Rose of the Desert (8 page)

"Are you homesick, Miss Lambert, for your own country?"

"I don't think I am." Julie laughed in slight astonishment. "I barely give it a thought, except to write to my father once a week."

The old man nodded and spoke to Clay. He wanted to know if the fire at the oil rig was under control, and what was the latest output in oil at Guchani. They spoke with the easy companionableness of men who have known each other a long time, and Julie listened as they explored various theories on laying extra pipeline, and transporting oil by boat.

Eventually the old man rose.

"You must excuse me, my dear, for taking advantage and talking shop, as you say, with Clay. I must go now and show myself amongst my other guests."

He shook Julie's hand and then held Clay's. The twinkle was back in the faded eyes.

"And now, my friend, you are finding there is more to this life than oil and sand, hah?" As there was no immediate reply he continued throatily, "And you are tired of making love to an oil well, mmm?"

Clay smiled lazily and drew deeply on his cigarette, and the old Sheikh turned with a lift of his shoulders and an affectionate gleam in his eye.

"You are right. It is not for me to ask why you bring your woman into the desert."

Julie felt a flood of colour stain her cheeks. Only the crackling of the fires could be heard above the tossing of her heart. She watched the tourists surge around the tall robed figure, all eager for a glimpse of a real live Sheikh, and then she turned abruptly and walked out into the night.

Not knowing not caring where she stepped, her one desire was to get away, to be alone. The darkness enveloped her and the soft sand quickly filled her shoes, making them feel like iron weights around her ankles. She saw the stars like baubles swaying above her, and then the steely grip of a hand tightened around her wrist.

"Why the anti-social mood all of a sudden?"

Clay held on to her, the hard mouth slightly crooked.

"I ... just wanted to ... get away for a while."

"From me?"

She tried to shake her hand free, "I ... don't know what you mean ... from you?"

"Of course you don't!"

He swung her to him, his eyes dark above her own.

"Please, Clay ..."

"Did the old man's words upset you that much?"

She looked up into the ruggedly handsome face, the lips so very close to her own.

"Please, let's get back to the others..."

"I've got a better idea."

She saw the gleam of his teeth from a twisted smile, felt the pounding of his heart as he said thickly,

"Let's oblige the old boy and say just for tonight you are, to use the rather dramatic term of the east,
my woman."

Roughly his mouth found hers. It seemed to draw the very soul from within her. She leaned against him, unable to suppress the ecstasy of these hard lips upon her own. His mouth slid down, caressing her throat, her hair, and then almost without realising it she began to withdraw.

Three words starting as a gentle whisper at the back of her sub-conscious throbbed louder with every second ... just for tonight...
just for tonight....

Of course that was as far as it went ... just for tonight. Clay Whitman was an oil man, and as he never failed to tell her at least once a day, women and oil didn't mix. But he wasn't averse to a little light entertainment on the side at her expense. Perhaps this was how he got his fun. A man didn't necessarily have to get married to get what he wanted from life.

This last thought made her writhe in Clay's arms, and with a suppressed sob she struggled free. Clay stood for a long time still and silent, and then with a slightly trembling hand he lit up a cigarette.

"As you were saying," in a voice that resembled the rattle of ice cubes, "let's get back to the others."

He took her arm and led her back to the encampment, blowing his smoke up into the sky.

"
A
H
, Monsieur Wheetman!"

The little Frenchman, organiser of the tourist party, hurried forward, mopping his brow as was his habit. "The transport ees ready. Eef you would agree to supervising the last car ... and Mam'selle can seet weeth the ladies up at the front."

Clay nodded tersely and Julie was led to a long estate car overflowing with the females of the party. All were laughing gaily and obviously well pleased with the night's entertainment. They willingly breathed in to provide the extra space, and forcing a smile Julie joined them, telling herself she much preferred this way of travelling to an intimate camel ride with Clay.

