by Helen Brooks
She stared at him, utterly unable to reply.
He held her gaze, his eyes moving to capture hers and his face still and quiet, his body tense for one long moment before he shrugged coolly, breaking the spell. 'Other than that I'm not fussy,' he said mockingly.
Marianne lingered over coffee, less because of her appreciation of the aromatic brew than because of the fact that in a few minutes she was going to have to let Hudson see her to her suite, and then… What? she asked herself despairingly. That had been a seduction speech if ever she'd heard one, and the trouble was he was so good at it. She should never have had those cocktails and glasses of wine—she needed every bit of thinking power when she was in his company.
'There's no more in the pot' As her hand reached for the coffee pot to pour another—her fourth—cup, Hudson's voice was dark and soft. 'Would you like me to call the waiter for a refill? Although all that caffeine will make it hard to sleep.'
'Oh, no, no, I've… I've had enough.' She had, more than enough—in fact the last cup had had to be forced down in tiny gulps—but the coffee was all she had as a delaying tactic.
'You really do like the Moroccan coffee, don't you?' Hudson said with innocent observation. It's no trouble to get more—'
'No really.' The four cups of the rich, thick infusion were already beginning to swish about in her over-full stomach with more gusto than she would have liked, and she had a nasty feeling that Hudson had seen her procrastination for what it was. 'I've had enough.'
He put his arm round her waist as they left the table—his fingers splaying on the soft swell of her stomach with burning heat—and she couldn't believe what the feel of the masculine body did to hers. She shivered, and then took an iron grip on herself to prevent another such occurrence. What was the matter with her, for goodness' sake? she asked herself crossly. Anyone would think she was a nervous teenager on her first date, although arguably most of the teenagers she met these days probably knew far more about a man's body than she did.
She stumbled slightly as they walked down the marble steps leading from the restaurant, and immediately his arm tightened before drawing her into the protection of his hard frame and he said, 'Careful, sweetheart,' his voice deep and soft.
She wished he wouldn't call her that. No doubt it was his stock address to all the women he took into his bed—part of the overall seduction technique—and as such it rankled, fiercely.
'I'm fine, thank you.' Her voice was prim as she carefully moved herself out of his hold, but the hectic flush in her cheeks and over-bright eyes told their own story. 'You don't need to—'
'What's wrong with my putting my arm round you?' he asked easily as he pulled her close again. 'And who said anything about need? Perhaps I like to hold you. What's wrong with that?'
'There's nothing wrong with it, but I don't think—'
'Perhaps you like me to hold you,' he added softly. 'Do you, Annie? Do you like to feel the warmth of my skin against yours? To feel the way you fit into my side like you were made to be there? A delicious, living jigsaw… '
'This is a silly conversation.' There was a riot in her stomach now that had nothing to do with the coffee.
'Why? Because we're talking about sex?' He said the word as though it were nothing at all, and Marianne almost missed her step again. 'Why are you afraid of me, Annie? Is it me or all men? What's happened to make you so scared? Is it the emotional commitment or the act itself? Are you afraid I'd be too rough, too big, that I'd hurt you—?'
'Hudson!'
She jerked away, glancing round hastily to see if anyone could have overheard them, her cheeks scarlet with embarrassment.
'You haven't answered my question,' he persisted relentlessly.
'Nor am I going to,' she said stiffly, although tucked into his side as she was her voice carried less censure than she would have liked. 'To answer it would give credence to the idea that I'm frightened of you, which is too ridiculous for words. Just because I don't… I don't offer myself to everyone,' she continued feverishly, 'doesn't mean I'm scared of men. I have principles—'
'So do I,' he said seriously, glancing down at her briefly.
'There you are, then. You can understand what I mean.'
'But there is an enormous difference between having principles and living the life of a nun, Annie. Five and five doesn't add up to ten with you, and that… irritates me.' He turned her round, bringing her into the circle of his arms as they reached her suite, and then backing her against the wall as he looked down at her with dark, narrowed eyes. 'And puzzles me too,' he admitted thoughtfully. 'And it's a failing of mine that I always have to solve puzzles.'
