Anne Herries - The Sheikh

‘You are kind to think of us,’ Chloe said, feeling surprised that he had bothered. ‘The professor is an experienced traveller and I expect he has already decided on his itinerary, but it was good of you to ask.’

Philip Armand inclined his head. ‘I am sure you are right, Miss Randall—but should you need assistance I would be happy to oblige.’ He looked at her oddly. ‘Now, I shall allow you to rejoin your friends—until this evening.’

Chloe watched as he walked away. What an extraordinary man he was—sure of himself, almost arrogant and yet undoubtedly attractive. She found herself torn two ways and was not sure whether she liked or disliked him.

She still could not make up her mind that evening, even though he was completely charming as he danced with both Jane and her aunt. He might have been a different man, Chloe thought, watching him, and wondered at the change.

She had danced with several men that evening, most of them staid, older men, pleasant but a little dull, when he finally approached her.

‘Am I forgiven now?’ he asked as he led her into the throng of dancers. It was a tango, and in Chloe’s opinion one of the most thrilling of the newer dances. And it took skill to execute the exciting steps, especially when the gentleman bent his partner backwards.

‘You should be asking Jane, not me,’ she said and looked at him a little naughtily. ‘Did you know that the Kaiser forbade his troops to dance the tango, because it might affect their moral fibre?’

‘Undoubtedly that was why they lost the war,’ he replied promptly and made her laugh. It was usually only Justine who responded to her humour so swiftly. ‘Ah, so I am forgiven after all…’

‘Only if you can dance this as beautifully as I hope.’ She gave him a bewitching smile. Something flashed in Mr Armand’s eyes and as his hand reached out for hers she felt a tingle rather like an electric shock. For one moment she felt mesmerised as she gazed into his eyes, her lips parting in a little gasp of surprise as she glimpsed the passion beneath the mask he habitually wore. This man was very different from the cool, polite stranger she had encountered from time to time on the ship and she sensed something slightly dangerous. Her heart began to race wildly, and as he placed his hand at her waist she felt close to swooning. Her teasing had somehow roused a tiger!

‘Oh, I shall certainly be on my mettle now,’ he said, and swept her into the dance with a flourish.

Chloe had never danced like this in her life. He was in control, in tune with the melody and with her, guiding her effortlessly through the intricate steps. It felt as if her feet hardly touched the floor, and she was floating with the music and the power and magnetism of her partner. Her whole body seemed to throb with a strange new feeling—a recklessness that she did not recognise but dimly realised might be desire.

What was she thinking? Had she lost her senses completely? It must be the evocative rhythm of the music that was making her feel this way—and yet as his hand slid against the satin softness of her bare arm she knew it was far more to do with the man himself.

‘Oh…’ she breathed as the music finally died and after a brief moment, when his eyes seemed to burn into her soul, he released her. ‘What a pity. I should have liked to go on dancing forever.’

‘Then I shall consider myself forgiven,’ he said. His gaze strayed across the room to where Jane Vermont was talking at Brent Harwood, and the warmth died from his eyes. ‘I see your foolish friend is making up to that American. If I were you I should warn her to be careful. Apart from the fact that he makes ridiculous films, I know that he is not to be trusted.’

Chloe felt the withdrawal in him and was hurt. How could he change so suddenly after that magical dance? For that brief time they had seemed almost indivisible and now he was miles away from her again—but perhaps it had only been her who had felt the magic. She immediately threw up a screen to hide her foolish sensitivity.

‘Why don’t you like his films?’

‘I believe he intends to make something rather similar to the picture that Valentino caused such a stir with three, or perhaps it was four, years back—The Sheikh. I imagine you may have seen it?’

‘Yes—seven times,’ Chloe said, half-defensive, half-angry. ‘I loved it!’

A wry smile touched Philip Armand’s mouth. ‘Valentino is a remarkable actor. He made what was a very foolish plot seem almost believable. Unfortunately, it has provoked a rash of copycat films, which are an insult to the Bedouin way of life. You should know that, Miss Randall. Professor Hicks certainly agrees.’

‘Yes…well, of course I know it isn’t really the way things are. But surely that doesn’t matter? As a film it was romantic and fun…and surely its purpose was to entertain?’

‘As you say.’ He inclined his head as he escorted her to near where her friends were standing. A tiny nerve was flicking in his cheek and she sensed that she must have upset him. But why should it bother him that an American film director was intent on making a copy of the kind of picture that had made Rudolph Valentino famous?

Chloe found that she couldn’t get Philip Armand out of her mind as she prepared for bed that last evening on board ship. He was certainly the kind of man Justine would consider romantic and her foolish heart had been led astray during their dance. For a moment she had thought that there was something special between them, something rare and intense, something that if lost might never be found again…but of course that was ridiculous. They were merely strangers meeting briefly, their lives soon to diverge, never to meet again.

She would be ridiculous to imagine otherwise, of course she would. After all, he had mentioned a fiancée, hadn’t he? Feeling the sharp sting of jealousy at the thought of the unknown fiancée, Chloe tried to dismiss him from her mind. She was being so silly to imagine that he had anything but a passing interest in her. She really must stop letting her imagination run wild. The truth was that she had found him intriguing from the start—but what was it about him that made her think she ought to know more of him than she did?

She was sure that she had seen his picture in the paper, had almost captured the article the other night. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to recall whatever it was that hovered at the back of her mind, then all at once she went cold as she remembered. Of course! He had been with another man…a man wearing the flowing robes and headdress of a Sheikh! Of course…it had been an article about an assassination attempt. She could almost remember it now. There had been an attempt on the life of an important ruler of one of the oil-producing countries on the Arabian Peninsula. And Philip Armand was a cousin or something of the man pictured with him in the paper. Yet she didn’t think he had called himself by that name. It was more like Hassan…or Pasha. Or had that been the ruler’s name?

Chloe couldn’t be certain, and he had looked very different in the picture because he too had been wearing the robes of a Sheikh. Surely she must be mistaken? Yet if she was right, it would explain why he was so annoyed to find himself travelling with an American film director who made films that he clearly believed misrepresented the Bedouin way of life.

Even so, that didn’t quite explain his attitude towards Brent Harwood. There had been real anger in him as he spoke of the man…an underlying menace that she sensed must have a cause. It had seemed almost a personal thing…

Chloe dismissed her thoughts—she shouldn’t worry about something that was of no real concern to her. She wanted a good night’s sleep so as to be ready for the following day.