Roberta Leigh - Flower of the Desert

by Roberta Leigh

  "You have a very decided view of the economy," an older Persian man said to her.

  "Only of worldwide economy. I wouldn't presume to comment on Iran's handling of its finances."

  "Then you are a diplomat too!"

  "That's a necessity when one is in a foreign country."

  There were smiles at this, but before the conversation could resume, Madame Khan, resplendent in a vivid caftan, marshaled her guests onto the terrace. Here small tables were set for parties of six, and servants were already gliding between them, bearing the usual silver dishes piled with food.

  "You're sitting with me." Desmond led her to the nearest table.

  Unfortunately it gave her a direct view of Karim who was holding out a chair for Ferada, before taking his place beside her. His whole attention was focused on the girl, and because his lids were lowered it made his expression difficult to read. But then, Fleur thought bitterly, she had always found it impossible to know what he was thinking. Only for a brief moment last night, when he had held her in his arms, had it been all too clear.

  "It would be an excellent match," Desmond said softly, as if he knew where her attention lay. "Mr. Sadeh is an important lawyer and is anxious to branch out internationally. With Karim as his son-in-law, it would be much easier."

  "I'd hate to be married for commercial reasons," Fleur muttered, "particularly if I were as beautiful as Ferada."

  "Today you are more beautiful," Desmond murmured, giving her a fatherly smile. "But I grant you she's a lovely creature."

  Fleur tried to ignore the Persian girl and concentrate on her godfather and the man on the other side of her. He was the owner of an art gallery, and the conversation soon ranged over all aspects of modern art. She enjoyed nothing better than a lively argument, and the verbal pyrotechnics at their table caused several nearby guests to still their own conversation in order to listen.

  It was the sudden silence around her that made Fleur realize she was the center of attraction on this part of the terrace, and she grew hot with embarrassment and wished she could lift up the tablecloth and hide beneath it.

  "Why didn't you stop me from prattling on?" she besought Desmond.

  "Because I like it when you let off steam."

  She pulled a face and, half turning, saw Karim lean forward to light a cigarette for the girl next to him. She had never seen him smoke and was surprised he carried a lighter. He used it with the ease of practice and for a moment kept his fingers lightly on the Persian girl's slender hand.

  Fleur set her fork sharply on her plate. It was unnerving to be so affected by a man she barely knew. It was only six weeks since she had met him, and she had not spoken to him more than half a dozen times nor been alone with him for more than three of them. Yet their attraction for each other had been strong from the beginning. There was no point in pretending otherwise.

  What was it that made two people want each other? In her case it could only stem from physical desire. Ideologically they were poles apart. She believed women had a sixth sense, an intuition that gave them heightened perception, but perhaps there was a seventh sense that made them aware when the right man came along? Perhaps that accounted for the emotion Karim aroused in her. But regardless of how she felt, she had to escape him. Escape and think.

  Her eyes roamed the room. Ibrahim Khan was sitting some distance away but almost as if he had received a signal, he shifted in his chair and fixed his gaze on her. All she could see of him was the beige suit he wore, which made his beard look magnificently dark, but she felt his power and was afraid of it

  "I wish I could go back to Teheran with you," she said impulsively to Desmond. "I'm getting claustrophobic staying here."

  "Then fly back with me for a few days."

  Remembering Karim was taking him, she shook her head.

  "Why not?" her godfather pressed. "Karim told me this morning he's staying on here, so there'll be plenty of room. And you can return the day after tomorrow when the helicopter comes back to collect the Khans."

  It was too good an opportunity to miss. She would have to return, of course, but at least it would get her away for a couple of days and give her a chance to think clearly.

  "What time are you leaving?" she asked.

  "In about an hour."

  "Then I'll go and get ready and have a word with Mrs. Khan. I can't dash off without permission."

  When she spoke to her hostess as she escorted her female guests into one of the many cool sitting-rooms that overlooked the garden, she received an immediate yes.

  "You are free to come and go as you please, Miss Peters. There is no question of your having to obtain our permission. In fact, my husband commented only this morning that he thought you looked tired. A change will do you good."

  With a murmur of agreement Fleur hurried off to pack a few things. She had to pass through the main salon to reach the hall and was halfway across it when a group of guests came in from the terrace. Karim was among them, towering head and shoulders above his shorter compatriots. He saw her at once and reached her in three long strides.

  "What's this I hear about your going to Teheran?"

  "I need a break."

  "But I stayed behind because of you. You can't run away from me."

  "I'm not running away."

  "You are! You've been avoiding me all day."

  Involuntarily her eyes slid to Ferada who was standing by the window looking in their direction. Karim did not follow Fleur's gaze though the tightening of his mouth told her he knew she was looking at the Persian girl.

  "You have no need to be jealous of any other woman," he stated flatly.

  "I'm not." The soft tendrils of hair on Fleur's forehead clung damply to her skin, and she pushed them away with her hand.

  Karim caught his breath. "How beautiful you are! I'm aching to hold you—to kiss you." He bent closer. "You can't go to Teheran. You must stay here."

  "You have no right to give me orders."

  "I'm not giving you orders. I'm begging you to do as I ask."

