ‘In fact, Jade’s been angelic lately. Mainly, I suspect, because she’s determined to be a bridesmaid at my mother’s wedding!’
‘It’s only two weeks until the big day, isn’t it? How are all the preparations going?’
‘Fairly smoothly--so far! But Mother began panicking a month ago, about having to leave Jade and me alone in England, and I can’t seem to persuade her to stop worrying.’
An American, Leonie’s father had been a senior executive with an oil company based in Tehran. The Shah’s departure and the rise of the Ayatollahs had left Iran in a ferment, and John Elliot had opted to take early retirement, deciding to live in England where Leonie, aged fourteen, was still at boarding sch
ool. The fact that his wife was English and had many relatives in the country was also a deciding factor in his decision, and it was tragic that he should have died so shortly after moving into their new home in London.
Over the past ten years, Leonie’s mother had settled down to a reasonably contented widowhood when, quite suddenly out of the blue, a friend of her father’s over on a visit from the United States had decided to round off his holiday by calling to see Mrs Elliot. That had been three months ago, and with what seemed the speed of light, Clifford T. Brownlow and her mother had decided to get married. Leonie thoroughly approved of her prospective stepfather, and of his desire to take her mother back to his home in Florida after the wedding. The only problem had been Mrs Elliot’s increasing concern about Leonie and Jade’s future.
‘It wouldn’t be so bad if you had a nice, reliable nanny,’ her mother had said a few weeks ago. ‘I know you’ve contacted all the agencies, darling, but if you can’t find someone, what are you going to do?’