Lord of the Desert (2 page)

“You'd never really had any attention from a man,” Maggie pointed out. “It was inevitable that you'd go mad over the first man who treated you like a woman.”

Gretchen grimaced. “And all he wanted was the insurance money. He didn't have any idea that the ranch was mortgaged to the hilt, and that there wasn't going to be any money. We'd have lost the ranch if my big brother Marc hadn't had a savings account big enough to pay off the part in arrears.”

“How sad that Daryl got out of town before your brother got to him,” Maggie said coldly.

“Marc scares most people when he's in a temper,” Gretchen reminisced with a smile. “He was something of a local legend even before he left the Texas Rangers to join the FBI.”

“Marc loves you. So do I.” Maggie patted her hand and smiled. “I was like you, in a rut. I decided that I needed a leap of faith, a great adventure to pull me out of my complacency. So I'm going to Qawi to be personal assistant to the ruling sheikh of the whole country,” she added. “How's that for a leap of faith?”

Gretchen chuckled. “About as big a one as you'll ever make, probably. I hope you know what you're doing,” she added. “I've heard some scary things about Middle-Eastern countries and beheadings.”

“Not in Qawi,” Maggie said easily. “It's very progressive in culture, with an equal mixture of religions which makes it unique in the Persian Gulf. And all that oil money is going to make it cosmopolitan very quickly. The sheikh is very forward-thinking.”

“And single, you said?” she teased.

Maggie frowned. “Yes. You remember his country was invaded about two years ago, and there was a big scandal about it. I watched several news broadcasts that told about it. There were some rumors about him, too, of an unsavory nature, but his government explained them.”

Gretchen sipped coffee. “Maybe he'll be gorgeous and sexy and look like Rudolph Valentino. Did you ever see that silent movie, ‘The Sheikh'?” she continued dreamily. “Just imagine having a fantasy like that actually come to life, Maggie. Being abducted by a handsome sheikh on a white stallion and having him fall madly in love with you! I get goose bumps just thinking about it.” She frowned. “Maybe I'm not cut out to be a modern woman. Probably I should be dreaming about throwing a handsome sheikh onto
my
horse and riding away with him as my captive.” A long sigh left her lips. “Oh, well, it's only a daydream after all. Reality is never that adventurous, not for me. You're more the type for gorgeous, sexy men.”

Maggie laughed hollowly. “I don't have much luck with gorgeous, sexy men,” she said.

Gretchen knew she was thinking about her foster brother, Cord Romero. “Well, don't look at me,” she mused, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “I only attract gigolos.”

“Daryl wasn't a gigolo, he was a garden slug. You should only date men who belong to your own species,” she said haughtily.

Gretchen burst out laughing. “Oh, you make me feel so independent and brave,” she said, and meant it. “I'm really glad you asked me to come with you on this vacation and paid more than your part so I could afford it,” she added gratefully. “Even if I do have to fly back alone. I'm going to miss you,” she said quietly. “We won't get to go shopping together or even talk on the phone at holidays.”

Maggie nodded solemnly. She was flying from here to Qawi. Her role as personal assistant to the ruling sheikh would be to assume responsibility for public relations, court functions, and organization of the household duties. It would be a challenge, and she might be homesick for Texas. But she'd told Gretchen once that anything was better than the hell of being around Cord Romero, who had made it obvious that she was never going to be part of his life.

Both had been orphans, adopted by a Houston society matron. They weren't related, but Cord treated Maggie like a relative. He'd married a few years back and his wife, Patricia, had committed suicide after he was almost fatally wounded and he couldn't, or wouldn't, give up his career as a government agent. Soon after her death, he left the field of law enforcement and went to work as a professional mercenary soldier, specializing in bomb disposal.

It was what he did now, and Maggie had managed to keep her distance from him quite comfortably until the sudden death of their adoptive mother. Maggie had married a few weeks later, but her elderly husband had been an invalid and died only six months after their marriage. She and Cord had avoided each other ever since. Gretchen wondered what had happened, but Maggie never spoke of it.