'I do apologise for disturbing that illustrious brain.' The sarcasm didn't quite come off, trapped as she was by his big male body, and enveloped by the warmth and smell of him. 'If I irritate you so much—' the word had rankled '—why did you insist that we travel together?' she asked tightly.
'Damned if I know.' His eyes narrowed further. 'Perhaps I'm a glutton for punishment? It could be that; I was always stubborn and awkward even as a child. Or maybe it's a matter of unfinished business. That's another thing that has always had the power to get to me. Or it could even be that any company is better than no company at all.' He smiled mockingly.
'Charming.' She tried to glare at him but the anger his words had induced was watered down by the potent magnetism of his nearness, and the word sounded humiliatingly breathless.
'You did ask.' He stared down into her face for one more moment, his eyes moving over her hair, her eyes, the silky-smooth skin with its delicate blush of pink, and then he reached out and touched her mouth with his finger, tracing the outline of her lips with a sensual caress. 'Goodnight, Annie.' And then he straightened up with an abruptness that left her stunned as he turned and walked away.
The cool control Hudson displayed that evening characterised his dealings with Marianne over the next few days. They left Fez early the next morning when it was still relatively cool, arriving in modern Rabat's broad, flower-lined streets later that day, and exploring its ancient medina the next morning before it got too hot.
Hudson was charming but faintly remote, teasing her a little—as a niece could expect from a favourite uncle—but maintaining a detachment that made Marianne feel quite isolated at times. And so it continued, even when, on the third night of the trip, Hudson escorted her to a wildly exotic nightclub in Casablanca and Marianne found herself trying to provoke something more. The very moment she realised what she was doing she stopped, but it hadn't made any difference anyway—he was still the benevolent uncle figure, and it was driving her mad. She told herself she was being inconsistent, selfish, unreasonable—that it was far better he viewed her platonically; it was what she had demanded after all. But in spite of her acknowledgement of her fallaciousness it still hurt.
They arrived in Marrakesh late in the afternoon of the fifth day, and by then Marianne was convinced that any attraction Hudson might still have harboured towards her had been well and truly dealt with by that formidable mind.
The city had a special charm of its own that was undeniably romantic, many of its streets being lined with orange trees and gardens filled with bougainvillaea and flowering jasmine that perfumed the air with a sweet odour, and Marrakesh itself being surrounded by orchards of olive trees and date palms bearing heavy bunches of fruit high in the air.
Marianne found its location—lying in the foothills of the High Atlas Mountains due south of Casablanca—fascinatingly picturesque, the reservoirs made by damming streams in the mountains nearby providing a lushness to the city that had been missing elsewhere. But Hudson seemed quite unmoved by the romance in the air.
It would be a wonderful place for a honeymoon… The thought shocked her and she glanced quickly at Hudson, big and dark beside her, as they drove past medieval palaces and other ancient and beautiful buildings towards the large square called Djemaa-el-Fna, deep inside the medina, where there was a fair beginning at about four e
very afternoon.
'Idris made me promise to pay a visit,' Hudson had said earlier with a wry smile as they'd been approaching the city, and he had told Marianne about the famous fair. 'He was horrified we might just come to Marrakesh without visiting Djemaa-el-Fna.' And so, on their arrival at 'the gateway to the south', they had parked the Range Rover outside the rosy pink medina wall, whereupon they had hired one of the hundreds of horse-drawn gigs lined along its length, and were now being driven in style to the great square.
It was alive with what seemed to Marianne's fascinated eyes thousands of people waiting to be entertained when they arrived just before four, and, after Hudson had paid the Arab who had driven them his required fee, he took her small hand in his.
'I wanted to show you the real Morocco when you came on this trip,' he said softly, his eyes warmer than they had been in days. 'And this is part of it. Let's just enjoy it together.'
