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‘I dare say it might. The professor drives, but I’m afraid I don’t.’
Chloe was excited by what she saw as they drove along a very bumpy, dusty road. The sky was a clear, cloudless blue, which seemed to make the brilliant white of the houses seem even brighter, and the flowers spilling out from gardens, pots and hanging boxes were a riot of colour. There was a definite style to the arches and domes, giving it the flavour of the East that she had expected, for even though it was a Spanish protectorate Cetua still had that Moorish feel.
Now and then she caught sight of beautiful villas and gardens behind high walls and wondered about the people who lived there, but there were also small houses that seemed to be made of either stone or mud bricks and some looked to be in danger of tumbling down. They passed children standing by the roadside, many of whom were barefooted and dressed in little better than rags. There were also beggars with sores or missing limbs, traders who held up their wares as the bus passed, and men leading a string of camels into town.
The bus made slow progress through the town itself, which was crowded with carts, donkeys, people and motor vehicles. Chloe hadn’t been sure what to expect, but the modern ways of the West seemed to have begun to influence this ancient world and the hotel they were taken to had been built since the war.
From the hot, dirty street they entered a cool courtyard, which was paved with a beautiful mosaic of jewel-coloured tiles, and had a fountain playing in its centre. Terracotta pots held a variety of fleshy green plants with spiky leaves or trailing fronds, and two large palm trees stood at either side of the lobby entrance.
Inside it was a mixture of Moorish taste with some Art Deco influences in the furnishings. They were greeted politely by the hotel manager himself, but the language Chloe thought was being used most often was not Spanish, as she had expected, but French. She was glad that she had taken it to a higher level at school. However, it was not long before she became aware of a heated argument, taking place in English between a rather pretty young woman and one of the desk clerks.
‘But it is absolutely impossible for me to manage in that perfectly dreadful little room!’ the woman cried in a sharp voice. ‘Brent promised me a suite and I really must have it.’
‘But, Angela darling, they don’t have a suite available,’ a man dressed in a crumpled white suit was telling her. He looked hot and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. Clearly he was at a loss what to do in the circumstances. ‘Brent has the only one and he—’
‘Then he must give it to me,’ she said and pulled a face. ‘I only came to this awful country because he promised me it would all be lovely and that I could have everything I wanted.’
Chloe was unable to hear any more of the argument, because a smiling, white-robed porter was picking up her bags and beckoning her to follow. She did so, though she was curious about the woman, whose face seemed familiar. She was almost certain she was a film star. Oh, why couldn’t she think of her name? He had called her Angela… Yes, of course, that was it! Angela Russell. She had been in several silent films, most of them supposedly set in exotic locations.
‘What on earth was that fuss about just now?’ Amelia asked as they paused at the end of the landing.
‘Oh, I think that was Angela Russell, the film star,’ Chloe said. ‘I’ve seen some of her films, though I don’t think she has made one for a while—at least I haven’t seen it. She seemed to be upset about the room they have given her. I think she wanted a suite or something.’
Amelia gave a snort of disgust.
‘This hotel is a palace compared to some we’ve stayed in. A woman like that has no business travelling at all if she is going to make a fuss over every little thing. One has to expect some discomfort when one leaves home.’
Chloe smiled, but thought that everyone couldn’t be as confident as the intrepid Miss Ramsbottom. She had thought the filmstar rather lovely and had sympathised if she didn’t like her room.
Her own room seemed perfectly comfortable when she was shown into it a moment or so later. Although the furniture was basic, with just a narrow single bed, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe, it was clean and adequate for her needs, and the bathroom was only just down the hall.
‘Mine is just the same as yours,’ Amelia said when she popped in to collect Chloe on her way downstairs. ‘Nice and cosy, all perfectly comfortable.’
‘Yes, it is fine,’ Chloe said as they went out and walked down the stairs towards the dining room. ‘But we are not staying here long, are we?’
‘We shall make this hotel our base,’ Professor Hicks answered her question as he caught up to them. ‘Most of our luggage will remain here, but we shall drive out to the various towns and villages, Chloe. And we may need to stay over sometimes so we always keep an overnight bag in the vehicle.’
As they were shown to their table, Chloe noticed that the actress was complaining again. She was with the man who had been trying to pacify her earlier, and now Brent Harwood was also with them. Chloe couldn’t help overhearing what the actress was saying, because her voice was so loud and shrill.
‘It’s perfectly ghastly,’ she said. ‘If I eat this stuff I shall be ill again—and goodness knows when we shall be able to start shooting…’
‘Send it back and order something else,’ Brent replied, looking faintly annoyed but obviously trying not to show it. ‘Nothing is too good for you, Angela.’
