Sandstorm. Anne Mather

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СКАЧАТЬ that she knew most of what they were doing as well. It was inconceivable that she should not have learned that the son of an eminent Middle Eastern prince was in town, so why hadn’t she told Abby? The answer was obvious. Because if Abby had suspected her husband might be here, she herself would not have come.

      Nibbling at her lower lip, Abby braced herself against the sink. She supposed it had been bound to happen sooner or later, that she should meet Rachid again, if not socially then at least commercially. Since she had taken up the post of Brad’s secretary once more, her work brought her into contact with the oil barons of the world, and after all, it was through Brad that she had met Rachid in the first place.

      But Liz! She and Liz had been friends since schooldays. She had known how she felt. Had known that she had no desire to meet her husband again—not yet. It was too soon. And she half wished she had not succumbed to her father’s pleas to her to return to England. Without his entreating letters, she would still be working at the trade mission in New York, and she felt a surge of frustration that she should have allowed herself to be persuaded to take up her old life.

      And yet, she argued logically, couldn’t this have happened just as easily in New York? Rachid was not bound by the conventions and limitations which had restricted his ancestors. He was a man of the twentieth century. He flew all over the world on business for his father. He looked like a European, and he dressed like a European, and only in his own country did he shed the trappings of the Western world.

      Nevertheless, Abby knew that the chances of her encountering Rachid in New York had to be less likely. Her work there had not afforded her the same opportunities she had as Brad’s secretary, and besides, so far as she knew, Rachid did not know where she was. All correspondence between them had been through her father’s house in London, and he had distinct orders not to give her address to anyone without first consulting her.

      The door behind her opened and she swung round apprehensively, half afraid that Rachid had seen where she had gone and followed her. But it was Liz Forster who came into the room, viewing her friend with wry knowing eyes. She was a tall girl, about Abby’s height of five feet seven inches, with narrow bones and slightly angular features. She did not have Abby’s smoothness or roundness, for although Abby was slim—too slim, her father thought—she retained a lissom grace, that was evident in the curve of her hips and the fullness of her breasts.

      Now Liz closed the door behind her, and leaning back against it, folded her arms. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, as Abby’s lips parted in involuntary protest. ‘You’ve seen him!’ She shook her head. ‘Is that why you’re skulking out here?’

      ‘I am not skulking,’ declared Abby, straightening up from the sink, and rubbing her chilled palms together. ‘I am merely trying to decide why you should do such a thing.’

      Liz sighed, pushing herself away from the door. ‘You’re angry,’ she said flatly.

      ‘Did you expect anything else?’

      Liz shrugged. ‘I suppose not.’

      Abby gazed at her helplessly. ‘Liz, you must have known how I would react. That’s why you didn’t tell me, isn’t it? Why you let me stand there like a lemon, when Damon brought him in.’

      ‘Did he see you?’

      ‘No.’ Abby pressed her lips together. ‘At least, I don’t think he did. You can never be absolutely sure with Rachid. He has the eyes of a hawk!’

      ‘A desert hawk,’ replied Liz dryly. Then: ‘I’m sorry, Abby, but I had to do it.’

      ‘Why? Why did you have to?’ Abby could not accept that. ‘You could have warned me, at least.’

      ‘And then you wouldn’t have come,’ Liz exclaimed, reminding her of her own words. ‘Abby, does it really matter? I mean, you have to meet him some time, don’t you? Even if it’s only in the divorce court.’

      Abby’s lips thinned. ‘Don’t you know?’ she taunted bitterly. ‘Muslims don’t have to do anything so boringly official. All Rachid has to do is say the words of repudiation and he’s a free man. Besides, why should he do that? He’s allowed four wives anyway.’

      ‘Abby!’ Liz came towards her, putting a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. ‘Rachid’s a Christian. You told me so yourself—’

      ‘Is he?’ Abby moved away from her.

      ‘Abby, you know—’

      ‘I’d really rather not talk about it, Liz.’ She moved her head jerkily, feeling the weight of her hair heavy at her nape. ‘And if you don’t mind, I’d like to leave—as soon as possible. Would you get my coat? It’s in the bedroom. I’ll just slip out the back way—’

      ‘Speak to him, at least,’ Liz protested, appalled. ‘What’s the matter? You’re surely not afraid of him, are you? Heavens, you were married for almost three years! Doesn’t that entitle him to five minutes of your time?’

      Abby’s eyes blazed. ‘Rachid’s entitled to nothing from me, nothing!’ she declared fiercely. ‘I don’t know what kind of moral blackmail he used on you to get you to invite him here—’

      ‘Damon asked if he could bring a friend,’ retorted Liz crossly. Damon Hunter was her boss at the agency. ‘How did I know—’

      ‘You mean, you didn’t?’ Abby looked at her sceptically, and even Liz could not sustain that challenging gaze.

      ‘Oh, all right,’ she said, picking up a canapé from a half empty tray and biting into it delicately. ‘Damon told me who it was. But I didn’t know you were going to throw a fit of hysterics, did I?’

      Abby bent her head. ‘Will you get my coat?’

      ‘Abby, please—’

      Liz looked at her imploringly, and Abby heaved a sigh. ‘I can’t stay here,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m not hysterical, and I’m not afraid of seeing Rachid again, I just—don’t want to—to speak to him.’

      Liz shook her head. ‘Damon’s going to be furious!’

      ‘Damon is?’ Abby was confused.

      ‘Yes.’ Liz moved her shoulders awkwardly. ‘Oh, if you must know, he asked me to give this party, to invite you here. Rachid—’

      ‘You mean Rachid arranged it?’ Abby demanded angrily. ‘Oh, Liz, how could you?’

      Liz grimaced. ‘I didn’t have much choice, did I? Damon is my boss!’

      Abby clenched her fists. ‘I won’t do it, Liz. I won’t!’

      ‘All right, all right.’ Liz made a deprecatory gesture. ‘No one can force you.’

      ‘No.’ But Abby was not completely convinced. She knew her husband. She knew his capacity for coercion and for the first time she wondered why he particularly wanted to see her now, just when she was beginning to feel secure once more.

      ‘I’ll get your coat,’ said Liz suddenly, walking towards the door. ‘You wait here. I won’t be long.’

      ‘And if Damon—’

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