Lord of the Desert

Her body tingled. “Pretending to be your lover,” Gretchen said breathlessly.

“Yes.”

She felt deliciously hot all over. The thought of his mouth on hers made her knees weak. He wanted pretense. She wanted him, and was only just realizing it. All sorts of shocking, exciting images formed in her mind. “I have no idea how someone in a harem behaves,” she said.

“Nor have I,” he said with a touch of amusement. “We will have to learn together.”

Some of the uncertainty left her expression.

“At least your virtue would be completely safe with me.” He hoped. He didn't dare tell her what her touch did to him.

“How far would this pretense have to go, exactly?” she wondered aloud.

“It would have to be convincing,” he said.

She lowered her eyes demurely. “You'd kiss me and…so forth?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Yes. Especially and…so forth.”

“Nobody tops Diana Palmer…I love her stories.”

—Jayne Ann Krentz

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

T
ourists milled around the food court in the busy Brussels airport where the two American women were trying to decide what to do next.

The slender blond woman in the tan pantsuit was almost choked with mirth as she gazed mischievously up at her dark-haired, pacing companion in a green silk jacket and slacks. “Isn't it ironic that we could starve to death surrounded by food?” Gretchen Brannon asked gleefully.

“Oh, do stop,” Maggie Barton groaned, looming over her laughing, near-hysterical companion. “We won't starve, Gretchen. We can get Belgian francs. There are money-changing booths everywhere!” She waved her arms around expressively at the nearby shops, almost colliding with a passing couple in the crowded food court.

Gretchen's green eyes twinkled. “Really? Where, exactly?”

Maggie let out a sigh as she tried unsuccessfully to remember enough French to read a sign.

Gretchen watched her through swollen eyelids. Unlike efficient Maggie, who could sleep on the plane, she'd been awake for almost thirty-six straight hours. “Can't you just see the headlines?” Gretchen persisted. “‘Naïve Texas tourists found dead beside five-star restaurant…'!” She started laughing again.

Maggie was not amused. “Just sit right there. Don't move.”

Gretchen submerged a mad impulse to salute. Maggie, twenty-six and three years older than Gretchen, worked for an investment firm in Houston where she was a junior partner. She had a take-charge manner that was occasionally a blessing. No doubt she'd find a way to get native currency and return loaded with food and drink.

Maggie came back with the money and sorted through it, frowning as she tried to remember how the currency changer had explained the coins. “We still have plenty of time to get something to eat and then take a tour of the city before our flight leaves for Casablanca this afternoon.”

Gretchen blinked sleepily. “Great idea, about the tour. Can you get a strong tour guide? I think I'll need to be carried…”

“Food. Coffee. Right now. Come on.”

Gretchen obligingly let her friend tug her to her feet. They were an odd couple, with Maggie so tall and brunette and voluptuous, and Gretchen slender, medium height, fair and with long platinum-blond hair. They pulled the carry-on bags with them, having had the good sense not to bring more than that, thereby escaping the eternal wait at baggage claim for bags that often didn't even arrive with the passengers.

Maggie coughed helplessly. “Everybody smokes everywhere over here,” she muttered. “I don't suppose there's a no-smoking section?”

Gretchen grinned. “Sure there is. It's where the smoke is being blown to.”

Maggie made a face. “How about the food bar over there?” she asked, indicating a structure near the window. “It's almost deserted and nobody's smoking.”

“I could eat dry bread crusts, myself,” Gretchen agreed. “And if we don't have enough money, I'll even volunteer to wash the dishes!”

They had a nice order of pasta with tomatoes and mushrooms and homemade bread, on real china, with real silverware, at a counter. By the time they finished their second cups of coffee, Gretchen felt renewed.

“Now all we have to do is find a tour going our way,” Maggie said brightly. “I'll call a tour agency and see if we can get somebody to come and pick us up.”

Gretchen only sighed. She sat down and closed her eyes. It would be so lovely to have a bed and ten hours uninterrupted sleep. But they were still hours from their hotel in Tangiers, Morocco.

Fifteen frustrating minutes later, Maggie hung up the phone and mumbled some harsh words toward it as she nudged Gretchen, who was dozing.