Chloe had ordered a dish of lamb cooked with vegetables and rice, which she found delicious. She wondered if anything would ever satisfy the actress, who was clearly pampered and used to getting her own way.
Chloe had finished her main course and was pondering whether to have a pudding when she saw a man being conducted to a table behind a potted palm; it was secluded and hidden from view from most of the dining area, and had remained empty until now.
So Philip Armand was staying here too, she thought, and blushed as he looked at her across the room, giving her a curt nod. She had been staring again—but she knew that there was a new hotel on the other side of town that was far more luxurious than this one, so why wasn’t he staying there? There must be nicer places to eat! She couldn’t imagine why he had chosen to stay here—unless he was trying to avoid someone? It would, she supposed, be easier to lose himself amongst the latest influx of tourists here than in more exotic restaurants.
Was she letting her imagination run wild again? He had always seemed a mysterious character and her active mind began once again to weave all kinds of impossible plots, which she hastened to dismiss as he frowned in her direction. He had noticed her interest and would think her as bad as Jane Vermont, and imagine she had been trying to catch his attention. And she wasn’t! Her cheeks felt warm as she recalled her foolish thoughts after that dance. It had just been the magic of the dance, of course. He wasn’t interested in her and she wasn’t sure she even liked him…well, not really. She certainly wasn’t in love with him. Being in love was fun and feeling happy all the time, or that’s how she’d always thought it would be—all that this man made her feel was agitated, on edge! Bother him!
‘Do you want a pudding?’ Professor Hicks asked, causing her to look at him and forget the irritating Mr Armand. ‘Only I thought you might want to make the most of this afternoon. Get out and have a look round—do a little shopping in the bazaar, perhaps? I shall want to leave early tomorrow.’
‘Yes, I think I shall,’ she said, putting down her napkin. ‘If you are sure you don’t need me this afternoon?’
‘I am going to be arranging transport,’ he replied. ‘No, my dear, you get off and enjoy yourself.’
‘Would you like to come, Amelia?’ Chloe asked.
‘No, thank you, Chloe,’ the older woman replied. ‘I shall have a little rest in the hotel gardens. Enjoy yourself—but wear something on your arms, and keep your head covered—and don’t go too far from the main streets. We don’t want you disappearing on your first day—do we, my dear? I dare say your father would never forgive us.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ Chloe was astonished. ‘Why should I disappear?’
‘She means that you are a very pretty girl,’ the professor explained with a smile. ‘And I assure you, it wouldn’t be unknown out here for a pretty girl walking alone to be snatched by unscrupulous men. But as long as you stick to the busy main streets you should be all right.’
‘White slavery?’ Chloe asked. ‘I thought that was something out of Hollywood films.’
‘Not at all,’ Amelia said. ‘I can assure you it does happen. Some years ago when we were in Egypt, a man tried to buy me for six camels from the professor. Now would you believe that?’ She looked a little coy and laughed oddly.
‘Yes, and I had a devil of a job shaking him off,’ Charles said with a rueful look. ‘I had almost forgotten that, Amelia. You were an exceptionally handsome woman in those days, my dear. One tends to forget with the passing of the years…’
Chloe noticed the swiftly hidden look of pain in Angela’s eyes and realised that she was in love with him—had probably been in love with him all her life. But of course he had never noticed. He had been wrapped up in his work and it had probably never occurred to him that his secretary had that kind of feeling towards him.
That brief but revealing look made Chloe feel sympathy towards the older woman, and she determined not to mind if Amelia was grumpy sometimes.
‘I promise I won’t do anything silly,’ she said. ‘Besides, this is a Spanish protectorate. We aren’t in Morocco yet. I’m sure I shall be perfectly safe…’
Chapter Three
I t was the first time Chloe had been out alone in a foreign city. Jane and Mrs Vermont had always been with her on the excursions planned and guided by one of the ship’s crew, but now she was completely alone and it felt a little odd.
Chloe was glad she had taken Amelia’s advice to cover her arms and her hair. After being stared at by both men and women as if she were some sort of curiosity, Chloe was almost ready to return to the hotel within a few minutes of leaving it. However, she was determined not to let an attack of nerves betray her, and she forced herself to walk as far as the bazaar she had noticed on their way to the hotel.
Once she had conquered her initial feeling of uncertainty, she began to relax and enjoy herself. It was all so very different and exotic—the people with their dark skins and flowing robes, and the children who clamoured for coins as she passed. She had been warned not to give them money, and resisted the temptation, even though their little faces were very appealing. She was fascinated by the Moorish architecture, and the glimpses of paved courtyards behind high gates was intriguing, the colours brilliant.
