Lord of the Desert (7 page)

He left abruptly and without a backward glance, motioning imperiously to Bojo, who followed him quickly out of the hotel.

Gretchen managed to get into the elevator and went at once to her room, grateful that the little scene hadn't been witnessed. The concierge had been on the phone and the lobby had been empty. Philippe had literally thrown her away, as if she disgusted him. She groaned out loud and leaned her forehead against the cold metal of the elevator. Now she'd offended him by being forward, and he'd never come near her again. She should go to her room and pack, leave for Qawi, forget that she'd ever been in Tangier!

 

Philippe made it into the waiting limousine and had Bojo take him back to his own hotel, further along the street. He went straight to his room, into the bathroom, closed the door, turned on the shower, and stripped. For the first time in years, he forced himself to look in the mirror at his nude body.

He gritted his teeth as he stared at the damage the land mine had done to him. The scars were no more than white lines against his olive skin now. There, on his lower abdomen, were the worst ones. These he could show to no one, to no woman, ever. But the doctors had told him that he would never again function as a man, and for the first time in all those years, he questioned what he'd accepted as truth.

He closed his eyes and pictured Gretchen's body, her silky innocent body, pressed against him with no fabric between them. Again, he felt the strange new stirring of his body. He opened his eyes and looked in the mirror. As he watched, the thoughts he pictured…aroused him.

“Mon Dieu!”
he gasped reverently at the sheer power of the arousal.

Nine years. Nine long, endless, agonizing years of impotence that everyone said was permanent. And he was aroused by a virgin. Not only that, but the one woman on the planet that he couldn't seduce.

Irony of ironies, he thought. Now there was a tiny possibility that he could still be a man, and it was no use, no use at all. He could never dishonor a virgin, even for this motive. And even if he could be aroused, there would be no guarantee that he could maintain it long enough for a true sexual encounter with a woman. Over the years, there had been fleeting phantom darts of pleasure, but with no woman had he achieved even this reaction. His eyes narrowed. But, of course, he hadn't tried to achieve it. He'd believed the doctors, and he'd never so much as touched a woman in those nine long years. He'd never tested the truth. And now that he had, now what? Even if he gave in to his hunger for her and kept her with him, she would be in danger here in Morocco from his enemies.

What Bojo had just learned made him furious. His worst enemy had just been released from a Moscow jail and given his freedom. Several of the man's old mercenary buddies had simultaneously disappeared. It wasn't much of a leap to the certainty that retribution was in the planning stages. He had to get out of Morocco soon, and get Gretchen out as well. She had already become the weak link in the chain, because she attracted him. The man who had her could name his price, whatever it might be. He would do anything to save her. And it wasn't just because she reminded him so much of Brianne…

He had only two courses of action. He could tell Gretchen the truth and let her make the decision. Or he could make it for her and send her home before she got into even more danger, or raised hopes that would never come to fruition. She'd been badly hurt emotionally. He didn't want to be the cause of any more grief for her. On the other hand, he had to know if she had the power to make him whole again. Surely that wasn't so much to ask of fate. All he wanted was a taste of life again. He must know. Whatever the cost to either of them. He could protect her. After all, letting her go home would put her even more at risk. Besides, he didn't want her around that man she'd been infatuated with. Not now.

With that determined, he stepped into the shower and bathed.

 

Gretchen had packed as soon as she reached her hotel room, in a fever of humiliated self-contempt. But she came to her senses even as the suitcase was open on her bed. How could she leave Philippe now, just when they were growing closer? She had no real desire to leave, despite Philippe's very strange behavior. She couldn't understand why he'd been so protective of her and then had pushed her away with something like disgust when she was a little forward with him. Surely no man in his right mind would ward off the advances of a young, moderately attractive woman. Certainly Philippe wouldn't. He was sophisticated and obviously experienced. She wished she knew what she'd done wrong.

She'd never behaved so brazenly before. He was a foreigner, though, and might be used to a more submissive sort of woman altogether. She looked for an excuse not to leave, and decided that she couldn't leave without seeing him again, at least without trying to understand what she'd done that had offended him. She put away the suitcase and spent the rest of the day at the pool.

