Daughter of Hassan
Penny Jordan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘DADDY, it’s gorgeous, but you really shouldn’t spoil me like this,’ Danielle protested, eyeing her tall bearded stepfather in his flowing Arab robes.

‘Nonsense,’ he protested firmly, taking the diamond pendant from her and securing it round her slender throat. ‘You might not be my daughter by blood and birth, Danielle, but you are still the child of my heart, and it pleases me greatly to “spoil” you, as you term it—although what spoiling this simple trinket could achieve, I really do not know,’ he concluded with a smile. ‘If I had my way your present would have been something far more fitting—emeralds to match your eyes; pearls from the Gulf to complement the creamy pallor of your skin.’

Danielle laughed, knowing when she was beaten. Her own father had died before she was born, and when she was thirteen her mother had met and married Sheikh Hassan Ibn Ahmed, head of a huge oil empire, whom she had met at a reception given by its British equivalent, for whom she worked.

Danielle and her stepfather had hit it off right away. Although previously married, the Sheikh had no children from that marriage. His first wife had divorced him, and although nothing had been said, Danielle guessed that he was perhaps unable to father children of his own, which made his great love for her all the more poignant.

Although he lived and worked in London, running the huge multi-million-pound oil empire, the oil which fuelled this empire came from the tiny state ruled by his elder brother, sandwiched tightly between Kuwait and Saudi Arabia.

Although nothing had ever been said, Danielle had the impression that her stepfather’s family did not approve of his marriage. Perhaps that was why none of them had ever visited them in the elegant St. John’s Wood apartment which was their London home, or the country estate in Dorset close to where Danielle had gone to school.

However, whatever they thought of Sheikh Hassan’s marriage, it was plain that his financial and business acumen was highly regarded, for otherwise Danielle knew that they would never have trusted him to have what amounted to the sole responsibility for their far-reaching business activities.

Occasionally some of his countrymen did visit their home, but Danielle rarely saw them. For one thing it was only two years since she had left her Swiss finishing school, and for another, Hassan preferred not to involve his wife and stepdaughter in his business affairs.

In fact it was because of this that they had come close to having their first quarrel, for which the diamond pendant had been a peace-offering, Danielle suspected.

Following her year at finishing school she had returned to England determined to find herself a job, but her stepfather had been horrified. There was no need for her to work; did she want to shame him by implying that he could not afford to support her?

Danielle had called on her mother to intervene and explain that in the West girls wanted to work, and did not expect to be supported by their families until some man came along to take them off their hands.

Her stepfather had not been pleased, but Danielle had persevered, and eventually he had agreed that she might take the Cordon Bleu cookery course she had hoped for.

In her heart she knew that had he realised she hoped to put the expertise she gained to practical use by opening her own restaurant, he would not have been so sanguine. She had a little money of her own left to her by her father, which was invested and would be hers on her twenty-first birthday, in four months’ time, and in three weeks she was to start her Cordon Bleu training.

Cookery had been her favourite subject at finishing school; though of course she had enjoyed the lessons in the art of make-up and posture, the shopping trips supervised by the immaculately elegant Frenchwoman who commanded them to choose the clothes they would most like from the expensive boutiques she took them to, and then proceeded to disapprove or approve their choice as the case may be.

Danielle had emerged from finishing school with an instinctive knowledge for what was right for her slender five-foot-four frame, so fine-boned that her fragility caught the breath, and a poise which made her mother sigh and then smile as she realised that her schoolgirl daughter had become a young woman almost overnight.

Most of the other girls at the school had come from wealthy backgrounds, from varied nationalities, but Danielle was unique in being the English stepdaughter of a wealthy Arab.

Like her mother Danille had dark red hair which curled softly on to her shoulders, but whereas her mother’s eyes were a pretty, soft blue, Danielle’s were green—an inheritance from her Scottish father, her mother had once told her, and they sparkled in her face like green fire, hence her stepfather’s statement that he would like to buy her emeralds.

Until her mother’s remarriage she and Danielle had lived quite modestly in the small semi in North London which was all she had been able to afford when she had been widowed. It could not have been easy for her mother, Danielle recognised, struggling to bring up a small child on a very slender income, and when Danielle was ten, her mother had been forced to go back to work as a secretary for the oil company where she had eventually met her second husband.

‘Are you planning to be in for dinner this evening?’ her mother asked, walking into the room.

Although in her early forties, she could easily have passed for Danielle’s sister rather than her mother, and Danielle smiled fondly at her. To look at her mother now, wearing an expensively cut couture dress, and discreet jewellery, it was hard to imagine that she had ever wept over the cost of a pair of tights, but Danielle could remember those days, and it was because of them that she was never tempted to take for granted the life-style which was hers now. Although Danielle would never have dreamed of saying so for fear of hurting either of her parents, in many ways she wished her stepfather were not quite so wealthy. She would have loved to share a flat with other girls, struggling to find the rent each month, and enjoying the shared camaraderie of youth, but her parents would have been bitterly hurt had she suggested leaving home, and although he never criticised, Danielle knew that her stepfather, with his Eastern upbringing, rather disapproved of the freedom of some of her friends.

Boys who called to take her out on dates often quailed before his fierce stare, and Danielle had a shrewd suspicion that the combination of his presence and wealth held her escorts’ behaviour in check. Certainly, apart from the occasional over-amorous goodnight kiss, she had never had to fight off unwelcome advances. Unless, of course, it was because they didn’t find her attractive. The thought made her glance uncertainly into the huge baroque mirror hanging on the wall, a small frown puckering her smooth forehead.

‘Well, darling,’ her mother persisted, ‘will you be joining us for dinner? The Sancerres will be dining with us. They’re over from Paris, and Philippe made a special point of asking if you would be in.’

Danielle wrinkled her nose.

Philippe Sancerre was the son of a business colleague of her stepfather’s; a Frenchman whom Danielle had met with the rest of his family in Paris the previous year. Philippe was five years older than her, but far more worldly; she had sensed that from the way he had kissed her goodnight after taking her out to dinner. Philippe was very handsome with his smooth brown hair and laughing eyes, but the way he looked at her sometimes made her feel uncomfortable, and she wriggled slightly, remembering it.

She knew all about sex, of course; one could scarcely not do so nowadays, but knowing and experiencing were two different things, and so far her experience was extremely limited—nil almost, which was a ridiculous state of affairs, she acknowledged wryly. Whoever had heard of a twenty-one-year-old virgin? It was a secret she kept very well and intended to go on keeping until she found the man with whom she could share it.

‘Yes, I’ll be in for dinner,’ she replied, knowing it was the answer her mother wanted. Another woman might have resented the presence of such a young and attractive daughter, but Helen Hassan loved Danielle too much to feel envy for her youth. Besides, she had her beloved Hassan.

