Daughter Of Hassan

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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.’