by Anne Herries
She had danced with several men that evening, most of them staid, older men, pleasant but a little dull, when he finally approached her.
‘Am I forgiven now?’ he asked as he led her into the throng of dancers. It was a tango, and in Chloe’s opinion one of the most thrilling of the newer dances. And it took skill to execute the exciting steps, especially when the gentleman bent his partner backwards.
‘You should be asking Jane, not me,’ she said and looked at him a little naughtily. ‘Did you know that the Kaiser forbade his troops to dance the tango, because it might affect their moral fibre?’
‘Undoubtedly that was why they lost the war,’ he replied promptly and made her laugh. It was usually only Justine who responded to her humour so swiftly. ‘Ah, so I am forgiven after all…’
‘Only if you can dance this as beautifully as I hope.’ She gave him a bewitching smile. Something flashed in Mr Armand’s eyes and as his hand reached out for hers she felt a tingle rather like an electric shock. For one moment she felt mesmerised as she gazed into his eyes, her lips parting in a little gasp of surprise as she glimpsed the passion beneath the mask he habitually wore. This man was very different from the cool, polite stranger she had encountered from time to time on the ship and she sensed something slightly dangerous. Her heart began to race wildly, and as he placed his hand at her waist she felt close to swooning. Her teasing had somehow roused a tiger!
‘Oh, I shall certainly be on my mettle now,’ he said, and swept her into the dance with a flourish.
Chloe had never danced like this in her life. He was in control, in tune with the melody and with her, guiding her effortlessly through the intricate steps. It felt as if her feet hardly touched the floor, and she was floating with the music and the power and magnetism of her partner. Her whole body seemed to throb with a strange new feeling—a recklessness that she did not recognise but dimly realised might be desire.
What was she thinking? Had she lost her senses completely? It must be the evocative rhythm of the music that was making her feel this way—and yet as his hand slid against the satin softness of her bare arm she knew it was far more to do with the man himself.
‘Oh…’ she breathed as the music finally died and after a brief moment, when his eyes seemed to burn into her soul, he released her. ‘What a pity. I should have liked to go on dancing forever.’
‘Then I shall consider myself forgiven,’ he said. His gaze strayed across the room to where Jane Vermont was talking at Brent Harwood, and the warmth died from his eyes. ‘I see your foolish friend is making up to that American. If I were you I should warn her to be careful. Apart from the fact that he makes ridiculous films, I know that he is not to be trusted.’
Chloe felt the withdrawal in him and was hurt. How could he change so suddenly after that magical dance? For that brief time they had seemed almost indivisible and now he was miles away from her again—but perhaps it had only been her who had felt the magic. She immediately threw up a screen to hide her foolish sensitivity.
‘Why don’t you like his films?’
‘I believe he intends to make something rather similar to the picture that Valentino caused such a stir with three, or perhaps it was four, years back—The Sheikh. I imagine you may have seen it?’
‘Yes—seven times,’ Chloe said, half-defensive, half-angry. ‘I loved it!’
A wry smile touched Philip Armand’s mouth. ‘Valentino is a remarkable actor. He made what was a very foolish plot seem almost believable. Unfortunately, it has provoked a rash of copycat films, which are an insult to the Bedouin way of life. You should know that, Miss Randall. Professor Hicks certainly agrees.’
‘Yes…well, of course I know it isn’t really the way things are. But surely that doesn’t matter? As a film it was romantic and fun…and surely its purpose was to entertain?’
‘As you say.’ He inclined his head as he escorted her to near where her friends were standing. A tiny nerve was flicking in his cheek and she sensed that she must have upset him. But why should it bother him that an American film director was intent on making a copy of the kind of picture that had made Rudolph Valentino famous?
Chloe found that she couldn’t get Philip Armand out of her mind as she prepared for bed that last evening on board ship. He was certainly the kind of man Justine would consider romantic and her foolish heart had been led astray during their dance. For a moment she had thought that there was something special between them, something rare and intense, something that if lost might never be found again…but of course that was ridiculous. They were merely strangers meeting briefly, their lives soon to diverge, never to meet again.
