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‘So you are,’ he agreed in a mocking drawl, ‘but the Sheikh is our honoured guest and a potential customer, so.…’ He shrugged and Philippa felt her nerves tighten in a tense spiral of mingled pain and despair. Did he expect her simply to acquiesce, knowing how little he wanted her there? Couldn’t he see that each small confrontation between them was tearing her apart, or could he see it all too clearly? That suspicion froze the blood in her veins. Would he never forget his apparent craving for revenge?
‘I’m sorry but I’ve already made my arrangements for this evening.’ Her voice sounded reassuringly cool and serene, but she was jolted out of her hard-won calm when lean fingers gripped her wrist, making her bones protest painfully.
‘Yes, so I understand from Mrs Robinson,’ Scott agreed smoothly, letting her know that he knew exactly what her ‘arrangements’ were. ‘But I’m sure on this occasion Simon won’t mind eating alone. Will you, Simon?’
Simon would accept any suggestions Scott cared to put to him, and Scott, damn him, knew it, Philippa acknowledged wryly, watching her son shake his head.
‘So, I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out. I’ll see you at dinner.’ Anyone not knowing them might almost have believed that his voice held undertones of pleasure at the prospect, but Philippa knew better. If only she could persuade him to put aside his bitter resentment of her and to let her go. If she didn’t escape from the torment he seemed bent on inflicting upon her soon, she feared she would collapse under the strain of appearing impervious to his cruel taunts. But perhaps that was what he wanted. Perhaps? She mocked herself inwardly. What was the point in trying to hope that somehow the past could be wiped out? She kept on hoping that somehow the new Scott was just a barrier, a protective shield behind which the man she loved still existed. But even if it was would she ever be capable of breaching those defences? Hardly, she acknowledged with wry self-honesty, her eyes on Simon as she watched him walk up the flight of stairs which led to his room, before heading for her own.
It was all very well for Scott to command her to join his guests for dinner, but what on earth was she going to wear? At least all her clothes had arrived—she had a full wardrobe to choose from. The same faint spark of hope which urged her to believe the Scott she loved still existed led her to choose a dress she had bought in the sales some months previously. Made up of several soft layers of swirling chiffon in varying shades of pink from palest blush to deep rose, the elasticated neckline with its puff sleeves could be worn demurely on the shoulders, or more provocatively, off them. The sheer top bloused delicately at the waist before the skirt swayed out in a soft bell, the demureness of the almost ‘little girl’ style belied by the fact that the dress had no underskirt to it and was designed to be worn with the minimum of underclothes. Even at the height of the fashion for it, Philippa had preferred not to go bra-less, but this particular dress she owned, studying it, had to be worn without anything underneath other than the most minimal briefs. Luckily she had developed a light tan, but even so.… After hesitating for several seconds she pulled the dress off the hanger, telling herself she was going to wear it no matter what Scott might think, and telling herself with fine irony that whatever he did think he was hardly likely to guess the truth—that she was wearing it because she wanted him to see her in it. And what? Desire her? Hadn’t she had enough evidence of how he felt about her to know how impossible that was?
After she had showered she perfumed her skin with the expensive bodycream Sir Nigel and Lady Rosemary had given her for Christmas, as part of a gift set of her favourite ‘Femme’ perfume. The cream soothed her skin, the warmth of her body releasing the delicate scent. The pale pink silk briefs, which had been an extravagence she had since regretted, once on looked decidedly provocative. So much so that she found herself trying to avoid her own reflection in the full-length mirror in her room.
At last she was nearly ready. Unwittingly her eyes were drawn to the slender nakedness of her own body, her skin glowing silkily, wrapped in an invisible but sensual cloak of ‘Femme’. Her breasts were round and firm, the darker flesh of her nipples slightly puckered, but hardening perceptibly as though sensing the direction of the thoughts she was as yet, unwilling to admit to.
Against her will she found herself imagining the gentle drift of Scott’s hands against her body. Her breasts swelled, her nipples tautly erect. Hot colour glowed in her cheeks, and she grasped her dress hastily, trying to dismiss the treachery of her body. As she did so she glanced at her watch. Seven already! She had to be downstairs for half past, which didn’t leave her any time to do her make-up and find another outfit.
Quickly applying foundation and then blusher, she made up her eyes delicately, her normally swift, sure strokes unexpectedly clumsy, so that she had to wipe off the blue khol she had applied and start again. Her eyelashes, naturally dark, needed no mascara, which she hated anyway, her lips only the merest touch of soft pink gloss. She turned towards the bed, gazing apprehensively at her dress, before snatching it up and putting it on. It had no fastening, only a pink satin ribbon which tied in a bow at the waist. Her fingers trembled over the small task, her eyes not daring to lift to her reflection in the mirror. Shoes… where were her shoes?
She found them at the back of the wardrobe, soft pink kid sandals she had been able to buy cheaply because she was a small size; a lucky buy as they had been reduced to less than a third of their original price. It couldn’t be put off any longer. She turned slowly towards the mirror, studying her reflection shakily.