When Cord unexpectedly returned to Houston and moved in the same circles Maggie did, in between foreign assignments, she applied and got a job in another country. One which, ironically, Cord had casually told her about. He'd come back from a job in Qawi just recently, helping disarm old land mines from a guerilla invasion. When Maggie had looked into the job, she'd found that it paid handsomely—much more handsomely than her own position as a financial advisor. She was determined to make a clean break from Cord this time.

On the way, she decided to have a vacation. She'd invited her friend Gretchen along, mainly because Gretchen had been so very despondent after the death of her mother and the tragic betrayal of her one serious boyfriend. So far the trip had been wonderful. But soon, Maggie would fly on to Qawi and Gretchen would have to board a plane alone for Amsterdam, from which she'd fly back to Texas.

It would be lonely for Gretchen, but she'd get a glimpse of the world. She needed that. She'd nursed her mother through cancer twice in the past six years. Gretchen was twenty-three and she was as naïve as a teenager in a convent school. She hadn't had the opportunity to date much, with her mother so ill—and so possessive of her only child. Gretchen's father had died when she was ten and her brother Marc was eighteen, and that had made their lives much harder. Marc lived with Gretchen and the foreman and his family on their ranch in Jacobsville, Texas, when he could get home. Marc worked for the FBI, and spent much of his life out of town on job assignments. His job hadn't allowed him to help Gretchen with nursing their mother, although he certainly helped support them.

“Morocco,” Gretchen said aloud and smiled at Maggie. “I never dreamed I'd ever get to go someplace so exotic.”

Maggie only smiled.

“You're very quiet,” Gretchen said suddenly, curious about her friend's unfamiliar silences. Maggie was usually the talkative one of the two.

Maggie shrugged, cupping her coffee cup in both hands. “I was thinking about…home.”

“Shame on you. This is a vacation and we've just got here. You can't possibly be homesick yet.”

Maggie smiled wanly. “I'm not homesick. Not really. I just wish things had worked out a little better.”

“With Cord,” Gretchen said knowingly.

Maggie shrugged. “It wouldn't have worked out. He'll never get over Pat's death and he won't give up his freelance demolitions work. He likes it too much.”

“People do change as they get older,” Gretchen said.

“He won't.” There was finality and misery in the statement. “I've spent enough of my life hoping he'd wake up and love me. He isn't going to. I have to learn to live without him now.”

“He might miss you and rush over on the first jet to bring you back home.”

“That isn't likely.”

“Neither was my getting to go to Morocco,” Gretchen replied mischievously. She finished her beautifully cooked scrambled eggs.

Maggie forced a smile. “Oh well. The sheikh is relatively young and charming and a bachelor. Who knows what might happen?”

“Who knows.” Gretchen was sorry that Maggie had decided on such a drastic action. She was going to miss her terribly. Callie Kirby, her coworker at the law office in Jacobsville, was wonderful company, but Maggie had been her best friend since childhood. It had been bad enough when Maggie moved to Houston. It was a worse wrench to have her move out of the country.

“You can come and visit me,” Maggie said. “I'll be allowed to have company. We might catch you a prince yet.”

“I don't want a prince,” Gretchen said with a chuckle. “I'd settle for a nice cowboy with his own horse, and a kind heart.”

“Kind hearts are pretty rare,” Maggie pointed out. “But maybe you'll find him one day. I hope so.”

“You could come back with me,” Gretchen said somberly. “It isn't too late to change your mind. What if Cord suddenly wakes up and realizes he's crazy about you, and you're two thousand miles away?”