  Her longing to obey was so strong that only by maintaining her anger against him could she say no. Deliberately she looked at Ferada, knowing jealousy was her best self-defense and finding it flaming high as she saw the possessive way the girl was eying Karim.

  "Did you hear what I said?" he demanded. "I'm begging you to stay here."

  "I can't. I've already promised to go."

  "Tell Desmond you've changed your mind. He'll understand."

  She knew he would and searched for another excuse. If she herself was blindly jealous over Ferada, then Karim—a man with a strong possessive streak—would be equally jealous of any man who came between him and the one he wanted.

  "I'm… I'm meeting a friend," she lied. "I can't let him down."

  "Rory Baines?"

  Amazed he had remembered the name, when she couldn't even remember telling it to him, she nodded.

  "Then I won't try to dissuade you," he said curtly and immediately strode toward the Persian girl.

  Trying to quell her bitterness, Fleur hurried away. How had she expected Karim to behave when she had told him she was going to Teheran to meet another man? Had she hoped he would force her to stay here, or had she expected him to call her bluff and say he would accompany her? If he had done that, he would have ruined her objective in going.

  "But I wanted him to ruin it," she whispered as she entered her bedroom and, with these words, finally acknowledged to herself the depth of her love for him.

  Nine

  It was not until the helicopter approached Teheran that Fleur felt an uplift of spirit and knew she had done the right thing in getting away for a few days.

  No longer part of the Khan household, she could plan her future, though she was still not sure whether it should include remaining with Madame Nadar for the rest of her contract. As long as she stayed in Iran she would find it impossible to forget Karim. Only in England, surrounded by more prosaic and familiar things, would she become
more aware of his exotic foreignness and be glad she had resisted it.

  It was late afternoon when she reached Madame Nadar's house, having said good-bye to her godfather and declined his offer to dine with him. She was not sure if he were seeing Karim before he flew back to England and she didn't want to run the risk of his saying he had taken her out when she wanted Karim to believe she had been with Rory.

  The thought of Rory prompted her to telephone him and the warmth in his voice gave her unexpected pleasure. Dear Rory, how good it was to have someone on whom she could rely. But as she greeted him in the school waiting-room later that evening, she could not help feeling guilty at using him in this way.

  "It's a good thing you rang me when you did," he said, guiding her out to his car. "Another half hour and I'd have been on my way to the Club for a bridge tournament."

  "You don't mean I prevented you from entering?"

  "You certainly did, I'm delighted to say! I'd much rather see you than play cards." In the dusk he bent his head to peer into her face. "I expected to see you blooming, instead of which you look a bit wilted. Finding the Khans difficult to cope with?"

  "I don't have to cope with them," she said. "I spend my time with Nizea."

  "But you live en famille, don't you?"

  She nodded and slipped into the front seat of the car. "I still feel guilty at preventing you from entering the tournament."

  "I'll let you buy me a silver cup instead!" he grinned. "Or I'll settle for a spot of lovemaking."

  She smiled at him briefly but her heart gave an uncomfortable lurch. However, her fears disappeared as the evening wore on, for he was an easy companion. There was no difficulty talking to him and no need to wonder whether she was saying something that might lead to a disagreement. How unlike her conversations with Karim, in which she had always been conscious of their divergent views on everything of importance.

  "I can't tell you how wonderful it is to have you here," Rory said. "Having you fly down just to see me. Well, it's knocked me for a loop."

  "I didn't just come to see you," she said hastily. "I had n few errands to do in Teheran."

  "But you're still glad to see me?"

  "Of course."

  "How glad?" He leaned close. "You wouldn't… I mean there's no chance of your changing your mind about me, is there?"

  "No." Her answer was emphatic, and color flooded her face as she saw his expression. "I'm sorry, Rory, but it's better for me to be honest."

  "Oh, sure. I knew it was a long shot, but I still go on hoping."

  "I wish you wouldn't. I'd feel much less guilty if we didn't see each other again."

  "I hardly see you anyway. Besides, I've no intention of being in Teheran and not seeing you. I'm interested in your well-being and, so long as you're living in a city of foreigners, I'm going to take care of you."

  "I'm not living in a city of foreigners," she laughed. "They belong here—we're the foreigners."

  He laughed, too, and then raised his glass.

  "I've nothing to celebrate, but I guess that's the time when one should. So drink up, and let's dance."

  The ease with which Rory had taken his refusal did not fool Fleur. She knew him well enough to sense his hurt, and she admired the kindness that made him pretend otherwise. It made her refuse to see him the following day, despite his insistence that he didn't want things to change between them.

  "Things have to change between us," she said. "You are far too eligible to waste all your free time on me."

  His protestations remained with her as she undressed and climbed into bed. But as she lay back on the pillows and looked out at the patch of sky that she could see through the window, his voice was superseded by Karim's melodic one. How furious he had been when she had left him that afternoon, but how quickly he had turned to Ferada. Was that the course his actions would take in the future? With all her heart she hoped it was, for if he were married he would no longer wish to lay siege to her own heart

  It was all too easy to see Ferada as his wife. The girl was beautiful and, from the little Nizea had said about her, lived a purely social life, which would please Karim much more than having a wife who followed her own career. I could never be happy with him, she thought, and tried to concentrate on this, hoping to lessen the grief she felt at knowing she had never been given the chance. The love he had offered her would never have included a simple band of gold. Diamonds and a back-street affair, more likely.