The chiffon glowed softly against her skin, the effect as delicate as mother-of-pearl. Deliberately she pulled down the elasticated sleeves, revealing the pure soft line of her shoulders. The gauzy pink fabric tantalised as she moved, revealing brief glimpses of her body without being openly suggestive. The discerning onlooker could just about make out the shape of her naked breasts, their pink nipples blending with the softly hued chiffon. She brushed her hair, pinning it up in a soft swathe of curls which revealed the vulnerable curve of her throat, soft tendrils lying against her skin. Twenty-five past seven. She couldn’t delay any longer.
She gave her reflection a final inspection. Let Scott disapprove and scowl if he wanted to. It was too late now to change a thing.
She wasn’t the first in the drawing room. Eve was already there talking to Sir Nigel. She smiled warmly as Philippa walked in, her eyes admiring the picture the younger woman made.
‘Philippa, my dear, you look lovely.’
‘Both of you look enchanting,’ Sir Nigel corrected gallantly. ‘Raschid will be even more determined to carry you off,’ he added to Philippa, explaining for Eve’s benefit. ‘Raschid, I’m afraid, is a very practised flirt, who complained bitterly when he discovered that Philippa was no longer working for me.’
Philippa saw Eve’s look and laughed. ‘And I am far too sensible to allow myself to become a member of Raschid’s doting harem.…’
A member of it, cherie?’ enquired the subject of their conversation in pained tones, as he followed Philippa into the room. ‘You do us both an injustice. Were you to consent to come back to Qu’har with me, you would be the only member of it. Ah, Philippa, one thousand and one nights of pleasure would not be enough were you to share them with me. I.…’
Philippa was laughing at his extravagances when she became aware of the cold trickle of ice along her spine. Without turning her head to look she knew that Scott had entered the room. ‘Ah, I see my host is not pleased that I monopolise his secretary,’ Raschid whispered mischeviously, ‘Why is that, I wonder?’
‘Probably because he doesn’t approve of Arabian Sheikhs mingling with the hired help,’ Philippa responded flippantly.
‘Dressed as you are tonight, who could resist you? This,’ he touched the soft filminess of her dress, his fingers just below the curve of her breast very dark against the pale fabric, ‘reminds me of the costumes of the harem dancers of old, both concealing and revealing. Promising and withholding.’ He laughed when she blushed. ‘Ah, such innocence, and so rare in these times, even among my countrywomen. What I would give to see your skin flushed with the pleasures of love, little Philippa, your eyes as dark as the velvet nights of the desert! But I see your august boss approaches and will no doubt wish to talk to me of far more mundane matters.’
Raschid was right. Scott was bearing down purposefully on them. His glance moved insolently over her body, probing its secrets, and unlike Raschid she was sure that Scott considere
d that her dress was more revealing than concealing. Certainly his dark sapphire gaze seemed to have no trouble in finding the soft feminine shape it cloaked nor in distinguishing where chiffon ended and skin began.
A heavy painful heat filled her body, an awareness of him she was powerless to control and she moved away on legs suddenly turned to boneless unsteady supports, leaving him alone with Raschid, but not managing to escape before he had let her know with the searingly contemptuous look he gave her that he had overheard most of Raschid’s conversation. Anger scorched her pale skin. Why did he always have to think the worst of her?
Although the meal Mrs Robinson served them was delicious Philippa couldn’t really have said that she enjoyed it. She was too keyed up, too acutely aware of Scott sitting at the head of the table, his dark, bitter glances slicing from Raschid to her at intervals throughout the meal, making her conscious of the fact that he was listening to Raschid’s bantering conversation and probably putting a totally false interpretation on it. Philippa knew for a fact that Raschid was deeply in love with one of his own countrywomen and that she was at university in Paris where she intended to get her degree and prove her independence before committing herself to marriage. While Raschid approved of her determination, he also regretted it, as he had told Philippa when they had last met. ‘You have a way of coaxing the most wary heart to unburden itself to you, cherie,’ he had told her wryly when he had finished. ‘And because of that you are deceptively dangerous.’
‘Your secrets are safe with me, Raschid,’ she had assured him, and he had laughed, she remembered, ‘Ah yes, mine are,’ he had told her. ‘But there will come a day when a man gives not only his secrets and his pain into your keeping, but his heart as well.’
Philippa’s mouth twisted bitterly. The only heart she wanted was made of marble, cold, hard and totally unfeeling. And as for unburdening himself to her. That was the last thing Scott would do.
When the meal was over Raschid joined Eve and Sir Nigel on the settee in front of the fire. Eve had asked Philippa if she could attend to the coffee. Her arthritis, although much less painful than it had been, still made such tasks difficult at times. Philippa complied willingly and was just bending towards the tray, when she became aware of Scott behind her. Her nape prickled defensively.
‘It seems that Sir Nigel thinks very highly of you,’ he murmured sardonically, referring to her ex-boss’s lavish praise of her during dinner. ‘Is that why you’re so keen to leave here? Has he promised you your old job back?’
‘You know why I want to leave here, Scott,’ she managed tonelessly, concentrating on her task. ‘Raschid seemed most impressed with the computer,’ she added, trying to change the subject and lighten the tense atmosphere between them.