Danielle applied a touch of sea-green eyeshadow and stood back to study the effect in her mirror. Her bedroom was furnished with eighteenth-century French antiques, the furniture gilded and delicate. It had been an eighteenth birthday present from her stepfather. She had much to thank him for, she reflected, and not merely possessions. He had made her mother so happy. She glowed with that special glow of women in love, and that he loved her too was very evident.

The diamond pendant he had given her that morning flashed fire between the tender valley of her breasts, lightly confined by the thin silk of her evening pants suit. The camisole top outlined the firm thrust of her breasts, before tapering to her narrow waist.

Her stepfather had never tried to impose Eastern clothing on either her mother or herself, but Danielle knew that he preferred to her to wear clothes that were ‘modest’ and she hoped he would not disapprove of the outfit she was wearing tonight.

That Philippe did not became obvious the moment Danielle stepped into the elegant drawing room. Both he and his father stood up as Danielle entered, but it was Philippe who swiftly crossed the Aubusson carpet to take Danielle’s hands in his, imprisoning them while he kissed her warmly.

‘Philippe!’ Her breathless protest went unheard, Madame Sancerre smiling indulgently as her son stole another kiss before releasing his captive.

‘You embarrass Danielle,’ she chided him lightly. ‘She is not used to such behaviour, is this not so, petite?’

Before Danielle could answer Madame Sancerre turned to her mother and said enviously,

‘You are fortunate in your daughter, Helen. My Isabelle, although three years younger than Danielle, is already a rebel. I have told her more than once that her behaviour is not comme il faut; not that which one expects from une jeune fille bien élevée, but will she listen? I have told her she will not make a good marriage, but she merely laughs. She does not want to marry, she tells me. She will go to university and qualify as an advocate so that she can support herself.’

Although Madame Sancerre shook her head, Danielle could tell that secretly she was very proud of her daughter. As though he sensed the direction of her thoughts her stepfather came across and put his arm round her shoulders.

‘As you say, Madame,’ he told the Frenchwoman, ‘we are very proud of Danielle. She is everything I have always hoped for in a daughter. Beautiful… spirited…’

Danielle blushed, and Madame Sancerre laughed. ‘A pearl beyond price—you must treasure her greatly, my friend.’

‘Very greatly,’ her stepfather said, so seriously that Danielle almost protested fearfully that she was human and humanly frail and that he must not put her on such a pedestal, but Madame Sancerre was talking and the moment was lost, forgotten as the conversation became more general.

It was after dinner that Philippe drew Danielle to one side, engaging her in discussion while their elders discussed business in the case of the men and fashion in that of the ladies.

‘It is too long since we last met, chérie,’ he told her. ‘You must persuade your stepfather to bring you to Paris with him the next time he comes.’

‘I shan’t be having much spare time for trips to Paris from now on,’ Danielle responded, withdrawing the fingers Philippe was stroking gently. ‘I start college soon.’

‘College? Oh, you mean your Cordon Bleu course.’ You should have taken it in Paris, chérie, the home of the only true Cordon Bleu cookery, but I doubt that would suit your papa. He likes to keep his little pearl under his eye, is this not so?’

‘He isn’t too keen on the idea of me leaving home,’ Danielle admitted, ‘but one day…’

‘One day the bird will fly the nest, eh?’ Philippe commented with a teasing smile. ‘When she does I hope she will fly in my direction. You are very lovely, little Danielle—an enchanting mixture, half women and half child still. When you become all woman, then you will be formidable!’

Danielle had had enough experience of Philippe’s flattery to take it with a pinch of salt. He was known to be something of a flirt, and she said so lightly, watching his eyebrows rise in mock pain.

‘I a flirt? Never! And certainly not with you, mignonne, your stern steppapa would never approve, and my papa is dependent upon him for much of his business. Now, if you are seeking a real Don Juan, a man who is so entirely male that females of the species practically throw themselves at his feet, you can look no farther than the family of your steppapa. Has he told you nothing of Jourdan?’ he asked in some surprise when Danielle stiffened slightly ‘I can hardly believe it. Jourdan is his favourite nephew.’

‘He may have mentioned him—he has so many relatives, I can’t remember them all,’ Danielle lied, wondering why she should feel this sudden frisson of fear at the mention of the previously unheard-of nephew, Jourdan! It was a strange name, but she wasn’t going to betray her curiosity to Philippe’s too knowing eyes.

‘If he had mentioned him you would surely have remembered it,’ Philippe stated positively. ‘It is odd that he has not. Hassan and Jourdan are very close. Jourdan is more of a son to him than a nephew.’

Danielle’s eyes mirrored her disbelief. If this Jourdan was as close to her stepfather as Philippe claimed how was it that she had never heard of him; never seen him?

An explanation was soon forthcoming.

‘Of course, Jourdan did not approve of Hassan marrying your mother,’ Philippe told her, ‘although I would have thought he would have put all that behind him now. The marriage is fact, and I should have thought Jourdan far too sensible a man to continue to antagonise a man as powerful as Hassan needlessly, especially when he has so much to gain by not antagonising him.’

‘Such as what?’ Danielle asked. It seemed to her as it had done in the past that her stepfather was not treated as well by his relatives as he ought to be.

Philippe looked at first puzzled and then slightly amused.

‘Surely Hassan has told you the story of how he comes to be controlling Qu‘Har’s oil industry?’

‘My stepfather doesn’t believe in discussing business with women,’ Danielle replied coolly, wishing she did not have to admit this fact. Once she herself would have bridled instinctively at such an insult to the female sex, but she had come to realise that in her stepfather’s case his decision sprung more from a misguided desire to protect both Danielle and her mother from worry than a desire to exclude them from that part of his life, although the effect was much the same. Sheikh Hassan was a benevolent autocrat whose care for his womenfolk was unceasing, but Danielle shuddered to think what it must be like to be at the mercy of an Eastern husband who considered women to be on the same plane as domestic pets. Danielle had every European’s girl natural desire for independence, but for her stepfather’s sake she masked it, unwilling to hurt the man who had done so much for her and her mother.

‘That at least is something Jourdan would approve of,’ Philippe told her with a smile. ‘He is very much what you would term a chauvinist, that one. The last time he came to Paris I was amazed by the low opinion in which he holds your sex, ma chérie, and even more amazed by the way your sisters responded to his chauvinism. Of course, power and wealth are a heady combination, and Jourdan has both in full measure, although not in as full a measure as he would wish, perhaps.’ He gave Danielle a speculative sideways glance, which she missed as she tried to analyse the intense dislike—almost to the point of hatred—which seemed to be consuming her at the thought of this Jourdan, who apparently despised her sex and made use of it simply for his own pleasure before discarding it like an unwanted suit of clothes.

