Desert Honeymoon

“I’ve come to ask you to marry me.” Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE Copyright

“I’ve come to ask you to marry me.”

“Marry you?” Nicole said faintly, unable to believe she could have heard him correctly.

“You sound astonished. Why?” Alex asked bluntly.

“Well...because...because I didn’t think you were interested in marrying anyone...least of all me.”

“Until recently I wasn’t. As you may know, I was married once...a long time ago.” His expression remained impassive. “But I’ve spent too long looking back. Now I have to look to the future. Your son needs a father. My father needs a grandson.” Alex paused for a moment “I think you and I both need the practical benefits of marriage. Companionship. Moral support. And someone to share our bed...”

Anne Weale celebrates

her 75th novel for Harlequin® with Desert Honeymoon

Dear Reader,

This story came Into my mind during one of the happiest journeys in a lifetime of wonderful travels.

Several of my forbearers lived in India during the British Raj. As a child I listened to their reminiscences of a land that sounded far more colourful and exciting than England—where I grew up. Unwittingly, my great-uncles and great-aunts, who had gone abroad out of duty rather than inclination, sowed the seeds of my wanderlust

I’ve been traveling the world since I was twenty-one. But somehow my destinations never included India. My son made that dream come true. Having arranged to canoe down India’s most sacred river, the Ganges, he suggested that, afterward, his father and I should meet him in Delhi and he would take us to some of his favorite parts of the Country.

The region I found most romantic was in the far northwest...the remote walled cities of Rajasthan. I hope this story will bring you some of the magic of Rajasthan.

Anne Weale

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

ON HER way to the final interview, Nicole still didn’t know whose advertisement she had answered, or how many others had survived the first weeding out. In fact she knew little more than she had after reading The Times advertisement offering a suitably qualified person an interesting and challenging post, at a generous salary, in an exotic location, its exact whereabouts unspecified.

That she had been short-listed was encouraging, but to be the winner of this strange contest was something else. Design was a crowded field. She knew she was a good designer, but she didn’t underestimate the competition she would be facing.

The address to which she had been summoned was in the most fashionable part of London. It turned out to be an elegant block of flats with a uniformed hall porter in gold-buttoned pale grey livery. While Nicole gave him her name, she was aware of being scrutinised by a younger man in a business suit...a man who had ‘plain clothes policeman’ or ‘ex-Special Air Service’ written all over him.

She met his eyes, seeing in them not the smallest flicker of interest in her as a woman. Clearly he was a security guard of the most efficient kind. Any unauthorised person trying to get past him would be in big trouble. Which meant that the owners of the apartments must be very important or very rich: the kind of people who needed impregnable protection.

‘You’ll find Dr Strathallen in Flat Two on the fourth floor, madam,’ said the porter, escorting her to the lift where he leaned in to press the button for her. As the door glided into place, shutting her inside the most luxurious elevator she had ever been in, Nicole considered this clue.

Was Dr Strathallen male or female? Was he or she the so far unidentified prospective employer? What kind of doctor was he or she? Not medical presumably. Why would a physician need the services of a textiles designer?

Before she had time to work out what kind of doctor might need such services, the lift opened at the fourth floor, revealing a carpeted corridor. Directly opposite the lift was an alcove containing a sofa and, above it, a painting Nicole recognised as a Gustav Klimt Surely it couldn’t be an original Klimt...could it? Perhaps at this level of living, even the pictures in the corridors had to be the genuine article.

At one side of the alcove, a discreet sign indicated the direction in which she would find the entrance to Flat Two. Her footsteps muffled by the carpet and its thick springy underlay, Nicole arrived there exactly on time and pressed the bell.

Within moments the door was opened. She found herself confronting a man whose grey eyes seemed even colder man those of the guard in the lobby.

She had never been shy or timid, even in her teens. But at first glance something about this man zapped her normal self-confidence. Perhaps because, without being in any way handsome, he was incredibly attractive. She had never met anyone, in real life, whose charisma struck her so forcibly. Some film stars had this sort of impact when they appeared on the screen, but ordinary men didn’t, at least none she had ever met

Conscious of a constriction in her throat, she said, ‘Dr Strathallen?’

