Sandstorm

by Anne Mather

  'Sherry?' suggested Professor Gillespie briskly, crossing to a tray set on a table in the corner. 'Abby? You'll have a glass, won't you? How about you, Rachid? Will you taste the vine?'

  Rachid shook his head, and Abby subsided on to the low couch her father used when he wanted to relax. Had he been absorbed into the dictates of his father's religion at last? she wondered, feeling a slight chill of apprehension along her spine. It was all very well telling Liz that Rachid was a Muslim, when she really believed he was not, and quite another to run up against the implacable force of will that abhorred the use of alcohol and upheld the rights of man. She accepted the glass of sherry her father handed her with some relief, and took refuge in its warming contents that moistened the dryness of her mouth.

  'Can I get you a beer, or some tonic water?' Professor Gillespie persisted, looking at Rachid again, but his guest merely shook his head once more.

  'Nothing, thank you,' he affirmed with civility, and Abby's father made an apologetic gesture as he raised his own glass to his lips.

  Abby waited for Rachid to speak, but again it was her father who made the first overture. 'Would you like me to leave you alone?' he suggested, unwilling to intrude, but Abby forestalled his departure with a heated denial.

  'I think Rachid should tell me why he's come here,' she declared, permitting herself a brief glance up at her husband. It was all very well telling herself that she had to remain calm, but beneath Rachid's faintly supercilious regard, she was growing resentful. 'I can't imagine what he feels he has to say to me, particularly after our conversation last night, and if anyone has to leave, I think it should be him!'

  There was silence for a few moments after her statement, and she was aware of her father's discomfort at being a party to their conflict. But there was no other way to deal with Rachid, and her own nerves were ragged by the time he chose to answer her.

  'I should be very grateful if you would leave us alone for a few minutes, Professor,' said Rachid, with quiet decisiveness, ignoring Abby's gasping indignation. 'You know why I am here. Surely it is not so much to ask—a few minutes alone with my wife?'

  'I'm not your wife‑' Abby was beginning, but her father was moving towards the door.

  'I'll be upstairs,' he said, giving her a vaguely persuasive look, and she knew that so far as he was concerned she ought to give Rachid the benefit of a hearing.

  The door closed behind him, and Abby stilled the instinct to get to her feet. She was safer sitting down, she decided. She did not entirely trust her legs to support her, and besides, she could avoid his gaze more easily this way.

  Rachid, however, had other ideas. Just when she had convinced herself she was in control of the situation, he crossed the square of carpet and lowered himself on to the couch beside her, his superior weight causing the cushions to compress, creating a sloping incline she had to combat.

  'So, Abby,' he murmured, turning sideways to look at her, 'you are afraid of me!'

  'Me? Afraid of you?' Abby managed a gasp of contempt. 'Don't be so ridiculous!'

  Rachid shrugged. 'Why else do you behave like a startled dove, just because I wish speech with you?'

  Abby sighed. 'We have nothing to say to one another, Rachid. I told you last night‑'

  'Last night you were shocked. You had not expected to see me at the party. I realise now, that was a mistake. I should not have appeared in front of you like that. I should have telephoned you first, written to you‑'

  'Rachid, it wouldn't have made the slightest difference.' Abby took a deep breath. 'Why won't you understand? It's over. Our life together is over!'

  'No!' His features hardened perceptibly, a muscle beating erratically at his jawline. 'I will never accept that, Abby. You are my wife, my—my‑'

  'Possession?' she supplied coldly, turning to look at him. 'That is how you see me, isn't it? Your woman? Your chattel‑'

  'For the love of God, be still,' he muttered, anger darkening his lean features. 'Why do you persist in fighting me? Why can you not accept what I am offering you?'

  'Because it's not enough,' she retorted, rising now, unable to still her trembling limbs any longer. 'Why won't you accept that I don't love you any more, Rachid? Why can't you see that you're wasting your time?'

  'Your father does not think so,' he intoned harshly, getting to his feet behind her so that she swung round nervously, alert to his every move. 'He is of the opinion that you are distrait, uncertain, unable to make such a decision for yourself.'

