Falcon's Prey Read online

  Furiously resentful, she withstood the harsh pressure of his mouth; rigidly refusing to admit defeat, her lips clamped shut against the demand of his. He might be able to physically restrain her, but nothing could make her respond to him in the way he had obviously intended.

  This kiss could only have lasted seconds, but it seemed an eternity before she was released, feeling mangled like some poor creature set free from the talons of the falcons that sheikhs flew from their wrists.

  She beat at his chest with ineffectual hands, but he grasped her wrists, smiling down tauntingly.

  ‘Well, do you still say that you can defy me?’

  ‘I’ll tell Faisal what you’ve done!’ Felicia all but wept, trembling with humiliation, but Raschid only laughed.

  ‘You would never dare,’ he told her softly. ‘We have a saying in our country, that it takes two to commit adultery. Mud sticks, Miss Gordon. By all means tell Faisal. I wish you would…!’

  Leaving her to digest that remark, he released her so suddenly that she almost fell. Her fingers went instinctively to her throbbing lips, tears blurring her vision.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ Raschid added casually, slipping a hand into his jacket and withdrawing the blue leather box that held the paperweight, ‘I suggest you give this to the person for whom it was originally intended.’ And he threw the box towards her. ‘I think we both of us know that you would never have bought such a gift for me, and you insult my intelligence by expecting me to believe that you did. Keep it for Faisal. I am sure he will be far more appreciative—and show it in a more acceptable way!’

  He had gone before Felicia could admit that the paperweight had been purchased for Nadia, his anger leaving an almost tangible atmosphere in the cool garden.

  He had shamed and humiliated her; mocked her love for Faisal and his for her, and treated her in a way that no man should ever treat a female member of his family, and yet try as she might she could not conjure up the comforting memory of how it felt to be in Faisal’s arms, and it came to her, with shock, that although he had driven her to fury and bitter despair she had not shrunk under Raschid’s embrace as she did when with Faisal. Because she had been too angry, she assured herself, staring down at the box in her hand.

  Suddenly she hated the paperweight more than she had ever hated anything in her life. Before she could change her mind she hurled the box as far as she could, barely aware of the small, distant thud as it fell amongst some roses, then she turned her back on the courtyard and sought the sanctuary of her bedroom.

  Under the electric light she saw the faint beginnings of what would eventually be bruises from Raschid’s tight grip.

  Removing her clothes, she showered, soaping her flesh until it glowed, as though by doing so she could remove for all time the memory of Raschid’s kiss. She hated him! Hated him, she told her flushed reflection defiantly. So why was she crying, silly, weak tears, that would only afford her self-confessed enemy the greatest satisfaction?

  She touched a tear-damp cheek with shaking fingers. In the space of a few earth-shaking minutes Raschid had destroyed her illusions and ripped away the veils of innocence which had hitherto protected her, and all because she had dared to flout his authority and walk unattended in the streets of Kuwait.

  But as she waited for sleep to claim her, Felicia admitted that it went deeper than that. For the first time in her life she had experienced true fear, and as her eyes closed she fought desperately to remember what it had felt like to be held in Faisal’s arms, investing her memories with a passion they had never possessed in an endeavour to obliterate every last trace of Raschid’s touch.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FEMALE voices rose and fell, punctuated with laughter and the rattle of coffee cups. Umm Faisal had invited her friends round to meet Felicia, and judging by the number of women crowded into the room, Felicia suspected that her hostess numbered the entire town amongst her acquaintances.

  Most of the visitors were of Umm Faisal’s generation, and from an upstairs window Felicia had seen them hurrying from opulent cars, their bodies draped in heavy black cloaks, glancing neither to the left nor the right. Once inside, though, the cloaks were discarded like so many unwanted chrysalises to reveal Paris couture fashions and jewellery to rival the contents of the Tower of London.

  From her cross-legged position on a damask cushion Felicia listened to her neighbour describing a recent visit to America. All the women spoke English, although sometimes with accents which made it almost impossible for her to recognise her native tongue.

