Rose of the Desert (3 page)

The men were an assortment of Arabs, Italians, and English, There was an Indian doctor, and a German electronics engineer, and Steve Rowland who came from Dublin. It was Steve in fact who drove her around the camp once they had deposited her suitcase in one of two bungalows set apart from the rest. He was stocky and pink- faced with a spiky yellow crew-cut, and looked more like one of the rugged engineers than the accounts manager.

She was later to learn his appearance disguised a very agile brain.

He showed her the wells sunk by the oil men for running water, and pointed to wellhead fixtures in the distance, which he told her were called Christmas trees by the oil men.

She arrived back at her bungalow feeling slightly exhausted, but Steve had had an order to show her round and show her round he did. It would seem that Clay Whitman's requests were carried out to the last letter by his men.

Alone at last, she examined her bungalow with an intake of breath. The marble floor was a deep sea blue. The armchairs were upholstered in white leather, and a fitted wardrobe was set in the wall. There was a steel-legged desk with a fridge set beneath it, and through the door beyond a white-walled bedroom had an adjoining washroom and shower.

Well, well, the men certainly did themselves proud! If she hadn't seen the glow of the gas flames in the darkening sky, Julie would have sworn she was in some luxurious holiday camp. She had unpacked her things and was wondering what to do next when there was a gentle knock on the door. A waiter with the olive skin of an Italian smiled shyly.

"Mr. Whitman would prefer you not to eat in the main dining-hall. He has instructed me to bring your meals until he can make other arrangements."

He placed the covered tray on the desk and departed with a slight bow, and Julie closed the door gently with a sigh of relief. She really hadn't been looking forward to eating in a room crowded with boisterous men. The food was delicious. She ate, amazed at her appetite and ashamed of the cleaned-out dishes.

It wasn't until later when she had showered and changed into a peach negligee that she saw the lights go on in the opposite bungalow. Who lived there? Steve Rowland, probably, seeing as they were both doing accounts, or maybe Gopal Rahmid, the tall Indian doctor she had been introduced to earlier. No further guesses were needed, however, for the door was swung open and Clay Whitman stood there.

"Do come in," she said, clutching the negligee close.

"Sorry." He gave a half smile. "Force of habit," and then, gazing down at the door handle, "We've never found it necessary to issue locks. Would you feel better with one on?"

"I'm not the nervous type, if that's what you mean."

"Good." His eyes flickered down the length of her and then swung away. "I'm in the bungalow opposite if you have any worries. Steve, Dr. Rahmid and myself usually breakfast around six, you'd better join us. I don't want you living the life of a hermit while you're here."

"Thank you. Would it help if I apologised for being a woman ?"

He smiled briefly.

"I don't think so. You might try," he added, eyeing the peach frills, "cutting down on the femininity."

"Sorry. I didn't bring a collar and tie."

Sardonic brown eyes purposely lingered on her throat. "Perhaps that would be going a bit far. Goodnight," and as he pulled the door closed, "Sleep well."

The next day Julie was plunged into the work she had been specifically brought out for. The minute she stepped into Steve Rowland's office she realised what a colossal task one man was battling with. The desks were piled high with figures and data brought in days before. Information on the cost of machinery and equipment already used at the camp were mixed up with sheets of figures and masses of handwritten notes and letters.

"We hope to have three men in here eventually." Steve gazed round apologetically.

"You'll need them." Julie smiled wryly and scooped up a sheaf of papers. "In fact I'd say you'd need a small army to clear this little lot."

Cheerfully she waded in.

They lunched from a tray brought to the office and Steve told hereabout his wife and two small children in Tripoli.

"Janet's four and Mark is three." He smiled wistfully. "I married rather late in life. Most oil men do." Julie reckoned him to be about forty-five. Would Clay marry late in life? she wondered. Would he marry at all? It wasn't likely. "Women and oil don't mix" was his motto. Feeling slightly irritated, she replied,

"But surely, Steve, you don't term yourself as an oil man? Not like the men working on the drills?"

He shrugged cheerfully. "I've been in the business all my life. America, Australia, Venezuela. Y'know," he added without the slightest trace of nostalgia, "I haven't been home in twenty years."

