Sandstorm by Anne Mather Read Free Book Online Page A

skies all day long and velvety nights to look forward to. It was the time of year when it was possible to sit in the sun or swim in the pool, or laze in the coolness of a shadowy courtyard, redolent with the heady perfumes of flowering vines and fig trees.
    Shaking away the feelings of melancholy her thoughts had evoked, Abby hurried along the street towards the underground station. It was pointless indulging in sentimentality, particularly when sentiment had played so small a part in her life there, and she felt impatient with herself for allowing the past to haunt her. But it had been seeing- Rachid again which had triggered all these remembrances, and she guessed it had been his intention to arouse just such a reaction.
    Riding home in the train, she turned her attention to more immediate matters. The question of what she and her father were to have for their evening meal was her most pressing problem, and she spent the remainder of the journey turning the contents of the refrigerator over in her mind. There were always eggs, she thought wryly, considering omelettes, but somehow food had lost the ability to evoke any enthusiasm at the moment.
    Dacre Mews seemed dimly lit as she turned off Dartford Road. The tall, narrow houses clustered together, shutting out the stars, and etching themselves darkly against the night sky. There were lights in some of the windows, but it was early as yet, and many of the tenants had not returned home from their jobs in the city. It was a working community, and Professor Gillespie enjoyed his isolation during the day.
    The Mews was gradually filling with cars, and Abby picked her way between them, glad that she did not have to find somewhere to park. Her father's old Alvis spent most of its days in the garage, and since leaving Rachid she had not found the use for a car. She knew it annoyed her father that in the evenings there was invariably a car parked at their gate, but fortunately his days were left undisturbed.
    There was a car parked outside their house this evening, she saw, as she crossed the strip of grass that some enthusiastic gardener had planted between the flagstones. A big car, long and black and expensive‑
    She halted abruptly. She knew that car. It was the same car that had brought her home the previous evening. It was the Mercedes. Rachid's car!
    Briefly, panic gripped her. What was he doing here, at her house, talking with her father? 'Why had he come? Why couldn't he leave her alone? She didn't want to see him; she didn't want to talk to him. They had nothing to say to one another. Why wouldn't he accept that?
    She stood there, struggling to contain her emotions, her breathing shallow as her pulses quickened. She knew an almost irresistible urge to turn and run out of the Mews, and keep running until she discovered some place where Rachid would never find her. She didn't want to face him. She didn't want to fight him. She just wanted to be left alone.
    But as she stood there, and people passed her, looking at her with curious eyes, she knew she could not run away. It would achieve nothing. Sooner or later Rachid would find her again, and then the whole process would have to be repeated. Besides, if she ran away, it would appear that she was afraid to face him, that she had something to hide— her feelings maybe!
    She expelled her breath on a long sigh, endeavouring to regain her composure. This was ridiculous, she told herself severely. She was behaving like a schoolgirl. First, last evening, now today. She had to get a hold of herself, and stop behaving as if Rachid had some extraordinary power over her. He couldn't make her go back with him, he wouldn't force her. And surely, after all she had gone through, she had the determination not to let him intimidate her in this way. Remember Farah, she reminded herself harshly, and unconsciously her shoulders stiffened.
    Taking a deep breath, she walked the last few yards to the shallow steps that led up to the front door.