Rose of the Desert (9 page)

She saw a look on his face and a light in his eyes of a man who is used to a quick conquest.
As
he pulled her towards him she said hurriedly,

"Alan, I think there's something we should get settled about... my coming to Tripoli."

"You don't like the job?"

"It's not the job. It's a misunderstanding that seems to have arisen. It was very kind of you to book the Hotel Gerard for me, but I think I'd rather like to pay the bill myself."

"I don't get it."

"And I don't get you," she smiled pleasantly. "You're acting as if this was some kind of lovers' tryst, though we've only met half a dozen times in as many number of years."

"True, true." A boyish smile played around the thickish lips as he surveyed her under a heavy-lidded glance, "but it was only the last time it hit me you've grown up into quite something." He drew her towards him. "You wanted a job out here, and I thought Libya would be as good a place as any to ..." his mouth opened for her kiss ... "get to know each other better."

"I-really can't believe," she pushed herself gently away, "that this is the Alan Moore I knew in London."

"It must be the heat."

"Funny, it doesn't affect me that way."

Mohammed drifted silently into the room in slippered grace,"*carrying polish and dusters. Julie took advantage of his presence to slip discreetly to the door.

"I must fly. The work is bound to have piled up. If you feel like giving a hand later, the office is the second bungalow from the end."

Once outside she inhaled a deep quivering breath. Alan Moore was here in Guchani! Why had he made the journey? Not to work, obviously. Her mind went back to the cocktail party in London where Alan had been a guest. She had found herself frequently paired off with him and when the conversation had turned to travel had mentioned casually her intention to quit the model business and try for a job abroad.

Alan had suggested a position in his father's firm, and Julie had jumped at the chance, realising that a first-hand recommendation could save months of negotiations were she to try for a job on her own.

Less than a week later his letter had arrived. She was to fly to Tripoli and take up residence at the Hotel Gerard where Alan had booked a suite for her. Her job would be as a secretary in the Dawah oil company offices, and Alan had said he expected to fly out en route to other companies to see how she was making out.

Julie had accepted the job without hesitation. To her it had been nothing more than a friend putting in a good word to help her get started. The rest she considered was up to her. Now it seemed it wasn't quite so simple as that.

She had never had any illusions about Alan Moore. He was rich, twenty-eight years old and handsome, with a boyish charm that usually kept the girls circling. He had a reputation for getting his own way. He ran a fast car, piloted his own plane, and often sailed his yacht on long voyages with only girls as crew.

Oh no! Julie had no illusions about him, but
neither
did she dream he would turn his attentions on
her.

On entering the office she found, much to her surprise a new occupant sitting at one of the desks. Hans, a silver- blond German she
had seen
waiting on tables on the club
veranda, jumped up and almost clicked his
heels. He spoke
little English, but she gathered that Clay
had set him his
new duties until the staff situation in the
office was eased.

He
was
very
young. Julie thought,
probably not more than nineteen or
twenty,
and
painfully
shy. However, he proved himself an eager willing worker, and within an hour they had worked out a routine between them, with Hans sorting out the facts and figures into various trays and Julie taking it from there. It was amazing what a difference - another pair of hands made. Alan drifted in towards the end of the day and lounged across the corner of her desk, flicking indolently through sheafs of papers and half-heartedly offering assistance when Julie got stuck on a batch of figures. He gave a grin of relief when she told Hans that they were finished for the day, and he could go when he was ready.

The young German showed a nervous smile and carried on with his sorting until Julie was ready to lock up the office, and then he disappeared.

"How about a game of tennis?"

Alan seemed in carefree mood. He had showered and changed and his fair hair curled up damply above his ears. There was no trace of the amorous mood she had earlier found so distasteful, in fact seeing his friendly smile now as he gazed down at her, she was prepared to swear she had imagined the whole thing.

"All right," she laughed. "Give me half an hour to get into something suitable."