‘You know, of course, that Hassan’s father as outright ruler was free to choose which of his sons would rule after him?’ Philippe asked Danielle.

She hadn’t known, but rather than betray this she nodded and waited for him to go on. In spite of her reservations about letting Philippe confide in her, her curiosity about her stepfather’s family could not be denied.

‘Sheikh Ben Ibn Ahmed had four sons, of whom Hassan was very obviously his favourite, and would undoubtedly have succeeded him had it not been for the fact that he himself had no sons. With three jealous brothers to contend with Sheikh Ibn Ahmed felt that a man without sons to come after him was not the right choice for ruler of Qu‘Har. Nevertheless Hassan was his favourite son, so after consultation with his advisers, the company which controls Qu‘Har’s oil production and revenues was set up, with Hassan as head of it for his entire lifetime. His choice was a wise one, for under Hassan the company has diversified and grown, and its profits are used to benefit not only his family, but also their people. You may, or may not know that Hassan’s ancestors belonged to a small tribe renowned for their ferocity and independence. It was one of my ancestors who persuaded the Sheikh to have his sons educated abroad, by the way, and that is where the connection between Hassan’s family and mine comes from. My father says that Hassan has more than repaid whatever his father might have owed my grandfather in the volume of business he puts our way…’

‘But you don’t agree?’ Danielle asked shrewdly, noting the discontent suddenly marring his handsome features.

‘He has been generous,’ Philippe agreed grudgingly, ‘but he could be more so. A seat on the board of several of his companies, for instance. It would cost him little, and do much for us.’

As Danielle knew that her stepfather believed that men must earn their way in life by merit, she wisely refrained from answering. Philippe was charming when he had a mind to be, but he did not have the same dedication to work evidenced by his father and hers, and she suspected that as a young man who enjoyed the sophistication of life in Paris, Philippe also wanted the wealth to match his ambitions. She knew that Philippe found her attractive, but she also knew that when he married it would be to a girl of his own class from a wealthy background, a calm and placid Frenchwoman who would turn a blind eye to her husband’s other affairs. She could never do that, Danielle acknowledged, a little surprised by the force of her own feelings. When and if she married it would be to a man who loved her as intensely as she loved him, a man who would make her his whole world, just as she would make him hers. She smiled a little sadly. Such men were few and far between. Even her stepfather, who adored her mother, had outside interests which excluded her.

Did her mother know what Philippe had just revealed to her about Hassan’s background? she wondered. Surely she must do, and yet she had never spoken to Danielle about it. But then why should she? Danielle admitted. It was only since her return from finishing school that her mother had started to treat her as a woman instead of an adolescent, and she must not forget that to her mother, who had been a mother and a widow at her age, she must seem very young and inexperienced. She didn’t feel particularly young, though, Danielle reflected. She had a sensitivity which seemed to draw people with problems to her, and at boarding school and in Switzerland she had often been forced into the position of confidante, lending an ear. Listening to girls confiding to her their problems had given her a greater maturity than most of her peers and she was determined to avoid the pitfalls which seemed to beset them; although, as she freely acknowledged, when the emotions were involved it became hard to stand back and make dispassionate judgments. The one vow she had made to herself which she intended to keep at all costs was to be true to her own code and never to allow anyone to persuade her to compromise it.

‘Am I boring you?’ Philippe enquired in mock reproof.

Danielle hid a small smile. In point of fact she was very interested in what he was telling her, but she sensed that even had she not been, Philippe’s ego would never have allowed him to believe that she was anything other than flattered by his attentions.

‘Not at all.’ she told him calmly. ‘Please go on.’

‘There is still the best to come. When Hassan’s wife realised that her husband was not to become the ruler of Qu‘Har she divorced him—Oh yes, Muslim women have that right under the law of the Koran, although very few of them invoke it. Without a wealthy and powerful family to support them divorced women can have a pretty unpleasant life, but then by all accounts Miriam had never wanted to marry Hassan in the first place. She favoured his elder brother. Hassan refused to take the extra wives the Koran allows him. He knew by then that there would never be any children and told my father that the prospect of running establishments for three quarrelling women appalled him. In addition to giving him absolute control of the oil revenues, Hassan’s father also had it written into his will, and witnessed by all his family, that Hassan should be the one to choose his own successor—from among the family, of course; to do otherwise would be unthinkable, but apart from that one proviso Hassan has complete freedom of choice, and until his marriage to your mother it was widely accepted that that choice would be Jourdan, whose own position in the family is somewhat tenuous.’

Although his face was expressionless, from the tone of his voice Danielle gathered that Philippe was somewhat at odds with Jourdan, and wondered why. And then another thought struck her. Was this Jourdan the reason why her stepfather had never taken them to Qu‘Har or brought any members of his family home? Her resentment against the unknown Jourdan increased. How dared he force a rift between her stepfather and the rest of his family, and for what reason? She knew that many Arabs despised those of their own race who married outside it, but from what Philippe had just told her this Jourdan was in no position to despise his uncle; and certainly not to the extent of promoting a family quarrel.

‘Of course none of the family were pleased about the marriage,’ Philippe continued. ‘After all, Hassan is an extremely wealthy and powerful man, and although it is taken for granted—not without a certain amount of resentment—that Jourdan should inherit Hassan’s position and power, the thought of that wealth being shared by yet more foreigners was more than the family could bear.’

Danielle’s brain seized on just two words of Philippe’s speech, which she repeated disbelievingly. ‘More foreigners?’

‘Didn’t you know?’ Philippe asked, plainly enjoying himself. ‘Jourdan himself is of mixed blood. In fact he owes his position and acceptance in the family entirely to Hassan. He is the son of Hassan’s youngest brother, who was at university in Paris during his youth. It was there that he met Jourdan’s mother, and Jourdan himself was conceived, although regrettably without the benefit of marriage. No one in the family knew about the affair or the child, until Saud was killed in a street brawl. Hassan went to Paris to sort out his affairs and discovered that he was living with Jeannette. When he realised that she was carrying Saud’s child, he offered her money in return for full legal rights to the baby when it was born.

‘Jeannette agreed, and after Jourdan’s birth, Hassan took the baby back to Qu‘Har with him. It was believed within the family that he intended to bring Jourdan up as the son he himself could never have, and certainly until he went to school Jourdan lived in Hassan’s household…’

Danielle’s feeling of injustice that her stepfather should be treated so ungratefully by a child he had by all accounts rescued from the gutter overwhelmed her feelings of pity for the small baby so cavalierly deserted by its mother. How could this Jourdan, who had obviously been like a son to her stepfather, now ignore him, and why was Jourdan never mentioned by her father?

As though he sensed the direction of her thoughts, Philippe started to supply the answers to her questions, but before he could say more than a couple of words her stepfather and Monsieur Sancerre stood up, and Monsieur Sancerre called Philippe over to join their discussion.