“I can't read the telephone directory, it's all in French, I can't figure out which coins to use because I don't speak French, and I can't get anybody who answers the phone to understand me because
I don't speak French!
”

“Don't look at me,” Gretchen said pleasantly. “I don't speak any French, even menu-French. I have to get by on Spanish, and nobody here seems to understand it.”

“I speak Spanish, too, but we're in the wrong country to use it. Well,” Maggie said irritably, “we'll just go outside and hail a cab. That should be simple enough. Right?”

Gretchen didn't say a word. She sighed and got to her feet, dragging her carry-on bag behind her like a reluctant puppy.

The Brussels airport was large and modern and friendly. After a nightmare of dead ends they found a nice cab, with a pleasant, friendly driver whose English was every bit as bad as Maggie's French. Nevertheless, she and Gretchen managed to convey what they wanted to do and they saw some amazing sights. The tour was long and pleasant and educational. But eventually they had to go back to the airport or risk missing their connecting flight.

Buoyed up by coffee, food, and the sight-seeing tour, Gretchen was now wide-awake and eager for Morocco, land of camels and the Sahara desert, and the famous Berbers of the Rif mountains. She could hardly wait to see the ancient land in its desert setting.

Several hours and a fascinating snack meal of Middle-Eastern delicacies later, their plane set down in Casablanca, Morocco, where they had to find the concourse for their connecting flight up to Tangier. Among the interesting customs of the flight were the distribution of traditional Moroccan foods and free newspapers in an assortment of foreign languages to travelers, and the apparently routine custom of applauding the pilot when the plane had landed safely. Maggie and Gretchen joined in the general merriment and stepped out into another world, where men and women wore long, graceful robes, and women either wore head covers with veils or scarves tied tight around their heads. There were many children traveling with their parents.

Inside the Casablanca terminal, much smaller than they expected it to be, armed guards in camouflage gear shepherded passengers to the customs desk and from there into the various concourse rooms to await their flights. The washroom, though small and rustic, had an attendant who was an English-speaking treasure of information about the city and its people. They changed American currency for dirhams at the airport after they cleared customs and before they went through baggage control and the metal detector again before boarding their connecting flight.

Casablanca was huge, a mecca of whitewashed buildings and modern skyscrapers with the same maddening traffic congestion to be found elsewhere in cities. When the plane, a double-decker, lifted off, they had another beautiful glimpse of the sprawling exotic city on the Atlantic.

Only three and a half hours later, choking on unfamiliar smoke because the passengers on this particular flight were allowed to smoke, the graceful airliner drifted down onto the tarmac at the small Tangier airport.

Finally, their passports were stamped, their luggage was checked, and they walked out of the terminal into the humid, almost tropical night air of Tangier on the Mediterranean Sea. Many cabs were parked along the road in front of the terminal, their drivers with uncanny patience awaiting the weary visitors.

The driver smiled, nodded courteously, packed their luggage in the trunk of his Mercedes, and they were, at last, on the way to the five-star Hotel Minzah, on a hill overlooking the port.

The streets were well-lighted, and almost everyone wore robes. The city had a curious face, of ancient things and venerable customs, of cosmopolitan travelers and mystery and intrigue. There were palm trees everywhere. The streets, even at night, were full of people, a few in European dress. Cars darted from side streets, horns blew. Heads poked out of perpetually open car windows and, accompanied by strange hand waving, guttural Berber spouted in friendly arguing as drivers vied for entrance into the steady stream of traffic. The faint smell of musk was everywhere, sweet and foreign and delightfully Moroccan.

It was a leap of faith into the unknown for Gretchen and Maggie, since they hadn't been able to find a tour that featured only Tangier. They booked through a travel agency and made up their itinerary as they went. Stops in Brussels on the way to Africa and Amsterdam on the way back from Africa had been deliberate, to give them a taste of Europe. It was turning out to be a grand trip, especially since they were now in Morocco, and everywhere there were glimpses into the ancient past when Berbers mounted on fine Arabian stallions fought the Europeans for ownership of their ancient, sacred homeland.

