"I suppose that's his business, not yours." For a moment she had thought they might enter into a normal conversation, but it seemed that was too much to hope for.
"I don't make females my business," he was saying. "I'm an oil man." He stretched his long legs with satisfaction and took a firmer grip on the wheel. "I couldn't have got where I am with a woman round my neck."
Looking at him now with distaste, Julie knew this to be true. He couldn't be more than, say, in the middle thirties, and yet by the sound of it was nearly at the top of his profession. Well, good luck to him if he wanted it that way.
"I don't see the girls falling over themselves," she said bitingly.
"They know better. Women and oil don't mix."
"Oh! Then I hope I'm not going to be the proverbial spanner in the works."
"You won't get the chance," he said with a malicious gleam. "You'll be knee-deep in work." The lips dropped crookedly. "And if I were you I should forget Moore. He's not your type."
"So you know my type?" she oozed interest. "You do continue to amaze me."
With a grim smile he held the car as it leapt bumpily over rutted tracks and then turned to take in the fair hair curling up from slight shoulders. The anorak, removed in the heat of the day, showed a neat poplin shirt with sleeves rolled above the elbows, and arms the colour of honey. His glance slid to the tailored skirt and slender legs. His reply was a trifle impatient.
"I'd say you need someone to teach you there's more to life than sitting around looking decorative."
Following his gaze over her clothes, she replied with a trace of acid, "I used to be a model. Perhaps that accounts for my preference of decent clothes to a sack."
Was that a twinkle in the stony brown eyes? He was gazing at the road again now so she couldn't be sure, but the mouth slanted down in a grin as he replied, "You might not look at all bad in a sack."
"I hope I'm not going to get the chance to find out." Deliberately ignoring the lightness in his tone, she asked with studied calmness, "Mr. Whitman, was there any special reason why you picked me for the job?"
"Nope." He continued to stare ahead, but his jaw looked to have tightened. "But I admit I've had a yen to see a smudge of dirt on the immaculate turn-out. You know, honest-to-goodness hard work dirt," he added with heavy sarcasm. "The kind that's not likely to be dished up by your playboy friend Alan Moore." Obviously he didn't care for Alan.
"Are you going to put me to work in the oil fields?" she asked innocently. "No. But it's a thought."
Julie stared across the creamy sand dunes and wondered just what was in store for her. One thing was certain. Whatever it was like being cut off in the desert with thirty-odd men, and a hard-hitting boss, nothing would induce her to complain. That would be just playing into Clay Whitman's hands.
They came upon El Gerdhi when the sun was high in the sky. It was a small fruitful oasis with luscious date palms, green barley, and a village built out of mud and palm trunks. It boasted a post office, a police station and a rest house. As Clay pulled into the shade of a line of palms, a towering Negro appeared with a rusty can of water and a smile as wide as a slice of melon. He took control of the car with a rush of Arabic and much nodding, and Clay smiled and apparently returned the greeting.
Julie stepped out of the car to find herself surrounded by a group of villagers. Laughing and nodding and shuffling close to her in delighted curiosity, they showed only a circle of leathery faces. The rest of their bodies were swathed in some kind of cloak, which she later learned was called a barracan. How on earth did they keep cool in the fierce heat of the day? There was no time to find out, for Clay had pushed through and grasped her arm. With a nod and a wave to the group he led her away.
She found him eyeing her with a thoughtful frown.
"Where's that damned hat of yours?"
"I ... er ..." Slightly panic-stricken, Julie realised she had completely forgotten to pack any kind of headgear.
"This isn't Kensington Gardens." His breath whistled through his teeth as he swept off the straw trilby that had been perched on the back of his head, and clamped it down on hers. "This, dear child, is the desert."
"If you must know, I forgot to bring a hat," Julie snapped defiantly. This man had a gift for bringing out the worst in her. "And I'd rather not take yours! "
"Keep it. I don't want you passing out on me. We've got to keep moving."
