скачать книгу бесплатно
Desert Wedding
Alexandra Scott
Marriage…or mirage?She'd gone to the desert to escape from the past. And in Nathan Trehearn's arms, Georgia Maitland thought she'd found her future. The honeymoon wasn't even over when reality intruded in the shape of Nathan's past: a glamorous woman who claimed to be "Mrs. Trehearn." Had their desert wedding been merely a mirage?
“I’ll be back tomorrow.” (#u4fc15a4c-894a-5e8d-844d-42860038c387)About the Author (#u8db3cf4c-9f4f-5f73-a8d9-507f6442299b)Title Page (#uba24323b-2826-5aff-9d58-ad2462d07bda)CHAPTER ONE (#u68583964-250f-5d7d-9b88-3d1d87dec9d0)CHAPTER TWO (#u2d10da49-7f84-53b9-9e6a-13460eed5a79)CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)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)
“I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” It was earlier than Georgia had dared to hope.
“You sound...pleased?”
“What do you think?”
“I think I got it right. And have you had the chance to go and buy that dress as I suggested?”
“Oh, it was a suggestion? I took it more as a command!”
“Ah, right. I’m glad you got the message.”
“And I bought something. It’s—”
“Don’t tell me,” Nathan interrupted swiftly, then added mysteriously, “it might be unlucky. But I’ll be back about nine tomorrow night. Be ready then. Timing is all-important. Be ready to be whisked away for a very special occasion.”
Alexandra Scott was born in Scotland and lived there until she met her husband, who was serving in the British army, and there followed twenty-five years of travel in the Far East and Western Europe. They then settled in North Yorkshire, and, encouraged—forcefully—by her husband, she began writing the first of around fifty romance novels which were to be published. Her other interests include gardening and embroidery, and she enjoys the company of her family.
Desert Wedding
Alexandra Scott
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
WHAT relief it was to escape the overwhelming heat. Even among the shady palms about the pool Georgia had felt limp, utterly exhausted after a bare half-hour. But here in the air-conditioned coolness of the club, the day’s brilliance filtered through smoky glass, the splash of fountains in her ears—here was blessed relief, soothing, refreshing.
Her eyes were finding it hard to cope with such an abrupt change from brassy glare to shadowy gloom, which probably explained why she didn’t at first focus on the figure who appeared from nowhere to greet her.
‘Miss Maitland, isn’t it? Georgia?’ The short man was familiar, at least vaguely, and her frown brought elucidation. ‘Grev Canning. We met the other evening at the Kimberleys’.’
‘Of course.’ She smiled then—that amazing reaction, that slow burnishing of her features, almost an incandescence which illuminated an already striking face. ‘I’m sorry; for a moment I couldn’t see. I’ve not really adjusted yet.’
‘Well, it can take some time. How about a drink to help—something long and cool?’ he said persuasively.
‘I had decided to go back to the flat. I was just on my way to call for a car.’
“Then...while you’re waiting you might as well have that drink.’
‘Oh, go on, then.’ She wasn’t, after all, in any great hurry. ‘Pressed orange with masses of ice.’ Sitting down, she let her eyes follow him, watched as he gave his order to the waiter, an immensely tall Arab, his height and slenderness emphasised by brilliant white cotton robes.
The latter had an interesting face—Georgia’s artistic senses automatically absorbed such detail—hawkish, a mite condescending, with a red velvet hat at a slightly rakish angle above the grizzled curls and... Grev was back beside her on the green leather settee.
‘Did you swim?’
‘No.’ With a shrug she indicated her beach bag. ‘Meant to, but it was too much trouble.’ And also, though she didn’t explain to him, she still had the after-effects of a bug picked up on the journey out.
‘It can be a bit of a shock at first,’ he acknowledged. ‘And you know it’s going to be, but nothing quite prepares you for it. Don’t worry, though; you’ll soon adjust.’ Producing a cigarette packet, he offered her one and, when she refused, proceeded to light his own, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs with an air of desperation.
Vaguely she listened while he spoke about his job—something to do with the harbour board, she gathered—but her attention was detached. She glanced about her with interest, at the groups spaced about the large room, all unknown to her—except there was one... She frowned in concentration. There was a man among the group congregated at the far end, close to the bar.