  Angrily she sat up and switched on the lamp. She was becoming maudlin and thinking like an Edwardian heroine. Affairs today were not conducted in a back street but in the full glare of public knowledge. Even in Teheran Karim would have treated their liaison as an open secret. For heaven's sake, stop thinking of Karim, she told herself and reached for a book. Unfortunately, it was the verses of Omar Khayyam and, knowing they would not serve to distract her but have the opposite effect, she searched in the drawer until she found a dog-eared murder story that belonged to one of the other teachers. Perhaps in trying to solve a crime she would be able to forget the crime she had committed in allowing herself to fall in love with a man she could not have. Recollecting the ardor with which he had looked at her, she knew it was all too easy to have him. The trouble was that it would have to be on his terms. She opened the book and, seeing her ringless hand, mourned the indoctrination which made it impossible for her to love freely outside the bonds of marriage.

  In the morning she awoke feeling depressed and knew that activity was the only way of overcoming it. But the school was empty of pupils and teachers, and Madame Nadar was spending several weeks in Paris with friends, leaving only the servants in the house.

  For a short while she did some sketching in the garden. Then, remembering her mother's dictum that there was nothing like buying a hat to make one feel better, she decided to take herself to the bazaar district. Telling one of the servants not to set lunch for her, since she was not sure what time she would be back, she set off.

  Teheran had grown enormously in the last ten years, but it still adhered to the Islamic rule that business should be centered in a single place, with trades rigidly segregated. The bazaar reflected this though several toyshops and ironmongers had started to infiltrate the jewelry and material stores. However, in the side streets the segregation of the trades was maintained more effectively, with a whole area given over to metalworkers who produced intricately inlaid articles in gold, silver and bronze; there was a grocery area as well as an Armenian section, which appeared to consist of wine and spirit merchants. But even here Fleur knew that progress was swiftly changing things. Teheran was spreading northward, and businesses would move with it, leaving whole sections of the southern part of the bazaar abandoned.

  The streets were thick with people; families shopping together and separate groups of women and men, all intent on spending their money and getting the most for it. The majority of the shops were tiny and single-storied, their interiors often so dark that one had to bring things out into the daylight to see them properly. Her original intention of buying some costume jewelry had to be abandoned, for she hated bargaining and knew that unless she did, she would be grossly overcharged.

  After an hour of indecision she left the bazaar and headed for Loear Street. Here was shopping on a more sophisticated level, and though she would have to pay more than in the bazaar, she knew she would be getting value for money.

  But the jewelry—even the simpler pieces—was too expensive to be bought as casual gifts, and the fabrics she liked were breathtakingly expensive—sufficient brocade to make a simple dress being enough to set her back a month's salary. But she was not going to return from her expedition empty-handed, and she eventually bought a bracelet—of heavy silver inset with blue stones—and a small, brass and enamel lamp which she knew her mother would love to hang in their hall in Surrey. The thought of home made her nostalgic and increased the vulnerability she had felt since she had admitted her love for Karim.

  It was three o'clock
when her taxi, which she had shared with several other people—a custom common in the city—deposited her at Madame Nadar's. She was tired and hot and longing for a drink. Balancing her two par» eels in one hand, she unlocked the gate and walked through the garden to the house.

  This time tomorrow she would have to go to the airport to meet the helicopter that would be bringing Ibrahim Khan and his son to Teheran. With a modicum of luck she might be able to avoid talking to Karim and, by the time he returned to the country, she would have left the house permanently. It was a pity her association with Madame Nadar made it impossible for her to leave the Khans without giving them time to make suitable arrangements for someone else to act as Nizea's companion. She moistened her lips. It was odd that Mr. Khan had chosen her when there must have been any number of girls of Nizea's own age who would have been delighted to keep her company. She remembered his knowing look as he had gazed at her the night before last and was sure he regretted having brought her into his home. Poor Mr. Khan. She should have assured him she had no designs upon his son. But even if she had, he might not have believed her.

  The hall was almost as warm as the garden, for when she was abroad Madame Nadar insisted on strict economy and would not allow her servants to use the air conditioning. In England, no domestic help would have remained with her under such conditions but here, where jobs were still at a premium and illiteracy so high that domestic work was frequently the only occupation for many men and women, they had to accept poor conditions.

  An elderly servant in a long blue shift shuffled forward. The garment enveloped her from head to toes, and she held a corner of it in her hand to hide her face. She motioned behind her with her other hand and Fleur looked in the direction of the waiting-room whose door, beyond the recess of an archway, was still closed.

  "Is it someone to see me?" she asked and, as the woman nodded, ruefully knew that Rory still intended to pursue her.

  Still holding her packages she pushed open the waiting-room door and went in. But the tall man with the glittering black eyes who stood in the center of the room glaring at her, was a far cry from the pleasant-faced one she had expected to see.