Lord of the Desert

by Diana Palmer

  “Very. And big as a house.” Lou paused while the nurse came back with the results, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Yep,” Lou said, reading the results. “You’re pregnant.”

  Gretchen felt as if a magic wand had been waved. Her eyes softened. Her face became radiant. She looked at Lou with an expression that was a little confused, a little enchanted.

  “First order of business is going to be an obstetrician,” Lou told her. “The best one I know is in Houston, but we do have a specialist who comes here every Friday and is on staff at Jacobsville General.”

  “I’d rather have a doctor who could treat me here,” she replied.

  “Good enough. I’ll send you to Dr. Genoa. You’ll like her.”

  “A woman doctor.”

  Lou nodded. “And a very good obstetrician. I’ll have Tilly set you up an appointment for next month. Meanwhile, get lots of rest. In addition to prenatal vitamins, I can give you something for the morning sickness, something safe.” She wrote out a prescription. She handed it to Gretchen and smiled. “It’s none of my business,” she said gently. “But your husband has a right to know, even if he did divorce you.”

  Gretchen nodded. “I’ll tell him. Eventually.”

  “Go home.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Hassan escorted her back down the hall and into the ranch pickup. He drove her home instead of back to work, and he was smiling secretively. She was so tired and worn and worried that she didn’t notice that smile.

  But two days later, as she was typing up a brief for Mr. Kemp in his law office and fielding half a dozen interruptions, a black stretch limousine with diplomatic flags flying, followed closely by another dark limousine, pulled up in front of the office.

  “Gadzooks,” one of the other secretaries exclaimed, peering out the venetian blinds. Her eyes almost popped as she caught a glimpse of the dignified man being let out of the limo by a uniformed driver.

  “What is it?” Gretchen murmured, her mind still on her typing.

  “Somebody important! Two stretch limos!”

  “My, my, maybe Mr. Kemp is representing the mob,” Gretchen chuckled.

  “Not unless it’s an Arabian branch,” came the amused reply.

  Gretchen’s fingers froze on the keyboard. She looked up as the door opened and went white in the face as Philippe Sabon walked into the room, flanked by two bodyguards wearing head cloths and igal and three men, obviously American, in suits wearing earphones.

  He glared at his companions. “Couldn’t you go stand on the sidewalk and intimidate pedestrians?” he asked with some disgust.

  “We have very strict orders, Your Highness,” one of the earphoned men said politely. “Sorry.”

  He shot something in Arabic to his own bodyguards, who obediently opened the door and went out. Philippe turned to pierce Gretchen with furious black eyes. She glared right back at him, remembering their last confrontation when he’d torn her clothes off and ravished her, and she flushed despite all her intentions.

  He moved his neck as if his collar were choking him. He was dressed very expensively in a silk suit and tie, and an impeccable white shirt. His hair was immaculate, like his nails. He always looked as if he’d just come from the shower.

  “Yes?” she asked coldly. “Can I help you?”

  “I wish to speak to you. Alone,” he muttered, glaring at the other secretary, the openmouthed receptionist, and the suited men behind him.

  “I don’t wish to speak to you, alone or any other way,” she replied with hauteur. “Go back and romance your houseguest. Remember me? We’re divorced!” she added hotly.

  “We are not divorced!” he flashed, his accent growing stronger by the minute.

  “You said we were!”

  “I lied!” He threw up his hands and exploded in a spate of Arabic curses that, apparently, Gretchen was the only one who understood.

  She flushed and got to her feet. “Don’t you use language like that in front of me! I shall have to speak to your father about your language!”

  “I’ve already spoken to him about yours!”

  She straightened. “What do you want? I’m not going back with you, no matter what,” she added firmly. “I’m very happy where I am.”

  “Yes, I remember what you told me about your beloved foreman,” he said through his teeth. “I hope you remember that you are still a married woman!”

  “For the last time, I am not married!”

  He glared at her and she glared back for long minutes. Mr. Kemp, blissfully unaware of anything unusual, came barreling out of his office reading a brief and collided with one of Philippe’s companions.