But once back in her hotel room she stared through the open window at a sky ablaze with stars, seeing only Clay's face. The memory of those hard lips upon her own was still painfully vivid in her mind. She was annoyed with herself. What did it amount to? A night laden with the magic of the desert, and a man who had been pushed beyond endurance with the fire at the oil rig and the extra work it had entailed.

Naturally on his arrival at Jalna he had been only too willing to indulge in the kind of relaxation that most virile men enjoy. No doubt there were girls in Tripoli whom he invited out when on leave, as there must have been in other parts of the world where he had worked.

She had thought he hadn't really wanted to go to the encampment, was just being polite. Now she could see he had been only too willing to take advantage of a situation here he didn't have to go to the nearest city for his amusements. She, Julie, had been on hand. Tomorrow he would go back to his men, oblivious to everything else but oil rags, and pipelines, and all the trappings that went with a top man in the oil business. And Julie would take care that such a situation never arose again.

Kisses from Clay Whitman could be, to say the least... unsettling.

In the distance she heard the high-pitched bell-like voices of the women of Jalna singing their gossip over the rooftops. Were they discussing the tourists? Or perhaps Clay and herself were the subject of their musical conversation?

Julie climbed into bed, a small ache in her throat. The women of Jalna didn't know it, but that particular subject was going to be very short-lived indeed.

They breakfasted early next morning, Clay his usual urbane self, and Julie striving to push the memory of a brief embrace to the farthest corner of her mind. She had expected to be whipped away at first light, but Clay seemed in no hurry to leave.

The first peach glow of dawn found her matching his lazy strides with suitable steps of her own, as they walked beneath the palms towards the gates of Jalna. The call to prayer echoed over the rooftops; a sonorous voice challenging over and over again,
Allahu akbar ... Allahu akbar ...
The call was taken up by another voice and yet another until the mosques and minarets reverberated with a plea to the faithful.

Julie found the view from the gateway quite breathtaking. With a little gasp of pleasure she gazed on the desert sand washed by the gold of sunrise, and spreading like a soft carpet towards a horizon of pure eggshell blue. Scarves of saffron, apricot, and a milky cream drifted by over head, reluctant to leave a sky still blinking with stars.

Not far from the gates on a gentle slope, a group of camels rested, and by their side a cluster of camelmen sat brewing tea around a fire. They saw Clay and beckoned, their eyes alight with friendliness, each showing a toothy grin.Julie was offered a grain sack for a seat, and she gathered from the men's performance that fresh tea was to be made for their benefit.

She watched as one of a pair of tea-pots was placed over charcoal embers, which must have been very hot indeed, for the contents of the tea-pot were steaming merrily in next to no time. The second tea-pot was placed beside it, but was not apparently required at boiling point. There followed a ritual of pourings from one pot to another until evidendy the right strength was obtained, and then a row of thick glasses were set out.

Much to Julie's surprise a handful of the peanuts that had been roasting in a pan over the fire was dropped into the bottom of each glass and the hot tea poured over them. She wasn't to know what this concoction tasted like, however, for when her turn came to accept a glass, Clay
smil
ingly declined for her, saying something swiftly in
Arabic.

Unperturbed, the camelmen nodded and smiled and sat with Clay to drink the three customary glasses. On the way back to gates Julie asked casually,

"Why wasn't I allowed a drink?"

"I told them it wasn't our custom for the ladies to drink tea with the men." He looked down at her briefly. "You wouldn't know the dangers of drinking from uncertain sources."

"But
ycu
drank it." Alarm showed in Julie's blue eyes.

"But I, child," he took her arm with a tolerant smile, "am hardened to it. We'd better get moving before the heat gets us."

The Land Rover ate up the miles as the sun became a blurred brassy disc in the sky, and Julie lay back thinking of Clay's last words. "I'm hardened to it."

