Juliette stiffened. "He isn't `troubling me,"' she said with a warning in her tone. "And if he were, it would still be none of your affair. But since you seem so interested, I'll tell you that I plan never to speak to or see Monsieur Phillips again."
Rodney continued staring into her face. It took a moment, but then his shoulders visibly relaxed their bear like hunch, his voice becoming conciliatory. "Of course you are quite right. I'm aware you are capable of handling your own affairs. But just this morning I heard straight from Lord Linley all about this `Monsieur Phillips,' as he calls himself, and whatever you've had to do with that fellow, you're well rid of him. Lord Linley has just discovered that he only passes himself off as a Frenchman while he is actually a half-breed Arab. Soon there won't be a decent family who'll receive him."
For a moment Juliette thought Rodney was playing some horrible tasteless joke. Oh, let it be only that, she told herself as the set of his features told her he was sincere.
"I don't believe it," she said at last, waving her hand in a manner meant to dismiss the entire matter. "All those gossips make up the ugliest things about everyone. I think they have all stooped quite low to say such things about Monsieur Phillips."
In spite of the sureness in her voice, the word "Arab" echoed over and over in her head. Brandon an Arab? But why hadn't he told her? Why had he let her think? ... She felt suddenly numb, as if her heart had turned to wood.
"But it is true!" Juliette heard Rodney insist.
She turned on him. "How can you be so sure? All those people are the same-monsters! All of them! You should realize how eager they are to hurt with their evil tongues. Don't you think I know some of the things they've said about me? And now you expect me to believe these ridiculous charges. I'm disappointed that you give credence to such nonsense!"
Rodney placed a hand on her shoulder. "It is true, Juliette." His voice was gentle. "Can't you see what he is? Hasn't his secretiveness and his Arab servants made you wonder? Or have your feelings for the man clouded your usual good sense? Haven't you ever thought he must have something to hide?"
The truth in Rodney's words made her throat constrict. She stifled a moan. Could it possibly be true? Everything Rodney had mentioned had entered her mind. But always
she had passed off Brandon's silence as dignity-his Arab servants as eccentricity. But what if she were wrong?
"And that's not all I have to tell you," Rodney said silently savoring his final coup de grace. "You may not believe what the others say about his Arab blood, but I know myself he is keeping a mistress."
Juliette's head snapped up so her incredulous regard met Rodney's firm one.
"It's true, Juliette. I've seen her myself. She is an actress, they say, and just the sort you'd expect-vulgar, with loads of ghastly red hair."
Juliette turned deadly pale. It was impossible, unbelievable. Rodney must be wrong, even lying. Yet just the possibility it was true made a fiery rage form like an explosive ball in the pit of her stomach.
"I suppose you won't believe me," Rodney went on. "You've already said I'm jealous, and I suppose I am. But I'm only telling you these things for your own good. Anyway, if you think I'm lying, you can go and see for yourself. Just this morning she was at his villa. Several people saw her. They say Phillips is very open about his women and allows them to parade themselves about under the noses of gentlefolk."
Juliette's voice was strained and cold. "Oh, that is what `they' say, is it? Well, I will tell you, I don't know what to believe. But considering Monsieur Phillips and I are merely acquaintances, I can't see why any of this should matter to me as much as you seem to think it should."
Juliette walked stiffly across the room and sat very straight in an armchair facing away from him.
"Now, if you would be so kind, I would like to be alone. I have several letters to write and I must have them posted before I leave."
Aware he was being dismissed, Rodney walked to stand behind her. "I hope I haven't upset you," he began, wishing he hadn't told her so brutally. "I only wanted to prevent…something from happening that . . . well, that you would regret."
Juliette continued staring rigidly ahead. "Please, Rodney," she said in the same hollow voice. "If you have said what you wanted to say, please go!"
Rodney clenched the hands he held behind him, unsure of how to rectify what he had done. The silence continued and his uneasiness grew. Perhaps it would be best just to leave her alone and let her absorb the news, he decided, backing toward the door. "Of course," he said finally. "I hope you understand my intentions were only for the best. I mean, I would never want anything to come between us."
He waited for an answer, but the time stretched out without a sound. He continued back, scuffling his boots on the carpet, opened the door and stepped out, carefully closing it behind him.
Chapter 37
Long ago Lucille Madeaux had discovered that information was money, particularly information concerning prominent figures, and especially those in politics. Even as a little girl, Lucille had learned how men loved to confide, particularly after drinking. Any woman who made them feel strong and clever and so very appealing could find out anything she wanted to know.
And when Lucille accepted a "friend," she always did so considering what he might be able to tell her-at least she usually did. Brandon Phillips had been an exception. With him she had been too filled with foolish romantic notions to concern herself with learning his secrets, at least, that was how it began. But as Brandon's passion cooled, and Lucille found herself dropped firmly on her lush buttocks into cold reality it was only a short time before she remembered that she was a practical woman.