"Well, thanks! " Julie squashed the hat down angrily over her hair. She was beginning to see why Clay Whitman had got where he was. He had a heart like a computer that brought out the right answer to the right question and left no room for argument.
He left her at the door of the rest house, where she was given a bowl of cool water, soap and a coarse towel. Through a mottled mirror hung on the wall she was able to touch her face up with a little fresh make-up. After a surprisingly good meal of omelette, fish, cheese, and fruit they waved goodbye to the nodding villagers and drove off into the sun.
Julie watched the sand whistle and spin from the tyres and was lulled into a delicious state of lethargy. Her body felt as thmigh it didn't belong to her and her eyelids drooped heavily. If the vehicle hadn't tossed and bounced so she might have found herself drifting off to sleep. Perhaps it was just as well. She glanced at the fresh upright figure at the side of her. Clay Whitman was sure to disapprove of anyone falling asleep on him!
She forced herself to sit rigid in her seat, and gazed out at the dunes stretching on either side like waves of an endless ocean. She thought of Tamara, and the girls at the office, and England ... and her father--
When she awoke she found the Land Rover had stopped beside a ruin, or a monument; whatever it was, it was enough to give sufficient shade to the seats. She stirred lazily, vaguely aware that the sky had lost its brassiness. It was a deeper blue now, more like the sky of late afternoon. She sat up with a jerk to look at her watch and found Clay gazing at her indolently through his cigarette smoke.
"I thought you were going to sleep all day."
"I'm sorry, I must have drifted off. We're late, aren't we?"
He shrugged; throwing his cigarette out. "Six hours it normally takes. At this rate we'll be lucky if we get in at sundown."
"You needn't have stopped."
"It wasn't altogether practical driving with you bouncing all over my lap."
Jerkily she smoothed her hair and stared straight ahead as he started the engine. He could have kept going and deliberately bounced her awake. Yet he had chosen to stop. Could the steely Mr. Whitman have a soft spot after all? Or had he too found the journey rather rigorous and welcomed the break? More than likely that was it.
A long time later he pointed to two tongues of flame licking the sky on the horizon. "That's Guchani."
They followed a trail of oil that had been sprayed to make a road and Julie gazed in awe at the roaring sheets of fire.
"Gas burning from the wells," Clay said dispassionately, watching her face and adding with a tight smile, "You won't be alone in the dark. They burn day and night."
"That's a comfort anyway," Julie replied drily, though she was thinking, Alone in the dark, with Clay WThitman; she might have been if he hadn't put a spurt on for the last few miles. No doubt his one emotion at the moment was relief. After being with her a whole day what else couldhe feel? She thought of the day that had started way back in Tripoli, the shadowy mosques and freezing .dawn ... and El Gerdhi when he had given her his hat ... in the shade of the ruins when he had waited as she slept. It was ridiculous to feel sorry that the journey was over.
His next comment put paid to any amicable feeling that might have been welling up within her.
"You're here to work, Miss Lambert." He gazed at the smooth hair and azure blue eyes with apparent distaste. "Most of the men are married with wives and families in Tripoli, and the others ... I don't want them distracted from highly specialised jobs, you understand."
Julie felt her breath quicken, but she bit back a reply. Why giv
e him an opening for another caustic comment? He obviously enjoyed making them. By the look in his eyes he could go on all day.
She held her gaze steadily ahead, feeling unaccountably dejected. The camp came into view and she saw an assortment of neat-looking buildings. Although she was officially here for a month, the accounts supervisor had assured her that the first available man would be immediately posted to Guchani. As she stepped from the Land Rover, brushing against the bulk of the large scowling oil man, she could only hope that help would come soon.
Julie was amazed to find so much comfort in the heart of the desert. The concrete bungalows, each with its own veranda, had marble floors and ultra-modern furniture. There was a tennis court, a football pitch, a club, and a games room. White-coated waiters served in canteen with gaily-coloured tables and chairs, and the menu would have done justice to any first-class hotel.