  This was the first time she had observed the formal ritual of receiving guests, Arab fashion; the gracious welcome and lavish hospitality; and above all the enthusiasm with which the visitors greeted her. Most of them had visited London at one time or another, and they all displayed an almost childlike curiosity about her life there.

  The maid, Selina, came round with fresh coffee, and Felicia sighed. Her stomach was awash with the bitter liquid, but since no one else seemed to be refusing, she felt she could hardly do so herself. Umm Faisal caught her eye, smiling understandingly. She whispered something to Selina and to Felicia’s relief the dusky serving girl passed by without filling her delicate porcelain cup.

  Marble floors, and damask cushions; they were a far cry from her small bedsit with its second-hand furniture. Felicia found that she no longer thought of the austerity of plain white walls as a strange contrast to the luxurious silks and satins the Arabs used for furnishings. She had grown used to seeing Umm Faisal sitting cross-legged on a cushion on the floor, although most of the rooms were furnished in a more Western style, but she doubted if she could ever come to terms with the segregation of male and female; the absolute and all-embracing dominance of the male. However, Zahra told her that even this was less strictly adhered to than had once been the case, and she was forced to admit that where his family were concerned, Raschid was a very forward-thinking man indeed. A pity that his enlightened views did not extend to include her!

  Someone knocked on the door, and instantly women were reaching for their veils, without haste or pretension, slipping them into place, as Selina opened the door. Servants, Zahra had told Felicia, did not need to veil.

  ‘It is the Master, sitti,’ the girl told Umm Faisal.

  ‘Ah, yes, he has come to collect you, Felicia. Raschid is going to show Felicia Kuwait,’ she explained for the benefit of her guests, adding something in Arabic that brought a twinkle to more than one pair of dark eyes.

  ‘She says that it is as well that Raschid is a man of impeccable honour,’ Felicia’s companion whispered. ‘In our day such a thing would not have been allowed, but times change.’ She shrugged as though to say who was to tell whether or not such changes were for the better, laughing when Felicia got unsteadily to her feet. No wonder these women were so graceful and fluid; their limbs would be trained from childhood to accept such a pose, while hers protested agonisingly, pins and needles stabbing painfully through both feet.

  After their confrontation in the garden, Felicia had never expected that Raschid would pursue his promise to take her sightseeing—if indeed a ‘promise’ it had been—but pride would not let her back down and refuse to go with him.

  She had dressed for Umm Faisal’s guests with special care, but as she opened the door, the horrible thought struck her that Raschid might think that she had donned her attractive outfit for his benefit.

  She was wearing a peach linen suit, perfect with her warm colouring, a simple cream silk blouse underneath the neatly fitting jacket. Cream shoes and a slim clutch bag toned perfectly with subtle peach linen, and thin gold bangles chimed musically as she moved. They had been a gift from Faisal, and one which she had tried to refuse until he told her that unless she accepted them the bracelets would be thrown away. She thought of the emerald ring he had bought her—now with him in New York—and his anger when she had refused to wear it until his family accepted their engagement. Now, when it was too late, she wished she had brought
the ring with her. Perhaps the sight of it might help to restore some of the high hopes with which she had come to Kuwait.

  In Eastern garments she knew that she could never hope to rival the grace of girls who had been wearing them from babyhood, but as she glanced in the full-length mirror set into the wall, she reflected that she had every reason to feel pleased with her appearance, and knowing that she looked her best lent an air of confidence that bloomed in the soft colour of her cheeks and the warm glow of her eyes.

  Today she had overcome an important hurdle. Umm Faisal’s friends had accepted her, despite the differences in their cultures—East and West could blend happily, no matter what Raschid said. With the light of battle in her eyes, Felicia went to meet the man waiting for her in the paved courtyard.