  “What the hell…?” he exploded.

  Philippe glowered at him. “Who are you?”

  The other man’s eyes narrowed and he scowled. “I’m Kemp. This is my office.” He glared. “Who are you?”

  Philippe lifted his chin pugnaciously. “I am Philippe Sabon, Sheikh of Qawi, protector of the innocent, defender of the faithful, the lord of the desert…etc., etc.”

  Kemp was impressed. He pursed his lips and glanced at Gretchen, who was trying to shrink. “So this is your ex-husband,” he mused, having been told the bare bones of the relationship when she returned to work for him.

  “We are not divorced,” Philippe said furiously.

  “You said we were!” she reminded him.

  “I know of no country in the world where a legal document is not required to terminate a marriage,” Philippe retorted. “Ask your employer.”

  Kemp grinned. “He’s right, you know.”

  “You said…!” she exclaimed.

  “I spouted a great deal of nonsense,” Philippe said, calming a little as he studied her. “I want to talk to you.” He glanced over his shoulder and grimaced. “We shall have to take the Secret Service, my bodyguard, and Hassan along, but perhaps we can gag and blindfold them and stand them together in a corner while we discuss our differences.”

  “That’s against regulations, Your Highness,” one of the Secret Service men drawled in a thick Georgia accent.

  Philippe glared at him. “If I used my influence, Russell, I could have you assigned to guard the single U.N. delegate from Salid. I understand he keeps cobras and belongs to an obscure ancient cult that bathes yearly…?”

  “I love corners, sir,” the man returned at once.

  Kemp was fighting a grin. “Go home,” he told Gretchen. “Melly can finish the brief for you,” he added.

  “Sure I can,” Melly said.

  Gretchen had already gathered up her purse. She took her work over to Melly’s desk and showed her what was left to do. “And don’t forget the breakfast meeting in the morning about the new water project,” she reminded Mr. Kemp.

  “I won’t forget. Take care, Gretchen.”

  She smiled. “Thanks.”

  Philippe and the Secret Service stood aside to let her out the door. Hassan, grinning from ear to ear, was waiting on the sidewalk.

  “You turncoat,” she told him. “I don’t know how you understood what Dr. Lou Coltrain said to me, but I know Philippe’s here because of you! You overprotective big lug!”

  Hassan grinned again. “Thank you very much,” he said, in a perfect imitation of Elvis’s voice.

  She gasped.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Philippe murmured as he joined her and motioned the limo driver to open the back door for her. “Hassan was born in Tupelo, Mississippi. He has an atrocious accent, but he speaks English quite fluently!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gretchen was too inhibited by Hassan’s presence to speak to Philippe in the car. She folded her hands in her lap and chafed at the level, steady appraisal her husband gave her. She was aware of the other car following them, and realized that the U.S. government must also consider Kurt Brauer a threat, to go to so much trouble to protect Philippe. It made her uneasy.

  They arrived at the ranch ten minutes later, and Philippe left his bodyguards on t
he porch with Hassan and the Secret Service as he and Gretchen went inside.

  Katie came out wiping her hands on her apron and stopped dead at the sight of Philippe.

  “Katie, this is my…husband,” Gretchen said hesitantly. “Philippe, this is Katie. She and her husband, Conner, run the ranch when Marc and I are away.”

  Philippe’s eyebrows went up as he acknowledged the woman and her obvious age, and Gretchen knew he was remembering her “crush” on the foreman. She’d never mentioned Connor’s age or the fact that he was married. But even as he stared at Katie, he said nothing, and his face was as unreadable as a rock.

  “Katie, would you make some iced tea and take it out to the porch? I think we’ve got six people—three bodyguards, including Hassan, and three Secret Service agents.

  “Secret Service agents!” The older woman looked as if she might faint.

  “It’s all right, Katie,” Gretchen interrupted quickly. “They’re just along to protect Philippe while he’s in the country.”

  Katie frowned worriedly as she looked at Gretchen. “Does he know?” Katie asked uncomfortably. About the baby, she meant, and before Gretchen could answer, Philippe did.