‘These men!’ Madame Sancerre said with a smile when Philippe had gone. ‘But there can be no doubt, petite, that Philippe prefers your company to that of his father and the Sheikh.’

When Danielle demurred Madame chided her. ‘Oh, come, chérie,’ she protested, ‘you are a very attractive young girl. It cannot have escaped your notice that Philippe finds you attractive?’

CHAPTER TWO

THESE words were repeated, although in a somewhat different vein, the following day when Danielle’s stepfather was discussing the events of the previous evening.

‘Philippe is pleasant enough,’ Danielle agreed sedately, ‘but I suspect that he finds all girls who are reasonably pretty, “attractive”.’ She made a slight moue and her stepfather laughed, ruffling her hair.

‘And as a definitely more than “reasonably pretty” girl, you disdain his attentions, is that it?’

He was in a very expansive mood and it struck Danielle that he was relieved that she did not find Philippe attractive. Why? she wondered, and then smiled. Of course, Hassan made no secret of the fact that he liked having her at home and had no doubt feared that she might have taken Philippe’s attentions too seriously.

‘He is an entertaining companion, nothing more,’ she assured him, darting him a glance and wondering if now was the time to mention something which had begun to trouble her lately. She had no wish to hurt her stepfather’s feelings, but it was time that he and her mother realised that she was old enough to make her own decisions, run her own life. ‘You can’t continue to vet all my boy-friends, you know.’ she teased, taking a chance that he would take the comment in the spirit in which it was made. ‘I’m grown up now!’

The look he gave her was that of a man and not a father, and Danielle flushed defensively as it encompassed her high taut breasts and slender body, before returning to dwell speculatively on her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.

‘So you are,’ he agreed gravely, his voice suddenly serious as he added, ‘You know that your happiness is my prime concern, don’t you, Danielle?’

When she nodded, he smiled. ‘So then there is no need for us to quarrel, is there?’

Weakly agreeing, Danielle was left with the definite sensation that she had been out-manoeuvred.

Her stepfather would have to face up to the fact that she could not live at home for ever, she decided later in the afternoon, preparing for a shopping trip with two friends from finishing school. One of them was training to be a model and the other was a dancer and had just obtained a contract to appear in a West End show. Danielle envied them their free and easy life style, although she was honest enough to admit to herself that the casual procession of men in and out of the lives of some of her friends was not for her. She enjoyed going out with boys and liked them as friends, but somehow she found herself shying away from the thought of a full-blooded affair, even, a little to her own surprise, viewing the idea of such intimacy with a certain amount of distaste. Could she be frigid? She tried to analyse her own instinctive objection to the use of the word, which immediately decried her innate sense of femininity. She would just have to accept that as far as sex was concerned she was a late developer, she decided humorously as she discarded the expensive clothes in her wardrobe in favour of a thin tee-shirt and clinging jeans; either that or she was too romantic, for certainly the thought of sex for sex’s sake did nothing for her, and as far as she could ascertain, for her, love must certainly precede the intimacies which other girls had described to her in giggled whispers.

Her friends were an entertaining duo; although coming from relatively wealthy families, they cheerfully searched markets for second-hand clothes of the twenties and thirties, and both, like Danielle herself, were dressed in the ubiquitous jeans and tee-shirts when they met her at the appointed rendezvous. Both girls were full of what they were doing and their plans for the future, and as they described the flat they were sharing and the carefree life they were leading Danielle felt quite envious.

At last Corinne, the dancer, asked her what her plans were for the future, and when told Corinne raised her eyebrows a little.

‘A restaurant of your own? That’s rather ambitious of you, isn’t it? I always had the impression that you were one of those girls who would marry early. In fact I’m surprised you aren’t engaged already, especially in view of your background.’

When Danielle looked puzzled she explained lightly, ‘Your stepfather, Dan. Don’t tell me he doesn’t have some eligible man waiting in the wings for you. I mean, in the Middle East the arranged marriage is still very much the thing, isn’t it, especially among the wealthy upper classes? A friend of mine was involved with one of them several months ago. She’s a girl who’s in the show with me, and it’s taken her simply ages to get over him. Apparently some of these men are really dynamite, if you’re prepared to accept that you’ll never be anything to them but something on the side.’

Danielle grimaced, not liking Corinne’s expression, descriptive though it was.

‘He loaded Vanessa down with jewels and expensive clothes,’ Corinne continued, unaware of Danielle’s distaste, ‘but when it came to the crunch—marriage,’ she elucidated when Danielle looked puzzled, ‘he told her quite categorically that there was simply no way he was going to marry her. Apparently there was some dutiful little bride already lined up waiting for him. Vanessa was simply furious, and she told him so, but he just laughed at her, apparently. Told her she’d been paid well for the pleasure her body afforded him, but it was over.’

‘At least she got something out of it,’ Linda observed cynically. ‘You hear some pretty unpleasant tales about what can happen to girls who get involved with Muslims in my business. The days are gone when rich Arabs were swept off their feet by fair skin and blonde hair. They’ve realised that everything has its price, and as everyone ought to know by now, when it comes to bartering they’re impossible to beat. Still, if a girl’s sensible she can still do quite well—jewellery, holidays, clothes that sort of thing.’

Feeling faintly sickened, Danielle said it was time for her to leave. It was hard to know who offended her innate sense of chastity most—the girl who so cynically sold her body for jewels, or the man who bought it. On balance she thought the man, because he was using the woman for nothing more than momentary satisfaction and thus completely debasing the very foundations of a mutually caring relationship between the two sexes.

‘Oh, Vanessa didn’t do too badly out of it in that respect,’ Corinne agreed carelessly, ‘but according to her this Jourdan was quite something, and what she really had in mind was marriage.’

Jourdan! The moment she heard the name Danielle went hot and cold all over. Perhaps it was silly of her to leap immediately to the conclusion that the ‘Jourdan’ Corinne spoke of was her stepfather’s nephew, and yet surely there could not be two wealthy Arabs with that same unusual name.

‘Are you okay, Dan?’ Corinne asked her with some concern. ‘You’ve gone quite pale.’

‘I’m fine,’ she lied, collecting her bag and standing up. ‘But I ought to be going. I promised my parents I’d be in for dinner tonight.’ It was a lie, but all at once it had become imperative to learn more about her stepfather’s family, and the only person she could ask was her mother, or failing that, her stepfather himself. On the way home she wondered why she had never thought to question the lack of contact with her stepfather’s relatives before; perhaps because she had been away at school so much, so involved in her own life and her own contentment.