The bazaar was crowded with people, the merchants at the doors of their shops calling out to entice passers-by to enter. Chloe took her time, lingering over a profusion of beautifully worked soft leather goods, long silky scarves, sandals, beaten brass and little wooden tables that had either brass or silver inlaid into their surfaces. Sensibly, she had brought only a little money with her, for the professor had advised against large sums in case of theft. She did have enough to buy a leather bag she liked, and was able to conduct a bargaining session with the merchant in French.
Satisfied that she had secured a good deal for herself Chloe handed over a few coins, then, as she left the shop, found herself besieged by other shopkeepers extolling their own wares as she made her way back to the bazaar entrance.
‘No, thank you,’ she said as they clawed at her arm and chattered away in a language that was strange to her. ‘I have no money to buy anything else.’
Discovering that they would not take no for an answer, Chloe broke away and started to run. She turned to her right as she left the bazaar, realising only after her panic had begun to ease that she had mistaken her way and left by the wrong entrance.
She was not in the main street she knew but a narrow alleyway between houses built close together. It seemed darker all of a sudden, and she looked up at a sky that was leaden with clouds, thinking that it might rain at any moment. She realised that she had spent longer in the bazaar than she had intended, and that the evening had pulled in much more quickly than she had anticipated.
Anxious to return to the hotel before the rain came, Chloe turned to retrace her steps. She must find the main street so that she could get her bearings, but she wasn’t sure which way to turn.
It was only after a few minutes of wandering that she sensed she was being followed. She glanced over her shoulder and saw two men dressed in long white tunics walking towards her; they appeared to be looking at her excitedly and she was suddenly afraid. Supposing Amelia’s warning had not been as ridiculous as it had sounded back at the hotel? Supposing the men were intent on kidnapping her?
Her heart began to pound rapidly, and, seeing the main street at the end of the alley she had just turned into, she began to run. Fear took over as she heard one of the men call out to her and knew that they had begun to pursue her.
Oh, why hadn’t she returned to the hotel at the beginning? She had been aware of intense interest almost immediately, but pride had forbidden her to give in to her anxiety. Wild thoughts of being sold into a harem filled her mind, but she was nearly at the main street now and surely she would be safe then?
They were catching up to her! She redoubled her efforts and catapulted out into the street, colliding with a man walking past.
‘Oh, I am so…Mr Armand!’ Chloe cried as the relief swept over her. ‘Those men are chasing me. I think they are trying to kidnap me.’
‘I doubt it,’ he replied, turning to fire rapid questions at the two men in a language Chloe had never heard before. Some sort of argument seemed to ensue before the men looked at her and made what was clearly an apology. Philip Armand’s expression was definitely amused as he looked at her. ‘It seems to be a case of mistaken identity, Miss Randall. They had heard that a beautiful American actress was staying at a hotel near here—and since you are beautiful and looked as if you might be American, they wanted your autograph.’
‘My autograph?’ Chloe stared at him in disbelief, and then at the men, who were shuffling their feet and looking shamefaced. ‘But why did they chase me? I was frightened.’
‘I have explained and they are very sorry, but they had seen films where fans pursue their idols in America and they did not think it was wrong.’ He spoke to the men, and they mumbled another apology before turning and walking off in a dejected manner. ‘They were excited by the thought of meeting an American actress—they would probably have asked you to take them to America, for they have heard it is a rich country. It isn’t often someone famous comes their way. They are simple people, Miss Randall. I told them you had forgiven them—I hope that was right? You did not wish to press charges?’
‘Of course not!’ Chloe was feeling foolish by this time. ‘I—I suppose I let my imagination run away with me.’
‘Perhaps you have seen too many Hollywood films?’ he suggested and she blushed as she caught the mockery in his look. ‘I do assure you that my people do not often abduct young women these days.’
‘Your people?’ She stared at him. ‘So I was right. I thought Armand wasn’t your real name. I saw a picture of you in the paper once…’
‘Yes, that was a mistake,’ he said and frowned. ‘I should never have allowed it. If you recognised me, others might—’
‘Oh, I didn’t—not at once. It was only when you spoke of the Bedouin way of life…’ She blushed again as his eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t suppose most people would have taken much notice of the article. It was only because I was interested…’ She faltered as he frowned again. ‘Not in politics. I have an interest in Arabic literature…poems, to be exact. You quoted something from Umar Ibn Abi Rabia, whose work was disapproved of by more pious scholars. That was what caught my eye.’
