Love Is Dangerous

by Barbara Cartland

  She moved a little away from the seat she had been sitting on and stood watching the crowds milling around until, at last, she saw Bing coming towards her.

  He was walking very slowly and she guessed that it was a deliberate effort in order not to call attention to himself.

  She could not help a little leap of her heart because he looked so cool, unruffled and so entirely at ease. No one looking at him, she thought, could guess how much was at stake.

  He came up to her, linked his arm in hers and drew her towards another part of the garden to where there was less light and not so many people.

  “Where are we going?” Melina asked after they had walked in silence for a little while and there was, as far as she could see, no one within earshot.

  She longed to ask him about Lileth Schuster, but she felt it might provoke an outburst from him. Besides, she told herself severely, it was, indeed, none of her business.

  “We have to make a plan,” Bing answered.

  He stopped in the shadow of a banyan tree in which the fairy lights had been arranged like flowers amongst the shimmering green leaves.

  “We are at the back of the house now,” he said casually and not as if he was really interested. “Do you see that wing sticking out to the left? That is where I am sure the boy will be hidden.”

  “He will be guarded?” Melina asked.

  Bing nodded.

  “Of course he will.”

  “Surely it was an extraordinary idea to bring him here and then have a party of this sort?”

  “I think the party was planned some time ago,” Bing replied. “But apart from that, can’t you see that everyone would say exactly what you have done? The boy could not be hidden in the house under such circumstances. What is more, that party is a perfect cover to explain the presence of a number of gentlemen of unpleasant antecedents, especially the man with the scar.”

  Melina nodded.

  “Now, what I suggest is this,” Bing went on. “We will move about amongst the guests, dancing, eating, seeming to be enjoying ourselves enormously, just in case there is anyone watching us. Then in about an hour’s time you will put your hand to your forehead and tell me you think that the heat is rather overpowering. I shall take you into the house and hope that by some lucky chance we can get upstairs. While you are fainting I will go and look for something or somebody to help you.”

  “It sounds too simple to be possible,” Melina commented.

  “When you have been in this game as long as I have,” Bing answered, “it is always the simple things that pay off. People expect complications. They are very seldom prepared for a direct attack or something so obviously fundamental as walking through the main gate.”

  “Bing, supposing – supposing they catch you,” Melina said in a quick whisper. “Wouldn’t it be very dangerous?”

  Instinctively she put out her hand and laid it on his arm. He looked down at the small anxious face raised to his.

  “Of course not,” he answered soothingly. “Don’t you know that American citizens are sacred everywhere? I have my passport in my pocket.”

  He was trying to laugh her out of her fears. And, because she felt there was nothing she could say, she laughed a little shakily and followed him back over the lawns towards the dance floor.

  They danced together and, as she had noticed when he was partnering Mrs. Schuster, he was an excellent dancer, light on his feet and with a perfect sense of rhythm. They talked very little for, indeed, there was nothing to say and it was far too dangerous with so many people round them to voice anything but the commonplace.

  “Come and have something to eat,” Bing suggested as the dance ended and he led her across the garden towards the buffet.

  Melina had a few sips of champagne, but she felt as if food must choke her.

  She was tense and apprehensive of what lay ahead. She envied Bing and the calm with which he devoured several portions of caviar and a large plateful of langoustines, which he told Melina must have been brought from the coast that very morning.

  While they were standing there, Melina heard in the distance the sounds of a different sort of music – a strange oriental rhythm that seemed to evoke long-forgotten memories and awaken hidden desires.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “Let’s go and find out,” Bing suggested.

  In another part of the garden they discovered an oriental orchestra playing against a specially prepared background of exotic tropical plants and trees in which great snakes and reptiles were half concealed. Melina gave a little cry at the sight of them.

  “They are only pretence,” Bing said quickly, “Don’t be nervous. Moulay Ibrahim will take very good care that none of his guests are harmed tonight, as he would lose face if they were.”

  “But they look almost as if they are moving,” Melina said.

  “It’s a trick of the lighting. Tinsel paper in front of the bulbs makes the snakes’ skins shimmer as if they are breathing.”

  Melina gave a little shiver.

  “It’s rather creepy,” she said, “and somehow the music frightens me. I have longed all my life to hear oriental music, but now it makes me feel strange. I cannot exactly explain myself.”

  “I know what you mean,” Bing said. “That is what it is meant to do. See the result.”

  He made a little gesture with his hand and she saw that all round in the shadows couples were embracing each other passionately while others were wending their way into the darker unlit parts of the garden.

  “Let’s go away,” Melina suggested.

  She did not know why, but she felt that Moulay Ibrahim had some particular reason for creating this sort of atmosphere. There was something wrong about it, something vaguely unpleasant. She wished to have no part in it.

  “Come back and dance,” Bing offered with a smile and they were on the floor again, foxtrotting to a tune that had been the rage of London the year before.

  “Is this more simple and uncomplicated?” he asked.

  “We might even be at a Hunt Ball,” Melina observed.