He nodded. ‘Come in.’ His voice was deep and brusque, giving the impression he had better things to do than interview her and was irked by the necessity of it.

As she obeyed his gesture and moved past him, Nicole was assailed by a powerful awareness of his physical presence; his height, his build, his aura of extreme fitness. In a totally inconsequential flashback, her memory transported her to a day in her childhood when her parents had taken her to the Regent’s Park Zoo. She hadn’t enjoyed it. The sight of wild animals in cages had upset her.

The one she remembered most clearly was the cheetah. The placard attached to its enclosure had said that, over short distances, it was the fastest animal on earth, hunting in daylight by sight rather than scent. She remembered reading that it was an endangered species, extinct in many of its former habitats. At the zoo, the size of its cage had permitted the creature only to pace its domain. It could never run at full speed, never enjoy its power.

Why the man now shutting the door should remind her of the captive cheetah was hard to fathom. But he did. Perhaps it had something to do with his tan. Here in London, at the end of an exceptionally wet summer, pallid faces were the norm and the tans acquired on beaches in southern Europe had soon faded when holidaymakers returned to their native climate.

But Dr Strathallen’s lean features, as he gestured for her to precede him through an open door at the inner end of the hall, had the tan resulting from a naturally olive complexion being exposed to a hot climate for much longer than the longest vacation.

The large room where the interview was to take place was decorated and furnished with an elegance that married European taste with some fine things of Eastern origin. But precisely where in the vast Oriental world these artefacts came from she wasn’t sure.

To her regret, she wasn’t widely travelled. It was one of several reasons why she wanted the job. She longed to see more of the world. But that wasn’t her principal reason for hoping that, despite his unfriendliness—he hadn’t smiled or shaken hands—Dr Strathallen would prefer her to the other candidates.

‘Sit down.’ He indicated one of two sofas facing each other across a large low glass table.

‘Thank you.’ Nicole sat, placing her bag beside her on the cream-upholstered, feather-filled cushion into which she had sunk.

She was five feet six, but the sofa was designed for long-legged six-footers like the man relaxing opposite her. He was able to rest his broad shoulders against the back cushions whereas she had the choice of sitting upright or lounging which, in these circumstances, wasn’t an option.

For what seemed a long time he looked at her in silence. Nicole forced herself to hold his gaze while longing to look away. There was something extremely disturbing about that silent surveillance even though, like the security man, he didn’t send out the vibes of a virile man looking at a bedworthy woman. Not that bedworthy was the look she wished or tried to project.

Today she had dressed to look businesslike and efficient. Even so several men on the train and in the concourse of the mainline station had given her the eye. She knew, without vanity, that she was still attractive. At thirty-two, she hadn’t yet lost the sex appeal inherited from her far more glamorous mother.

When it seemed he was never going to break the silence, she found herself asking, ‘Have you many people to interview?’

‘Five...all equally well qualified. The choice depends on my judgment of who is best suited to the demands of the environment. Would you like some coffee?’

‘Yes, please.’

As he leaned forward to reach for a bell on the table between them and give it a vigorous shake, she couldn’t help noticing the way his thick black hair sprang from a high broad forehead. Even if she hadn’t known about his doctorate, the highest academic degree in any field of learning, even if he had been a stranger sitting opposite her in an Underground train, she would have guessed he was clever, possibly brilliant

Appearances could be misleading but no one with a spark of intuition could fail to read the signs of a penetrating intelligence... or to pick up the indications that he might also be a demanding, even difficult leader in whatever field he excelled in. Uncompromising was the word that sprang to her mind. She wondered if she could cope with another dogmatic person in her life.

‘What kind of environment is it?’ she asked, eager to know what lay behind the somewhat cryptic reference to an exotic location.

He answered her with a question. ‘How’s your geography?’