“As you said, he knows how to get on an airplane,” Maggie replied firmly. “Now let's talk about something
cheerful.
”

Gretchen didn't say another word. But she hoped most sincerely that Maggie knew what she was doing. It was one thing to be a tourist, quite another to be dependent in a foreign country. The job sounded almost too good to be true. And wasn't Qawi a very male-dominated society where women had separate quarters and separate lives from men? It did seem odd that the sheikh would want not only a female public relations officer, but one from a foreign country known for liberated women. Perhaps there was a subtle revolution in progress in Qawi. Gretchen hoped so. She didn't want her best friend in danger. But, she cheered herself, they still had a week in Tangier to enjoy. It was going to be a perfect trip. She just knew it.

B
ut all Maggie's plans for her vacation and her new job went up in smoke the next morning as she accepted an unexpected long-distance call from Jacobsville, Texas. “I hate to have to tell you this,” Eb Scott, a friend of hers told her quietly. “Cord's been hurt. He was doing a job in Florida a week ago, putting a small explosive device in a barrel for remote detonation and it went off in his face.”

Every drop of blood drained out of Maggie's face. She gripped the telephone receiver like a lifeline. “Is he…dead?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.

An eternity of seconds later he said, “No. But he wishes he was. He's blind, Maggie.”

She closed her eyes, trying to see that proud, independent man walking with a cane or a guide dog, trying to pick up the pieces of his life alone. “Where is he?” she asked.

“Gretchen's brother, Marc, was in Miami when it happened. He picked up Cord and brought him home when he was released from the hospital. Cord's at his ranch outside Houston.” There was another hesitation. “I didn't know until Marc phoned me on his way back to Miami.”

“Is Cord alone?”

“All alone,” Eb said irritably. “He wouldn't come down here and stay with Sally and me in Jacobsville, or even with Cy Parks. He doesn't have any family of his own, does he?”

“Only me,” Maggie said with a hollow laugh, “if I qualify as family.” She hesitated, thinking fast. “I suppose he'd kick me out if I came home to stay with him.”

“Actually,” Eb said slowly, choosing his words, “Marc said he was calling for you when they took him to the hospital.”

Her heart jumped. That was a first. She couldn't remember a time in their lives when Cord had needed her. He had wanted her, but only once, and he hadn't even been sober…

“I phoned Cord as soon as Marc said he'd taken him home. Cord told me he didn't think you'd want to look after him, but that I could call you if I wanted to,” Eb added dryly. “So I'm calling you.”

“What incredible timing,” Maggie said, her nerves raw. “I'm on my way to a new job and I have a week's vacation left…” She glanced at Gretchen, who was eavesdropping unashamedly, and grimaced. “I don't know how I'll do it, but I'll fly out this afternoon if I can get a flight to Brussels and then a nonstop flight home.”

“I knew you would,” Eb said gently. “I'll let Cord know.”

“Thanks, Eb,” she said sincerely.

“My pleasure. Have a safe trip. And Marc said to tell Gretchen to be careful about going anywhere alone while she's over there.”

“I'll tell her. Cord…the blindness…is it going to be permanent?” she asked.

“They aren't sure yet.”

She thanked him and hung up. “Cord's been hurt,” she said without preamble, “and I have to go home, today. I'm sorry to leave you in the lurch…”

Knowing how Maggie felt about Cord, Gretchen would have allowed herself to be carried off by bandits rather than express any fear at being alone in a foreign country. “Don't you worry about me. I can take care of myself,” Gretchen said with more confidence than she felt after Maggie explained what was going on. “But what about your job, Maggie?”

Maggie stared at her friend and her mind went into overdrive. A plan was forming…

“You can do it.”

Gretchen gaped at her. “What?”

“You can go to Qawi and take the job. Just listen,” she said when Gretchen started to protest. “It's exactly what you need. You'll vegetate in that little law office in Jacobsville. You've already given up most of your life to nurse your mother. It's time you got a look at the real world. It's the chance of a lifetime!”

“But I'm a paralegal,” Gretchen groaned. “I don't know how to organize parties and write press releases. And the sheikh is expecting a widow with dark hair…!”