She would be ridiculous to imagine otherwise, of course she would. After all, he had mentioned a fiancée, hadn’t he? Feeling the sharp sting of jealousy at the thought of the unknown fiancée, Chloe tried to dismiss him from her mind. She was being so silly to imagine that he had anything but a passing interest in her. She really must stop letting her imagination run wild. The truth was that she had found him intriguing from the start—but what was it about him that made her think she ought to know more of him than she did?
She was sure that she had seen his picture in the paper, had almost captured the article the other night. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to recall whatever it was that hovered at the back of her mind, then all at once she went cold as she remembered. Of course! He had been with another man…a man wearing the flowing robes and headdress of a Sheikh! Of course…it had been an article about an assassination attempt. She could almost remember it now. There had been an attempt on the life of an important ruler of one of the oil-producing countries on the Arabian Peninsula. And Philip Armand was a cousin or something of the man pictured with him in the paper. Yet she didn’t think he had called himself by that name. It was more like Hassan…or Pasha. Or had that been the ruler’s name?
Chloe couldn’t be certain, and he had looked very different in the picture because he too had been wearing the robes of a Sheikh. Surely she must be mistaken? Yet if she was right, it would explain why he was so annoyed to find himself travelling with an American film director who made films that he clearly believed misrepresented the Bedouin way of life.
Even so, that didn’t quite explain his attitude towards Brent Harwood. There had been real anger in him as he spoke of the man…an underlying menace that she sensed must have a cause. It had seemed almost a personal thing…
Chloe dismissed her thoughts—she shouldn’t worry about something that was of no real concern to her. She wanted a good night’s sleep so as to be ready for the following day.
‘Oh, do please keep in touch,’ Jane begged as she said goodbye the next morning. ‘It has been so nice having you as a friend, Chloe. I wish you were staying for the whole of the cruise. But I suppose you can’t wait to get off to wherever it is you’re going.’
Chloe promised she would write and tell Jane where they went and what they saw.
‘It may be ages before I can post a letter,’ she said. ‘We are going to be travelling to the more remote villages as soon as the professor can arrange transport. We are on a research trip, not a holiday. I have to take dictation and help the professor find what he is looking for—which could mean lots of reading and walking.’
‘You poor thing,’ Jane said, looking at her in horror. She had never worked in her life and hoped she never would. ‘I hope it won’t be too terrible for you. Aunt Vera says that some of these places can be very primitive. Do be careful what you eat, Chloe. My aunt was awfully ill once when she stayed in Morocco.’
‘Miss Ramsbottom carries a lot of emergency kit,’ Chloe assured her. ‘My friends know all about travelling in the region so we should be safe enough.’
‘Well, goodbye—and do keep in touch.’
There were several people leaving the ship that morning. Chloe saw Brent Harwood with the other members of the film crew, all of whom she knew only by sight. None of them had been particularly talkative, though appar
ently they had taken a few shots of the captain and his crew.
She noticed Philip Armand—or whatever his name really was—being met by a man who saluted him and took the briefcase he was carrying off to what looked like an expensive French car. He glanced back at the ship just before he got into the back seat, inclining his head to her but not smiling. She thought he looked angry again, and wondered what had upset him this time.
What a very odd man he was! He could be so charming and friendly when he chose, and the next withdrawn, as cold as ice. She wondered what made a man like that, and decided that he must have an awful lot on his mind.
‘Well, here we are then,’ Professor Hicks said to her. ‘All your goodbyes finished, Chloe?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m looking forward to our adventure.’
‘Adventure?’ He nodded and looked pleased. ‘Yes, I suppose it is a kind of adventure. Some of my research can seem dull, especially to a young woman like yourself, I dare say—but meeting people and seeing new places is always exciting.’