The men were an assortment of Arabs, Italians, and English, There was an Indian doctor, and a German electronics engineer, and Steve Rowland who came from Dublin. It was Steve in fact who drove her around the camp once they had deposited her suitcase in one of two bungalows set apart from the rest. He was stocky and pink- faced with a spiky yellow crew-cut, and looked more like one of the rugged engineers than the accounts manager.
She was later to learn his appearance disguised a very agile brain.
He showed her the wells sunk by the oil men for running water, and pointed to wellhead fixtures in the distance, which he told her were called Christmas trees by the oil men.
She arrived back at her bungalow feeling slightly exhausted, but Steve had had an order to show her round and show her round he did. It would seem that Clay Whitman's requests were carried out to the last letter by his men.
Alone at last, she examined her bungalow with an intake of breath. The marble floor was a deep sea blue. The armchairs were upholstered in white leather, and a fitted wardrobe was set in the wall. There was a steel-legged desk with a fridge set beneath it, and through the door beyond a white-walled bedroom had an adjoining washroom and shower.
Well, well, the men certainly did themselves proud! If she hadn't seen the glow of the gas flames in the darkening sky, Julie would have sworn she was in some luxurious holiday camp. She had unpacked her things and was wondering what to do next when there was a gentle knock on the door. A waiter with the olive skin of an Italian smiled shyly.
"Mr. Whitman would prefer you not to eat in the main dining-hall. He has instructed me to bring your meals until he can make other arrangements."
He placed the covered tray on the desk and departed with a slight bow, and Julie closed the door gently with a sigh of relief. She really hadn't been looking forward to eating in a room crowded with boisterous men. The food was delicious. She ate, amazed at her appetite and ashamed of the cleaned-out dishes.
It wasn't until later when she had showered and changed into a peach negligee that she saw the lights go on in the opposite bungalow. Who lived there? Steve Rowland, probably, seeing as they were both doing accounts, or maybe Gopal Rahmid, the tall Indian doctor she had been introduced to earlier. No further guesses were needed, however, for the door was swung open and Clay Whitman stood there.
"Do come in," she said, clutching the negligee close.
"Sorry." He gave a half smile. "Force of habit," and then, gazing down at the door handle, "We've never found it necessary to issue locks. Would you feel better with one on?"
"I'm not the nervous type, if that's what you mean."
"Good." His eyes flickered down the length of her and then swung away. "I'm in the bungalow opposite if you have any worries. Steve, Dr. Rahmid and myself usually breakfast around six, you'd better join us. I don't want you living the life of a hermit while you're here."
"Thank you. Would it help if I apologised for being a woman ?"
He smiled briefly.
"I don't think so. You might try," he added, eyeing the peach frills, "cutting down on the femininity."
"Sorry. I didn't bring a collar and tie."
Sardonic brown eyes purposely lingered on her throat. "Perhaps that would be going a bit far. Goodnight," and as he pulled the door closed, "Sleep well."
The next day Julie was plunged into the work she had been specifically brought out for. The minute she stepped into Steve Rowland's office she realised what a colossal task one man was battling with. The desks were piled high with figures and data brought in days before. Information on the cost of machinery and equipment already used at the camp were mixed up with sheets of figures and masses of handwritten notes and letters.
"We hope to have three men in here eventually." Steve gazed round apologetically.
"You'll need them." Julie smiled wryly and scooped up a sheaf of papers. "In fact I'd say you'd need a small army to clear this little lot."
Cheerfully she waded in.
They lunched from a tray brought to the office and Steve told hereabout his wife and two small children in Tripoli.
"Janet's four and Mark is three." He smiled wistfully. "I married rather late in life. Most oil men do." Julie reckoned him to be about forty-five. Would Clay marry late in life? she wondered. Would he marry at all? It wasn't likely. "Women and oil don't mix" was his motto. Feeling slightly irritated, she replied,
"But surely, Steve, you don't term yourself as an oil man? Not like the men working on the drills?"
He shrugged cheerfully. "I've been in the business all my life. America, Australia, Venezuela. Y'know," he added without the slightest trace of nostalgia, "I haven't been home in twenty years."