That could be the story of his life, she thought with a touch of irritation. During the course of his travels Clay Whitman had undoubtedly become hardened to most things. He drove now with the cool calculation of a man who has every intention of getting from point A to point B in the least possible time, and unbelievably soon the gas jets of Guchani were showing upon the skyline. Julie felt as though she were coming home. Ridiculous how one could put roots down in a place after only being there a short while. She gazed ahead, all unsuspecting that life at the oil camp as she knew it was going to be considerably changed.The Land Rover pulled in, in a cloud of dust, and a tall figure almost as tall as Clay dropped negligently down the , steps of Clay's bungalow. There was something vaguely familiar about the set of the shoulders and fair waving hair, but it wasn't until she had stepped from her seat that recognition hit her.

"Alan! Alan Moore!"

"Julie, my sweet! You're a long way from Tripoli." With a vexed look around the mouth he pulled her to him and planted a kiss lingeringly beneath her ear. Julie was at pains to hide her embarrassment. To be held and kissed in this way while Clay stood by and watched was pure agony. Especially as she had never got beyond the handshaking stage with Alan in London.

"When ... when did you arrive?"

She smiled to cover her confusion.

"I flew myself in yesterday afternoon." With a side glance at Clay, he led her into the bungalow. "I didn't know you'd be out sightseeing.
And
stopping overnight at that."
There
was annoyance in his tones, and Clay interjected mildly,

"The journey would have been too much in one day. It was my decision to stay the night in Jalna."

"I expect you're right." Alan sighed irritably and flung off his tie. "Have you got a drink?" He laughed harshly. "That man of yours is pretty cagey about offering anything before dinner."

Clay went out and returned with a tray. He poured whisky, adding a generous helping of water, and handed him the glass.

Alan swallowed the contents rapidly.

"Glad to know," he said between gulps, "you got the fire at the oil rig under control."

"We managed." Clay passed him a tight smile. "Were you hoping for a ringside seat?"

"Well, no," Alan smiled obliquely, his tones smooth, "as a matter of fact, I came to offer my services in accounts ... until you get a replacement for Steve Rowland."

"That was thoughtful of you."

"Yes, wasn't it?"

Clay took the empty glass, his mouth still holding a thin smile.

"Strange. I've never known you set foot in one of your oil camps, let alone work in one."

There was a silence in which the two men eyed each other across the room, and then Alan moved a little self-consciously.

"I ... suppose there's a vacant bungalow I could move into?"

"There's Steve's." Clay put the glass down with some deliberation. "But I see no reason why you shouldn't put up here, with me. I've got the room."

"Thanks." Alan spread himself in a chair. "And would you tell the Mohammed bloke to let up on the bottles? I like a drink during the day. You know ..." he performed the actions of pouring a drink with smiling sarcasm, "to tip my own out when the mood takes me."

"I wouldn't advise it in this heat."

Clay glanced briefly at Julie, and added in brittle tone9,

"If you two will excuse me, I have some things to attend to." He turned and left them without a backward glance.

"Is it true," Julie said brightly, feeling ill at ease, "that you've never been to one of your oil camps?"

Alan stood up with a grin and took her hand.

"Take no notice of Clay, my poppet, there never has been love lost between
him and
me.
What
he means is, I've never had occasion to come and look
him
up ... at least not until now."

He pulled her towards him, the pale hazel eyes sliding over her figure and up to the smooth tanned cheeks and flaxen hair.

"This is different."

"Is it?"

"I'll say! You're here and ..." she saw the sensual curl of his lips, "you're ... different."

"So are you." Lightly she released herself and put a few paces between them.

He shrugged and lit up a cigarette.

"Well, let's face it, this isn't London. It's got to the point where I can't lift my little finger over there without it's in the morning papers." He frowned briefly, a lock of hair falling over the perspiring brow. "I must admit I let go some choice words when I found you weren't at the Hotel Gerard, but the more I see of this set-up the better I like it."

"This set-up happens to include my job," Julie said evenly. "There is a very serious staff shortage in the accounts office. I hope you're equipped to reduce some of the technical paperwork."

Alan laughed into the air with incredulous amusement. He took her arm, flinging his half-smoked cigarette down and grinding it with an expensive suede shoe.

"Perhaps you and I have got our lines crossed, sweetheart. I didn't come out here to get bogged down with office work."