Chloe and Amelia Ramsbottom sat at the back of the rather crowded bus that was to take them to their hotel. It was quite new and provided by one of the Spanish-built hotels that had begun to appear in the last few years.
‘When we first came here there were no buses and hardly any cars,’ Amelia confided to her as the bus reached its capacity load and lurched off down the bumpy road. ‘I remember we hired a kind of dogcart pulled by one tired old horse—and in Morocco we had to ride on donkeys. Camels when we went into the desert, of course.’
‘How brave you were to accompany the professor on his early trips,’ Chloe said. ‘Of course things have changed a lot since the war, haven’t they?’
‘Oh, yes, a great deal, everyone is beginning to catch on to the idea of foreign travel. I dare say it will be as popular for ordinary people to holiday in places like Spain and Portugal as it has been for the rich on the French Riviera one day.’
‘Do you think we shall travel by camel this time?’
‘I certainly hope not,’ Amelia said. ‘Charles will have a vehicle of some sort. Do you drive at all, Chloe?’
‘Yes, though I haven’t had much experience. I couldn’t afford a car, but Daddy did arrange for me to learn. He thought it might come in useful.’
‘I dare say it might. The professor drives, but I’m afraid I don’t.’
Chloe was excited by what she saw as they drove along a very bumpy, dusty road. The sky was a clear, cloudless blue, which seemed to make the brilliant white of the houses seem even brighter, and the flowers spilling out from gardens, pots and hanging boxes were a riot of colour. There was a definite style to the arches and domes, giving it the flavour of the East that she had expected, for even though it was a Spanish protectorate Cetua still had that Moorish feel.
Now and then she caught sight of beautiful villas and gardens behind high walls and wondered about the people who lived there, but there were also small houses that seemed to be made of either stone or mud bricks and some looked to be in danger of tumbling down. They passed children standing by the roadside, many of whom were barefooted and dressed in little better than rags. There were also beggars with sores or missing limbs, traders who held up their wares as the bus passed, and men leading a string of camels into town.
The bus made slow progress through the town itself, which was crowded with carts, donkeys, people and motor vehicles. Chloe hadn’t been sure what to expect, but the modern ways of the West seemed to have begun to influence this ancient world and the hotel they were taken to had been built since the war.
From the hot, dirty street they entered a cool courtyard, which was paved with a beautiful mosaic of jewel-coloured tiles, and had a fountain playing in its centre. Terracotta pots held a variety of fleshy green plants with spiky leaves or trailing fronds, and two large palm trees stood at either side of the lobby entrance.
Inside it was a mixture of Moorish taste with some Art Deco influences in the furnishings. They were greeted politely by the hotel manager himself, but the language Chloe thought was being used most often was not Spanish, as she had expected, but French. She was glad that she had taken it to a higher level at school. However, it was not long before she became aware of a heated argument, taking place in English between a rather pretty young woman and one of the desk clerks.
‘But it is absolutely impossible for me to manage in that perfectly dreadful little room!’ the woman cried in a sharp voice. ‘Brent promised me a suite and I really must have it.’
‘But, Angela darling, they don’t have a suite available,’ a man dressed in a crumpled white suit was telling her. He looked hot and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. Clearly he was at a loss what to do in the circumstances. ‘Brent has the only one and he—’
‘Then he must give it to me,’ she said and pulled a face. ‘I only came to this awful country because he promised me it would all be lovely and that I could have everything I wanted.’
Chloe was unable to hear any more of the argument, because a smiling, white-robed porter was picking up her bags and beckoning her to follow. She did so, though she was curious about the woman, whose face seemed familiar. She was almost certain she was a film star. Oh, why couldn’t she think of her name? He had called her Angela… Yes, of course, that was it! Angela Russell. She had been in several silent films, most of them supposedly set in exotic locations.
‘What on earth was that fuss about just now?’ Amelia asked as they paused at the end of the landing.