Her attention was elsewhere when a young woman came thrusting aggressively through the plate-glass doors, not giving the doorman time to hold one open. For a moment or two she glared about her before coming purposefully across to where Georgia was sitting innocently with her companion, her mind wholly taken up with the pleasure of freshly squeezed oranges.
Not until the newcomer reached her table did Georgia notice, and even then that it was more to do with Grev’s sudden apprehension, the widened eyes and air of deflation as he put down his glass and got to his feet.
‘Greville.’ The tone was ripe with all kinds of inflamed suspicion. The woman was red-haired, florid, and dressed most unbecomingly in loud Bermudas and a loose shirt. She grasped Grev firmly and possessively by the arm, at the same time turning the battery of her dislike on Georgia. ‘You are going to introduce us, I imagine?’ And she pulled him down with her onto the sofa.
‘Of course I am.’ The guilt and helplessness warring in Grev’s expression brought a burn of indignation to Georgia’s face. Of all things, she hated to feel conspicuous, and the last thing she wanted was to be involved in another marital spat. ‘Of course, love. This is Georgia Maitland. You remember, she was at the Kimberleys’ the other—’
‘And you remember I didn’t go to the Kimberleys’. You persuaded me not to, and now—’ her voice, already loud enough, rose a few decibels ’—now I’m beginning to understand why.’
Heads were starting to turn in their direction. The hum of conversation in the room became subdued, and only pride stopped Georgia from grabbing her bag and making for the exit. Instead, she raised her glass to her mouth and drained it. She gave herself a moment to control her irritation and anger before getting lazily to her feet, to stand looking down at the couple, he sheepish and embarrassed, she challenging and truculent.
‘You—’ in contrast with the other woman’s, Georgia’s voice was calm, modulated, melodious even, and, in spite of the surge of indignation revived by the sheer animosity that she was facing, she smiled ‘—you must be Greville’s wife.’
‘And you—’ the words were thrown coarsely in her direction ‘—had better remember it.’
Georgia’s hands clenched till she could feel her fingernails biting into her palms. Her expression was icily detached, and when she spoke it was with a brittle edginess. ‘I think...’ She bent to pick her bag up from the floor, taking a first step in distancing herself. ‘I think—’ again she was aware of being the focus of attention and so forced herself to speak more lightly ‘—in fact I’m sure everyone present will remember, but as for me...’ She shrugged, but her final cutting remark died on her lips when she saw the expression on Grev’s face, and she knew that she couldn’t add to his humiliation. The words were choked back and she took another step then turned briefly. ‘Oh, and thanks for the drink, Grev. Kind of you to take pity on me.’ Then, calm as she could, chin high, Georgia threaded her way through the tables, her entire manner underlining her detachment.
Nevertheless, her hands were shaking slightly, her cheeks were on fire and there was the shaming sting of tears behind her eyes by the time she reached the desk at the end of the room, where she began to ask the steward to arrange a car for her.
‘Cancel that.’ Again she had failed to notice someone approaching from behind, and the flashing upward look she turned on the man was not meant to disguise her anger at the intrusion. ‘I’m going your way, Miss...?’
The cool, assessing look, the enquiringly raised dark eyebrow did little to dispel her idea that he knew exactly who she was, and she still had this feeling that she had seen...
‘Miss Maitland, isn’t it?’
‘How clever of you!’
Disregarding her simmering anger, he transferred his attention to the steward, who had paused with one hand on the telephone. ‘I’m going in Miss Maitland’s direction.’ And, quite as if she had co-operated in the plan, he put one hand under her elbow to propel her in the direction of the door—a touch which she was so burningly aware of that she shrugged it off the moment they stepped away from the desk.
She spoke through clenched teeth. ‘But what makes you think that Miss Maitland has any inclination to go in the same direction as you?’
His grin—a momentary flash of white against tanned skin—was disconcerting in its mischievousness. ‘I promise you, you have. If only to put one over on your erstwhile adversaries back in there. But, apart from that, we’re living in the same block of flats.’
‘But that’s not to say...’ Of course. Now she remembered seeing him in the foyer one day.
‘Of course it isn’t. But, as I say, it will add a dash of spice to the afternoon gossip. It would be a pity to deprive all the ex-pats of a little idle speculation, wouldn’t it? Besides, I thought you would want to get out of there as quickly as you could, and that a little moral support might be welcome.’