The next morning, she dragged downstairs to breakfast a few minutes later than usual, hoping nobody would notice the dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep. She'd been awake most of the night, thinking up ways to bring the subject out in the open with Philippe. If he came back, that was. If he didn't…well, she'd just have to go on with her life. She would go to Qawi, she decided, and start over again in a new direction. But she prayed she would see Philippe again.

She forced herself to think about filling her plate instead of brooding over her Philippe. Like these fascinating people, she had to learn that life lived itself and couldn't be controlled by anyone. Hearts broke. She knew that better than many people. She shouldn't have expected so much from a casual encounter, anyway. She forced herself to smile at the waiters and put on a happy face for them. No sense making everybody else miserable because she was.

As she sat at her lonely table, picking at her food, she looked up and there was Philippe with a huge bouquet of white roses. He searched her eyes quietly for a long moment before he bent and placed the bouquet in front of her on the white linen tablecloth.

“Forgive me,” he said quietly.

She looked up into his dark eyes and he knew at once that she hadn't slept. Neither had he. His conscience had tortured him.

He sat down across from her and caught her cool fingers tightly in his warm, strong hands. “I never meant to be so rude to you,” he said quietly. “Or to hurt you.”

Her green eyes were like new leaves. “You aren't mad at me?”

His eyes closed. “I never was!” he whispered, and brought her palm to his lips to kiss it hungrily. “It wasn't anger, Gretchen!”

Her heart jumped at the fervor of his mouth on her skin. Her heart began to race wildly. It wasn't one-sided. He was attracted to her! She studied his tanned face intently, her own coloring with excitement as she looked at him. “I'm so glad! I thought I'd made you uncomfortable. By being too forward,” she added quickly.

His eyebrows arched. “Forward?”

She lowered her gaze to their clasped fingers. “I practically threw myself at you, and you don't like me to touch you, anyway. I knew that and I should have…why are you laughing?”

He was almost doubled over. He kissed her palm hungrily and gave her hand back, signaling a waiter for coffee. Life was beautiful. He felt years younger and alive and every inch a man. He looked at this woman, so unaware of her charms, and smiled with his whole heart. He looked unspeakably handsome to Gretchen's eyes, even with those white scars down his left cheek. They were hardly noticeable at all except when he smiled or frowned.

“I love for you to touch me,” he said huskily when the waiter had poured his coffee and warmed Gretchen's. “In fact, I've never enjoyed anything more.”

She stared at him with delight. “Really?”

“Really.” He leaned back in his chair, toying with the handle of his cup while he studied her. “I'll tell you all about it one day. This is much too soon. What would you like to do today?”

Her face brightened. “Anything you would.”

He chuckled softly at her enthusiasm. “Anything?” he teased softly.

She leaned forward, glancing around them with exaggerated wariness. “We could hijack two camels and start a travel agency.”

He burst out laughing. “What a thought! And do you think I could ride a camel?”

She hesitated. “Well…” She didn't want to come right out and say she thought he was too fastidious for anything so rough.

He cocked a black eyebrow and grinned at her. “One day,” he mused, “you may discover that I have hidden abilities. But for now, suppose we go and see the Forbes Museum? The house, actually a palace, is now on the market, but I believe we can have a look around. Malcolm Forbes had a grand party there some years ago, which was widely reported on television.”

“I know, I saw the stories! That house?” she exclaimed. “Oh, I'd love to see it!” Actually, she'd love to have his company all day, but she wasn't going to risk embarrassing herself again.

He grinned. “Then finish your breakfast and we'll go.”

She dipped her fork into her bowl of fruit with renewed pleasure. It seemed that dreams really did come true. Her eyes fell on the roses and she traced their soft petals with her free hand. “Thank you for these,” she said softly. “I love flowers.”

“So I noticed.” He gestured to the waiter, said something to him in an abrupt, commanding tone, and waved him away with the bouquet.