  “Yes, he knows,” Philippe said curtly and stared at her until she cleared her throat and went back into the kitchen.

  “We can talk in here,” Gretchen said, walking into the small study and closing the door. There was a desk and chair, where Marc liked to do the book work, and a bookcase, along with comfortable leather chairs that faced a picture window overlooking the pasture. Longhorn steers grazed out there just inside a well-kept barbed-wire fence.

  Philippe looked around the room, noting the gun cabinet and the shooting trophies, as well as the electronic gadgets that Marc used in his work from time to time. “Impressive,” he commented.

  “Yes.” She sat down in one of the chairs and waited for the explosion.

  He moved to the desk and perched on the edge of it with his arms folded, his angry eyes searching Gretchen’s. “When Hassan phoned me, I could barely believe what he told me,” he said curtly. “You have seen a doctor, of course.”

  She averted her face.

  He waited, but she didn’t say a word. He frowned. “Surely it is too soon for pregnancy tests to be accurate.”

  “It’s been over eight weeks,” she said gruffly.

  There was a shocked silence, followed by an audible intake of breath and a furious curse as he got to his feet.

  She stared at him. “Why does that surprise you?”

  “You seem to have difficulty counting, madame. You have only been back in this country for a month!”

  “Yes, and I’m eight weeks pregnant,” she said, waiting impatiently.

  His eyes glittered. He looked as if he might explode. “If you were eight weeks pregnant, the child would have to be mine. And it cannot be! It is impossible! You are lying!”

  “Lying!” She got up, too, her fists clenched at her sides. “You think I got pregnant here? And just how could that have happened?”

  He looked uncomfortable. “You had said that you had a feeling for your foreman,” he said harshly.

  “Yes, and in case you didn’t notice, Katie’s fifty-five—her husband, Connor, is fifty-seven! I had a crush on him when I was six years old!”

  He was looking more murderous by the second. He was losing ground. “So? You have had a male visitor, have you not, a friend of your brother…”

  “Damn you!” she bit off, clenching her small fists even harder. She wondered what the Secret Service would do if she laid his head open with a chair.

  He sighed furiously. His mind was whirling. The doctors, the specialists, had said it would be impossible. She knew that. What nerve, to accuse him of fathering her child! “I cannot produce a child!” he repeated.

  “And you can’t have sex, either,” she said with cold sarcasm, “let’s not forget that!”

  He let loose a barrage of Arabic curses that would have done his father proud. “Just because they were wrong once is no reason to suppose that the prognoses of three international specialists are riddled with error!” he said in English.

  She was very nearly reduced to tears, but he wasn’t going to make her cry. “Believe what the hell you like, Philippe!” she choked.

  “I won’t believe a damned fairy tale!” he retorted.

  That did it. She threw even worse curses in Arabic back at him, but more enthusiastically. Then, when she ran out of words, she reached out to the reading table beside the bookcase, picked up the heaviest book in the small stack she found there, and threw it at him with all her might. It hit him with a satisfying thud, leaving him stunned.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he exploded.

  “Showing you my book collection!” she returned furiously. “Did it hurt? Why don’t you call the Secret Service to rush in and protect you?!”

  She threw another book, harder, and he ducked that one. But the third one was the heaviest in the lot, and it caught him neatly in the shoulder. She was reaching for a fourth when he went toward her and caught her arms, wrestling them behind her.

  She struggled furiously and kicked him. He groaned and lifted that leg, and while he was vulnerable, she kicked him in the other one. This time he yelled. Seconds later, the door burst open and two Secret Service agents with pistols drawn and two bodyguards with automatic weapons stood framed for action in the doorway.

  “Get out!” Gretchen and Philippe both yelled in chorus.

  The men withdrew immediately and shut the door behind them.

  Philippe looked down at the little blond fury in his grasp and suddenly burst out laughing. “No wonder the servants have gone around like attendants at a funeral for weeks,” he murmured with a sigh, wrapping her up tight when she tried to kick him again. “All right, I withdraw all my filthy accusations,” he said softly. “I must confess, I could not really picture you with another man the way you were with me. But I missed you and I was violently jealous when Hassan told me about your visitor.”

