Rose of the Desert (2 page)

Unfortunately the wheels within the Dawah Oil Company were already moving and she was summoned to Accounts for a briefing on the Guchani camp methods. The girls waved her off with envious smiles and the rest of the day passed in a flurry of orders, and instructions on shopping for suitable garments to wear at a desert oil camp.

Five o'clock the next morning found her shivering at the bottom of the hotel steps, a suitcase at her side and a militant expression on her pale features. As the first glow of dawn spread across the indigo sky in feathers of lilac and salmon pink, she stared along the deserted thoroughfare. The sea behind the shadowy buildings took on a pale mother-of-pearl sheen, and the mosques and minarets, usually so brilliantly white in the glare of the sun, glowed dully now like frosted Christmas decorations.

Julie was in no mood to enjoy the scenery. The air was bitterly cold and she hugged the quilted anorak to her, cursing Clay Whitman and his high-handedness. From the opposite direction a dusty Land Rover pulled into the curb and the door was thrown open.

"Sling your case in the back, and make it snappy. We're late." She bent to see Clay Whitman looking fresh in khaki drill. His face was without expression. She dropped her case over the seat and took her place beside him with the caustic comment,

"Don't you mean you're late? I've been here ten minutes." He said nothing, merely let in the clutch and shot away. They had been travelling some considerable time when he asked,

"Do you know anything about Guchani?"

Julie answered evenly, "I know that it's three hundred miles in the desert, employs thirty-odd men, produces about eighty thousand barrels of crude oil a day. And I'm expected to stay there for a month."

"Very good. Been swotting it up ?"

"I thought I ought to know a little of the place I'm to be marooned in." She didn't add that she had looked up the information the day after his appearance on the terrace.

"Don't worry." He turned to give her a flint-eyed smile. "The minute we get a relief you'll be back in your fancy hotel."

"Without you to eavesdrop, I hope."

He shrugged, holding the cold smile. "A friend I was with picked that table. It was only after he had left I found the conversation ... interesting."

"Really? I'd no idea you were interested in female gossip."

The tight lips parted, showing a line of even teeth. "I'm not all hardened oil man, you know, and I was trying to figure out if you really are Moore's type."

"Did you arrive at any conclusion?"

"I didn't get time. You nearly scorched your innards sampling the local brew."

"If it's as bad as that I suppose I ought to say thank you, for interfering."

"You ought to, but you needn't." He returned to his driving and his own thoughts, and Julie stared out of the window. The road was little more than a track now, yellow and pebbly. Occasionally they passed a farmstead with clusters of palms looking like feather dusters against the brightening sky. To the left the distant line of mountains were sprinkled with a dusting of gold and as the sun rose the sky was filled with the twitter of larks and the velvety shadows were replaced by coral-tinted plants and green vegetation.

Julie had to admit it was all rather breathtaking, but with Clay Whitman at her side she could only pray that the three hundred miles would pass quickly. As if sensing her thoughts he said, "It will take about six hours to get there. There's an oasis about half way. We'll pull in there for a break." He looked at his watch grudgingly. "I usually make the trip in one go."

"Well, please don't make any concessions for me," Julie replied coolly. "I can take all you can."

"I doubt it." He turned and pulled a satchel from behind and dumped it on her lap. "Time for refreshments."

Julie couldn't suppress her pleasure at finding a flask of iced lime and fresh fruit inside the bag. In the last half hour the heat had become tremendous, like someone suddenly removing a screen from a roaring fire. Perspiration trickled at her temples, and her lips felt caked with dust. She drank deeply from the plastic mug.

Clay ate as he drove and Julie was obliged to supply him
13
at intervals with his mug half filled with lime so as not to. slop over. She was hard put to it to suppress the giggles at the absurd intimacy of the situation. Here they were, two perfect strangers, eating and drinking together as though it were some regular Sunday afternoon jaunt. Handing him a second glass, she met a brown penetrating gaze.

"You're very young to be working abroad," he said unexpectedly. "No more than eighteen, I'd say."

"Twenty," Julie said wryly. "I don't expect I'll get far. I did once have a crazy notion of working my way round the world."

"I wouldn't advise it. Not alone anyway." The Land Rover seemed to jerk to a faster pace as he added lazily, "And I wouldn't put too much faith in friend Moore. I happen to know he likes his girls dotted along the way."

"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 W
^T
hitman; 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 give 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.