“Where is he taking my roses?” she asked, equally shocked by her companion's tone of authority and the man's quick obedience.

“He's putting them into a vase, which one of the maids will deliver to your room,” he said softly. “I like the idea of my flowers watching over you as you sleep.”

Her cheeks colored delicately as she looked into his eyes, and her breath left her audibly.

She was easily flattered, he noticed, and it disturbed him. Perhaps she was on the rebound from her betraying fiancé, or just reeling from her first real taste of attraction. Whatever motivated her, she kindled flames in him that he hadn't felt for nine years. He wanted her. Nothing was more important than that, for the moment.

 

They went through the museum in the Forbes mansion on the sea, and walked through the grounds. Philippe held her hand and made her feel like a closely guarded treasure. But wherever they went, Bojo went along, and so did the two bodyguards she'd seen in Asilah. This time, there was no Saudi prince around, either. Her companion was becoming a bigger mystery than ever, but she was helpless to deny herself his company. She was falling in love, for the first time in her life.

P
hilippe seemed to enjoy Gretchen's company as much as she enjoyed his, because he found all sorts of activities for them to share. For the next four days, without making it obvious, Philippe made sure that Gretchen was under surveillance for every step she took, even when he wasn't with her. She spent a great deal of time in the garden and the swimming pool when he wasn't escorting her around the city. He did have business meetings with foreign officials about business back home, and these took up a great deal of his time. But he managed at least one meal a day, sometimes two, with Gretchen. The more he learned about her, the more he liked her. She was consistently honest with him, and the fact that she didn't know who he was made him confident that she wasn't playing up to him deliberately. It was refreshing to be taken at face value. Then he remembered Brianne's unexpected compassion, and reality came crashing down on him. It was dishonest, to let Gretchen hope for a normal relationship with him, when he knew he could never give her one. But he was beginning to have doubts even about that.

As the days passed, he learned that his initial physical reaction to her was no fluke. Every time he touched her, he became aroused, to his consternation and delight. She was too innocent to realize it. And, of course, he didn't let her close enough to risk that. He held hands with her, but he didn't dare go a step closer, to her obvious disappointment. He enjoyed her impish flirting, her jubilant company, her obvious attraction to him. He couldn't risk making her run from him yet. Not until he was certain she wouldn't want to. She was becoming essential to him.

 

Several days later, Gretchen was sitting by the pool in her red bathing suit with her sunglasses on when a shadow loomed over her. She opened her eyes, and there was Philippe, elegant in a business suit and looking far more somber than ever before.

She took off her dark glasses and blushed at the look he gave her scantily covered body. His eyes narrowed on her full, firm breasts before they traced a path over her flat stomach and narrow hips down her long, elegant legs to her pretty feet. He caught his breath at the delicious surge of pleasure that rippled over him. The sensations she evoked were new and exciting to a man who'd been dead from the waist down for so many years. He was becoming addicted to these little spurts of pleasure when he was with her. He was also becoming curious about whether or not he could prolong and maintain that state of arousal in bed, a curiosity he didn't dare indulge. Not just yet.

“Come with me, Gretchen,” he said after a minute, and with a gentle smile. “I've put this off as long as I can. We must speak.”

He leaned down and caught one of her hands, pulling her up with him. He retrieved her cover-up from the foot of the chair and handed it to her. She slid into it and let him lead her up a bank of marble steps to a patio high above the pool, shaded by tall trees. They sat down at one of the marble-topped tables in white wrought-iron chairs. When the bartender came to take their order, Philippe ordered a mixed drink with rum for both of them.

She knew that her time in Morocco was almost up, and she would have to go on to Qawi while Philippe went home—wherever home was. The thought of leaving him made her empty. In such a short time, he'd become necessary to her happiness.

His somber expression made her uneasy. “I don't drink,” she began.

“You will when you hear what I have to tell you,” he said with grim humor. He took out a thin Turkish cigar from his pocket and asked, “You will permit?” At her nod, he lit it, and blew out a cloud of smoke. It was the first time she'd seen him do it. He was obviously uncomfortable.