  'My father said that!' Abby was horrified.

  'Not in so many words.' Rachid's quiet admission restored a little of her faith. 'But he agrees with me that you should think most seriously before making up your mind.'

  'Making up my mind?' echoed Abby blankly. 'Rachid, my mind is made up. I'm not coming back to you, and that's that.'

  His hands clenched at his sides, and for a second she thought he was going to take hold of her and shake her into submission. It was a disturbing moment, a moment when her dark-lashed eyes gazed with tremulous challenge into his, and encountered the smouldering evidence of his anger. She was intimidated, but she knew if she faltered he would overwhelm her protests, and she forced herself to appear composed even though she was shaking inside.

  'Is this your final word?' he enquired grimly, and silently she nodded.

  'Very well.'

  With a defeated gesture he turned aside, and her enforced stand crumbled. He was accepting her word, she thought disbelievingly, and the fruits of victory were like ashes in her mouth.

  Rachid moved towards the door, but before opening it, he had something else to say. 'There is one thing I would ask gf you,' he said quiedy, his expression unreadable as she swung round on her heels, trying to appear unconcerned.

  'Yes? What is it?'

  'I wish you would have dinner with me tomorrow evening,' he said, much to her astonishment. 'There are matters we must discuss if you are determined to destroy our marriage, and I prefer to do my bargaining on my own ground, if you do not mind.'

  Abby licked her dry lips. 'Your own ground ...'

  'My hotel,' he averred smoothly. 'You know it. Will you have dinner with me there at—say, eight o'clock tomorrow evening?'

  Abby was cautious. 'How do I know‑'

  'Do you not think it is a small favour to ask?' he enquired, a little of the harshness returning to his tones at her hesitation. 'You are still my wife, Abby, whether you like it or not, and you owe me something for the time we spent together.'

  Abby was tempted to argue, but there was a certain truth in what he said. She had had everything he could materially offer her, and perhaps she owed him something for that, if nothing else. Either way, she knew her father would not condone her denying him an evening of her company, and he was right, there were matters to discuss, not least their divorce.

  'All right,' she said now, 'I'll come. But‑'

  'No buts, Abby,' he countered abrupdy, cutting off her tentative qualification. 'Eight o'clock. I will expect you!' And pulling open the door, he wished her a curt good evening.

  Her father appeared as soon as the outer door had closed behind Rachid, coming into the study enquiringly, his narrow face creased into a frown. He gave his daughter a curious glance, then said half apologetically:

  'What could I do? He insisted on staying until you got back.'

  Abby gave a sigh of resignation, and then put out her hand, as if in acknowledgement. 'I know. I know what Rachid's like. But what did you say to him? Did you let him think there was some chance that I might change my mind?'

  'No!' But Professor Gillespie looked slightly discomfited by her candour. 'But—well, Abby, you know how I feel. Marriage is a sacred covenant, not to be entered into lightly. Nor should it be broken in the same way.'

  Abby gasped. 'You think what Rachid did isn't a serious matter?'

  Professor Gillespie fumbled for his pipe. 'I think you're too emotional, Abby. I always have. There's more to a relationship than—than the
physical aspect. Your mother and I‑'

  'Were you ever unfaithful to Mummy?' demanded Abby hody, overriding his protest. 'How many mistresses did you keep in various parts of the city?'

  'Don't be ridiculous, child!' Her father's nostrils flared as he strove to keep his temper. 'You know perfectly well‑'

  'Yes, I know perfectly well that you never had any mistresses, nor did you sire any bastard children! And that's my point precisely. You can't compare your marriage to mine, or your behaviour with Rachid's!'

  The following evening Abby dressed for her dinner date with increasing apprehension. All day she had fretted with uncertainty, tempted every other minute to ring the hotel and make some excuse. But she knew if she did, Rachid would only find some other way to see her, and at least this way she was prepared.