She broached the subject over coffee after dinner. Her parents employed a live-in couple, Mr and Mrs Bennett, who acted as chauffeur and cook respectively, and once Mrs Bennett had removed the remains of their meal and they had retired to the drawing room, Danielle merely waited until her mother had poured the rich, sweet coffee her stepfather adored before asking her questions.

‘Danielle!’ her mother protested when Danielle asked why it was that they had no contact with her stepfather’s family.

‘No, Helen, she is right to ask,’ her husband responded, smiling at Danielle. ‘In fact I am surprised that she has not done so before now.’

‘I think I was probably too immature, too wrapped up in my own affairs,’ Danielle admitted honestly.

‘So, and what has prompted this sudden maturity?’ Sheikh Hassan queried, his eyes suddenly sharpening. ‘Could it have been Philippe Sancerre?’

‘Partially,’ Danielle admitted, mindful of her stepfather’s business relationship with Philippe’s family and not wishing to prejudice it by making him angry with Philippe. ‘But I think that living at home as I’m doing now has made me realise how isolated we are.’

‘Well, I can tell you the main reason,’ Danielle’s mother began. ‘Ahmed’s family did not approve of his marriage to me. Oh, they were quite within their rights,’ she added before Danielle could object. ‘After all, what did they know of me? Your stepfather has had to give up a great deal to be with us, Danny.’

The reversion to her baby name made Danielle smile a little, her own eyes misting over as she saw the tears in her mother’s as she turned to her husband.

‘My family were wilfully and blindly prejudiced,’ he said softly. ‘And never for a moment doubt that I have not treasured every second of my life with you, Helen.’ His free arm came out to encircle Danielle. ‘The happiness the two of you have brought to my life has enriched it like rain to the parched desert.’

‘And now we shall be even happier,’ Danielle’s mother said with a smile. She turned to Danielle. ‘Hassan’s family want a reconciliation.’

‘Even Jourdan?’ Danielle could not resist saying a little bitterly.

Her stepfather’s protective arm dropped and it seemed to her that her parents exchanged a look which excluded her totally; a look which made her blood run cold with a nameless fear.

‘What do you know of Jourdan?’ her stepfather asked her quietly.

‘Only that he didn’t want you to marry my mother; that he considers women to be animated toys designed specifically for his pleasure, and that when he’s finished with them he throws them aside like so many unwanted empty cartons.’

‘Jourdan is of the desert,’ her stepfather said, without making any attempt to deny her words. ‘He has its strength and endurance, and perhaps a little of its cruelty, but there is another side to him. No man can live as the hawk for all his life; there comes a time always when he needs the softness of the dove; when even the fiercest heart cries out for the tranquillity of the oasis. In Jourdan, it is true that this side is well hidden. I will not ask where you learned so much of my nephew,’ Sheikh Hassan added, ‘for I believe I already know the answer. It is not always wise to allow the hawk and the sparrow to grow up together, for the sparrow will always seek to taint the nobility of his fellow, knowing its lack in himself.’

‘Philippe is not a sparrow,’ Danielle protested, shocked by the cynical twist of her stepfather’s lips.

‘No? Were you aware that his father had approached me for your hand in marriage on Philippe’s behalf?’

Even as she absorbed the formally old-fashioned words Danielle’s shocked face betrayed that she had not.

‘Danielle.’ Her stepfather’s arm round her shoulders comforted her distress. ‘You must not blame him too much. Philippe is a young man with expensive tastes, and as the daughter of an extremely wealthy man—and a very, very beautiful daughter, of course, Philippe has the sybarite’s love of beauty as well as wealth—a man who already has business connections with his father, what could be more natural than that his practical French mind should turn towards marriage?’

‘I thought he liked me,’ Danielle murmured bleakly. ‘I had no idea…’

‘But you did not love him? There had been no intimacy between you?’

Danielle heard her mother’s small protest above the sharpness in her stepfather’s voice and regained enough of her normal calm independence to say sardonically,

‘Fortunately, no.’ She turned to her mother with a bleak smile. ‘How lucky you’ve been, darling. Two men have loved you—if all the men I meet are going to turn out like Philippe and Jourdan, I doubt if I’ll ever find one to love me.’

‘Jourdan? Why do you mention him?’ her stepfather demanded, while Danielle was still trying to come to terms with her own admission to herself. She did want someone to love her, and to love them in return. She was obviously not as independent as she thought, and not for the first time she wished that her parents’ care of her had not been quite so protective. She might feel just the same as other girls her age, but in many ways she was not, and she was forced to admit that her view of love had probably been too coloured by her stepfather’s obvious adoration of her mother. She knew that he was probably unique among his own race, but she was now beginning to wonder if he was not also unique among men in general.

She gathered her thoughts hurriedly, aware that her stepfather was still awaiting her reply. Something about the look in his eyes made her lift her head proudly and say, ‘Isn’t it true that he’s betrothed to some poor girl who has to accept him in marriage whether she wants to or not; some girl who’s most probably kept in ignorance of her fate, and the manner in which her prospective husband conducts himself?’

‘You would condemn a man purely on the conviction of one other, who is known to be envious of him?’ her stepfather asked mildly. ‘I had thought better of you, Danielle.’

‘It wasn’t just Philippe,’ she retorted, resenting her stepfather’s knack of making her feel guilty, especially when she had nothing to feel guilty for.

‘Some friends of mine happened to mention him—quite by chance, they had no idea that I knew him. They were telling me about a girl he’d been involved with in Paris.’

Her stepfather made an abrupt disdainful gesture. ‘A putain; a woman of the world who gives her body in return for gain…’

‘It doesn’t matter what she was,’ Danielle protested hotly, ‘she was still a person, a human being with feelings. If men were not prepared to buy then women wouldn’t sell…’

It was plain that her stepfather did not agree with her.

‘A man has needs,’ he said frankly, ‘and when he can slake them nowhere else he will queue in the market-place and buy water. Of course, it will not have the fresh sweetness of water from his own private oasis; it will taste brackish and perhaps not refresh, but it is still water. I had thought you more generous, Danielle, than to condemn a man purely because he indulges a perfectly natural appetite…’

Danielle turned away, suddenly close to tears. For all their love for one another she and her stepfather were miles apart. She sensed that were she to say to him, ‘What of women’s needs; is their “thirst” to be slaked in the same fashion?’ he would have been honestly shocked and distressed. It was the old double standard, she told herself bitterly, but her sex wasn’t merely enchained by what men expected of it, it was also enchained by its own emotions, for whereas a man could take merely out of need, a woman could rarely give without emotion, without giving something of herself. It isn’t fair, she wanted to protest rebelliously, but instead she summoned all her powers of reasoning and logic and said calmly,

‘Naturally any man could be forgiven one lapse, but from what I hear your nephew, far from restraining his “thirst” having slaked it once, encourages it to grow stronger. As I said before, I sincerely pity the poor girl who is destined to be his wife. Or one of his wives, I should say.’

