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Sandstorm
Anne Mather
Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous
collection of fantastic novels by
bestselling, much loved author
ANNE MATHER
Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the
publishing industry, having written over one hundred
and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than
forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.
This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance
for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,
passionate writing has given.
We are sure you will love them all!
I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun— staggered by what’s happened.
I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.
These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.
We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
Sandstorm
Anne Mather
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u7476c2e9-5fec-5df1-9f7d-205bf6fa78e6)
About the Author (#ude8d5644-0246-5dd8-8ced-49b7c6dad725)
Title Page (#uc865de41-9057-5b3b-9c46-e75e424ef275)
CHAPTER ONE (#ud4d28bc9-f465-5a34-832e-19f2813eb875)
CHAPTER TWO (#ueeb64cb1-c855-5361-9f8b-1bfcba1a31bb)
CHAPTER THREE (#uf47e317c-7dc1-5891-8d00-38a97fe668f6)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_a7486674-3579-5e80-b517-e0b0a88dfad1)
ABBY stood behind the kitchen door, with her hands pressed hard against her burning cheeks. She hoped no one had observed her hasty departure from the party, or if they had, that they assumed she was helping Liz with the washing up. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself, and at least in the kitchen she could not be seen.
Dry-mouthed, she moved away from the door, glad that the caterers who had been here earlier had departed some time ago. It would have been awkward, explaining her withdrawal from the proceedings to them, and she supposed she ought to be grateful there was no one to witness her consternation. But how could she have anticipated that Rachid would turn up here, at Liz’s party, when she had not even known he was in London?
Taking long gulping intakes of air, she endeavoured to calm herself. It was ridiculous behaving like this, she told herself impatiently. She was a grown woman, not a child. She should be capable of handling any situation, including meeting the husband she had not seen for almost eighteen months. She was Brad’s secretary, wasn’t she? The cool collected recipient of his confidences, and no longer the wide-eyed innocent she had been when she first met Rachid. At just such a party as this, she thought bitterly—only in Paris, not at her friend’s apartment in London.
Liz!
With a puzzled frown she considered the possibility that Liz had known Rachid might appear. Liz knew everyone, and her job at the news agency ensured that she knew most of what they were doing as well. It was inconceivable that she should not have learned that the son of an eminent Middle Eastern prince was in town, so why hadn’t she told Abby? The answer was obvious. Because if Abby had suspected her husband might be here, she herself would not have come.
Nibbling at her lower lip, Abby braced herself against the sink. She supposed it had been bound to happen sooner or later, that she should meet Rachid again, if not socially then at least commercially. Since she had taken up the post of Brad’s secretary once more, her work brought her into contact with the oil barons of the world, and after all, it was through Brad that she had met Rachid in the first place.
But Liz! She and Liz had been friends since schooldays. She had known how she felt. Had known that she had no desire to meet her husband again—not yet. It was too soon. And she half wished she had not succumbed to her father’s pleas to her to return to England. Without his entreating letters, she would still be working at the trade mission in New York, and she felt a surge of frustration that she should have allowed herself to be persuaded to take up her old life.
And yet, she argued logically, couldn’t this have happened just as easily in New York? Rachid was not bound by the conventions and limitations which had restricted his ancestors. He was a man of the twentieth century. He flew all over the world on business for his father. He looked like a European, and he dressed like a European, and only in his own country did he shed the trappings of the Western world.
Nevertheless, Abby knew that the chances of her encountering Rachid in New York had to be less likely. Her work there had not afforded her the same opportunities she had as Brad’s secretary, and besides, so far as she knew, Rachid did not know where she was. All correspondence between them had been through her father’s house in London, and he had distinct orders not to give her address to anyone without first consulting her.
The door behind her opened and she swung round apprehensively, half afraid that Rachid had seen where she had gone and followed her. But it was Liz Forster who came into the room, viewing her friend with wry knowing eyes. She was a tall girl, about Abby’s height of five feet seven inches, with narrow bones and slightly angular features. She did not have Abby’s smoothness or roundness, for although Abby was slim—too slim, her father thought—she retained a lissom grace, that was evident in the curve of her hips and the fullness of her breasts.