  Dim light filtered in through the tall narrow windows of the entrance hall, and at first she could not see him. Then he moved and she caught the white flash of his shirt, the cuffs immaculate as he shot one back to glance at his watch. The gesture, so typically male, made her smile, and that was when he turned and saw her, poised in the doorway, the dark wood a perfect foil for her translucent beauty, laughter trembling the generous curve of her mouth, her eyes calm and composed.

  He came towards her, his expression unreadable. This time Felicia was determined to retain the upper hand.

  ‘I’m sorry if I kept you waiting,’ she apologised formally, ‘but your sister’s friends….’

  ‘You have no need to explain the female of the species to me, Miss Gordon. I’m perfectly conversant with its addiction to senseless chatter.’

  His arrogance all but took her breath away.

  ‘If it’s senseless, it’s because men like you refuse to give them the opportunity to be anything else,’ she retorted, the serenity dying out of her eyes to be replaced by anger, but Raschid merely looked amused.

  ‘Is that what you have been doing? Lecturing Fatima’s guests on the rights of the liberated woman? You will not be very popular with their husbands, Miss Gordon.’

  ‘I don’t care whether I am or not,’ Felicia announced recklessly.

  ‘Foolish of you,’ was Raschid’s only comment. ‘For those same husbands have the power to forbid their wives to have anything to do with you, if they wish, and Faisal would not approve of that. He may appear Westernised to you, Miss Gordon, but he will expect his wife to adhere to the rules of his own society, I assure you.’

  Ignoring the warning, Felicia tossed her head, walking past Raschid to where the car was parked. Where once she had wanted to gain his approval for Faisal’s sake, now she seemed to derive intense satisfaction from deliberately needling him—a trait so alien to her personality that she wondered a little bitterly why it had to be Faisal’s guardian of all people who should arouse it within her.

  ‘Faisal and I will not be living in Kuwait,’ she told Raschid, remembering what Faisal had said.

  ‘No?’ His sideways glance was mocking. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something, Miss Gordon?’

  She refused to look at him, preceding him across the courtyard, where the scent of early roses already hung intoxicatingly on the warm air.

  ‘If I am I’m sure you’ll remind me of it.’

  ‘Exactly so,’ Raschid agreed urbanely. ‘As an employee of the bank—and make no mistake, Faisal is an employee—he has a duty to go where the Board decides he will be of most use.’

  ‘The Board?’ Felicia queried bitterly. ‘Don’t you mean yourself?’

  ‘In these circumstances I think I can agree that the two are synonymous.’

  His suave satisfaction jarred, like a nerve in an aching tooth probed by an unwary tongue. Felicia hesitated, on the point of refusing to accompany him, but then she remembered Zahra’s approaching birthday, and accepted that there would probably be no other suitable opportunity to buy her a present. Swallowing the words, with her pride, she contented herself with a cold glare in Raschid’s direction.

  For the last few days the household had gone busily frantic over the arrangements for transporting Umm Faisal, Raschid, Zahra and herself, as well as the staff and everything that they would require, to the oasis for the duration of the birthday celebrations. Only that morning Zahra had laughingly confided that without Raschid to master-mind the move she doubted if they would get any farther than Kuwait City. Felicia had suggested rather hesitantly that perhaps she ought to return home, in case her presence at such a time proved to be a nuisance, but Zahra’s swift dismay soon reassured her. In point of fact, she and Zahra had become very close, and it was only her growing affection for the younger girl that prevented Felicia from giving full rein to her growing antipathy towards Raschid. As he had so rightly said, it would hurt Zahra if she thought they were quarrelling, and Felicia had as little desire to cast a blight over the birthday festivities as Raschid. For that reason an uneasy—on her part at least—truce had developed between them.

  ‘A wise decision,’ Raschid drawled suddenly, startling her. She glared at him suspiciously, caught off guard when he said smoothly, ‘Don’t bother denying that you were contemplating refusing my company. I dislike liars almost as much as I despise fortune-hunters.’

  The sheer rage engendered by his dismissive tones rendered her speechless, totally unable to retaliate, and it wasn’t until he walked round to the opposite side of the parked car and opened the driver’s door that Felicia realised that Ali would not be accompanying them. Raschid leaned across the passenger seat, unlocking the door and pushing it open.