‘Then you would be wrong.’ Her stepfather said coolly. Danielle thought she discerned a mixture of pain and admiration in his eyes, but overriding both emotions was a determination which sent prickles of primitive awareness running along her body until the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck and along her arms rose as defensively as the prickles of a hedgehog.

‘Jourdan can only take one wife. I assume you already know the story of his birth from Philippe, but what you obviously do not know is the promise I had to give his mother before I was allowed to take him from her—namely that he was to be brought up in the Christian religion. Even though she died several days after his birth, I adhered to that promise, and despite his prominence in Qu‘Har my nephew is as Christian as you yourself, Danielle.’

Then all the more shame to him, Danielle wanted to cry, but for some reason her tongue seemed to have cleaved to the roof of her mouth. A curious sense of unreality enveloped her, a feeling of foreboding, intensified by the anxious look in her mother’s eyes whenever they rested upon her.

‘As my adopted daughter, you will one day be extremely wealthy,’ Sheikh Hassan continued, completely changing the subject. ‘We have never talked of this before because the subject has not arisen. As you know, I am an extremely rich man, but I also own and control much family property which can only be passed down from father to son, from brother to brother, or uncle to nephew. There is no female right of inheritance. Were I to die my own private fortune would be divided between your mother and yourself, but my controlling interest in the oil company would go to either my older or my younger brother, since I have no sons of my own. The balance of power in Qu‘Har is poised delicately between my brothers, both are intensely jealous of each other, and it sometimes takes the wisdom of Solomon to make them see reason, but were I to die and my share of the oil company not be willed away from them, civil war would surely break out in our small country, and thus would follow the destruction of everything my father, and myself after him, have striven for.

‘In addition to this I must make provision for your own safety. On my death you will be very, very wealthy; you have had a sheltered upbringing, and know little of men; it is my great fear that you might fall into the hands of one who will mistreat or abuse you, Danielle, purely through greed.’

He made her sound like an over-ripe fruit, Danielle thought half hysterically. Could he really believe she was so incapable of managing her own affairs?

‘If you believe that, it might be kinder not to leave me anything at all,’ she pointed out logically with a smile. ‘In some ways I would rather you didn’t. I should like to succeed on my own merits…’

Her stepfather’s expression softened at the youthful words and earnest expression on the mobile face before him. She was too beautiful for her own good, this adopted daughter of his, with skin like milk and eyes as green as precious stones.

‘You are a wise child, Danielle, who already sees the burdens of great wealth and will never abuse its privileges, but you have no need to worry, I have already made provision both for the protection of my controlling share of the oil company and you and the fortune you will one day own…’ He looked at his wife, and a look seemed to pass between them; seeking on his part, and accepting on hers, but totally excluding Danielle. Tension tightened her stomach muscles and a dread she could not understand washed over her like icy cold water.

‘How?’

The word was a husky plea, mirrored, although she did not know it, by the expression in her eyes.

Her stepfather came to her and took both her hands in his, his eyes kind.

‘There is nothing to fear, little dove. Jourdan knows what a pearl beyond price he is getting in the greatest treasure I own, and he will treat you accordingly… When you are his wife all this…’

Danielle reeled, hearing nothing more than those fateful words, ‘When you are his wife…’ She was the poor unsuspecting girl who was expected to marry Jourdan, and now she knew why.

‘Danielle?’

It was her mother’s voice, soft and anxious. She forced herself to fight off the faintness threatening to overwhelm her and respond to it.

‘I’m fine,’ her voice gathered strength, ‘But I will not marry Jourdan. I’d rather starve!’

The moment the words left her mouth Danielle realised how childish they sounded; how prejudicial they were to her intended claim that she was old enough by far to decide the course of her own life.

‘Mummy, surely you can understand?’ she pleaded.

‘Of course, darling,’ her mother soothed, glancing anxiously towards her husband. ‘But Hassan merely wants to do what is best for you.’ She touched her daughter gently on the arm and smiled faintly. ‘You know, Danny, you’ve had such a sheltered life that your father and I only wanted to protect you…’

‘Oh, Mother’ Danielle sighed, unconsciously deliberately not using the more childish ‘Mummy’, ‘you can’t keep me wrapped in cotton wool for ever, you know—and besides, from what I’ve already heard of him marriage to Jourdan would be far from a bed of roses.’

‘You must take what Philippe Sancerre told you with a pinch of salt,’ her stepfather said calmly. ‘While I cannot attempt to speak for Jourdan’s past, Danielle, like all men of good sense he knows that marriage is a serious business, and once married…’

‘It doesn’t matter how seriously he takes it,’ Danielle interrupted swiftly, ‘and it wouldn’t alter my views in the slightest if we were talking of some other man; personalities do not enter into my argument, object to the principle of the arranged marriage, no matter how or why it arises. Oh, I know you have only my welfare at heart, but such a marriage is abhorrent and repugnant to me. I could no more agree to it than I could… fly!’

‘I understand how you feel, darling,’ her mother said gently. ‘Hassan, try to understand,’ she appealed to her husband. ‘Although Danielle has had a sheltered upbringing, she is not a Muslim girl trained from birth to accept male dominance and her role in life unquestioningly.’

‘And nor should I wish her to be,’ Danielle’s stepfather agreed, smiling fondly at the downbent darkened head and rebelliously taut body of his stepdaughter.

‘Then you accept that there can be no marriage between your nephew and myself?’ Danielle asked him.

‘If that is your wish, but I cannot pretend that I am not disappointed. It would have been a good marriage. Jourdan will have to be told, of course…’

‘I’m sure he’ll soon find someone else,’ Danielle said grimly, remembering the girl Corinne had mentioned.

‘When it becomes known in our family that he is not to marry you, he will lose face,’ her stepfather said sombrely, ‘but the fault is perhaps mine. I forgot that for all I consider you to be my daughter, you are not, as your mother does well to remind me, a daughter of the East…’

He looked so cast down that Danielle was moved to comfort him. ‘I know you were trying to secure my future, but when I marry I want it to be to a man I can respect and share my life with, not a man who looks to me only to bear his children. Besides,’ she added firmly, ‘I’m not ready for marriage…’

For the second time in a very short span of hours her stepfather’s wryly encompassing scrutiny of her slender, determined form filled her with embarrassment.

‘Perhaps not yet,’ he agreed. ‘But the time is not far off… If you will not marry Jourdan, then will you at least visit my family as my emissary? As you know, I shall shortly have to go to America on business. Your mother will come with me, and it would please me greatly, Danielle, if you would use these weeks before you start college—if that is what you are determined to do—to show my family how beautiful and chaste a daughter I have.’