It was Monsieur Phillips's silence that had first convinced her he must have something to hide. But even in their most intimate moments, he was in control, and while she had easily induced other men to divulge their secrets, she had no power over him. She used every trick and device she knew, even resorting to drugging his wine. But in spite of all her practiced methods, Brandon remained silent, implacable, and finally, it became necessary to seek out his servants.
Lucille's experienced eye spotted the traitor immediately. Abdul was young and handsome, in an adolescent way, and his dissatisfied manner and shifting eyes told Lucille all she needed to know.
Abdul himself found the bargain particularly attractive and agreed at once. He was the lowest of the house servants. His pay was little and his hours long and tedious. And how much easier, he reasoned, was it to be paid in little gold coins for telling the master's plaything information known by the entire master's household.
Yes, his master was an Arab, he informed her, a sheik from the great desert where his father before him was richest among the faithful, while his mother had been a woman with hair of fire, a woman brought by Allah from a distant land.
Abdul did not concern himself with what could be so valuable about this common knowledge. He only cared it pleased the woman, who smiled like a hyena does after gorging itself on its kill, and dismissed him with a wave of her painted fingers.
Lucille was pleased, very pleased. And already the information had been sold to a certain anonymous gentleman who she was sure by his accent was upper-class English.
Now the damage was done, and profitably so. There had been rumors and conjecture about Brandon before, but now the whispers would be turned into an outright scandal.
Tomorrow she would return to France. But today she had come here unable to resist seeing Brandon once more. Maybe she would even tease him by hinting at what she had done. The thought delighted her. How would it suit Brandon to be turned out of society for reasons none of his wealth or charm could mend? Her expression soured then.
Perhaps, she thought, he would discover just how bitter rejection could be.
It was then Lucille looked up from her place on the terrace and saw a slender blond girl coming toward her across the lawn.
She was dressed in a simple white yachting dress that was nevertheless elegantly tailo
red, and as the girl came to a stop on the opposite side of the terrace railing, her face was a study of disbelief.
Entrancing eyes, Lucille thought so large and lovely hair and skin. Yes, a real beauty, though too thin. But what was she doing here? Lucille cocked her head. She had long suspected another woman had been responsible for changing Brandon's lukewarm liking to chilling disinterest in less than a week. And there was a certain bright innocence about this girl. A quality that men often found irresistible, particularly men like Brandon who had grown cynical enough to value virtue.
"Who are you?" the girl suddenly demanded in well enunciated English.
Lucille raised her finely plucked eyebrows. This girl's bearing, her dress, and her refined speech all confirmed Lucille's suspicions. Indeed this was just the sort of woman Brandon would take seriously. But how much did this one know of Brandon's wild doings in Paris and elsewhere? She wondered. Probably nothing, at least not from Brandon. Had someone else told her perhaps? Was that why she was here-so surprised and so furious? A slow poisonous smile spread over Lucille's features.
"My name is Lucille Madeaux," she said at last. "I am an actress and here by the personal invitation of Monsieur Phillips-as I imagine you are." She swirled the brandy in her glass before taking a bit in her mouth and letting it dwell on her tongue before continuing. "He really is quite careless, don't you agree? Most men take infinite trouble that their mistresses never meet. Et voilà!" She gave an airy wave and smiled deprecatingly. "But there is no need for a scene between us. I yield to you. It appears that you have replaced me-for the time being, that is. But don't think I am too jealous. I will content myself knowing that sooner than you realize, someone will replace you. Monsieur Phillips is quite fickle, I'm afraid. Or haven't you heard?"
Revolted, Juliette could only stare; trying not to believe what was plainly before her, coarsely displayed in a décolleté gown and emerald earrings. It was horrible enough that Brandon had lied about everything. But to realize that his lips had caressed this woman's as well as her own was nauseating, and the fiery ball in the pit of her stomach flamed with outrage.
"Yes. I think now I'm beginning, to understand," she said in a voice steadier than she expected. "But I assure you I am not here because I have any relationship whatever with Monsieur Phillips. He did not invite me."
"Ah! But of course-I see," Lucille said taking more brandy from her glass. "There are many he doesn't invite, but they come anyway. He is much too difficult to resist, n'est-ce pas? Un beau ideal." She sighed in a mocking gesture before smiling again.
A searing pain stabbed Juliette's chest so her breath came quickly. It was all true-all of it. What a fool she had made of herself, and worse, now fully realizing Brandon's deceit, she was also ironically and mercilessly aware of her own deep feelings for him.
Inwardly she squirmed at her own folly that so easily might have been the prelude of even worse degradation. She shuddered, and without another word, turned to go silently as she had come.
A dignified retreat was suddenly made impossible how¬ever, when she saw Brandon quickly approaching from the opposite side of the lawn. For a moment Juliette hesitated, noting the series of questions and emotions playing across his usually composed face.
Then, throwing him a look of utter contempt, she continued in the direction of the hotel.
He was behind her then, keeping pace even as she continued stalking ahead.