  ‘I think I would prefer to sit in the back,’ she said stiffly. ‘Isn’t that what you think good women should do—dutifully take a back seat and leave the driving to their lords and masters?’

  ‘On this occasion I think we will opt for the Western custom,’ Raschid replied drily. ‘Otherwise I shall be endangering both our lives by constantly having to look over my shoulder to converse with you— Or do you perhaps read a more sinister purpose into my request? Your imagination runs away with you, Miss Gordon.’

  If anything his voice had become even more cuttingly unkind, and Felicia flushed painfully, knowing he was deliberately taunting her.

  ‘Even if such was my desire,’ he continued, ‘which most assuredly it is not, I never, but never make love on the open carriageway between my home and the city. Kuwaiti drivers are not the most polite in the world, nor the most tolerant of dawdlers, as you will soon discover. I am sorry if I don’t match up to the prowess of your previous escorts in this regard, but in the East we prefer to suit the activity to our surroundings.’

  Felicia stood by the car, longing to slam the door shut, wishing she could think of a suitably cutting retort to burst for once and for all the complacent arrogance with which Raschid surrounded himself. She had forgotten that even though she was standing by the side of the Mercedes, Raschid could still read her expression quite accurately in the driving mirror, and she jumped when he drawled mockingly, ‘I can almost feel the knife entering my heart, Miss Gordon. Be careful. In this country we believe in taking a life for a life.’

  ‘Heart? What heart?’ she retorted, too furious to pay much attention to the rest of the sentence. ‘You don’t possess such a thing, Sheikh Raschid!’

  ‘Get in the car, Miss Gordon, and save your anger to fuel something more profitable than pitting your wits against mine.’

  The arrogance of it! Felicia seethed as she slid into the seat, ignoring his smile as he leaned across her to close the door. At such close quarters an aura of taut masculinity emanated from him. She was pulsatingly aware of the warm sheen of his skin, drawn tightly over the narrow bones of his face; the way his eyelashes lay, long and dark against the sculptured bone; silk against satin, she thought irrelevantly, shiveringly aware of him in a way that she had never been aware of Faisal, but underneath lay a core of pure steel.

  ‘Do I pass muster?’

  She flushed as vividly as the roses blooming in the inner courtyard, hating to be caught out paying him any attention, no matter what th
e reason—and in this case, pure curiosity had drawn her eyes to his face, unwilling admiration keeping them there to wonder at the perfect symmetry of the bone structure underlying the smooth skin, even while the arrogant profile made her anger rise like a river in a flash flood, coming out of nowhere to appal her with its ferocity. How strange it was that a mingling of East and West should have produced this lordly, sensual man, while Faisal’s pure Arab blood had produced a man in a much softer mould.

  While she battled with her anger, she told herself that for Faisal’s sake she must learn to tame it, to sit meek and docile under the razor-sharp tongue and probing glance. She had once read that a falcon could focus on its prey from many thousands of feet above it in the sky; so it was with Raschid. Those grey eyes held all the latent power of a modern laser beam.

  They took the coast road. The day was deliciously warm, the merest breath of fresh air from the air-conditioning fanning her hair as they sped towards the city. The leather seats reclined to contour the body, and the radio emitted soothing music, but Felicia could not relax. She was as tense as a coiled spring, unwittingly betraying her anxiety in her tightly clenched fists.

  ‘Relax,’ Raschid surprised her by saying. ‘Or is it merely the fact that you are a passenger rather than the driver which makes you so tense? How you European women rob yourselves of your very femininity by insisting on doing everything for yourselves!’

  ‘Perhaps because our experience of your sex has taught us how unwise it is for us to rely on them for anything,’ Felicia retorted unwisely, thinking of Uncle George, and how selfishly he had refused to allow either her aunt or herself the slightest little pleasure, begrudging every small thing he had done for them.