‘You mean fly out to Qu‘har?’ Danielle asked. ‘Oh, but I couldn’t…’ Couldn’t live with complete strangers, was what she meant, strangers who disapproved of her mother and her marriage to their relative; strangers who included the man she had just refused to marry!

It was later when she was preparing for bed that her mother entered her room, so quietly that at first Danielle didn’t hear her.

‘Danielle,’ her mother begged softly, sitting down on Danielle’s bed, and watching her daughter brush the gleaming cloud of darkened curls clustering on her shoulders, ‘please go to Qu‘Har. It means so much to Hassan—far more than he has told you. You have compassion and imagination, surely you can understand how bitter has been his own lack of children, especially in view of his position? To claim you as his daughter, albeit by marriage, is one of his greatest joys. Do not deny him the pleasure of showing you off to his family…’

‘A family who don’t want anything to do with us as long as Daddy continues to make money for them,’ Danielle protested rebelliously, putting down her brush and turning to face her mother. ‘I can’t do it. I can’t pretend the way I would have to…’

‘Not even for the sake of your father?’ her mother prodded gently. ‘It would be a compromise, Danny. I know Hassan mentioned that Jourdan will lose face over your refusal to marry him, but so will Hassan…’

Her sympathy aroused in spite of her own feelings, Danielle stared reluctantly at the floor, knowing what her mother was asking of her and yet unwilling to commit herself to visiting Qu‘Har.

‘I can understand Daddy,’ she said at last. ‘But you… surely you knew that I would never agree to such a marriage?’

‘I knew, but Hassan was so sure he was doing the right thing, so convinced that he was protecting you that only your own reaction could convince him. Having gained so much surely you can afford a little compromise now, darling?’

CHAPTER THREE

A LITTLE compromise took one a long, long way, Danielle thought ruefully, staring out of the window of the powerful jet—one of the twelve owned by Qu‘Har Air. This jet, though, was special. It was the personal property of her stepfather’s family, and a courteous, deferential young man had been conscripted from his normal job in the oil company offices to accompany her to Qu‘Har.

The whine of the high-powered engines changed abruptly, denoting the fact that they were nearing their destination. In spite of her resolution not to be, Danielle felt nervous. She smoothed the skirt of the silk two-piece she was wearing with fingers that trembled slightly. The silk was peacock green, highlighting her hair and flattering the golden tones the summer sun had given her skin. She eyed it ruefully. Never in all her holidays abroad had she ever tanned. When she had complained about it to a beautician the girl had chided her, telling her she ought to be grateful for having such a delicate English complexion and preserve it at all costs. The colour in it now was only as a result of slow and careful exposure over the entire length of a particularly good English summer, and her stepfather had told her that even though the worst of the humidity had passed the temperature in Qu‘Har in August was very high, and would continue to be high throughout the duration of her stay. For this reason she had been careful to include in her packing a good supply of sunscreen, essential if her skin wasn’t to get badly burned. The girl in the chemist had also suggested a new sunburn lotion which she had assured Danielle was extremely effective, and that too had been packed with her other cosmetics just in case.

What would her stepfather’s family think of her? Although she assured herself that she couldn’t care less, for his sake she knew that she hoped they would approve of her. Jourdan, thank goodness, would be in Paris, on business, or so she had been told, and she was grateful to her stepfather who she was sure had been responsible for this diplomatic move. It would have been awkward and embarrassing to have to meet the man who had so callously agreed to marry her, without even seeing her, and she was glad that she would not be called upon to do so.

The jet was descending; she glanced out of the window but could see nothing apart from dazzling blue sky. As she glanced back Danielle saw that her escort was watching her shyly, although he looked hurriedly away when he realised that she had observed his speculative glance. He was about her own age dressed expensively in a Western style suit, his black hair neatly groomed. He was, her stepfather had told her, the son of one of his cousins, in addition to being on the staff of the oil company. In Arab countries nepotism was obviously a virtue rather than a vice, and as the jet came to rest on the tarmac runway Danielle wished that she had had time to study the life style and customs of the people with whom she would be living, a little more thoroughly. What if she transgressed against some unknown rule and disgraced herself? Hassan’s eldest brother’s first wife would take her under his wing, her stepfather had told her, adding that she would like Jamaile, who had already brought up three daughters and had several grandchildren.

More grateful than she was prepared to admit for the presence of the shy young man at her side, Danielle descended the gangway. The staff were lined up at the bottom. The captain asked if she had enjoyed the flight. Although she had been accustomed to the respect people accorded wealth, she had never known the true meaning of the word ‘deference’ until she became a member of the Ahmed family, Danielle acknowledged; realising with a sudden startled shock that she was a member of that family, even if only by marriage.

That thought gave her the courage to walk calmly to the waiting limousine—no other words could describe the sleek black Mercedes parked prominently on the forecourt flying pennants which Danielle decided must reflect the status of her host and hostess. It was only just beginning to dawn on her that she would be staying with Qu‘Har’s Royal Family, and the realisation intimidated her a little.

The drive to the palace was completed in silence—an awed one on Danielle’s part as she observed the number and variety of buildings being erected on either side of the main road. Beyond them stretched the vast emptiness of the desert broken only by the odd clump of palm trees, until suddenly, quite out of the blue, they came to a vast acreage of tunnel greenhouses, which she was told were part of a new scheme to decrease Qu‘Har’s dependence on imports from abroad.

‘This and the new desalination plant just completed on the coast are the result of Sheikh Hassan’s wishes that our people share in the oil wealth of our country,’ Danielle’s escort told her proudly. And it was something to be proud of, Danielle acknowledged, observing the signs of technology all around her.

One particularly light airy building was pointed out to her as a new girls’ school—a very daring innovation and one which had caused considerable tension and high feeling until the country’s religious leaders had given the ambitious scheme their approval. Even so, Danielle caught the hint of disapproval in the voice of her young escort.

‘You don’t approve of education for women?’ she asked him directly.

Colour ran up under his dark skin. Danielle would have had to be blind to be unaware of the admiration in his dark eyes as they rested on her, but apart from being mildly flattered that such a handsome young man should so obviously find her attractive she didn’t give the matter another thought.

‘It is not the way of the East,’ was the only diplomatic response she could get to her question, and sensing that he would prefer not to pursue a subject which obviously embarrassed him, Danielle turned instead to his family and in particular those members of it with whom she would be staying.

‘The Emir is the head of our family and our country,’ Saud confided with a shy smile. ‘I am the son of his second cousin and thus of minor importance within the family. Indeed it was only through the good offices of Sheikh Hassan, my uncle, that I obtained my position with the oil company.’

‘But you have a university degree,’ Danielle persisted, remembering what her stepfather had told her about this personable young man. ‘You could have obtained a job elsewhere…’

‘I should not have wanted to. Qu‘Har is my home and the home of my fathers before me. Sheikh Hassan paid for my education, as he has done for many of us, and it is only fitting that I repay him by using my skills for the benefit of my country.’