“Tell him you've dyed it, and don't mention that you're a widow,” Maggie said, dragging out her suitcase and heading for the closet where her clothes were hung. “You can use my ticket and I'll give you all my spare cash.”

“This is a very bad idea…”

“It's a wonderful idea,” Maggie countered. “You'll have the time of your life. You may even find an eligible bachelor.”

“Oh, that's a great idea,” Gretchen mused whimsically. “I can be wife number four wrapped up from head to toe in somebody's harem!”

Maggie shot her a dry look. “You've got a lot to learn about Muslim women. They live by values we used to, and they have their own power. They have the vote in Qawi and several other countries, and their own independent finances. But there are plenty of Christian women and men in Qawi. Rumor has it that not only are the majority of the people Christian, but that the sheikh himself is one. His parentage is mixed.”

“As I recall, there was a rumor about the sheikh's perverse sexual appetite,” Gretchen reminded her friend. “You told me yourself.”

“That was cleared up on the INN interview,” her friend said absently. “Senator Holden said that the sheikh himself had started those rumors to get Pierce Hutton's wife to safety before her stepfather could harm her. They say he never got over Brianne Hutton.” She started pulling clothes off hangers. “Mrs. Hutton isn't really pretty at all, but she has a beautiful smile and she wears clothes with a real flair. Maybe the sheikh was attracted because she's so blond.”

“I suppose he's very dark, isn't he?” Gretchen asked.

“I don't know. I've never seen him, and there aren't many photos of him floating about. Even at his investiture, he was wearing a ceremonial
bisht
over his robes, along with a headcloth and an
igal,
and he managed to keep his face partially hidden from the international press.” Maggie finished packing, her mind still on Cord even as she organized her papers and her purse.

“Maybe he's got warts,” Gretchen said wickedly.

Maggie wasn't paying attention. She looked around the room. “If I've forgotten anything, send it back to me, will you? Here.” She handed Gretchen a handful of Moroccan paper money and some coins. “I can't take this out of the country, anyway, and I won't have time to change it. You spend the next week here and then fly on to Qawi. By the time the sheikh finds out you aren't me—if he ever does—you'll be so comfortably situated that he'll probably keep you on anyway.”

“Optimist.” Gretchen hugged her friend.

Smiling, Maggie picked up the phone and spoke briefly and urgently to the kind man at the desk. “Thanks,” she said after a minute. “I'll be right down.” She went to get her things together, and spoke to Gretchen over her shoulder. “He's getting me a ticket. The car will be waiting downstairs. Mustapha's taking me to the airport. Remember, don't go out of the hotel grounds alone. Promise me.”

“I promise. Maggie, you be careful, too. I hope Cord's okay.”

“Without his sight?” Maggie asked sadly. “All I can do is what he'll let me do, and it won't be easy. But maybe I can help him adjust. At least he needs me. That's never really happened before.”

“Miracles happen when you least expect them,” Gretchen said comfortingly.

“I hope so. Cord could use one. Write to me!” she called as she grabbed up her hastily packed bag and went out the door.

“Of course.”

There was such a hollow silence in the room after Maggie's departure that Gretchen could hardly bear it. There were television programs, but only on a handful of channels, and most of them were in Arabic or French. Only the news channel was in English. The room was a good size, but it was claustrophobic under the circumstances. Gretchen had to stretch her legs. She decided to go and play in the swimming pool. She might as well get a little sun while she could.

 

The afternoon was lonely, although she met other tourists and began to recognize them on sight. But she sat at a table by herself during the afternoon and evening meals and went up to her room early. She imagined that Maggie would be on her way back to Brussels by now to catch her flight home. She'd be alone, too.

She thought about their missed day trip and thought that perhaps the next morning she could get Mustapha to take her on the tour of the Grotto of Hercules that she and Maggie had planned for today. Then, she could go to the coastal city of Asilah the following day. It would be something to look forward to.