'But the hotel? They won't let our rooms go?' Marianne asked anxiously. 'It might be late when we leave.'
'It's okay.' He smiled, drawing her close and kissing the tip of her nose in a light caress before adding, 'I know the owner.'
She couldn't argue any more; her heart was singing suddenly at the look in his eyes after the days of coolness, even as she berated herself for her stupidity. She had to be careful—doubly careful—when he was like this. She couldn't afford to let her guard down for a moment She loved him too much to get careless.
Marianne knew, as the afternoon stretched into evening, that she was going to remember the bitter-sweet enchantment of the hours spent with Hudson for the rest of her life. They listened to story-tellers, watched snake-charmers, magicians, jugglers and agile acrobats parade their skills, and the inevitable medicine men demonstrate the miraculous cures in their brightly coloured bottles.
There were many cooks tending their braziers while they grilled succulent pieces of fish or chunks of meat, and as the light began to fade into an aromatic dusk Hudson and Marianne ate charcoaled fish and sweet Moroccan bread washed down with bottled water, followed by handfuls of dried figs and dates.
It was a step outside real life—a dream, a taste of what might have been—and all the more poignant because of it.
'Worth coming?' Hudson's voice was soft as they stood finishing the last of the dates and watching the vendors beginning to pack up their wares as the dark shadows of night encroached on the colourful scene, blanketing it in a velvety dusk.
'Definitely.' And it had been—if only because of the magical bubble that had enclosed them as they had wandered hand in hand about the square like any other couple on holiday.
'Come on; we'll find a taxi to take us back to the Range Rover,' Hudson said quietly, and he slipped an arm about her waist, pulling her into the side of him as they turned to retrace their footsteps.
He kept his arm round her during the drive back, but although there were times—many times—when Marianne thought he was going to kiss her he didn't, much to her increasing chagrin.
The Range Rover was where they had left it, and once inside Hudson started the engine without attempting to touch her, his face cool and expressionless and his hands steady. They drove to the modern part of the city, built about one and a half miles from the old medina, and into a wide, tree-lined street where large houses reposed in regal splendour, surrounded by their own grounds and flower-filled gardens. It was the haunt of the wealthy.
'Oh.' Marianne glanced about her as Hudson cut the engine after drawing into one of the drives and stopping in front of a long, low, sprawling residence of some distinction. 'Have… have you a call to make or something?'
'Something, actually.' His face was still cool as he turned to face her and she knew instantly she wasn't going to like what he was going to say, and steeled herself for what was to come.
'This is the part of Marrakesh where Hassan, Idris's brother, lives,' Hudson said quietly. They're expecting us.'
'Who's expecting us?' Marianne asked suspiciously.
'Hassan and his wife.' It was said with studied patience.
'You didn't tell me Idris's brother lived in Marrakesh.' Marianne slanted her eyes at him in the shadowed drive but could read nothing from the poker-face in front of her. 'They're expecting us for a meal, is that it? But won't they have assumed we'd go to our hotel and change first? And I couldn't eat anything, not after all that food at the fair,' she added quickly.
'You won't have to eat anything.' Hudson eyed her steadily.
She didn't trust him when he was quiet and patient—like now. 'What does that mean?' she asked doubtfully.
'They've offered to put us up for the night, that's all,' Hudson drawled easily. 'Idris happened to mention to Hassan we were coming this way, and Hassan would have considered it the gravest insult if we had gone to a hotel. Moroccans are tremendously hospitable,' he added—so innocently that Marianne's qualms intensified. 'They take such things very seriously.'
She stared at him for a long moment before saying flatly, 'Why didn't you tell me we weren't staying at a hotel?'
'Is it important?' he countered evenly. 'It's just for a night.'
'I think so.' She drew back slightly in her seat to survey him better. 'It makes me wonder what else you haven't told me.'
'Don't make this into a drama, Annie,' he said coolly, immediately making her feel ridiculous for having objected. 'And, if we're talking about who hasn't told who what, I hardly think you're in a position to object to anything I might have done, do you?' He looked at her sardonically, his gaze cold.