  They danced for a long time, so long in fact that Melina did really begin to feel a little weary and hot. There was no wind and the crowds seemed to press in on her so that it was with a quite genuine note in her voice that she said,

  “I feel – a little overcome with the – heat. Could we sit down somewhere?”

  She saw Bing’s eyes flicker towards his watch and she knew that he was wondering if it was too soon to do what they had decided earlier.

  In a voice of concern he said quickly,

  “I’m so sorry, honey, you’ve had a long day one way or another. Let’s go and find somewhere comfortable to sit down. I can fetch you a drink or perhaps you would rather have an aspirin?”

  “An aspirin would be wonderful,” Melina said. “My head is aching rather a lot.”

  “Let’s go indoors,” Bing suggested. “If the air conditioning is on, it will be cooler there.”

  He put his hand under her elbow and escorted her across the lawn and up the wide white steps that led to the side door of the villa. There were quite a lot of people going in and out of the house and, as soon as they reached the flower-filled veranda off which most of the rooms appeared to open, it was obvious that Moulay Ibrahim’s guests were taking every opportunity of inspecting his villa.

  It was more of a Palace than anything else, Melina thought. It had been built on European design, but there were traces of Moorish influence in the coloured tiles, the exquisite hangings and the manner in which quite unexpectedly there was a courtyard with a fountain in the centre of the house.

  They moved slowly through the reception rooms, inspected the courtyard, which was filled with exotic plants, and looked up to where several storeys of the house with tiny shuttered and unlit windows stretched towards the sky.

  Melina was well aware that all the time Bing was veering a little to the left, edging towards the wing that he wished to visit.

  Th
en, as they came from the courtyard, they saw a small, twisting stone staircase leading upwards from one of the side corridors. It was very unlike the grand staircase that they had passed earlier, and swiftly, without speaking and on tiptoe so as to make as little noise as possible, they climbed up it.

  They reached a passage that was lit by only one small electric light. It was obvious that this part of the villa was not intended to attract visitors.

  “Up again,” Bing whispered, and now they were on the second floor and again it was practically in darkness save at the very end where there were lights and, as Melina guessed, a link with the grander and more formal parts of the villa.

  Bing moved towards the lighted part of the corridor and opened the first door he came to. He switched on the light and Melina saw that it was a bedroom, well-furnished but not extravagantly so.

  It was quiet, for the window obviously opened onto the back of the house and, after a quick glance round, Bing said,

  “Stay here and wait for me. If anyone comes, say you felt faint and I have gone to try and find some aspirin for you,”

  “But, Bing – ” Melina protested, only to see his back disappearing through the door so swiftly that it seemed almost as if he had wings on his heels.

  The room seemed airless because the window was closed. Melina opened it, feeling that if anyone did discover her they would think it strange that she had not tried to get some air into the room.

  It was impossible to see much from the window, but she thought that against the skyline she could discern a part of the hill they had surveyed the villa from earlier in the day.

  Then she moved hastily away from the window in case anyone should come in and think it odd that she should be looking out.

  She considered lying down on one of the beds and then changed her mind. There was something undignified about being found lying flat. Instead she sat down in an armchair, put a cushion comfortably behind her back and closed her eyes.

  She might be looking relaxed, but she knew that every muscle and every nerve in her body was strained to listen for Bing’s return.

  She felt curiously like tears with the sheer frustration of having to wait and do nothing while he went alone to face whatever danger there was.

  And then she began to think of the small boy and to pray for his safety.

  “Let Bing find him! Oh, God! Please let Bing find him.”

  How long she prayed and waited she did not know.

  Suddenly she heard someone coming and was ready to jump for joy at the fact that Bing was returning.

  And then, just as she was about to move, something in the heaviness of the tread and the firmness and steadiness of the footsteps told her that it could not be Bing.

  She closed her eyes and braced herself.

  The footsteps came nearer, paused for a moment and then passed on. She looked up and with a sense of dismay realised that the draught from the window must have opened the door wider than Bing had intended. He had left it nearly closed, but now it stood wide open and anyone who had passed must have seen her.

  It was not that it mattered particularly because she had been lying looking exhausted, as they had planned. At the same time if it was a servant why had he not asked her what was the matter or if he could help?

  Vaguely she felt something was wrong, but she did not know what to do about it.

  She crossed the room and pushed the door back, leaving it just ajar as Bing had done. Then she went back to her chair to sit listening.

  She had not been there long before she heard footsteps returning. This time there were more of them, two people, perhaps three, were coming and there was still no sign of Bing.

  The footsteps came nearer and nearer and now the door was burst open. Someone stood there looking at her.

  Slowly with a tremendous effort to appear unhurried, she opened her eyes.

  Moulay Ibrahim was looking down at her.

  She recognised him immediately, but she had not expected him to be so tall. He seemed to tower over her and she felt in her heart a sudden fear that was physical.

  “Why are you here?” he asked in French.

  She realised as he spoke that he must be perturbed otherwise the courtesy of the East would have prevented him from speaking so peremptorily.