"Perhaps that accounts for a decided absence of the Dublin brogue," Julie smiled.

Towards the end of the first week the desks were almost cleared, and some of the lines disappeared from Steve's freckled forehead. She saw nothing of Clay Whitman except at breakfast and occasionally in the evening when he would arrive at his bungalow, helmeted and spattered with oil. Dr. Rahmid had taken to calling for her each evening and sometimes she dined with him at his bungalow.

He was a strange man, thoughtful to the point of being morose. She recognised a loneliness in him, and an avid dislike of the desert and its climate. He tended to harp on this in his conversation.

"Why did you come to Guchani?" he asked one evening in the offended tones he often adopted when talking about the camp.

Julie gazed up at the stars as they walked. She could never get over their size and brilliance out here in the desert. They hung like silver lanterns from a sky of midnight blue velvet. Reluctantly she answered the doctor's question.

"Surely you know the state of the office. They needed someone desperately."

"Yes. But it is a man's job. Men are very plentiful, are they not?"

"Apparently not," Julie smiled. "They couldn't dig one up in Tripoli, but I've no doubt they will be flying someone out from another station."

"But if you had refused," he persisted as they passed along the line of bungalows, "they would have had to get someone else."

"I suppose so," Julie agreed slowly. She had often wondered herself why she hadn't given a flat refusal when Clay Whitman had arrogantly demanded her services, even if the company had sacked her on the spot, which was highly unlikely, as they were against female labour on the camps anyway. But even if they had, she wasn't completely penniless. She could have found her fare home.

"It all happened so quickly, there really wasn't time to think of refusing," she explained, wondering if that were really the truth. On that freezing cold dawn at the foot of the hotel steps, had she really been as furious as all that, or had there been just a trickle of excitement coursing along her veins at the prospect of working alongside Clay Whitman ?

"This is a great pity," the doctor sighed. "You should not be living under these conditions."

"The conditions are not so terrible," Julie laughed, relieved that they had got on to another track. "The food is good, the bungalows are air-conditioned and the last word in comfort. Admitted the heat is a bit trying, but ..." she looked up at him in sudden sympathy. "If you're not happy here, Doctor, why do you stay ?"

He shrugged, and Julie's sympathy turned to irritation. The young Indian was obviously a very dissatisfied man. He loathed camp life, and the desert and its environment, yet didn't seem to be able to do anything about it. Gazing up at the sensitive mouth and rueful black eyes, she forgot her annoyance and asked cheerfully,

"Wouldn't you like to go back home?" Her suggestion had been merely a means of making conversation, but she felt she had hit the nail on the head. A slow smile spread across the dark handsome features, revealing gleaming white teeth. He stopped and circling an arm around her shouldfef drew her to him as though grateful for the idea, but almost at once the light had faded from his eyes. The smile was replaced by a dejected frown as he muttered, "I couldn't do that. My work is here at Guchani."

Poor doctor Rhamid! He really was unhappy. But surely he could get out of the camp contract if he tried, find someone else to fill the position before he left. Still, it was his own business.

She gazed up at him in silent sympathy, and standing there in the faint glow of the gas jets she became aware of another figure—Clay Whitman. He must have followed them the best part of the way.

"Good evening," he said sourly, eyeing Dr. Rahmid's arm. The doctor dropped it hastily and stood almost to attention.

"Good evening, Mr. Whitman," with a sideways glance at Julie. "As you requested I am keeping an eye on Miss Lambert."

"Professionally, of course," Clay drawled sarcastically. He nodded
towards
the oil fields.
"There
's a man out
there
with a gashed leg. Rig
three.
Get someone to drive you."

The doctor departed with a pained sigh and Clay took Julie's arm. She noticed the roughness of his grasp and murmured,

"We're almost there. I can find my own way if you have other things to do."

"I'm through for today. What were you two talking about?"

Julie looked up at Clay's profile as he stared straight ahead. She shrugged.

"Nothing much. I was wondering why Doctor Rahmid stays if he doesn't like it here."

He stared down at her. The brown eyes held a flicker of annoyance.

