Anne Mather - Sandstorm

Abby’s hands balled in her pockets, but she managed to hold up her head. At least in the shadowy illumination of the street lamps he was unable to see the anxious colour that had filled her cheeks, or the unsteady quiver of her lips, and forcing a note of indifference, she said:

‘You could have telephoned me. If not at home, then at the office. I presume you do know I’ve gone back to work for Brad Daley. I’m sure your—spies have been at their work.’

‘Spies!’ His tongue flicked the word contemptuously. Then, as if impatient with this unsatisfactory encounter, he gestured along the street. ‘Come, my car is parked nearby. Let me escort you home. We can talk more comfortably out of this damp atmosphere.’

Abby stood her ground. ‘I really don’t see what we have to talk about, Rachid,’ she insisted firmly. ‘I—well, I told Liz I didn’t wish to speak to you, and I thought she would respect my confidence. Just because she hasn’t, I see no reason to change my mind—’

‘Elizabeth—Liz—had no opportunity to respect your confidence,’ he retorted shortly, narrow lines bracketing his mouth. ‘When I realised you were no longer in the apartment, I came after you. It was reasonable that as you had not used the lifts, you must perforce have used the stairs.’

Abbey felt a little of the sense of betrayal leave her. ‘It makes no difference—’

‘It does to me,’ Rachid thrust the hands he had been holding behind his back into the pockets of the dark overcoat he was wearing, glancing about him almost irritably. ‘Abby, I did not come here to stand arguing with you in the street. Have the goodness to accompany me back to my car. I promise, I am not intent on abducting you without your consent. I merely wish us to—to talk.’

‘What about?’ Abby was suspicious.

‘Allah give me strength!’ Rachid half turned away from her. Why will you not do as I ask you? Just this once? Surely it is not so much to ask? You are still my wife, after all.’

‘Am I?’ Her brows arched.

‘What do you mean?’ He turned to look at her with dark intensity.

Abby shrugged, a little unnerved by his hard scrutiny. ‘I thought—that is—you might have divorced—’

‘Enough!’ There was no mistaking the fact that he was angry now. ‘You are my wife! And so you will remain. Now, will you come with me without protest, or must I ask Karim and Ahmed—’

Abby’s eyes blazed. ‘You’d do that? You’d forcibly make me go with you?’

‘Be still, Abby.’ He drew a heavy breath. ‘This conversation is rapidly becoming ridiculous! Is it so unreasonable that having not laid eyes on you for almost two years—’

‘Eighteen months.’

‘—I might wish for a little speech with you?’

‘I told you in my letters—’

‘—that you did not wish to see me, yes, I know.’ Rachid’s breathing indicated his impatience. ‘But I do not accept that. I have never accepted that. I waited—not patiently, I admit, but I waited even so, for you to come to your senses. When you did not, I came after you, only to find you were no longer in London.’

‘When was that?’ Abby was curious.

‘I do not know exactly. Six months, maybe nine months ago. It seems much longer, but I cannot be sure.’

Abby shifted her weight from one foot to the other. ‘You saw—my father?’

‘Yes, I saw him.’

Abby frowned. ‘He didn’t tell me.’

‘Would it have made any difference if he had?’ Rachid moved his shoulders indifferently. ‘He would not give me your address.’

Abby’s lips twisted. ‘No? And didn’t you threaten him? Couldn’t you blackmail him into doing as you wanted?’

Rachid’s features hardened. ‘You have a viper’s tongue, Abby. I had forgotten that.’

The mildly spoken comment infuriated her. Despite his anger, he was still able to control his speech, and her response was childishly vehement. ‘Then no doubt you’re well rid of me!’ she taunted, only to break off abruptly when he possessed himself of her arm.

‘Come,’ he said, and the warning brilliance of his eyes silenced the protest that trembled on her lips.

Inwardly seething, she had no choice but to accompany him along the narrow street that opened into the square beyond. Karim and Ahmed moved obediently ahead, and by, the time Abby and Rachid turned the corner, the two men were already unlocking the doors of a sleek black limousine that awaited them. Like Rachid, they too were dressed in Western clothes, but whereas his features were arguably European, theirs were unquestionably Arab.

Rachid escorted Abby to the nearside door and when one of the men opened it, he propelled her inside. She panted briefly, in the aftermath of keeping up with his long-strided gait, and then hastily scrambled to the far side of the car as he climbed in after her. The two men took their seats in front, and the glass partition between successfully isolated them in a cocoon of supple leather and tinted glass.

The engine fired at the first attempt, and Abby sank back uneasily against the upholstery as the long Mercedes moved away. It was almost two years since she had ridden in such arrant luxury, and while resentment simmered at this unwanted encounter, her limbs responded to the sumptuous comfort of her surroundings.

But she was no longer seduced by such things. Time, and experience, had taught her that it was people and not possessions that ultimately governed one’s life, that no inanimate object, no matter how extravagant, could compensate for disillusionment.

‘You have been working in New York,’ Rachid said now, half turning towards her on the cushioned seat, and Abby made a gesture of acknowledgement.

‘I thought you didn’t know where I was?’ she countered, and he expelled his breath on a sound of impatience.

‘Since your return to London, I have learned everything about you,’ he retorted. ‘Daley is not as secretive about his employees as you would obviously like. With the better half of a bottle of Scotch malt beneath his belt, he had few inhibitions.’

Abby pursed her lips. ‘You mean—you pumped Brad?’

Rachid shook his head. ‘Not me, personally, no. But I do have some friends.’

Abby felt a surge of indignation. ‘You mean you have influence with people!’ she asserted coldly. ‘You use people, Rachid.’ Her lips curled. ‘You always did.’

Rachid’s expression was hidden from her, but she sensed his heated reaction to the insult. Wives of Middle Eastern princes did not answer back, that much she had learned in her years in Abarein. At least, they hadn’t, until she came on the scene. But she had been stupid enough to imagine she had been different, that she and Rachid had had a deeper relationship than those foolish acolytes who only hovered on the brink of their husband’s notice.

‘This conversation is getting us nowhere,’ he said at last. ‘I have been very patient, Abby, but now my patience is wearing thin. I want you back. I want you to return with me—to Xanthia.’

Abby choked. ‘You’re not serious!’

‘But I am,’ he assured her, in that calm, implacable tone. ‘You are my wife, Abby, and as such you belong in my house. I do not intend that this situation should continue any longer. I need a wife—I need you. I expect you to adhere to my wishes.’

Abby felt a rising sense of incredulity that threatened to explode in hysterical laughter. He couldn’t be serious, but he was! He actually expected her to give up the new life she had made for herself and return with him to Abarein, to the palace at Xanthia, which he shared with his father and the rest of his family.

Abby pushed forward on the seat and reached for the handle of the door. ‘I think you’re right,’ she said, momentarily surprising him by what he thought was her submission. ‘This conversation is getting us nowhere. If you’ll ask your driver to stop here, I can take a bus—’