  “You didn’t contact me…” she accused angrily.

  His lean hands slid along her back, holding her firmly. “I was ashamed,” he confessed quietly, grimacing. “I had behaved very badly and I have apologized only once in my life, until now.” His black eyes sought hers hungrily. “Brianne is my friend, Gretchen. She was never more. She never could be.”

  She was weakening. She didn’t want to. But it had been a very long time since he’d held her, and she’d been lonely and a little frightened of her condition. She studied his silk tie. “Judd is Marc’s friend. He and I grew up together. He’s like my brother.”

  “I apologize wholeheartedly for my base suspicions,” he said softly. His fingers lightly brushed over her mouth. “I want to make amends.”

  She was still bristling, and glowered at him. “Do you? Hand me another book,” she murmured. “I’ll show you how!”

  He laughed again, and bent quickly, finding her mouth with his. She resisted, but only for a few seconds. Her body, starved of kisses and caresses, flowed into his like a wilting flower welcoming a spring rain. She moaned, tugging her hands from his grasp so that she could loop them around his neck and lift herself even closer. He kissed her back with raw passion, immediately aroused. He gasped against her mouth and his strong arms held a faint tremor. She moaned and he eased her back urgently against the desk, groaning as he levered her down fiercely on its hard surface while she moved eagerly under his hips.

  “This is insane,” he choked, but even as he said it, his mouth was on hers again and he was reaching for fastenings, so excited by her after the long weeks of abstinence that he could barely get his fingers to work the hooks and buttons.

  When she realized his intent, she pulled her lips from his. “Philippe, no! Darling, we…can’t…!” she gasped, but he already had. The weight of his body pressed hers into the laminated wood of the six-foot desk and his powerful body was already invading hers even as she protested. She look
ed up, shocked speechless, into his glittering eyes as he moved urgently on her, shuddering with the force of his desire.

  He pinned her hips with a lean hand as his mouth ground into hers. “Don’t cry out,” he managed jerkily.

  “I wouldn’t dare,” she whispered, biting her lip to keep from moaning as he increased the pressure and the rhythm and she felt the familiar, delicious spiral of ecstasy beginning.

  “Gretchen. My darling!” His body rippled with the fierce movement of his hips and he caught her mouth with his as a harsh groan broke from his throat. The heat and potency of him brought her to a shocking onrush of fulfillment in scant seconds. She felt his body tense as her eyes opened and looked straight into his as he stiffened and convulsed. It was the most intimate thing she’d ever imagined. The starkness of it increased the pleasure until she sobbed helplessly, certain that she was going to die.

  Her eyes closed and her nails dug into his hips as they pressed together in one last fierce spasm of ecstasy. Long seconds later, she felt his beloved weight in her arms as he collapsed.

  She sighed shakily, aware that her straight skirt was up around her waist and her briefs somewhere on the floor. He was barely covered from the waist up. He lifted his head and looked into her eyes and cocked an eyebrow.

  She blushed to her toes.

  “See what you get when you throw books at me?” he asked lazily as he tried to get his breath.

  She touched his hard mouth with her fingertips. “I’ll have to buy a few more books to take home with us.”

  His eyes softened. “And I thought I might have to tie you up and put you in a sack to get you to come back.”

  She looked down the length of their bodies, still joined. “Oh, no,” she replied, lifting her eyes back to his. “I love you.”

  He caught his breath audibly and his body became violently capable. He bit off a harsh word as she lifted sinuously against him.

  “Yes, you like that, don’t you?” she whispered, and did it again. “Here, darling, hold me…like this…!”

  It was too soon, too soon, too soon. He felt the explosions like fireworks all over him, under him, around him. He thought that he could not survive the depth of the pleasure she gave him. But all too quickly, his body spent itself, and she laughed, the little blond witch. He bit her shoulder in fierce delight, and she wrapped her long legs around him and laughed secretively in his ear while he convulsed.