‘I’m not in need of support, especially not the moral kind,’ she snapped. ‘And if I were—’
‘I know,’ he sighed. ‘I know. If you were I’d be the last man you would—’
‘Not exactly,’
Though her manner was irritated, Georgia was struggling with a disconcerting inclination to grin. It was, after all, such a stupid scenario. She was even faintly amused that she was allowing him to control the situation, permitting herself to be guided with quite implacable gentleness out through the smoked glass doors towards the parking area.
‘I was going to say that if I ever decided I was in need of moral support then a man would be the very last person I would approach.’
‘Ah, like that, is it?’ A flick of his finger brought a long rakish saloon forward.
The parking attendant got out and held open a door for Georgia, who, before she had time to consider, found herself being driven along the palm-shaded drive towards the gates of the club and into the traffic madness of downtown Raqat.
For a time she just sat there quietly fuming, though her brain was busy registering all the sights and sounds which were still comparatively novel. Then familiar landmarks made her realise that they were approaching the block of flats which had for the past two weeks been home.
She glanced at her companion. ‘Thank you very much, Mr...?’ How strange that until this very moment she hadn’t thought to ask his name.
‘Trehearn.’ He slid the car into the shaded parking area, ‘Nathan Trehearn.’
‘Nathan?’ Already she had noticed the accent. ‘American?’ It was close to being an accusation.
‘Guilty as charged.’
‘I should think so too.’ Self-mockery was the only defence for her bad manners. She began to smile. ‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘I should think so too.’ By now he was holding open her car door, and she was walking with him towards the foyer of the block of apartments. ‘Anyway, only half-guilty, since my mother is English and I’ve spent a lot of time there.’
‘I was being a bit touchy about...oh, about that silly episode back at the club.’ The flicker of amusement had been swiftly replaced by vexation. Tears were closer to the surface than she liked. ‘I’m sick of married men who...’
‘Ah.’ The range of understanding implied by that single sound, especially when compounded by, ‘I see,’ uttered in such a thoughtful tone, was impossible.
‘No, you don’t see.’ How could anyone see, or understand the humiliation which she...? ‘You couldn’t possibly.’ No man could.
They were being swept upwards by the lift.
‘No one could,’ she said aloud. The movement stopped. In relief she took a step forward, then said, ‘Oh, I thought... But this isn’t my floor.’
‘No, mine.’ Again his hand was on her arm—a touch which made her hold her breath, grit her teeth—propelling her across the hallway towards the single door. ‘And since we are neighbours I thought it was time I offered you a cup of coffee.’
‘No.’ She pulled away. ‘Really, I’m not in the mood.’
He stood looking down at her—half-amused, half-exasperated, if his expression was anything to go by.
And to underline his intentions he held up his hands. ‘No strings.’
Through the open door she glimpsed a dark-skinned, white-clad figure hovering, and for some reason the presence of the servant weakened her resolve. She found, even as she repeated her protestations, that she was being ushered inside, through the cool marble hall into a spacious, shady salon, where she stopped, holding her breath. Wide, fretted arches led onto a veranda where palms, hibiscus and bougainvillea bloomed, filling the air with their fragrance.
A wonderful room. A delight to her artistic senses. Such calm and simplicity was a salve for her ruffled feelings. Subdued gentle colours, sofas covered in natural raw silk, light walls. Two glazed oriental vases—man-size—in dense blue and white were the only touches of colour in the room. At least...
Her eye was drawn to an alcove where, carved in polished black stone, was a head. Ancient Egyptian, she would have thought, and catching marvellously well that haughty bearing that so many of the local people seemed to have.
Intrigued and momentarily forgetting her companion, she took a step forward until a movement in the mirror behind the sculpture startled her and she flicked a glance to the reflection of the man behind her. And he, there was little doubt, was intent on her.
He was tall—she tried to be objective—taller than she had at first realised—at least six-two—slim but somehow giving an impression of power, though that could have had something to do with his total confidence. Not exactly good-looking—too contained. Except... She began at once to shift her ground. Except for the eyes; that luminous grey was unusual, and when fringed with the longest sooty lashes that she had ever seen...
Still he was looking at her, one slender eyebrow raised assessingly so she blushed, one hand going up to fiddle with the rope of amber beads that she was wearing, the other to push the fall of thick hair from her forehead. ‘What a delightful room.’ She gave a tiny self-conscious laugh as she moved away, ‘Have you been here long?’