“This,” Gretchen said, shell-shocked from long hours without more than catnaps, “is the most wonderful adventure.”

“I told you it would be,” Maggie agreed with a smile. “Poor thing, you're dead on your feet, aren't you?”

Gretchen nodded. “But it was worth every lost hour of sleep.” She frowned as she looked out the window. “I don't see the Sahara.”

“The Sahara Desert is six hundred miles from here,” their driver said, glancing in the rearview mirror at them. “Tangier is a seaport on the Mediterranean,
mademoiselle.
”

“There goes our desert trek,” Gretchen chuckled.

“Oh, but there is much to see here,” the cabdriver said helpfully. “The Forbes museum, the Grotto of Hercules, the Grand Socco…”

“The marketplace,” Maggie said, remembering. “Yes, the travel brochures say it's enormous!”

“That is so,” the driver agreed. “And perhaps you can hire a car and drive to Asilah, down the Atlantic coast, for market day,” he added. “It is a sight worth seeing, where all the country people bring their produce and goods for sale.”

“And maybe we can see the kasbah,” Gretchen added dreamily.

“A kasbah,” the driver corrected.

“There's more than one?” Gretchen asked, surprised.

“Ah, yes, the American cinema. Humphrey Bogart.” He chuckled. “A kasbah is simply a walled city,
mademoiselle.
The shops are inside ours, here in Tangier. You will see it. Very old. Tangier has been inhabited since 4000 B.C., and the first here were Berbers.”

He mentioned other points of history all the way through the city and up a small hill to a flat-faced building that blended in with small shops. Here he stopped by the curb and cut off the engine.

“Your hotel,
mademoiselles.
”

The driver opened the door for them and gave their suitcases to the young man who came out of the hotel, smiling a welcome.

It wasn't what the women had expected a five-star hotel to look like, from the outside. But then they entered the building and walked into opulent luxury. The concierge at the desk wore a red fez and a white jacket. He was busy with another guest, so the women waited with their luggage, glancing around at the elegant carpet and dark, carved wood of the sofas and chairs under a framed mosaic in an open room adjacent to the lobby. The elevator was getting a workout nearby.

The concierge finished with his other guest and smiled at the two women. Maggie stepped forward to give her name, in which the reservation was booked. In no time at all, they were on their way upstairs with the young man escorting their luggage.

The room overlooked the Mediterranean. But closer, downstairs, were the beautiful flowered grounds of the hotel with a swimming pool and many places to sit and enjoy the view toward the Mediterranean under towering palm trees, unseen from the street outside. It looked like photographs Gretchen had seen of lovely islands in the Caribbean. The sea air was delicious to smell, and the room was exotic, enormous, with separate rooms for the bathtub and toilet. There was a telephone and a small bar, containing soft drinks, bottled water, beer, and snacks.

“We certainly won't starve,” Maggie murmured as she explored the room.

Gretchen pulled a gown from her suitcase, changed out of her traveling clothes, climbed under the sheets and went to sleep while Maggie was wondering aloud about room service…

 

Despite the jet lag so often talked about, they woke rested and hungry at eight o'clock the next morning and dressed in slacks and shirts, anxious to find breakfast and start looking around the ancient city that had once been part of the Roman empire.

The concierge pointed them toward the elaborate breakfast buffet and introduced them to a licensed city guide who would pick them up two hours later for a look at the city. They were cautioned by him never, never, to go onto the streets alone, without a guide. It seemed sensible to follow that rule, and they agreed to wait for the guide inside the hotel.

“Did you notice the price of the buffet?” Maggie asked when they were seated for breakfast. “Barely one dollar American, for all this.” She frowned. “Gretchen, how would you like to live in Tangier?”

Gretchen laughed. “I like it here very much, but how would Callie Kirby do without me in the law office?”

Maggie gave her a long, silent stare. “You're going to grow old and die in that law office, alone and in a shell,” she said gently. “Daryl's defection was the worst thing that ever happened to you, coming right on the heels of your mother's death.”

Gretchen's green eyes were sad. “I was a fool. Everybody saw through him except me.”