Never before had Julie been able to take such advantage of the amenities. Being the only girl on the camp had had its restrictions, but now with Alan as escort her freedom was abounding. After tennis they had dinner at the club. She marvelled at the colourful mosaic floor and polished tables and chairs. Some of the men were playing billiards, others a kind of shove-ha'penny game. She was far too interested in her surroundings to bother about a drink, but Alan insisted she have one, downing his third before she had barely taken a sip.

Later they went to a barbecue that was held every second night out in the desert. This seemed to be a veritable playground for golfers, with men dotted along the sands swinging their clubs in energetic abandon, and young Arabs acting as caddies. Sometimes these men walked tremendous distances to recover a ball.

Karl Veidt, the electronics engineer, gave his ball a particularly hard whack and it soared off into the darkening sky, landing far out in the wastes of the desert. The Arab caddy resignedly put his best foot forward to retrieve it, but Alan dropped a restraining hand on his arm.

"It's all right, old man. We'll take this one." He took Julie's hand and blithely set off in the direction of the ball. They kicked around in the sand for some time, the fire from the barbecue getting steadily smaller.

"We'll never find it," Julie said sceptically. "Not in this light."

She had been staring down with such intensity her head started to wobble, and the ground threatened to come up and hit her. A weariness swept over her, for hers had been a particularly long day, and she was in no mood for walking the desert. She looked up to find Alan watching her in amazed amusement.

"You really
have
come out here to find the ball, haven't you?"

She looked at him blankly.

"That was the idea, wasn't it?"

He threw his head back and laughed loudly, and even in her irritation Julie was struck by his Adonis good looks. The fair hair waved away from a beautifully shaped head, and the teeth were an even line of flashing whiteness. She saw his adam's apple silhouetted against the night sky and bobbing furiously in a ridiculously slender throat.

As he came towards her, his eyes lit with derision, he had the appearance of a rakish nineteen-year-old youth.

"Of all the girls I've ever known you take the biscuit!"

"Well, I'm glad you find me amusing." Julie turned, her tone a little caustic. "And since it's obvious we're not going to find the ball I suggest we get back. I'm rather tired."

A slight frown quivered over one golden eyebrow. He pulled her to him, his voice heavy with conceit.

"You know, don't you, that most girls would give all they possess to be in a similar position to what you find yourself in now?"

"And what position is that?" she asked lightly, determined to misunderstand him. "I'm miles out in the desert. I've had a very long day, my feet ache, and it's getting chilly. I think we should get back to the barbecue, the roasting should be well under way by now."

She left him and walked quickly back to the fire. When she was almost there he joined her, a
sullen «mile playing around the full lips.

"This cat and mouse game is quite new to me, but I'll admit it does add a certain piquancy to the situation."

With glittering eyes he led her to the fire where the cook was handing out skewers of steaming meat. The men sat around in groups of varying nationalities, for there was a language difficulty in the singing as well as the talking. Instruments were produced; the English going for the mouth organ and the Italians the mandolin while the Arabs were just content to sit and clap their hands and wail in their peculiar half-key fashion.

The English group welcomed Julie, hurriedly shifting their positions to make room for her. They sang a rather bawdy version of "There's no place like home," and harmonised with comparative success "The green leaves of summer", and all the while Alan stood apart smoking and staring moodily into the fire.

It was somehow taken for granted that she should ride back in the front of the lorry with the two engineers she had sat between at the fire. She caught a glimpse of Alan stepping into a Land Rover. Back at the camp he joined her and they walked towards Clay's bungalow together.

"If this is life in the raw, give me civilisation any day." He found a mound of sand and displaced it with a disgruntled thrust of his foot.

"I suppose it is a little different from what you're used to," Julie smiled. The glow of an evening pleasurably spent was still with her, but obviously Alan didn't share her enthusiasm for camp-fire singing, hot skewered meat, and harmonica solos. Felling a little ashamed of her own complacency, she took his arm impulsively.

