Desert Nights: Falcon's Prey / The Sheikh's Virgin Bride / One Night With the Sheikh. PENNY JORDANЧитать онлайн книгу.
merely trying to upset her, but now she was not so sure. Faisal’s letter was not that of a man deeply in love and committed to that love. Now, when it was too late, Felicia wished passionately that she had not allowed him to persuade her to come to Kuwait, and worse still, to spend her hard-earned savings. With a feeling of sick despair she acknowledged that had it been possible she would have gone straight to the airport first thing in the morning and booked her flight home.
She even toyed with the idea of contacting her aunt and requesting her help with the fare, but she knew she could not. It seemed ironical that the one person who would have been more than glad to finance her return to England was the one man in the world she would never ask.
No, distasteful though it was, she would have to write to Faisal and sort things out. Once he knew that she was no longer expecting to become his wife, he would probably be delighted to pay for her ticket, she thought wryly.
As she switched off the lamp and slid down between the cool sheets, she wondered morosely why the discovery that Faisal no longer loved her should affect her so little. Less than a week ago he had formed her entire world; now all she wanted was to return home. And yet she would miss this land, she admitted. Despite its alienness it had touched her heart, and she felt that she could have adapted had her love for Faisal been strong enough.
Her last thought before sleep claimed her was that at least she was having a small measure of revenge against Raschid. While she slept in the knowledge that she and Faisal would never marry, Raschid was probably lying awake thinking of ways to part them. Strangely enough the thought brought her precious little comfort.
ALTHOUGH SHE FELT no guilt at deceiving Raschid, it was far harder having to pretend with Zahra. She would have liked to have the younger girl as a sister-in-law, she acknowledged, as Zahra waylaid her on the way to breakfast, bouncing up and down in excitement.
‘Look what Raschid has given me as a pre-birthday present!’ she exclaimed, waving a cheque in front of Felicia’s bemused eyes, and gloating gleefully over its size, enlarging enthusiastically on how she intended to spend it.
‘There’s a shop in Kuwait that sells the most dreamy lingerie!’ She rolled her eyes dramatically. ‘How about coming with me this afternoon?’
Felicia hadn’t the heart to refuse her, and Zahra’s grateful hug when she nodded her head was more than reward enough.
Ali drove them into Kuwait, dropping them in the area of Fahd Salim Street, where Raschid had taken her the day before.
As Felicia had half expected, Zahra tended to linger over the glittering displays of jewellery.
‘Those pearls come from the gulf,’ she told an interested Felicia. ‘Until oil was discovered, pearls were Kuwait’s richest source of income.’
Ali hovered protectively behind them, reminding them that they had not come to window-gaze. As before, Felicia was impressed by the graceful boulevard with its trees and flowers.
‘Our government is spending a great deal of money on irrigation schemes and desalination plants,’ Zahra told her. ‘In the fruit markets you will find all manner of fruits and vegetables grown on specially developed farms. The sun, once our greatest enemy, is being harnessed to provide the energy to grow perpetual crops. Saud is studying agriculture at the university,’ she added by way of an explanation for all her knowledge. ‘His family own lands near to our own at the oasis and he and Raschid are hoping to develop a fruit farm there eventually.’ She pulled a wry face. ‘I’m not sure what he loves best—me, or his precious greenhouses.’ She touched Felicia’s arm, motioning towards one of the shops. ‘In here. Ali will wait outside for us.’
The shop was small—no more than a boutique really—the walls hung with pale green silk panels, tiny gilt chairs covered in the same fabric, standing on an off-white deep-pile carpet. No pretensions to Eastern origins here; the boutique was blatantly Bond Street, or Fifth Avenue.
A mouthwatering selection of satin and lace underwear was produced for Zahra’s inspection, and as she fingered a peach satin nightdress lavishly trimmed with coffee lace, Felicia reflected rather enviously on the advantages of possessing a wealthy and generous uncle. Not that she would want Raschid to pay for her trousseau. The thought made her go hot and cold, and the peach satin dropped from her fingers as though it had burned.
‘Something wrong?’
‘What? Oh no—nothing. I think you should have the peach, Zahra, and the pale blue nightdress and negligee set.’
‘What about this one?’
Felicia examined the nightdress she was holding up for her inspection. It was a filmy mist of sea-green shifting to jade, in a silken shimmer of the finest gossamer chiffon.
‘It’s lovely,’ Felicia admitted.
‘And most suitable for a bride,’ the sales assistant pressed.
‘Would you not like something like this for your own marriage?’ Zahra asked, much to Felicia’s embarrassment. She closed her mind to a vision of herself clad only in the whispering chiffon, held in the arms of. Not Faisal, that was for sure, she told herself, shaking her head and handing the nightgown back to Zahra.
Ali was still waiting patiently outside, and something about the set of his shoulders suggested that they had been gone rather a long time.
‘Anything else you want?’ she asked Zahra, and the other girl shook her head.
They were crossing the wide pavement when Felicia saw the familiar figure striding towards them, and her heart gave a double somersault before hammering urgently against her ribs.
‘Isn’t that Raschid?’ she asked Zahra, surprised when the younger girl compressed her lips and immediately turned in the opposite direction.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Didn’t you see that woman with him?’ Zahra hissed.
Felicia had. The woman was tall and dark, dressed with an understated elegance, wrapped in an aura of wealth. Felicia had guessed her age to be somewhere in her late twenties.
‘She must be his mistress,’ Zahra decided. ‘She cannot be a woman of good family, otherwise she would never walk openly in the street with him.’
So Raschid had a mistress! Why should Felicia feel so surprised? She already knew how potently male he was; surely it should not be surprising that there were other women in his life besides his sister and niece. So why had her legs suddenly turned to quivering jelly; the muscles in her stomach cramping in agonised protest? The hypocritical pig! Resentment fanned the flames of her anger. How dared he insult and revile her, when she was quite innocent of all his accusations, and yet openly flaunt his mistress through the streets!
Suddenly she longed to confront him; to sneer contemptuously at him as he had done at her, and when she hesitated, Zahra grabbed her hand, shaking her head.
‘It would embarrass Raschid if he saw us. He could not acknowledge us, while he is with her!’
Embarrassed? Raschid?
Zahra, correctly interpreting her expression, added seriously, ‘He would be embarrassed, as I would myself. Naturally a single man has certain… needs, but….’ She shrugged comprehensively, trying to convey the impossibility of introducing the women who served those ‘needs’ to the sheltered females of his own family. Felicia stared unseeingly ahead. Was that how Raschid thought of her? As the woman who served the ‘needs’ of his nephew? Shame and rage scorched her, and her fingers balled into two small fists.
‘What’s wrong?’ Zahra asked. ‘You look so fierce.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ But she knew she was lying. A queer little pain had lodged somewhere in the region of her heart, but she steadfastly ignored it. Why should she care if Raschid chose to walk side by side with some dusky beauty, his dark head inclined towards her in a gesture of attentive protection? She had no need of his protection, nor his attention. How could she, when all