"So he's been selling you the old line, has he? Don't waste your sympathy on him—he tries it on all of us. Dr. Rahmid is the type who is happiest when he's miserable. He's free to pull out whenever he likes."

"Well, you might try at least to understand him."

"Like you do?" His smile was twisted as they stopped outside her door. He let his arm drop, but made no effort to move away. "Do you think Moore would approve of you shining your bluebell eyes on the doctor?"

"Why shouldn't he?" Julie replied, determined not to get ruffled.

"No reason." He leaned a broad arm on the doorway. "But if I had gone to the trouble of getting a girl fixed up in my father's Mediterranean offices and paid for her to stay at the plushiest hotel, I would expect to have some claim on her myself."

"No doubt you would, but as Alan and I are just friends he's not likely to think on those lines, is he?"

"No? I bet he'll be peeved as hell to find you're not in Tripoli when he arrives."

She saw the dark gleam in his eyes and her breath quickened angrily. "You always insist on reading nastiness into everything, don't you?"

"No, but I know Moore."

"And so do I."

He gave her a long look and shrugged, "Either you're charmingly naive or you don't mind."

"Sometimes you're ..." Furious, she raised a hand to strike him, but he caught her wrist with a harsh laugh. "Don't waste your energy. You'll need it for young Moore."

Crimson, she had to suffer her wrist in his grasp and his face mocking above hers, but she managed to say steadily, "I don't suppose his unpopularity out here has anything to do with the fact that Alan is the son of Sir Giles Moore, the chairman of the company ?"

He released her roughly and pushed the door of the bungalow open with a sudden jerk. "Let's wait and see, shall we?"

Julie entered, expecting Clay to leave, but he hung around at the door, staring up at the stars as though allowing tempers to cool. Presently he strolled inside, casting a lazy glance at the feminine touches to the room.

"Are you comfortable here ?"

She nodded. "There's no need to send your man over to keep it clean. It would take no time at all to dust round in the evening."

He shook his head, eyeing with disdain the cluster of desert flowers flowing from a glass on the windowsill.

"You've got enough to do. By the way," he looked up at her, "Steve tells me you're almost clear in the office. You've done a good job."

"I'm glad I could help," she said politely, waiting for him to go.

"You can."

It was a rather obscure reply and she looked to him for enlightenment. He grinned down at his overalls. "Give me time to get cleaned up and we'll have a drink. I want to talk to you." He nodded to the streak of oil along her shoulder which must have rubbed off from his sleeve. "Funny, the smudge on your shirt makes no difference at all. You still look as if you've stepped out of a bandbox."

Julie gazed down with a half smile at her white shirt and linen skirt, and then around the room. "You can hardly call this the rougher side of life."

"It could get rougher."

Amidst the confusion of a wildly beating heart she thought he moved a pace closer. The brown eyes curiously flecked with green met and locked with hers.
A
slight smile played around the hard mouth, and suddenly an awareness of the tremendous physique and width of shoulder made her catch her breath. She dragged her gaze away to the fitted wardrobe.

"Am I allowed to wear a dress?"

"Why not?" He tossed her a mocking smile. "You're safe with me!"

Later as Julie showered she wondered what it was that Clay wanted to talk to her about. Could it be that he had heard they were about to get a replacement? Was he going to tell her that she would be leaving soon for Tripoli ?

Slipping into a sleeveless blue silk, she knew a strange reluctance to hear those words. She had become accustomed to the desert and its climate, the friendly smiles of the men, and a general feeling of belonging to this village in space. She wasn't ready to leave it yet; not yet.... She gazed across at the lights from Clay's bungalow. The soft muted notes of a languorous tango drifted over from his veranda, probably Radio Rome.

With a touch of lipstick and a final brush at her hair, flaxen at the ends from the sun, Julie stepped out into the night and met Clay almost on her doorstep. His white silk shirt stood out in the dark and the biscuit-coloured slacks held an immaculate crease.

He flicked an appraising glance over her and taking her lightly by the arm led her through his door. Mohammed, the smiling Libyan, was placing a tray of drinks and ice on a small table near french windows. As Clay dismissed him for the night Julie glanced round the room that she hadhardly dared take in during the formal breakfast times.