"Alan, I haven't really thanked you properly for getting me this job with your father's firm."

"You can't honestly be liking it here ?" He gazed around with some disgust. "A former London model just doesn't fit in with all this."

"Well yes, I do like it. It's a marvellous experience, and I have you to thank for acting so promptly in getting me fixed up with my first job abroad." She squeezed his arm and smiled up her gratitude with a warm sincerity, only then aware of a dark presence on the veranda.

"You two might have told me not to wait dinner."

Julie had the impression that Clay had taken a deep breath and was rationing it out with each word. He stood up and drew deeply on his cigarette, illuminating the scowling angular features. The brown eyes were filmed with ice.

They walked all into the lounge together, Alan drifting lazily to the tray of bottles and Julie murmuring her apologies. Admittedly it had been wrong of them to go off without any word, but that was no reason for Clay to act so churlish. She forced her eyes to meet his squarely and after locking for a moment, he swung his impatiently away.

"I've been waiting for you to enlighten me on that last batch of figures you passed through. I personally can't make head or tail of some of the stuff." His tone was coldly sarcastic and he walked down to his desk, expecting her to follow. He drew up a chair and they sat for some time going over various papers. She noticed he had no difficulty in understanding her explanation of certain items and suspected he was being deliberately obtuse to vindicate his own bad humour.

Alan had flopped in a chair and was smiling quietly into the amber liquid in his glass. Strange, thought Julie, how he brightened when his fingers encircled a drink. She had been running her finger along a line of print when her ears picked up the sound of a commotion outside. Shouts and cries could be heard in the distance, and Clay swung his head up, his eyes alert.

The next moment the door was flung open and an Arab stood there. His eyes wild and frightened, he gabbled on breathlessly in his own tongue. Clay stood up and fired something back and the Arab departed.

"Well, well, what was all that about ?" Alan crossed one immaculate leg over the other and spread his shoulders expansively on the back of the chair.

"Two of the labourers have had an argument. One of them has a knife and is threatening to use it."

Clay strode to the door. He turned and let his glance slide over Alan, and then to Julie.

"It's time you were turning in."

"I was just going." She rose from the chair as Clayslammed the door and strode off.

She had to walk the length of the room and pass Alan's chair to get to the door. She was just about to smile her goodnights in passing, when his arm snaked out and he grabbed her by the wrist.

"Why so soon? The night is still young."

"Not in my book it isn't. I've been up since five this morning." Good-humouredly she tried to release her hand, but though he appeared to be lounging back in the chair languidly enough the clutch of his fingers was like a vice. He pulled himself to his feet.

"You don't have to work, you know. I could take you to Cairo, Marrakesh, Istanbul ... all the exotic places ... lush hotels and palmy days on the beach. You can't tell me that doesn't appeal to you?"

"Not unless I'm earning it," she replied lightly. "You forget, Alan, I'm a working girl, destined to earn my own living."

"You
would,
be earning it."

His face, flushed with excessive drink, was above hers. She tried to avoid the ardent glow in his eyes, and said a little impatiently,

"I prefer to carry on as I am at the moment. And now if you'll let go of my arm, I'd like to get to bed. I have a busy day ahead tomorrow."

She had turned her body, hoping that he would let go of her at the last minute, but instead he swung her round with such force she was flung against him, the breath momentarily knocked out of her.

"We're so snug and content in our new job, aren't we? Well, I'm the big cheese around here, and what I say goes."

"Are you saying," Julie said in trembling voice, "that my job depends on the way I act with you?"

"Now you're getting the message."

She could only stare up at him, silent in her disgust, and taking this as some form of acquiescence he brought his lips down hungrily upon her own.

Julie cried out, but the sound was locked in her throat as his mouth stayed fastened on hers. He pressed her against him, his arms wandering along her back, and sensing a slackening of his hold she flung herself away. As she did so the tray of bottles went over with a resounding crash.