‘About average.’

‘Do you know where Rajasthan is?’

‘Of course...it’s a state in the north of India,’ Nicole said coolly. She had thought he was going to quiz her about somewhere far more obscure. Not that she was all that knowledgeable about India, but she had often browsed through Dan’s atlas, wondering when, if ever, she might be able to satisfy her longing to see other countries, other cultures.

‘What else do you know about it?’

‘Not a lot. I know it has a famous desert.’

‘The Great Thar Desert.’

Nicole knew how the name was spelt but, until he pronounced it, she hadn’t known the ‘h’ was silent.

At that moment another man entered. He looked to be about fifty, with jet-black hair turning grey, a slight physique and thin hands. He was wearing European clothes but was recognisably Indian.

‘Coffee, please, Jal,’ said Strathallen.

With a slight bow the man withdrew.

‘At the western edge of the desert,’ Strathallen continued, ‘there’s an old walled city called Karangarh. How would you feel about living and working there?’

‘If I hadn’t been prepared to go more or less anywhere, I wouldn’t have applied for the job,’ Nicole replied.

‘But from the questionnaire you filled in it appears that your travels so far have been limited to a few conventional tourist resorts in Europe?’

‘Because I haven’t had the time or the means to go further afield, not because I haven’t wanted to,’ she told him. ‘After my mother’s death, my father wanted me to share his holidays and I wanted to be with him while he was lonely without her. Now he’s married again and has my stepmother to go on holidays with him. Which leaves me free to go wherever I please.’

This explanation wasn’t untrue. It was a version of the truth that would give a better impression than the whole truth. Nicole felt the facts of her life, except those relating to the job she was applying for, were nothing to do with Dr Strathallen. Also he didn’t strike her as a man who would have much understanding of the complexities and pressures affecting the lives of lesser mortals than himself.

The manservant returned with a tray. To have come back so soon he must have been expecting the request and had everything in readiness. Silence fell on the room while he went through a practised ritual of serving the visitor and then his employer—if in fact that was their relationship.

For reasons there wasn’t time to define, Nicole sensed that Dr Strathallen wasn’t the owner of this luxurious and sophisticated apartment It didn’t match his persona. Indeed the clothes he was wearing, a well-cut grey suit with a light blue shirt and dark blue tie, didn’t quite ‘go’ with the general air of the man.

She had no idea what was worn by the inhabitants of the Great Thar Desert, if it had any. But she had read a book about the fierce Tuareg tribesmen of the Sahara. She could easily visualise Strathallen riding over a rolling sea of sand dunes, mounted on a camel, with a black turban on his head and an indigo ‘veil’ protecting his nose and mouth from the gritty desert wind while his narrowed grey eyes searched the empty horizon.

What it was about the man that caused her imagination to present her with this vivid improbable picture, she couldn’t tell. Except that the body inside the businessman’s clothes looked more powerful than that of any men she’d encountered, and his face was a tough man’s face, not that of a number cruncher or anyone desk-bound.

The manservant withdrew, leaving them each with a poured cup of coffee, with a pot containing a couple of refills beside it. The cream jug and sugar bowl were near Nicole. She didn’t take sugar but added some cream to her cup.

‘Do you take these?’ she asked, ready to pass them to him.

‘No, thanks. I don’t eat biscuits either,’ he added, referring to the plate of English biscuits also left near her cup. Nicole had concluded that he didn’t when a plate and a white-on-white embroidered napkin had been set out for her but not for him. Normally she enjoyed biscuits, but right now she didn’t want to have her mouth full when he shot a question at her.

Normally calm and self-possessed as befitted her years, suddenly, in Dr Strathallen’s presence, she felt her poise cracking as if she were an apprehensive twenty-year-old instead of a mature woman..

‘How large a place is Karangarh?’ she asked.