"Perhaps that accounts for a decided absence of the Dublin brogue," Julie smiled.
Towards the end of the first week the desks were almost cleared, and some of the lines disappeared from Steve's freckled forehead. She saw nothing of Clay Whitman except at breakfast and occasionally in the evening when he would arrive at his bungalow, helmeted and spattered with oil. Dr. Rahmid had taken to calling for her each evening and sometimes she dined with him at his bungalow.
He was a strange man, thoughtful to the point of being morose. She recognised a loneliness in him, and an avid dislike of the desert and its climate. He tended to harp on this in his conversation.
"Why did you come to Guchani?" he asked one evening in the offended tones he often adopted when talking about the camp.
Julie gazed up at the stars as they walked. She could never get over their size and brilliance out here in the desert. They hung like silver lanterns from a sky of midnight blue velvet. Reluctantly she answered the doctor's question.
"Surely you know the state of the office. They needed someone desperately."
"Yes. But it is a man's job. Men are very plentiful, are they not?"
"Apparently not," Julie smiled. "They couldn't dig one up in Tripoli, but I've no doubt they will be flying someone out from another station."
"But if you had refused," he persisted as they passed along the line of bungalows, "they would have had to get someone else."
"I suppose so," Julie agreed slowly. She had often wondered herself why she hadn't given a flat refusal when Clay Whitman had arrogantly demanded her services, even if the company had sacked her on the spot, which was highly unlikely, as they were against female labour on the camps anyway. But even if they had, she wasn't completely penniless. She could have found her fare home.
"It all happened so quickly, there really wasn't time to think of refusing," she explained, wondering if that were really the truth. On that freezing cold dawn at the foot of the hotel steps, had she really been as furious as all that, or had there been just a trickle of excitement coursing along her veins at the prospect of working alongside Clay Whitman ?
"This is a great pity," the doctor sighed. "You should not be living under these conditions."
"The conditions are not so terrible," Julie laughed, relieved that they had got on to another track. "The food is good, the bungalows are air-conditioned and the last word in comfort. Admitted the heat is a bit trying,
but ..." she looked up at him in sudden sympathy. "If you're not happy here, Doctor, why do you stay ?"
He shrugged, and Julie's sympathy turned to irritation. The young Indian was obviously a very dissatisfied man. He loathed camp life, and the desert and its environment, yet didn't seem to be able to do anything about it. Gazing up at the sensitive mouth and rueful black eyes, she forgot her annoyance and asked cheerfully,
"Wouldn't you like to go back home?" Her suggestion had been merely a means of making conversation, but she felt she had hit the nail on the head. A slow smile spread across the dark handsome features, revealing gleaming white teeth. He stopped and circling an arm around her shouldfef drew her to him as though grateful for the idea, but almost at once the light had faded from his eyes. The smile was replaced by a dejected frown as he muttered, "I couldn't do that. My work is here at Guchani."
Poor doctor Rhamid! He really was unhappy. But surely he could get out of the camp contract if he tried, find someone else to fill the position before he left. Still, it was his own business.
She gazed up at him in silent sympathy, and standing there in the faint glow of the gas jets she became aware of another figure—Clay Whitman. He must have followed them the best part of the way.
"Good evening," he said sourly, eyeing Dr. Rahmid's arm. The doctor dropped it hastily and stood almost to attention.
"Good evening, Mr. Whitman," with a sideways glance at Julie. "As you requested I am keeping an eye on Miss Lambert."
"Professionally, of course," Clay drawled sarcastically. He nodded towards the oil fields. "There's a man out there with a gashed leg. Rig three. Get someone to drive you."
The doctor departed with a pained sigh and Clay took Julie's arm. She noticed the roughness of his grasp and murmured,
"We're almost there. I can find my own way if you have other things to do."
"I'm through for today. What were you two talking about?"
Julie looked up at Clay's profile as he stared straight ahead. She shrugged.
"Nothing much. I was wondering why Doctor Rahmid stays if he doesn't like it here."
Rose of the Desert Page 2