It was said so simply, so without pretension and priggishness, that Danielle felt tears prick her eyes. This was the other side of the fierce desert warrior, this almost childlike simplicity and determined loyalty.

‘Sheikh Hassan is a generous and wise man,’ Saud added seriously. ‘Many within our family have reason to be grateful to him.’

‘Especially Jourdan,’ Danielle added, thinking of how her stepfather had rescued and brought up the small child.

‘Ah, Jourdan,’ Saud said warmly, so warmly that Danielle glanced at him, surprised to see a look almost approaching worship in the liquid eyes. ‘My father says that he is the natural successor to Sheikh Hassan and that without him our country would be torn to shreds and thrown to the winds. He is what in our family we call “The gift of the Prophet”.’

Danielle thought he was referring to a discreet way of describing Jourdan’s illegitimacy until he saw the look of solemn reverence on his face.

“‘The Gift of the Prophet?” What is that?’ she asked, curious, in spite of her aversion for the man who would have married her without thought or compunction.

‘Quite simply the birth of one with the power, the knowledge and the skill to hold our people together,’ Saud told her seriously. ‘Always such a one is born to our ruling house in times of conflict and need. Sheikh Hassan himself was thought to be such a gift by his father until it was realised that he could not father children. You must know that in a family such as ours with many brothers and sons there is always fierce rivalry. Sometimes that rivalry breaks out in warfare as rival factions battle for control.

‘We are only a small country, but very rich in oil. Unfortunately our people sometimes lack the education to use wealth wisely. It is important that we plan now for the future when we may no longer have our oil, and that is what Sheikh Hassan is trying to do. Many schemes have been launched, many of our brighter young men educated abroad, and much money spent in technological equipment and learning, but all this will be wasted if there is no one to continue Sheikh Hassan’s work when he is gone. It must be a man strong enough to quell opposition, fierce as the hawk and wily as the snake. Jourdan is such a man…’

He sounded very unpleasant, Danielle thought distastefully. ‘Fierce as the hawk.’ That no doubt meant domineering and aggressive. ‘Wily as the snake.’ She conjured up a picture of a Machiavellian mind capable of all manner of intrigue. She already knew how much the Muslim mind appreciated subtlety and how necessary it was to have this gift in full measure if one were to succeed in the Arab business world. The Arab would not respect a man he could cheat, and respect was all-important.

‘You obviously admire him,’ Danielle said in a neutral voice, wondering if Saud was aware of the marriage her stepfather had planned for her. In view of Jourdan’s importance it was strange that a full-blooded Arab girl from within the Royal Family had not been chosen for him, and she realised for the first time that her stepfather had been trying to confer a great favour (in the eyes of his family at least) upon her by this marriage.

‘I do,’ Saud agreed. ‘Although it is thought by some that his adherence to the religion of his mother is foolish. However, the Koran acknowledges the worth of other religions, and Jourdan accepts the precepts of the Koran and abides by them far more stricly than many of our race.’

‘He sounds quite a paragon,’ Danielle said dryly, her dislike of the unknown Jourdan growing by the minute. ‘What a shame that I shall not meet him…’

She was too busy studying the scenery beyond the window to see the swift, startled sideways glance Saud gave her. They were driving up to an archway set in a high white wall, the white paint glittering so brightly in the brilliant sunshine that Danielle had to close her eyes against the glare.

When she opened them again the huge car had come to rest in front of a long, low building, its windows all shuttered like so many closed eyes, the delicate mosaic work adorning the gateway making her gasp with pleasure.

‘I must leave you here,’ Saud announced, climbing out of the car. ‘The driver will take you round to the women’s quarters where you will be received by the Sheikha.’

‘Will I see you again?’

All at once he had become an important link with home and all things familiar. Saud flushed and seemed to glance hesitantly at the driver as though reluctant for him to overhear their conversation.

‘It may be permitted. I shall ask my father,’ he muttered in a low voice, and then the car was sweeping away through another archway decorated with a continuous frieze of arabesques and into a courtyard enclosed on all four sides.

A door in one wall opened inwards, and feeling rather Alice in Wonderlandish, Danielle realised that she was supposed to get out of the car and enter the building.

She did so like someone in a dream, aware of activity behind her as another door in the adjacent wall opened and the car boot was opened and her luggage removed.

As she stepped through the open door, the scent of jasmine immediately enveloped her, together with a welcome coolness which she realised was stimulated by the powerful air-conditioning whose hum she could just faintly hear.

‘If the Sitt will follow me.’

The girl was draped from head to foot in black, her voice low and melodious, and Danielle could just catch the faint chime of ankle bracelets as she swayed down the corridor in front of her. At the bottom she opened a door and indicated that Danielle was to follow. She found herself in a small square room with a low divan under one window and a small sunken pool just beyond it.

‘If the Sitt will permit.’

Gently but inexorably Danielle was pushed down on to the divan, her high-heeled sandals removed. She was glad that she was not wearing tights when the girl promptly proceeded to wash her hands and feet with water from the pool, again scented with some elusive perfume which drifted past her nostrils and refused to be properly identified.

The girl’s movement were deft and sure, her hands delicately hennaed and her eyes modestly downcast all the time. She must be a maid, Danielle reflected when she walked across to the other side of the room and returned with a pair of soft embroidered slippers.

‘It is necessary to wear these in the presence of the Sheikha,’ the girl explained. ‘It is the custom to kneel and approach, and then to leave the room backwards, but in your case it is necessary only to kneel. For you the Sheikha has waived the normal formalities…’

The girl’s English was perfect, so perfect that Danielle felt ashamed of her own lack of Arabic. She had learned it from her father, she explained when Danielle questioned her, and had been fortunate enough to get her position in the Sheikha’s household because of it, because the Sheikha wanted all her daughters and granddaughters to speak it.

‘It is necessary when they go to school in England,’ she added. ‘The Sheikha wishes the women of her family to have the benefit of a good education. She says it is important that the women of our race do not cause our menfolk to have a contempt of them because of their ignorance. I shall take you to her now, if you will please follow me.’

The room they were in was an ante-room leading into a huge chamber with a vaulted, carved and painted ceiling, the intricacy of the arabesques and stylised carvings on the ceiling taking away Danielle’s breath; and the colours! Never had she seen such a multitude of rich, jewel-bright colours all in one room before, and yet as her eyes became accustomed to the richness she realised that they were carefully and subtly arranged so that turquoise ran into lilac and rich purple into crimson, into royal blue and back to turquoise, the skilful blending shown to its best advantage on the plain off-white divans placed around the room and covered with multi-coloured silk cushions.

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