‘Oh, I think that was Angela Russell, the film star,’ Chloe said. ‘I’ve seen some of her films, though I don’t think she has made one for a while—at least I haven’t seen it. She seemed to be upset about the room they have given her. I think she wanted a suite or something.’
Amelia gave a snort of disgust.
‘This hotel is a palace compared to some we’ve stayed in. A woman like that has no business travelling at all if she is going to make a fuss over every little thing. One has to expect some discomfort when one leaves home.’
Chloe smiled, but thought that everyone couldn’t be as confident as the intrepid Miss Ramsbottom. She had thought the filmstar rather lovely and had sympathised if she didn’t like her room.
Her own room seemed perfectly comfortable when she was shown into it a moment or so later. Although the furniture was basic, with just a narrow single bed, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe, it was clean and adequate for her needs, and the bathroom was only just down the hall.
‘Mine is just the same as yours,’ Amelia said when she popped in to collect Chloe on her way downstairs. ‘Nice and cosy, all perfectly comfortable.’
‘Yes, it is fine,’ Chloe said as they went out and walked down the stairs towards the dining room. ‘But we are not staying here long, are we?’
‘We shall make this hotel our base,’ Professor Hicks answered her question as he caught up to them. ‘Most of our luggage will remain here, but we shall drive out to the various towns and villages, Chloe. And we may need to stay over sometimes so we always keep an overnight bag in the vehicle.’
As they were shown to their table, Chloe noticed that the actress was complaining again. She was with the man who had been trying to pacify her earlier, and now Brent Harwood was also with them. Chloe couldn’t help overhearing what the actress was saying, because her voice was so loud and shrill.
‘It’s perfectly ghastly,’ she said. ‘If I eat this stuff I shall be ill again—and goodness knows when we shall be able to start shooting…’
‘Send it back and order something else,’ Brent replied, looking faintly annoyed but obviously trying not to show it. ‘Nothing is too good for you, Angela.’
Chloe had ordered a dish of lamb cooked with vegetables and rice, which she found delicious. She wondered if anything would ever satisfy the actress, who was clearly pampered and used to getting her own way.
Chloe had finished her main course and was pondering whether to h
ave a pudding when she saw a man being conducted to a table behind a potted palm; it was secluded and hidden from view from most of the dining area, and had remained empty until now.
So Philip Armand was staying here too, she thought, and blushed as he looked at her across the room, giving her a curt nod. She had been staring again—but she knew that there was a new hotel on the other side of town that was far more luxurious than this one, so why wasn’t he staying there? There must be nicer places to eat! She couldn’t imagine why he had chosen to stay here—unless he was trying to avoid someone? It would, she supposed, be easier to lose himself amongst the latest influx of tourists here than in more exotic restaurants.
Was she letting her imagination run wild again? He had always seemed a mysterious character and her active mind began once again to weave all kinds of impossible plots, which she hastened to dismiss as he frowned in her direction. He had noticed her interest and would think her as bad as Jane Vermont, and imagine she had been trying to catch his attention. And she wasn’t! Her cheeks felt warm as she recalled her foolish thoughts after that dance. It had just been the magic of the dance, of course. He wasn’t interested in her and she wasn’t sure she even liked him…well, not really. She certainly wasn’t in love with him. Being in love was fun and feeling happy all the time, or that’s how she’d always thought it would be—all that this man made her feel was agitated, on edge! Bother him!
‘Do you want a pudding?’ Professor Hicks asked, causing her to look at him and forget the irritating Mr Armand. ‘Only I thought you might want to make the most of this afternoon. Get out and have a look round—do a little shopping in the bazaar, perhaps? I shall want to leave early tomorrow.’
‘Yes, I think I shall,’ she said, putting down her napkin. ‘If you are sure you don’t need me this afternoon?’
‘I am going to be arranging transport,’ he replied. ‘No, my dear, you get off and enjoy yourself.’