  Nevertheless, she couldn't help wishing she had held out for a more formal meeting, an interview in the company of his solicitor or hers, with all the protection that the legal profession could provide. She had been a fool to agree to this inevitably unpleasant tete-a-tete, but his unexpected capitulation had temporarily robbed her of her powers of reasoning, ft had not helped to find her father had some sympathy with his cause, and since it was she, and not Rachid, who wanted to dissolve this marriage, Professor Gillespie was loath to give her his support.

  She decided to wear trousers, as a deliberate assault on his ideas of femininity, the masculine attire strengthening her determination to show her independence. Black velvet pants accentuated the length of her legs, and the matching jerkin she wore with them concealed the revealing curves of her body. The long silky hair was coiled into a knot on the top of her head, and a velvet cap with a swinging tassel completed the image of staunch emancipation. Only as she walked was her sex unmistakable, the provocative swing of her hips proclaiming her womanhood.

  But Abby, examining her reflection before she departed, was unaware of this betraying trait, and she was well pleased with the picture she represented. It was sombre, she thought, but that was how it should be, and if her stomach muscles tightened at the thought of how appropriate her appearance was in the circumstances, she determinedly thrust the feeling aside. At least Rachid should be in no doubt that she meant what she said, she decided with satisfaction, and throwing her sheepskin jacket about her shoulders, she went downstairs.

  Fortunately, her father had a dinner engagement himself that evening, and as he had departed before her, she was not obliged to explain her destination. She felt a little deceitful, keeping it to herself, but she knew if she told him the truth it would only arouse hopes she could not possibly fulfil. So far as her father was concerned sha and Rachid were finished, and tomorrow she would explain, after her husband had left for Abarein.

  She took a taxi to the hotel and entered the lobby, not without a certain amount of trepidation. It was impossible not to feel apprehensive where Rachid was concerned, and besides, her surroundings alone were intimidating enough. He always stayed at the most exclusive hotel in London, and she was glad the velvet suit had been bought in New York and would therefore pass muster among so many glitteringly gowned and jewelled escorts. For herself, she wore little jewellery, only a thin gold chain around her neck, and the slim gold watch Rachid had bought her at Cartiers. The extravagant necklaces and bracelets he had bought had been left behind when she returned to England, and as she had never worn a lot of jewellery, she didn't miss them. All the same, her head turned as diamonds and sapphires and emeralds sparkled on ears and wrists, and she felt like the slender boy she resembled, wide-eyed in the cave of Aladdin.

  There was no sign of Rachid, however, and as it was already after eight o'clock she approached the reception desk. Perhaps he had been unavoidably detained, she thought hopefully, or maybe he had had to return to Abarein at short notice. Still, she knew in those circumstances he would have contacted her, and her nerves were sketched tautly as she crossed the cushioned pile of the carpet.

  The receptionist was female, and more inclined to be generous to members of the opposite sex. One look at Abby's pale, luminous face was enough to convince her that this was no effeminate boy but a slim and beautiful woman, and her lips tightened perceptibly as she asked if she could be of assistance.

  'I have an appointment,' said Abby uncomfortably. 'With—er—with Prince Rachid. He is staying at this hotel, isn't he?'

  The girl frowned. 'You are‑' she consulted a pad in front of her, '—Princess Hiriz?'

  Abby felt herself colouring. She wanted to say, no, her name was Abigail Gillespie, but that would have been a deliberate distortion of the truth. Besides, the receptionist's expression was such that she almost enjoyed acknowledging her identity, even if it did evoke certain raised eyebrows.

  'You are?' The girl was clearly taken aback, but she recovered herself quickly and went on: 'I'll get someone to escort you to Prince Rachid's suite.' She prodded the bell on her desk. 'Suite 1101 please!'

  'No—wait! That is‑' Abby glanced about her in embarrassment now. 'I was supposed to meet—to meet Prince Rachid here, in the lobby.'

  The receptionist's supercilious gaze returned to her anxious face. 'You're sure you are Princess Hiriz?'

  'Of course.' Abby was impatient now.

  'Then surely you know that Prince Rachid was taken ill yesterday evening, and hasn't left his suite since?'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Abby's heated cheeks lost a little of their hectic colour. 'No,' she said definitely, shaking her head. 'No, I didn't know. I—er—I saw Prince Rachid yesterday evening and he seemed all right then.'