‘Ah, yes, the love poems.’ His brows lifted. ‘I would hardly have thought you a scholar of Arabic, Miss Randall?’
‘I am not, of course. I wish I could claim to be that clever. I can recognise a few words here and there—but there are some wonderful poems and other forms of literature that have been translated into English and French. I am making a collection. One day, I may inquire if anyone would like to publish them as a book. You see, I think other people might like them if they were readily available—especially some of the love poems. They are so beautiful…’
Her cheeks were on fire as she finished. He looked amused but also approving, and something about him at that moment was making her stomach tie itself in knots. She was finding it a little difficult to breathe—foolish girl!
‘Yes, they are,’ he agreed. ‘And it is a shame that so much of merit languishes unread for want of interest. Some of the most beautiful prose and poetry were originally written in Arabic—there is a sensuality about the language that flows from the tongue.’
And about his mouth! How attractive he was when he looked at her like that.
Chloe checked her unruly thoughts. What on earth was going through her mind? She was an incurable romantic!
‘I have often wished that I could read the original but, as I said before, I am not clever enough.’
‘That is because no one has taught you,’ he said, and there was a look in his eyes that sent an odd little tingle down her spine. ‘Perhaps you will tell me more of what you have discovered as we walk back to the hotel, Miss Randall?’ His dark eyes met hers in a challenge.
‘You know of the Rubaiyat, of course.’
‘Oh, yes, I know some of it by heart…’ She faltered as his brows quirked, and then closed her eyes. ‘It begins… “Wake! For the sun, who scattered into flight…”’
“‘The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drive Night along with them from Heav’n and strikes
The Sultan’s turret with a Shaft of Light.’”
‘Oh, yes,’ she breathed as he stopped and arched his brows at her. ‘I thought I must be the only one who had learned that verse. Most people only seem to know the bit about the cup of wine and thou.’
‘But you are different,’ he suggested. ‘You intrigue me, Miss Randall. Tell me more.’
Chloe looked shyly at him. ‘I’ve never talked about my work before. Daddy calls it my little hobby, and my friends don’t understand why I find the study of Arabic literature interesting. Justine says there are already too many English poets to bother with something in an impossible language that no one can understand.’
‘Justine is your exuberant friend from the ship?’
‘Yes. I am sorry that she ruined your suit—and that I made it worse.’
‘I am not sure that once something is ruined you can make it worse.’
‘You’re laughing at me!’ Chloe accused.
‘Yes, and it is very unkind of me,’ he replied with a twist of his mouth—a mouth she again realised was very attractive. ‘But it is good to laugh sometimes. Believe me, I have not wanted to laugh for a long time.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘Someone I cared for died.’
‘Oh, I see—I am very sorry. I know that hurts. I was devastated when my mother died.’
He nodded, but did not elaborate. Clearly his grief was private, and still too raw to be discussed.
‘May I ask your real name?’
‘You could not remember—even though you saw the newspaper article?’
‘No. I thought it might be Hassan—or Pasha?’
‘It is Pasha,’ he said. ‘Pasha Ibn Hasim—can you be trusted to keep that to yourself, Miss Randall? I would prefer that it did not become common knowledge at the hotel—or anywhere.’
‘Yes, of course—if you wish,’ she said and frowned. ‘I expect you have a good reason for using a false name.’
‘Armand is my maternal great-grandmother’s name. She was French—and her father was called Philippe. I have a British passport in that name so it is not entirely false.’
‘Oh…’ Chloe felt her cheeks getting warm again. ‘I didn’t mean to imply anything.’
‘You did, of course, but no matter. I do have very good reasons for travelling under an assumed name. My father was assassinated in Algeria when I was a child of nine years. My uncle sent me to England to be educated because he believed I would be safer in a foreign country—and, as my mother was English, I had relations there.’
‘Your father was… I am so sorry! I had no idea.’ Chloe was appalled. She had never heard anything so dreadful and it had completely shocked her. ‘That’s why…I mean, I shan’t say a word about what you’ve told me to anyone. Are you an important Sheikh or something?’
Pasha laughed. ‘Not important in the way you mean, merely wealthy. However, someone in my family is very important.’
‘Please don’t tell me any more,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I ought to know. In case I inadvertently say something I shouldn’t.’
‘I had no intention of telling you anything that might compromise his safety—or your own.’
Chloe’s eyes were wide with wonder. ‘You really are important, aren’t you? You must be if your…friend might be in danger through something I might accidentally learn from you.’
