Sandstorm by Anne Mather Read Free Book Online Page B

As she fumbled for her key, she gave the car another swift appraisal. Yes, it was definitely Rachid's car, she confirmed tightly, with the man Ahmed, inclining his head politely to her from his position behind the wheel.
    Pressing her lips together, she inserted her key in the lock and opened the door. No matter how nervous she might inwardly be, she had to appear calm and controlled, but her fingers trembled as she dropped the latch behind her.
    Her father appeared in the doorway of his study as she was removing her coat. He looked anxious, too, she thought, and she wondered if he thought she might blame him for Rachid's presence. Forcing a tense smile, she tried to convey that she understood his dilemma, and his features relaxed as he indicated the room behind him.
    'Rachid's here,' he said unnecessarily. 'We've been waiting for you. Have you had a good day?'
    His words were so trite and ordinary, he might have been speaking about the weather, but Abby decided it was probably the best way to behave. If they acted as though Rachid's arrival could in any way disrupt their lives, they were courting disaster, and the only thing to do was to treat him with the offhand courtesy of a casual visitor.
    'It's been—a busy day,' she said now, casting a fleeting look at her reflection in the mirror above the umbrella stand.. She looked flushed, she thought, wishing that she didn't, but at least her hair was neat, and the dark skirt and matching waistcoat were formal and businesslike. 'How are you? Did you go to the library?'
    'Actually, no,' answered her father quietly, his eyes darting meaningfully towards the room behind him. 'I didn't have time. Rachid arrived about three o'clock.'
    Abby nodded, and realising she could not put it off any longer, she allowed her father to step back and let her precede him into his study.
    Rachid had obviously risen when her father left the room, and now he was standing with his back to a glass-fronted bookcase. In the lamplight, he looked dark and faintly menacing, although his expression was enigmatic as Abby came into his view. He was wearing a dark suit this evening, a soft sienna-brown suede, the jacket parting over a bronze silk shirt, the trousers moulding the powerful muscles of his thighs. Long legs were spread, his hands locked behind his back, the smooth virility of his hair glinting with raven lights.
    'Abby,' he murmured politely, as she entered the room, making no move to touch her or offer a greeting, and she glanced behind her as her father joined them, wondering exactly what conversation had taken place in her absence.
    'Sherry?' suggested Professor Gillespie briskly, crossing to a tray set on a table in the corner. 'Abby? You'll have a glass, won't you? How about you, Rachid? Will you taste the vine?'
    Rachid shook his head, and Abby subsided on to the low couch her father used when he wanted to relax. Had he been absorbed into the dictates of his father's religion at last? she wondered, feeling a slight chill of apprehension along her spine. It was all very well telling Liz that Rachid was a Muslim, when she really believed he was not, and quite another to run up against the implacable force of will that abhorred the use of alcohol and upheld the rights of man. She accepted the glass of sherry her father handed her with some relief, and took refuge in its warming contents that moistened the dryness of her mouth.
    'Can I get you a beer, or some tonic water?' Professor Gillespie persisted, looking at Rachid again, but his guest merely shook his head once more.
    'Nothing, thank you,' he affirmed with civility, and Abby's father made an apologetic gesture as he raised his own glass to his lips.
    Abby waited for Rachid to speak, but again it was her father who made the first overture. 'Would you like me to leave you alone?' he suggested, unwilling to intrude, but Abby forestalled his departure with a heated denial.
    'I think Rachid should tell me why he's come here,' she declared,