'That's not fair.' She knew she was blushing and it made her voice sharp.
'On the contrary,' he said tightly, a touch of ice chilling the deep tones. It's damn fair. Now, it's late and Hassan is expecting us, so if you're ready… ?'
He left the vehicle before she could reply, walking round the bonnet and opening her door as she sat quietly seething at his high-handedness. She glanced at his outstretched hand without moving, and then raised her gaze slowly to his where their eyes met and held for a full thirty seconds.
Fait accompli, she told herself irritably as she registered iron in the inflexibility of the grey gaze. It was too late to change things now, and there was no valid reason to do so anyway besides a gut feeling she couldn't explain. But this was all too… She balked at the word 'intimate' and substituted 'cosy' instead. A hotel was neutral somehow; she still had control over things in that environment. But as Idris's brother's guest…
She climbed out of the Range Rover without availing herself of Hudson's help—earning an exasperated frown in the process—and kept her head high and her back straight as Hudson pulled their cases out before walking across the pebbled drive to the ornate front door.
He didn't look to see if she was behind him, although her feet on the scrunchy stones probably told him she was, and again his male arrogance rankled, as did his next words… 'I trust you don't intend to make a scene in front of Hassan and his wife?' he asked as he turned to face her at last.
'Of course I don't' She glared at him, her eyes fiery. 'It's very kind of them to offer us beds for the night; I just hope it hasn't put them out too much.'
'Receiving guests runs in the blood of most Moroccans,' Hudson said coolly. 'They are a very gracious people.' There was an inflexion in the deep voice, just the merest something, that insinuated he did not consider that attribute to be one of her virtues, but as he swung round and rang the bell in that instant the chance to challenge him on it was lost. Which was probably just as well.
The door was opened almost immediately—with a swiftness that suggested the occupants were already aware of their arrival—and the man standing there was so like Idris it could only be Hassan, his brother. They were more like twins than mere brothers.
'Hudson, my friend.' Hassan's smile was wide and gold-toothed. 'Welcome, welcome. And this must be your Annie, yes? She is even more beautiful than Idris led me to believe. Come in, come in. Kalia is waiting to meet you both.'
'Yo
ur Annie'? There wasn't time to dwell on Hassan's words, but the portent in them was at the back of Marianne's mind during all the introductions to Hassan and his delightful family, and the hour following when they sat talking and drinking cups of the very sweet green tea flavoured with mint that the Moroccans favoured.
Hassan and Kalia were treating her as Hudson's girlfriend—it became more and more apparent as the hour progressed—but, other than cutting into the conversation and making a definite statement to the contrary, Marianne really didn't know how to dissuade them of the notion. She tried a couple of tactful hints, the implication of which seemed to pass unnoticed, but as Hudson himself was giving credence to their supposition—more by what was unsaid than said—she finally admitted defeat and decided to let them think what they liked.
They were Hudson's friends, after all—she would probably never see them again in her life—and if he wanted Hassan and Kalia to think they were a couple she really didn't see the harm in it Until they were shown to their sleeping quarters, that was.
'I hope you will find your rooms comfortable.' Hassan smiled and nodded as the little maid who had served them all tea gestured for them to follow her. 'Please tell Sorai if there is anything you need. It is our desire that your stay be comfortable.'
Rooms. Marianne expelled a silent sigh of relief as she and Hudson followed the slim girl who, unlike her employers, wore traditional Moroccan dress. As the minutes had lengthened she had begun to have the suspicion—unworthy now, she recognised with a little stab of guilt—that Hudson had his own, distinctly carnal reasons for allowing Hassan and Kalia to assume they were a couple. That would teach her to keep her imagination under control.
'What's this?'
The maid had opened the door to a suite of rooms—in which Marianne had assumed there would be two bedrooms'—and left, after showing them the bell-cord in case they required anything.