‘A long time ago it was an important city ruled by a long line of princes. The palace at Karangarh is still owned and occupied by His Highness Prince Kesri, the Maharaja of Karangarh, who is also the owner of this apartment’

Strathallen broke off to drink some coffee. Nicole found that, even with milk, hers was still too hot for her to take more than a sip.

‘His life is completely different from that of his forebears,’ he went on. ‘A large part of the palace has been converted into a hotel. Another wing is a hospital. Other buildings are workshops for craftsmen. The Maharaja was educated in England and America. He knows that eastern artefacts often need modifications to appeal to western tastes. That’s why he wants a western-trained designer to oversee the export side of the business.’

‘What sort of skills do his craftspeople have?’ she asked.

‘I’ll show you part of a promotional video the Prince has had made.’ He rose to go to a large cabinet made of some dark unfamiliar wood elaborately inlaid with silver and pieces of mother-of-pearl. He opened the doors, revealing a large television screen. After touching some switches he returned to his place on the other sofa, holding the remote control. ‘This edited version was made to show the applicants for the post,’ he told her. ‘It only lasts seven minutes.’

Watching Nicole Dawson while her attention was concentrated on the screen, Alex was reminded of children’s faces when they were listening to an enthralling story. Her expression showed the same rapt attention. Almost from the opening shot of the walled city of Karangarh rising out of the sandy wasteland surrounding it, she had become totally immersed in the colourful scenes being presented to her.

Already he had interviewed all but one of the other contenders and was becoming bored with the task entrusted to him. Designers were not on his wavelength, nor he on theirs. He disliked big cities and the kind of people who gravitated to them. Especially ambitious career women in designer suits with designer hair, dietfreak’s bodies and complexions you could scrape off with a spoon.

Not that this woman was heavily made up or catwalk-thin. Her figure couldn’t be faulted and she had excellent legs. But she didn’t flaunt them with a minuscule skirt and unnecessarily frequent crossings like two of the women at last night’s dinner party.

London, New York and Paris—perhaps every capital city in the so-called ‘civilised world’—seemed to be full of women who were either looking for a husband or a roll in the hay. He wasn’t in the market for marriage, or for one night stands with the female equivalent of womanisers.

The nature of his life made sex a fairly rare indulgence. Women he found attractive were thin on the ground. Sometimes they weren’t available, or weren’t willing to accept his conditions: a cheerful goodbye when the time came to end the relationship

Looking at Ms Dawson, with her straight silky fair hair cut to curve into her neck just below the level of her determined-looking chin, and the soft sexy curves of her mouth, he felt a sudden strong urge to scoop her up from the sofa and carry her to his bedroom.

The thought of how she would respond if he acted on that desire amused him. Of course she would resist, vigorously. But would she really want to resist? Was the attraction mutual? Behind that cool facade, was she as red-blooded and as sex-starved as he was?

The questionnaire she had answered described her as unmarried, unpartnered, and with no family or other personal responsibilities which might interfere with her concentration on the job. Any woman of thirty-two, without a husband or a boyfriend, had to be sublimating.

Perhaps, for some women, it wasn’t as hard as for most men. They seemed to vary a good deal in the strength of their libidos. Among those he’d known intimately, some had been disappointingly inhibited, others as ravenous as he was. It was hard to guess what Nicole Dawson might be like when, metaphorically speaking, she let her hair down.

When the video about Karangarh ended, it left Nicole with the feeling that, for a few minutes, a magic carpet had carried her to a fairytale world of sunlight, fabulous ancient architecture, and incredibly vibrant colours worn by women who walked like queens and men with black eyes and quick smiles.

‘What a wonderful place!’ she exclaimed. ‘What’s your work there, Dr Strathallen? Are you in charge of the hospital?’ It crossed her mind that he might be in London for some medical conference and have been asked by the Prince to deputise for him in the choice of a designer.

He got up to switch off the TV and close the doors of the cabinet. ‘The hospital is staffed by Indian doctors. I’m an anthropologist...studying Rajasthan’s nomadic tribes. The Maharaja allows me to use the palace as my base.’

‘Have you been out there long?’