  The receptionist shrugged. 'He left word that you were to be shown up to his suite upon your arrival. Do you wish me to arrange this or not?'

  Abby shifted uncomfortably. 'You're sure he is ill?' she ventured, and then cringed at the look the other girl gave her. She was vaguely aware that one of the porters had come to stand beside her, no doubt acting upon the receptionist's instructions, and with a gesture of defeat, she gave in. 'Thank you,' she murmured, essaying her permission, and with a polite inclination of his head the man indicated the lifts.

  They wafted up to the eleventh floor, the smoothness of their ascent cushioned by air pressure. There was a lingering aroma of perfume in the lift, evidence of its previous occupants, and the floors they passed in swift succession were discreetly-lit windows through the meshed glass doors.

  All too soon, it seemed, they had reached their destination, and Abby stepped out on slightly unsteady legs on to the softly-woven carpet of the corridor. The porter led the way, and they traversed its honey-gold surface until they reached double-panelled white doors, edged in gilt. The numbers 1101 were secured in gold also, and at the porter's summons the doors were opened.

  It was the man Karim, resplendent in his white robes and matching kaffiyeh. He bowed politely in Abby's direction, pressed a note of some denomination into the porter's hand, and then ushered his guest into the sitting room behind him.

  It was a spacious apartment, carpeted in green, with yellow and cream striped sofas and chairs, and little polished tables holding vases of flowers. The room was redolent with their scent, a heady mixture to someone whose senses were already reeling from this unexpected turn of events.

  'Princess!' Karim bowed again, and realising this might be her only opportunity to question him, Abby hurried into speech.

  'The Prince,' she said, 'your master—is he really ill?'

  'Did you doubt it?'

  The voice came from behind her, and for a moment she was totally disorientated. Then, identifying those dark, liquid tones, she spun round to find Rachid standing in the doorway to what was most likely his bedroom. He was dressed like Karim, in the robes of his forefathers, but without the encompassing headdress. The combination of East and West was doubly disturbing, and Abby glanced about her nervously, wondering exactly what Rachid's intentions were.

  'They told me you were ill,' she said now, summoning all the anger and resentment she could gather, and he inclined
his head in silent assent.

  'Karim!' He snapped his fingers in sharp dismissal, and after the servant had left them he went on: 'It is true. I have been unwell. Something I ate, perhaps.'

  Abby was still suspicious. 'You look all right to me,' she retorted, pushing her hands into the pockets of her sheepskin jacket, ignoring the fact that he did look a little pale.

  'In any case, you're not incapacitated. You could have come downstairs.'

  Rachid straightened from the lounging position he had adopted and came fully into the room. 'I was advised to rest,' he replied quiedy. 'And as I did not wish to postpone your visit, I saw no reason why we should not enjoy our meal here.'‑|

  Abby pressed her lips together. 'I'd rather not. I think it would be better if we arranged another meeting, at another time. At the solicitor's, perhaps.'

  Rachid's lips thinned. 'What is wrong with us sharing a meal here? Have we not done so many times before?'

  'That was different.'

  'How different?'

  Abby hunched her shoulders. 'We—we were married‑'

  'We are still married,' he snapped shortly. 'And if you wish me to treat this matter favourably, then I suggest you stop putting obstacles in my way.'

  Abby looked reluctantly at him. 'Are you going to dress?'

  'I am dressed,' he retorted, controlling his temper with difficulty. 'Now—please, take off your coat, and I will offer you a drink.'

  Abby shrugged, and then complied. It was easier than allowing him to help her, easier than feeling those long brown fingers brush her neck or bring a tingle to the sensitive bones of her shoulders. She dropped the sheepskin jacket on to a chair by the door, and then stood apprehensively in the middle of the floor, aware of his eyes moving over her. She was wearing boots, her pants zipped inside their soft suede lining, accentuating the masculine stance she adopted, and with a faint quirk of his eyebrows he crossed the floor on silent feet.