Desert Nights. Penny Jordan

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      The arrangement was that Ali would drive to the university to collect Zahra and then take both girls back to Kuwait town so that they could look at the shops at their leisure, but when they were driving through Kuwait, Felicia remembered that she had no Kuwaiti money and she persuaded Ali to drop her outside a bank and go on to collect Zahra without her.

      ‘I shall wait for Zahra here,’ she assured the puzzled servant, gesturing to the large plate glass building behind her.

      As she emerged from the interior of the car she was glad that she had changed her striped blouse for a thinner, sleeveless one, with a gently scooped neckline.

      The bank cashier was politely helpful, patiently explaining the denominations of her Kuwaiti money and showing her the rate of exchange. He spoke excellent English, and although Felicia doubted that her few pounds would go very far, it was reassuring to have money in her purse.

      She emerged from the welcome coolness of the bank into the harsh sunlight, fascinated by the panorama of life passing by in front of her while she waited for Ali to return with Zahra. Hawk-eyed, bronzed men in their white dishdashes; their robes immaculately clean, their headdresses held in place by glinting gold igals.

      A group of old men sat cross-legged on the pavement, and to her amusement Felicia realised that they were watching a television in a shop window.

      Although men were undeniably in the majority, she noticed several girls walking about unescorted, some wearing jeans and blouses, but there were still plenty of women who retained the traditional black burga, veils covering their faces as they swayed gracefully in the wake of their men. The men were fascinating, Felicia reflected. Even in middle age they retained their upright carriage and good looks. Black eyes glittered curiously at her, hawk noses and thin lips a reminder of their heritage. It was impossible not to admire them in their strict adherence to their way of life, though she liked that Faisal was more gentle by nature, more malleable, ready to indulge and cosset her, the effect no doubt of his Western education, and a result of the close bond that evidently existed between him and his mother. Raschid was cast in a far different mould.

      All too easy to imagine him staring down the length of his arrogant nose at some unfortunate female who had incurred his displeasure.

      Ali was gone longer than she had anticipated, and she scoured the busy street looking for the familiar Mercedes. A group of youths were approaching her, their eyes bold and assessing, and Felicia was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable. So much so that she almost wished for the protection of the enveloping black garments of the other women to hide her from the openly lascivious glances she was attracting.

      When she did see the Mercedes gliding to a halt several yards away, she started to hurry towards it, but it was not Ali who got out of the car. It was Raschid himself, his face dark and forbidding as he strode towards her, the thin silk of his shirt open at the neck to reveal the strong, tanned column of his throat. A tiny thread of awareness filtered through her dismay, coupled with the unwelcome admission that these olive-skinned men with their arrogant profiles and lean grace made their English counterparts seem pale and flabby in comparison. Her heart was beating uncomfortably fast, her pulses racing, her mouth dry with nervous fear. Instead of going to meet Raschid, she hung back, frozen to the spot like some poor little mouse, petrified by the cruel grace of the falcon on his downward swoop.

      Dark fingers, like talons, gripped her arm, swinging her into shocked contact with a hard male body, the scent of male skin filling her nostrils as, momentarily, she was pressed against Raschid’s lean length.

      ‘Miss Gordon!’ There was exasperation as well as tightly controlled anger in the two words, and Felicia found herself stammering weakly, searching for some means to dispel his wrath:

      ‘I was waiting for Zahra.’

      ‘Having told Ali to leave you, completely alone, in the middle of a strange city—Yes, I know,’ he agreed grimly. ‘Fortunately Ali had the good sense to come and tell me.’ His eyes slid over her body; the fragile hip bones revealed by her clinging skirt; the slender curve of her waist below the unexpected fullness of her breasts. Aware of his regard, Felicia went hot and cold all over, suppressing the instinctive desire to conceal herself from him.

      ‘In this country, Miss Gordon,’ he told her, ‘a woman of good family does not walk the streets alone, with her body on display for the delectation of all and sundry, to be gossiped over and speculated about, as those boys were discussing you. I tell you this—Faisal would not be pleased were he to learn of this escapade.’

      Shocked into silence by the censorious words, Felicia bit hard on her lip.

      ‘I just wanted to get some money,’ she choked, nearly in tears, humiliated by the thought that Raschid was witnessing her distress.

      ‘You could have applied to me,’ Raschid’s cold voice continued inexorably. ‘Or does that much-flaunted liberation you European women are so fond of mean that you are unwilling even to do that!’

      He made her sound so petty and childish that she could have wept. She had simply never thought of asking him to change her few travellers’ cheques for her, but a corner of her mind acknowledged that he had some basis for his accusation, although stubbornly she resisted it.

      ‘I’m sure it isn’t a crime to walk alone—other women were doing so, and in European dress,’ Felicia said defiantly.

      Raschid snapped long fingers, ignoring the challenge in her eyes.

      ‘Foreigners!’ he announced contemptuously. ‘Women whose families do not have a care for their reputation.’

      ‘My reputation is my own,’ Felicia snapped crossly. ‘And I’m perfectly capable of taking care of it myself. After all, I’ve been living alone in London for the past five years.’

      ‘In Kuwait, Miss Gordon, a woman’s reputation is the concern of all her family, and a slur upon that reputation reflects upon all members of that family. Faisal may or may not have told you that Zahra is betrothed to a young man of exceptionally rigid family. The betrothal has only been settled after a good deal of very delicate negotiation. These are sensitive times where the Moslem religion is concerned. The information that a young woman attached to our family—in however nebulous a fashion—is disporting herself as you have been today could have very serious repercussions indeed where Zahra’s future is concerned.’

      If he expected her to be cowed and chastened then he had another think coming, Felicia fumed.

      ‘An arranged marriage? How typical of you!’ she stormed. ‘If you had your way you would ruin Faisal’s life in the same way, and then your life wouldn’t be disturbed by an unwanted English girl whose morals and antecedents you so obviously suspect! I’m sorry to disappoint you, Sheikh Raschid, but I will marry Faisal, and there’s nothing you can do to stop us, even if we do have to wait three years.’

      She wondered if it was anger or disgust that made his mouth tighten so forbiddingly. No doubt he thought that girls of good family did not state their intentions so openly, but waited with dutifully downcast eyes for their fathers and brothers to tell them whom they would marry. Poor Zahra! How did she feel about her arranged marriage?

      The cruel fingers were still holding her prisoner, while relentless grey eyes swept her from head to foot and back again, so that she was reduced to trembling fury.

      ‘Let me go!’ she muttered. ‘People are staring at us!’

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