"I want to speak with you-now," he said though she continued on as if not hearing. "You will stop and I will explain. ..:"
But Juliette didn't let him finish. Spinning around, she pointed a shaking finger back toward the terrace. "Go!" she spat. "Go back to your . . . to that woman. How dare you ever talk of love to me when you… when she . . . You are vile-detestable! I hate you!" And turning, she started again across the lawn.
Again he was behind her, and before she could elude his hand, he had her arm and whipped her round to face him. Their eyes met as he jerked her hard against his chest.
"Don't you dare touch me!" she screamed, no longer caring about anything but the waves of rage that consumed her. She wanted to kill him, yes, kill him if she could!
Brandon looked at her evaluating. How much had Lucille told her? Enough, it was plain. There could be no renunciation of what had passed. All his efforts to win her in a civilized way had failed, and now, after this, she would never give herself willingly. But of course the time for negotiation had already ended.
And looking at her now, Brandon's senses churned. Her hair had come loose from its pins as she tossed her head so it looked like a wild mane. She was magnificent-an enraged lioness. And with a short, ironic laugh, he took her in his arms, forcing her head back against his shoulder as he kissed her with devouring lips. Still she struggled, kicking with determination and strength he had not suspected. And when that did not succeed, Juliette bit him viciously on the mouth.
Startled, Brandon pulled back; transferring Juliette's flailing body to one arm, and raising the other hand to dab at the wound. Indeed his fingers came away wet with blood.
"Bitch! She-devil!" he said, in Arabic. And though Juliette couldn't understand what he said, she could hear the almost amused mockery in his tone.
How could he insult her now when he ..."I won't do this!" she demanded. "If you don't release me immediately I'll scream -for help. Someone will hear me! And you'll . . . you'll pay for this!"
Brandon paused, cutting short an urge to carry her off then and there. The hotel was only a few yards beyond a nearby hedge. And there was also Lucille watching everything. Damn Lucille anyway. Damn her to Hell for the whore that she was!
Miraculously then, Juliette felt herself released, and stepping away stood rubbing her bruised arm while catching her breath. He was smiling at her, and now he touched his forehead, each breast, and his lips in a salute that was decidedly Arabic as he said, "Au revoir, ma petite. And I assure you, we will meet again."
Beyond words, Juliette only glared at him. Then turning, she resumed her pace across the lawn, wanting to run, but forcing herself to remain dignified as her head throbbed in counter beats to her heart. And just as she was about to disappear round the end of the hedge, she heard him laugh soft and deep and suddenly she felt more frightened than ever before.
Chapter 38
Before the first rays of coral sunshine pierced the slate sky, Sheik Karim al-Sharif stood before his assembled men delivering a series of orders, clipped and precise, that divided them into several groups and sent them hastening from the room.
Moving then to an ivory box on the sideboard, the sheik withdrew a cheroot, and lighting it, exhaled the smoke from his nostrils like tusks before walking the length of the dark woven -rug, past the brass lamps to the sideboard and then back again, over and over.
In only a short time, a trio of men returned, bowing low before their master, a disturbed expression on their swarthy faces.
"Well?" the sheik asked.
There was a troubled silence before one Arab stepped forward bowing lower than before. "Master," he said. "The yacht belonging to the English lady is no longer in the harbor. It has gone."
"Gone?" the sheik repeated, his eyes traveling from one face to another.
They all nodded, their brown faces dropping. The sheik's eyes darkened, emitting the piercing glow of burning steel.
His men shifted uneasily from one foot to another. Obsequiously the spokesman bowed again, his voice barely audible as he said, "We inquired, master, and were told the English lady left yesterday after sunset."
The sheik inclined his head, his jaw, twitching as his hand waved to dismiss them. "Go now," he said. "Later I will have instructions."
The servants all bowed low and salaamed, backing toward the door. But Brandon was hardly aware of their silent exit.
Again he walked to the opposite end of the room, opened the ivory case and withdrew another cheroot. His eyes unfocused as he placed it between his lips and lit it, puffing several times un
til smoke surrounded his head. Then the corners of his mouth curved upward in a slow smile.
She had outmaneuvered him again! Again he had underestimated her! She was only a girl-not yet a woman, and yet she had developed the will and deceptive cleverness of a man. Only last night he had learned of the existence of the .Whimsy, even as she had been using it to elude him. What other secrets had she kept? And how strange that she could seem so soft, almost fragile, and yet be capable of such quick-witted decisiveness.
Karim raised a hand to touch his scabbed lip as he paced up and down. He had no intention of letting Juliette go. Thankfully he had already sent a force of men to delay the ship carrying the rifles from Marseille, so now he had the choice of intercepting her yacht before she reached England, or waiting and waylaying her somewhere after she landed.
Both ways had their risks and advantages. She was already hours ahead, though the Black Hawk would be able to catch her. It would save time, but then he would have her crew to deal with. Her disappearance could be carried out far more discreetly in London. She wouldn't have her regular servants with her, and temporary ones-people already employed by him, could apply for the positions and, if necessary, bribe the other applicants.
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