He glanced at the watch on his lean wrist. She had already noticed the beautiful shape of his hands, with their long backs and longer fingers, the nails immaculately clean. ‘We haven’t much time, Ms Dawson. I necd to know more about you. You’ll find out more about me if you are selected to join the Prince’s staff. He will decide who’s appointed. He’s already seen the preliminary reports. I shall email my reports to him tonight. You won’t be kept waiting long.’

His snubbing reply to her question, which it wouldn’t have taken ten seconds for him to answer, and something in his demeanour made her certain he had already written her off. There was no rapport between them, no meeting of minds.

Which made it all the more annoying that she found him the most physically appealing man she had encountered since... Her mind shied away from the conclusion of that thought.

‘What else do you want to know?’ she said coldly, knowing that the interview had gone sour and she might as well go home now.

Nicole hadn’t told her family she had applied for another job. They thought she was settled where she was. Rosemary, her stepmother, would have been horrified if she knew Nicole wanted to move, even in England, let alone abroad. There had been no point in upsetting Rosemary until such a move was definite.

How the rest of the family would react—would have reacted—Nicole wasn’t sure. But it wasn’t going to arise. She felt in her bones that Dr Strathallen had disliked her, that any day now a letter would come informing her that another applicant had been appointed.

When her stepmother called her to the telephone, saying that a Dr Strathallen wanted to speak to her, Nicole was astonished that he should take the trouble to break the bad news by phone.

She took the receiver from Rosemary. ‘Nicole Dawson speaking.’

‘Good evening, Ms Dawson.’ His voice sounded even deeper and more resonant on the phone. ‘The Prince has read my reports and feels that you and one other candidate are equally well-suited to the post. He would like me to talk to you both again. I suggest that this time we have lunch at a restaurant. Can you manage Friday?’

Luckily Nicole had some time off owing to her from her present employer because she had worked through two weekends on an important and urgent order.

‘Friday would be fine,’ she said.

‘Good.’ He gave her the name and address of the restaurant. ‘We’ll meet there at twelve-thirty?’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

Strathallen didn’t respond with the conventional ‘So shall r. Instead he said merely, ‘Until Friday,’ and rang off.

Nicole had scarcely had time to replace the receiver when Rosemary asked, ‘Who is Dr Strathallen?’

The second Mrs Dawson never hesitated to ask personal questions or to intrude into other people’s private lives. There was no way anyone living under the same roof with her could have a private life. She looked closely at every envelope that came through the letter box and had no compunction about reading other people’s postcards.

‘He’s an anthropologist,’ said Nicole. Knowing the next question would be ‘Where did you meet him?’ she was about to invent a white lie when her father intervened.

Mr Dawson, who was sitting by the fire, doing the crossword in his morning newspaper as he did every evening, looked up and said, ‘Strathllen...anthropology... that rings a bell. Has he written a book on the subject?’

‘I don’t know, Dad. I know very little about him. He’s looking for a designer and someone gave him my name.’

This was close to the truth but, she hoped, would avoid a cross-examination by her stepmother. Fortunately it was almost time for Rosemary’s favourite soap opera and her eagerness to learn the outcome of the dramatic climax at the end of the last instalment was stronger than her need to know about Nicole’s telephone caller. As Rosemary picked up the remote control, Nicole, who wasn’t a soap fan, said she had things to do upstairs.

‘I’ll say goodnight, Dad.’ She went over to kiss him.

‘Goodnight,. my dear. Sleep well.’

She suspected he knew she found Rosemary a trial, although Nicole had never confided her problems to him. When Rosemary had entered their lives, Nicole had welcomed her, knowing that a man still in his early fifties needed more than a daughter’s companionship.

It was only later, as Rosemary relaxed and allowed her true nature to show, that misgivings had set in. Her stepmother was not a bad woman, quite the reverse. It was her excessive goodness that was the problem She wanted the best for everyone and put herself out to achieve it for them. But what she thought best wasn’t always what they wanted.