She slept restlessly, but felt oddly refreshed when she awoke the following morning. She put on a sleeveless yellow-and-white patterned long dress with a white knit jacket over it and left her hair long around her shoulders as she went to the concierge to see if he could help her find Mustapha.

In her haste, she ran almost headlong into a very distinguished-looking man in a gray designer silk suit. He caught her shoulders to steady her when she lost her footing and his twinkling black eyes searched her face amusedly.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” she gasped. “I mean,
excusez-moi, monsieur,
” she corrected, because he looked French. Sort of. He was elegant and he might have been handsome, except for the deep scars down one lean, clean-shaven cheek. His straight hair was as black as his eyes, and he had a grace of carriage that was rare in a man so tall. He was darker than most American men, but not radically so, and lighter than some of the Arabs and Berbers she'd seen here. He was very tall. Gretchen only came up to his chin.

“Il n'ya pas de quois, mademoiselle,”
he replied suavely, in a deep voice, as soft as velvet. “I am undamaged.”

She grinned at him, liking the way his eyes sparked. “I'll watch where I'm going next time.”

“You are staying here?” he asked with a polite smile.

She nodded. “For a few days. I'm on my way to a new job in Qawi, but I wanted a vacation first. It's beautiful here.”

“A new job in Qawi?” he prompted with unusual interest.

“Yes. I'm going to work for the sheikh,” she said confidingly. “Public relations,” she added. “I'm really looking forward to it.”

He was quiet for a space of seconds and his quick, intelligent eyes narrowed. “Do you know this part of the world well?”

“It's my first time out of the United States, I'm afraid,” she said. She smiled again. “I feel so stupid. Everybody around here speaks at least four languages. I only speak my own and a little Spanish.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Amazing,” he murmured.

“What is?”

“A modest American.”

“Most of us are modest,” she told him, grinning. “Well, a few of us are rude and conceited, but you mustn't judge a whole country by a handful of people. And Texans are usually very modest, considering that our state is better than all the others!”

He chuckled. “You are from Texas?”

“Oh, yes,” she told him. “I'm a certified cowgirl,” she added dryly. “If you don't believe it, I'll rope a cow for you anytime you like.”

He chuckled again at her enthusiasm. He couldn't remember ever meeting anyone like her except for once, a few years ago. He pursed his chiseled lips and studied her again, closely. “I understand that Qawi is smaller than even one of your states.”

She looked around her with eyes that seemed to find everything interesting. “Yes, but America is pretty much the same wherever you go,” she pointed out. “Here, the music is different, the food is different, the clothes are different, and there's so much history that I could spend the rest of my life learning it.”

“You like history?”

“I love it,” she said. “I wish I could have gone to college and studied it, but my mother had cancer and I couldn't leave her alone very much. I had to while I worked, of course, but I couldn't take classes, too. There was no time. And no money. She died four months ago and I still miss her.” She smiled apologetically. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ramble on like that.”

“I enjoyed it,” he replied, and seemed to mean it. “Mademoiselle Barton!” the concierge called to her.

It took several seconds for her to realize that the concierge had mistaken her for Maggie. Which was just as well, she supposed. She excused herself, went around the tall man with the briefcase in one hand, and went to the desk.

“Mustapha has already left to take a party of our guests to the Grotto of Hercules,” he said apologetically. “But if you still wish to go, our car is at your disposal, and we can ask one of the other guides to accompany you.”

“I don't know…” Gretchen said hesitantly. She didn't think she was going to enjoy the trip all alone.

“Excuse me,” the tall man interjected, joining her at the counter. “I had planned to go see the Grotto myself. Perhaps I could intrude on the young lady's company…?”

She looked up at him with pure relief. “Oh, that would be lovely…I mean, if you'd like to go?”

“I would.” He glanced at the concierge and spoke rapidly and in a language Gretchen couldn't begin to understand. Comments passed back and forth and the concierge chuckled to himself. Gretchen was wondering if her impulsive acceptance was going to get her into trouble. She knew nothing whatsoever about the stranger…