  With what she hoped looked a natural movement, Melina put her hands across her eyes.

  “I’m so – sorry,” she said, “but I – I felt – faint. In fact I – think I – must have fainted – for a moment. My – my husband has gone to – to get assistance.”

  “Why are you on this floor?”

  The words were sharp and now Melina managed to force a smile to her lips as she sat upright and then rose slowly to her feet.

  “You are Moulay Ibrahim, aren’t you?” she asked. “Thank you for – a lovely party. I am ashamed at – at behaving so stupidly.”

  “How did you get up here?” Moulay Ibrahim asked in a quieter less aggressive tone.

  “We were – exploring your beautiful house,” Melina said still with a smile on her lips. “It is so very lovely – you have such wonderful treasures. I wanted to – to see every part of it.”

  “It is yours to command.”

  It was the facile easy reply spoken not only in French, but also with the gallantry of a Frenchman. And now Moulay Ibrahim looked over his shoulder.

  “Where is your husband?”

  “I have no idea,” Melina answered. “I asked him to see if he could find someone who could provide me with an aspirin.”

  Moulay Ibrahim said something in Arabic to the two servants who were standing behind him. They looked frightened, Melina thought, and she guessed that one of them should have been on duty on the small spiral staircase that she and Bing had come up without opposition.

  They sprang to obey his command and now, as Moulay Ibrahim turned back to her, she looked up into his face and thought that it was one of the most handsome and yet most sinister faces she had ever seen.

  There was something in his eyes that reminded her of a hooded snake and yet his features, thickened a little with middle-age, were still as perfect as those of a Greek statue and he might, when he was younger, have been sculptured as a dark-skinned Apollo.

  But there was an aura of evil around him. It was not visible, but Melina could feel it as surely as if she was clairvoyant.

  “What is your name?”

  His voice was low and she had the feeling that if he wished he could use it hypnotically.

  “Melina Cutter.”

  “I seem to have seen you before!”

  “But, of course, we have been here all the evening,” Melina answered.

  “No, no, not this evening,” he said with a frown between his eyes at the effort of memory. “Now I remember! You were looking out of a window in the town – the House of Rasmin.”

  She saw the suspicion leap into his eyes and tried to dispel it.

  “I saw you on your black horse,” she said. “I had no idea who you were, of course, but you looked like something out of The Arabian Nights.”

  “You were in the House of Rasmin,” Moulay Ibrahim said slowly and almost reflectively, as if he talked to himself.

  “Was that the name of the shop?” Melina asked innocently. “We had visited almost every one in the whole City, but that man – whatever he was called – had the best slippers of the lot. I bought three pairs – one pair for myself and two for my friends when I return home.”

  “And where is home?” Moulay Ibrahim asked.

  Melina just prevented herself from saying, ‘London’ and substituted,

  “New York. We are not often there,” she added confidingly. “My husband loves – travelling.”

  “Indeed!”

  As if the mention of her husband evoked Moulay Ibrahim’s suspicions as to what Bing was doing, he suddenly turned towards the door.

  “I will bring you some aspirin,” he said. “Wait here.”

  He went out and closed the door firmly behind h
im. Melina heard him give an order to someone in the corridor and, although she could not understand what was said, she had the unmistakable feeling that he had given instructions that she was not to leave the room.

  Now Moulay Ibrahim was gone, she put her fingers up to her cheeks and found that her hands were trembling. There was something overwhelming and overpowering about his personality.

  There was also that impression of evil, which told her that this man would baulk at nothing, not even murder, to get what he wanted.

  Bing was in danger and she could do nothing to help him. If only she could warn him that Moulay Ibrahim was on his track.

  She moved across the room on tiptoe and put her ear against the door.

  Yes, she was certain that she could hear someone breathing outside. Moulay Ibrahim was making sure that she did not escape while he searched the place for Bing.

  Melina had to calculate how long Bing had been gone – ten minutes? A quarter-of-an- hour? It was difficult to know and now she could make no pretence of sitting and waiting, but moved restlessly about the room.

  Where could he be? What could he be doing? Supposing Moulay Ibrahim caught him? What would happen? Would they kill him quickly and drop his body down a well? Or would they take him prisoner?

  Anyway, she was certain of one thing – that a prisoner of Moulay Ibrahim would never escape.

  It seemed to her now that the whole project had been ridiculous and absurd. Why should Bing, an unarmed solitary Englishman, think he could possibly rescue a child on whom so much rested that he was guarded day and night with the utmost vigilance.

  And if he was in the villa, what would Bing gain by the knowledge? He was not likely to be able to rescue him single-handed.

  It was mad! Mad from the start to the finish! Melina felt exasperated and furious that she had not protested sooner at what she felt was just a bit of masculine obstinacy and conceit on Bing’s part. Bring in the Military, bring in the Police or anyone, but don’t try to achieve alone what was utterly and completely impossible.

  She heard someone coming down the corridor and hastily re-seated herself in the chair. The handle of the door turned. Moulay Ibrahim came into the room.