He didn't speak until the waiter brought their drinks, was paid, and went away. “A piña colada,” he told her. “With only a touch of rum. Try it.”

She did, wrinkling her nose at the bitter taste of the alcohol.

He smiled. “It tastes better, the more you drink,” he said dryly, and took a long swallow of his.

“What do you want to talk about?” she asked.

“About myself,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “It's past time I was honest with you.” His face hardened. “Regardless of my own inclination, I don't want to give you false hope about a relationship with me.”

She flushed. “Philippe…!”

He held up a hand. “This is harder for me than you can possibly imagine,” he bit off. “Please, let me finish before you speak. Nine years ago, while I was in Palestine on a business trip, I stepped on a land mine left over from one of the regional conflicts,” he said, avoiding her shocked eyes. “Since then, I have not been…a man.” That wasn't quite true, but he didn't dare share his suspicions with her at this point. She barely knew him. He would have to win her trust before he ventured into anything more physical with her. Besides that, he confessed silently, he wanted to see how she would react to a man whom she thought was totally impotent.

Gretchen felt her dreams collapsing. She began to make connections. The scars on his left hand. Her eyes went to them blindly and then to the others on the left side of his face. An accident. Yes. An accident that had destroyed him as a man. She took a huge swallow of the drink, choked and almost strangled. Her heart was breaking…

His eyes were on his glass, not on her. Well, what had he expected, he asked himself bitterly. He remembered Brianne's kind but pitying reaction and closed his eyes, shuddering with self-contempt.

Then, suddenly, he felt something cool and tender against his hand, against the scars. He opened his eyes, and saw her fingers caress over them, her wide green eyes full of compassion as they met his shocked ones.

“I wondered why you weren't married,” she said slowly. “I mean, you must know that you're very handsome, and very sophisticated, and charming. I wondered why you'd even look twice at someone as plain and dull as me.”

“Dull? Plain?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

She shrugged. “I'm not much of a bargain. So I thought maybe you were taking me around with you because you were just lonely and I was handy.” She grimaced. “It was the only way I could explain why you kept seeing me at all.”

He let out a long breath. He was right about her. She wasn't running. She had courage. His lean fingers turned and caught hers tightly. “You have a low self-image.”

“So do you,” she told him bluntly, surprising him. “And you shouldn't. I know men set great store by physical prowess, but you should remember that you're talking to someone who knows nothing about sensual pleasure. Daryl fondled me once or twice and I tolerated it, but I didn't really like it. That's the only real experience of men I have. So maybe I'm frigid anyway. Even if I'm not, how can I miss what I've never even had?” She searched his turbulent eyes. “I like you, very much,” she said shyly, and managed to smile even through her embarrassment. “So…so does it matter? About your…wounds, I mean?”

He leaned back in his chair with an expulsion of breath and let go of her hand. He finished his drink almost in one go, and sat gaping at her. He was absolutely lost for words.

She winced at his reaction. “Don't tell me,” she sighed. “I've put my foot in my mouth again, haven't I? I make things worse every time I talk to you.”

“I've never known anyone like you, Gretchen,” he said on a heavy breath. His eyes narrowed on hers and he looked suddenly years beyond her in maturity, in sophistication. There was an odd sort of arrogance in his lean face as he studied her boldly. “So you find my…condition…undaunting?”

She smiled gently. “You'd still be you, even if you were missing arms or legs,” she pointed out. “I enjoy being with you. I feel…safe.”

He laughed hollowly. “As you are,” he said bitterly.

“No! Not that sort of safe,” she corrected, frowning as she searched for the words. “I'm not afraid of anything when I'm with you.” She averted her eyes. “Although I must admit that I was terrified you were going to try and seduce me.”

“Were you? Why?”

She stared down at the intricate pattern of tiles under her feet. “Because you could.”

There was no sound from the other side of the table for so long that her eyes came up. He was sitting like a statue, staring at her. “I begin to wonder about that,” he said almost to himself. His eyes narrowed. “I didn't expect this reaction from you. I must confess I thought your first impulse would be to get on the next plane back to the States and put me right out of your mind.”