Now Liz closed the door behind her, and leaning back against it, folded her arms. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, as Abby’s lips parted in involuntary protest. ‘You’ve seen him!’ She shook her head. ‘Is that why you’re skulking out here?’
‘I am not skulking,’ declared Abby, straightening up from the sink, and rubbing her chilled palms together. ‘I am merely trying to decide why you should do such a thing.’
Liz sighed, pushing herself away from the door. ‘You’re angry,’ she said flatly.
‘Did you expect anything else?’
Liz shrugged. ‘I suppose not.’
Abby gazed at her helplessly. ‘Liz, you must have known how I would react. That’s why you didn’t tell me, isn’t it? Why you let me stand there like a lemon, when Damon brought him in.’
‘Did he see you?’
‘No.’ Abby pressed her lips together. ‘At least, I don’t think he did. You can never be absolutely sure with Rachid. He has the eyes of a hawk!’
‘A desert hawk,’ replied Liz dryly. Then: ‘I’m sorry, Abby, but I had to do it.’
‘Why? Why did you have to?’ Abby could not accept that. ‘You could have warned me, at least.’
‘And then you wouldn’t have come,’ Liz exclaimed, reminding her of her own words. ‘Abby, does it really matter? I mean, you have to meet him some time, don’t you? Even if it’s only in the divorce court.’
Abby’s lips thinned. ‘Don’t you know?’ she taunted bitterly. ‘Muslims don’t have to do anything so boringly official. All Rachid has to do is say the words of repudiation and he’s a free man. Besides, why should he do that? He’s allowed four wives anyway.’
‘Abby!’ Liz came towards her, putting a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. ‘Rachid’s a Christian. You told me so yourself—’
‘Is he?’ Abby moved away from her.
‘Abby, you know—’
‘I’d really rather not talk about it, Liz.’ She moved her head jerkily, feeling the weight of her hair heavy at her nape. ‘And if you don’t mind, I’d like to leave—as soon as possible. Would you get my coat? It’s in the bedroom. I’ll just slip out the back way—’
‘Speak to him, at least,’ Liz protested, appalled. ‘What’s the matter? You’re surely not afraid of him, are you? Heavens, you were married for almost three years! Doesn’t that entitle him to five minutes of your time?’
Abby’s eyes blazed. ‘Rachid’s entitled to nothing from me, nothing!’ she declared fiercely. ‘I don’t know what kind of moral blackmail he used on you to get you to invite him here—’
‘Damon asked if he could bring a friend,’ retorted Liz crossly. Damon Hunter was her boss at the agency. ‘How did I know—’
‘You mean, you didn’t?’ Abby looked at her sceptically, and even Liz could not sustain that challenging gaze.
‘Oh, all right,’ she said, picking up a canapé from a half empty tray and biting into it delicately. ‘Damon told me who it was. But I didn’t know you were going to throw a fit of hysterics, did I?’
Abby bent her head. ‘Will you get my coat?’
‘Abby, please—’
Liz looked at her imploringly, and Abby heaved a sigh. ‘I can’t stay here,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m not hysterical, and I’m not afraid of seeing Rachid again, I just—don’t want to—to speak to him.’
Liz shook her head. ‘Damon’s going to be furious!’
‘Damon is?’ Abby was confused.
‘Yes.’ Liz moved her shoulders awkwardly. ‘Oh, if you must know, he asked me to give this party, to invite you here. Rachid—’
‘You mean Rachid arranged it?’ Abby demanded angrily. ‘Oh, Liz, how could you?’
Liz grimaced. ‘I didn’t have much choice, did I? Damon is my boss!’
Abby clenched her fists. ‘I won’t do it, Liz. I won’t!’
‘All right, all right.’ Liz made a deprecatory gesture. ‘No one can force you.’
‘No.’ But Abby was not completely convinced. She knew her husband. She knew his capacity for coercion and for the first time she wondered why he particularly wanted to see her now, just when she was beginning to feel secure once more.
‘I’ll get your coat,’ said Liz suddenly, walking towards the door. ‘You wait here. I won’t be long.’
