take it in. She supposed she had Raschid to thank for this, she thought bitterly, as she read it yet again, some of the more condemnatory phrases sticking in her mind.
‘Your wanton behaviour… encouraging my uncle to behave in the most familiar fashion… making a laughing stock of my reputation….’ These were but a few of Faisal’s accusations, revealing how very thin his veneer of Westernisation actually had been. The letter finished quite abruptly, and Felicia read the last paragraph slowly.
‘… and in view of your totally disgraceful behaviour I am forced to say that I can no longer countenance any marriage between us. I am writing to my uncle separately to inform him of my decision, and I am sure once it is known to him he will lose no time in sending you back to England, where you may parade yourself on the streets for the whole world to see without causing me to lose face.’
He had never really loved her, Felicia thought with a sigh, crumpling the letter into a small ball and throwing it into her wastepaper bin. She could not blame him entirely. She was as much at fault as he—and yet it hurt to read his letter, to know that Raschid had quite deliberately written to him showing her in a bad light—it must have been Raschid, it could be no one else. How would she have felt if she had in truth loved Faisal? What would her feelings have been at this moment? And yet she could not deny that it would be a relief not to have to pretend any longer. No doubt as soon as Raschid heard from Faisal he would lose no time in sending her home. Bitter pain shafted through her. She did not want to leave this country. Strangely enough, what hurt far more than Faisal’s desertion was the knowledge that Raschid had deliberately gone behind her back and betrayed her. And yet why should he be so surprised? Hadn’t he promised that he would find a way of parting them? If only he had waited a little longer he need not have put himself to the trouble. Time had achieved his ends for him, without any help. The love she thought so strong in the gentle climate of England had soon shrivelled in the merciless heat of the desert.
She took a deep breath and then another. Outside her bedroom window the swimming pool shimmered temptingly, blue as a turquoise stone set into the paved courtyard. Raschid had had it installed, so Zahra had told her, and its coolness drew her, as though somehow its silken caress could wash away her pain and hurt. Like a wounded animal she sought oblivion—not from Faisal’s betrayal, which had taken second place in her chaotic thoughts, but from the new, dangerously hurtful knowledge that when she left Kuwait, she would leave behind a part of herself—in the hard uncaring hands of his uncle!
How it had happened she did not know. Nor why her senses should be enslaved to the one man who had no use or desire for her, but now the truth was inescapable. She refused to use the word ‘love’ in conjunction with her feelings for Raschid, but neither could she continue to deny its existence. All her heart-searching, all her reluctance to leave Kuwait had their roots in the same hidden depths of her being which had given birth to the sensual excitement she had experienced at Raschid’s touch. She was attracted to him, she told herself, nothing more. But it was more than attraction. That could not account for the driving need within her. The ache to touch and be touched; the burning, hurting desire that kept her awake at night.
She glanced in the mirror, barely recognising the white face staring back at her. She found her black swimsuit, deeming it more suitable than her bikini, unaware of how it accentuated her curves, flattering her slim shape, drawing attention to the valley between her breasts, the silky sheen of her skin. As she pulled it on she realised that in the move from Kuwait she had forgotten to buy herself a fresh supply of salt tablets. She shrugged. It hardly mattered now. She would not be here much longer—just as long as it took Raschid to read Faisal’s letter. She did not think he would allow her to stay under his roof one moment more than necessary, birthday celebrations or no!
Although he might not know it, Raschid had won. How ironic that it should be Faisal who was responsible for his victory; the same Faisal who had sent her out here in the first place to win his uncle over. It seemed that Raschid had known Faisal far better than she had done.
It was hot outside, away from the protective shelter of the house. The pool shimmered under the bright sun. Felicia dived in, the water like cool silk against her heated skin. She swam a couple of lengths, then turned over to float luxuriously on her back, her hair a bright cloud of molten fire against the vivid blue of the water. She closed her eyes, letting her tense muscles relax. In the distance she could hear voices raised in angry protest, but they faded and then there was only the benevolent heat of the sun and the soothing slap of the water against the sides of the pool.
As she lay there she wondered idly why neither Nadia nor Zahra used the pool, and then dismissed the thought, as she struck out for the far side in a lazy crawl.
She trod water for a few seconds, trying to find the energy to haul herself out. Her eyes stung from the chlorine in the water and she closed them, rubbing them with one hand.
Someone grasped her arms, hauling her unceremoniously out of the water, to stand at the side of the pool dripping moisture on to soft leather boots.
Her eyes travelled upwards. Wide trousers were tucked into the boots, a dark cloak flung back from broad shoulders.
‘Miss Gordon!’
‘Raschid!’ Awareness shivered through her. Was this it? Was he going to tell her that she was going home?
She forced herself to look up into his face. His expression was forbidding, his mouth tight, although whether with distaste or anger she could not tell.
‘I was on my way to the stables when I saw you here.’
Felicia gritted her teeth, willing him to get to the point. Tears were not very far away, but she comforted herself with the knowledge that after today she would probably never need to endure his anger again. Oddly, it brought her no relief.
‘What were you doing in the pool?’
She stared at him. ‘Do I have to have your permission before I can swim now?’
His glance impaled her, sending sharp splinters of apprehension through her trembling body. Her wrap was on the other side of the pool, and she glanced helplessly at it, wishing for its admittedly frail protection against the steely thrust of his eyes.
Even the doves seemed to have ceased their endless cooing and in the unnerving silence she felt sure he must hear the frightened thudding of her heart. His eyes searched her face, looking for she knew not what, and then, as though satisfied, he smiled coolly.
‘I have been looking for you. I wish to speak to you.’
Of course he did. He wanted to gloat over Faisal’s defection, no doubt.
Head held high, she refused to let him see how she felt. ‘I’ll go and get changed, and….’
He forestalled her, his touch on her deceptively light. ‘I think not. What I wish to say to you requires privacy, and where better than here in the seclusion of this courtyard, where none will disturb us, since it is my own private domain.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘YOURS?’
The word trembled between them, as Raschid inclined his head in sardonic acknowledgement.
‘In my country, Miss Gordon, a woman does not flaunt herself unclad before male eyes—but I have already told you this. This pool and courtyard are part of my own private quarters—but then I’m sure you know that already.’
What on earth was he accusing her