“Back to my boring job and my boring life?” She laughed softly as she pushed her drink around on the surface of the table. “I don't really have anything to go back to in Texas. Loneliness is portable.” She traced a pattern in the vapor on the chilled glass. “You said you do get to Qawi, from time to time,” she added, glancing at him quickly.

He leaned back and crossed his long legs. Now was the time for total honesty. She'd earned that from him. “Yes. I live there,” he said conversationally.

She blinked. “You didn't say that before!”

“I didn't know you before,” he continued quietly. “I wanted to see whether or not you were willing to tell me who you were. I knew that you weren't Maggie Barton, you see,” he added with a slow smile.

“But, how?”

He shrugged. “I have a photograph of her in my desk,” he said. “Along with her résumé.” He met her searching gaze and sat leaning back in his chair, his black eyes glittering faintly, while he waited with damning patience for her to put the final puzzle together.

Her eyes widened. She was remembering all the things she'd heard about the ruler of Qawi—his age, his unmarried status, his strange reputation…

Her breath sighed out in a fearful rush as she realized who Philippe was. Those bodyguards were his. Bojo wasn't a guide at all, he was actually one of the bodyguards. Philippe wasn't a foreign businessman or an ambassador. He was the ruling sheikh of Qawi. He was her new boss!

He chuckled at her wide-eyed stare. “So you finally put two and two together and make four, Gretchen?” he teased gently. “You were honest with me from the outset. I knew almost before the end of our first day together that I could trust you with my life.”

“But, I've been horribly rude and unprofessional!” she began.

“You delight me,” he replied softly. “You have the courage of a hunting falcon, and you never tell lies. If I were the man I had been only nine years ago, you would already be mine in every sense of the word.”

“Me?”

“You.” He pushed his glass aside and leaned forward. His eyes narrowed. “Gretchen, it wasn't only to be a social secretary that I insisted on hiring an experienced American woman. Now that you know the truth about me, perhaps you can understand my fear of gossip. A ruler in my position cannot afford to let his weaknesses show, especially one of this magnitude. I had an ulterior motive for the job, and I have it still,” he added grimly. “You may not be able to accept the conditions that apply. But in all good conscience, I must outline them for you.”

“What would I have to do?” she asked simply, still reeling from the confession, which meant an end to all her hopes. Not only was he incapable of intimacy, but he was the equivalent of a king. She was a poor working girl from Texas. There was no possibility of anything closer than friendship entering their fragile relationship. She was devastated to realize how disappointed she was. And even so, she couldn't bear the thought of never seeing him again, even if her part in his life was a very minor one.

“You would have to be found in compromising situations with me. Only in front of your female servants, however,” he stressed curtly. “It would never occur to me to have you seen by any of the men in my personal guard or my circle of friends. You would be the only occupant of my harem, playing a part.”

Her body tingled all over. “Pretending to be your lover,” Gretchen said on a rush of breath, with sparkling green eyes and a faint rush of color.

“Yes.”

She felt deliciously hot all over. The thought of his mouth on hers made her knees weak. He wanted pretence. She wanted him, and was only just realizing it. Impossible or not, he attracted her fiercely. All sorts of shocking, exciting images formed in her mind. “I have no idea how someone in a harem behaves,” she began slowly.

“Nor have I, despite the lurid depictions in motion pictures,” he said, with the first touch of amusement since the conversation had begun. “We will have to learn together.”

Some of the uncertainty left her expression. She grinned back at him with evident pleasure. “I see. We're both beginners and we start even?”

“A very nice way to put it,” he agreed. His dark eyes were soft. “At least your virtue would be completely safe with me.” He hoped. He didn't dare tell her what her touch did to him, or what it could ultimately mean. He didn't want to frighten her off.

“How far would this pretense have to go, exactly?” she wondered aloud.

“It would have to be convincing,” he said. “That is all.”

She lowered her eyes demurely. “You'd kiss me and…so forth?”