‘Eighteen months.’ An outstretched hand encouraged Georgia towards one of the sofas, while he perched on the arm of a chair opposite. ‘Now, I did promise you a drink, so what would you like? Coffee? Gin and tonic? Or...or what? I think we have quite a range. I usually have a sandwich about now too.’
‘Oh...oh, I couldn’t.’
‘Couldn’t what?’ Not giving her a chance to reply, Nathan looked over her head and spoke to someone out of her sight. She imagined it was the servant who had been hovering since their arrival. A few words were exchanged before he reverted to English. ‘It’s all organised. Ismail will rustle up some coffee, but, in the meantime—’ getting up, he crossed to a cabinet and she heard the clink of glass ‘—what do you say to a gin and tonic?’
‘Fine.’ It was her own voice, but shadowy and distant—a reflection, perhaps, of how she was feeling. It was as if her own fairly firm decision-making capacity had been removed. ‘But very weak, please.’ She must not let him think that she couldn’t assert herself.
‘Couldn’t be weaker.’ He handed her a glass, placed a table conveniently close and sat opposite, taking a swallow of his own drink while managing to keep his attention firmly fixed on her face. Leaning forward, he put his own glass onto the tiled table which separated the settees. ‘Tell me about yourself.’ He leaned back, his long legs stretched sideways, crossed at the ankle.
She determined to be guarded; he struck her as the kind of man to whom it might be too easy to unburden oneself. ‘That might take some time and could be extremely boring.’
‘Well—’ he grinned, teeth gleaming white against tanned skin ‘—it is Sunday, after all. We have plenty of time—and I promise not to be the least bit bored by what you say. But you don’t have to go too far back. What brings you out here to Raqat, for instance? That seems a reasonable place to begin.’
It was a safe enough starting point. ‘I’m here for just a short break. You see...’ Georgia paused to take a sip from her glass—‘I’m in fashion design.’ And minus a job at the moment, though there was no way that she was prepared to admit as much to this seemingly highly successful man. ‘I felt I was running out of steam, was in need of inspiration, and I’ve always had a hankering to see the desert so...’
Leaning forward, she placed the glass with great care on the table. There was something unnerving about such total concentration, however friendly it seemed. ‘So here I am.’
‘Ah...’ He paused while Ismail wheeled in a trolley and placed it conveniently for his employer. ‘Thanks, Ismail. It all looks very good.’
That was undeniable. The scent of the coffee and the sight of so many tiny savouries reminded Georgia that she had gone without breakfast that morning. She swallowed, accepted the strong fragrant brew when the cup was passed to her and was disinclined to argue when plates of food were offered.
‘And the Taylors?’
‘What?’ Her mouth was filled with a delicious mix of feather-light pastry, cheese and spinach, which had to be swallowed hastily. She dabbed her mouth with the napkin. ‘I’m sorry...?’ She frowned.
‘The flat you’re in. The one directly under this. It belongs to a young man who teaches locally. He and his wife have gone on leave, I understand.’
‘Oh, that... Well, that’s not a long story. His uncle is a friend of my father’s, and it was a long-distance arrangement. I offered to rent the flat for the month that the Taylors are away. So far, it seems to be working out pretty well.’
‘But I understood...’
‘What?’
‘No, I’ve obviously made a mistake. Let me fill up your cup.’
‘It’s a tiny flat, of course. Just one bedroom—not a bit like this.’ Slightly envious of so much space, she looked about her. Then she helped herself to another asparagus roll—wafer-thin bread, buttered and wrapped round stalks of steamed asparagus. ‘You must have the entire top floor to yourself. At least, I didn’t see another door on the landing.’
‘Yes.’ Nathan sat back, frowning as he stirred his coffee. ‘Yes.’ There was an edge of impatience in his voice. ‘You’re right. I have this vast flat to myself. But tell me how you came to get mixed up with the Cannings.’
‘Oh, the Cannings.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Entirely by accident, I assure you. I simply walked through the club to order a car to bring me home and he seemed to appear from nowhere. I couldn’t even remember where we had met till he reminded me. And then he persuaded me to have a drink. Oh...maybe I didn’t need such a lot of persuading. I might even have been glad of some company, I don’t know.
‘Anyway, no sooner had I put the glass to my lips than his wife appeared and practically accused me of alienating his affections; would you believe it? All in front of a hugely entertained audience. I should think,’ she said moodily, ‘everyone in Raqat will know about it by now.’