‘And if Damon—’
‘Leave it to me,’ replied Liz quietly, and Abby fretted uneasily until she came back again, carrying the pigskin coat that Abby had arrived in. ‘Here you are,’ she said, helping her on with it. ‘You can leave by the service door. There’s no lift, I’m afraid, but the stairs will bring you out on to Gresham Place.’
‘Thanks.’ Abby curled the soft fur collar up about her ears, its darkness complementing her extreme fairness. ‘I’m sorry about this, Liz, but I can’t face Rachid. Not tonight.’
Liz shrugged. ‘If you say so.’
‘You do understand, don’t you?’
Liz hesitated. ‘Not entirely.’ She paused, and then seeing Abby’s anxious expression, she went on: ‘Darling, Rachid’s a dish, in anyone’s vocabulary. I could never understand why not having a baby meant that much to you. I mean—heaps of couples—’
Abby moved towards the service door. ‘You’re right, Liz,’ she said tightly. ‘You don’t understand. Anyway …’ she made an awkward movement of her shoulders, ‘I must go. Goodnight, and—and thank you.’
‘I’ll ring you next week,’ said Liz, following her to the door, and Abby nodded.
‘Yes, do that,’ she agreed, and with a faint smile she let herself out on to the concrete hallway that gave access to the rear of the flats.
Liz’s flat was on the seventh floor, and Abby was relieved when she finally reached the door on to the street. Fourteen flights of stairs had seemed interminable, and she expelled her breath weakly as she emerged from the building.
It was a chilly October evening, with a thin mist rising from the river. Drifts of fallen leaves choked the gutters, and Abby pushed her hands into her pockets as she stepped out along the pavement towards Gresham Square. She might find a taxi outside the apartments, she decided hopefully, eager to put as much distance between her and Rachid as she could in the shortest possible time.
She was completely unaware of being observed, so that when the tall figure stepped in front of her, she thought for a moment that she was being accosted. Her breath escaped on a trembling gasp and she lifted her head in anxious protest, only to step back aghast when she encountered the dark impassioned gaze of her husband. In spite of what had gone before, he was the last person she had expected to meet out here, and it was only as she took another backward step that she realised he was not alone. Two men had silently paced her progress along the street, and this meeting with Rachid was no coincidence, but a well-executed ambush. Oh, Liz, she thought despairingly, how could you? How could you?
‘Good evening, Abby.’
Rachid’s voice was rich and dark and smooth, like a fine wine, she thought imaginatively, belying the controlled anger she had glimpsed in the shadowy depths of his eyes. He spoke with scarcely a trace of an accent, but that was hardly surprising considering he had been educated at the most exclusive establishments England had to offer, and what was more to the point, his grandmother was English. He stood looking down at her, for although she was a tall girl, he still topped her by a few inches, waiting for her reply, and with a feeling of impotence bordering on the hysteria Liz had hinted at earlier, Abby inclined her head.
‘Good evening, Rachid.’
A snap of his fingers sent his two henchmen several yards along the street, and then, in the same controlled tones, he continued: ‘You refused to speak to me at the home of your friend. I regret this—er—stratagem, but I was determined that we should talk, Abby.’
Abby’s hands balled in her pockets, but she managed to hold up her head. At least in the shadowy illumination of the street lamps he was unable to see the anxious colour that had filled her cheeks, or the unsteady quiver of her lips, and forcing a note of indifference, she said:
‘You could have telephoned me. If not at home, then at the office. I presume you do know I’ve gone back to work for Brad Daley. I’m sure your—spies have been at their work.’
‘Spies!’ His tongue flicked the word contemptuously. Then, as if impatient with this unsatisfactory encounter, he gestured along the street. ‘Come, my car is parked nearby. Let me escort you home. We can talk more comfortably out of this damp atmosphere.’
Abby stood her ground. ‘I really don’t see what we have to talk about, Rachid,’ she insisted firmly. ‘I—well, I told Liz I didn’t wish to speak to you, and I thought she would respect my confidence. Just because she hasn’t, I see no reason to change my mind—’
