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Dark Enemy
Anne Mather
Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author
ANNE MATHER
Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the
publishing industry, having written over one hundred
and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than
forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.
This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance
for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,
passionate writing has given.
We are sure you will love them all!
I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.
I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.
These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.
We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
Dark Enemy
Anne Mather
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u1e77ed12-6eeb-5c5e-818d-fea0863a07f8)
About the Author (#u36149432-9d9c-586b-9f08-eddae9a0e93c)
Title Page (#u909c2f70-e5b4-54cc-b0f5-c7d72ac4d5cc)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u3b0709df-4866-5680-8017-f8ff4fa57213)
IT was hot, uncomfortably so, and inside the cloistered dwelling with its thick hanging tapestries and richly carved ceilings there was little air. A huge lamp made of bronze and burnished to a rich tone burned what little oxygen penetrated the thick walls, and not even the glowing arches, picked out with lapis lazuli, or the gold and blue mosaic of the floor could compensate for the cloying atmosphere of heavy perfume, strong wines, and the inherent scent of perspiring bodies.
The Sheikh Abi Ben Abdul Mohammed, lounging on cushions of satin and silk idly helping himself to handfuls of grapes, was every inch the eastern potentate and seemed totally oblivious of the heat or the unhealthy atmosphere. But Jason Wilde was aware of it, just as he was aware that the effort to control his temper was causing rivulets of sweat to slide down his spine, plastering his shirt to his back.
‘Look, Mohammed,’ he said tautly, ‘we’ve got to get this settled. You know that and I know that, so we might as well come to an agreement.’
Sheikh Mohammed studied his companion rather appraisingly, and then said coolly: ‘You must make the agreement, Wilde. After all, it is in your interests much more than mine!’ His tones were smooth and slightly derogatory, and Jason felt an immense urge to lift him out of his bed of cushions and thrust his fist down his throat. It would be so easy and so enjoyable. The man was like a snake, deliberately causing unrest, arousing the men so that they didn’t know where to turn, uncertain of their loyalties.
But he couldn’t touch him. They were not individuals, and no amount of wishful thinking would alter the fact that he was the representative of Inter-Anglia Oil, just as the Sheikh was the ruler, and therefore the spokesman, of this small state of Abrahm.
So instead of reacting violently he said, equally coolly: ‘Neverthless, Mohammed, it would be ludicrous of me to attempt to make any kind of agreement when I don’t know exactly what it is you want.’
The Sheikh leaned forward and with slow and purposely languid movements helped himself to a cigarette, and after one of the attendants who stood rigidly to attention behind him had dashed forward to light his cigarette he drew on it deeply before speaking again.
Jason got to his feet. Sitting on the floor was not conducive to comfort when one’s legs were long, and besides, the inactivity was infuriating. The Sheikh looked up at him rather derisively, and said:
‘But, Wilde, you know what I want. I want my men to have a – square deal, just as your own men do. I do not feel that at present this is so. Besides, you are visitors here, never forget that, and as such are only welcome so long as your presence is not annoying to me.’
Jason thrust his hands into the pockets of the cotton pants he was wearing, and controlled his features. ‘Without the resources of my company, Abrahm would not be able to mount such an operation,’ he replied, quite expressionlessly.
The Sheikh shrugged. ‘No. I agree, this is so. Nevertheless, without Abrahm’s natural resources there would be no operation.’
Jason heaved a sigh. As always in matters of this kind, the Sheikh was overwhelmingly obtuse, constantly creating impasse in their discussions by remarks of this kind. There was no answer to him, and Jason knew that no matter how impatient he might become he would just have to wait until the Sheikh was prepared to state his demands without preamble.
But it was difficult to remain impassive when to add to the overheated atmosphere of the Sheikh’s magnificent habitation there was Jason’s own impatience at this needless delay. They met enough obstacles in the course of their work without meeting the unnecessary obstinacy of the Sheikh.
But now the Sheikh seemed to decide a change of subject was warranted, and with annoying urbanity, he said: ‘Tell me, Wilde, what does a man like you derive from working here? You do not strike me as the kind of man who eschews the fleshpots for more, shall we say, aesthetic pursuits.’
Jason controlled his anger. It was typical that Mohammed should endeavour to direct the course of the conversation into these channels. He had an unhealthy interest in dissecting the men who came within his sphere, examining their lives and their motivations minutely.
‘Abrahm is not the first Middle Eastern country I have worked in,’ Jason said now. ‘As a member of an oil company, one has to be prepared to work in any part of the world.’
‘Yes?’ The Sheikh sounded thoughtful. ‘I suppose this is so. Nevertheless, I understand from reliable sources that you were offered a less active part in the proceedings, which you turned down.’
Jason wondered where the man obtained his information. His refusal to accept the board’s generous offer of a seat at their table had shocked his contemporaries. But just at present it suited him to be out of England, and Sir Harold had made it plain the offer was still open.
‘Your sources of information are very astute,’ he remarked now, walking lazily across the room, as though uncaring of the swift passing of time. He picked up a small bronze statue and examined it in detail, while the Sheikh watched his movements and pondered the mind of this annoying foreigner who seemed totally indifferent to his own status here.
‘So,’ said the Sheikh at last, summoning one of his servants who produced a heavy ashtray for him to stub out his cigarette. ‘We return to the subject in hand. You think perhaps I am being unkind when I say my people are being exploited?’
Jason swung round, a ready retort dying on his lips as he realized he had almost fallen again into the Sheikh’s trap.
‘Go on,’ he said quietly.
‘Very well. Would a few more pence bankrupt your company? I think not. The English and American oil barons are growing rich on the poverty of their investment areas. My people do not have television sets, or cars or even proper homes. The standard of living here in Abrahm is very low.’
Jason could have said that it would have been useless people having television sets in a country where there was no television station. He could have said that there was no money to build roads to drive cars along until the oil began pumping along the pipeline which was barely a third completed. He could have said that the oil company was providing work for those people to enable them to have a better standard of living.
But he said none of this. Instead, he allowed Mohammed to state his case, knowing full well that to argue would cause a stream of abuse, and possibly more trouble for the company in the long run. Eventually Mohammed grew tired of the Englishman’s silence, and said: ‘Well, Wilde! What is your answer? Are you prepared to listen to reason?’
‘I’m prepared to listen to anything that is reasonable,’ replied Jason dryly. ‘All right, Mohammed, I’ve been in touch with London, and they have given me permission to offer you a two and a half pence increase.’
Sheikh Mohammed’s lip curled. ‘Five,’ he said sharply.
Jason shrugged. ‘Three – and that’s my final offer.’
Sheikh Mohammed rubbed the side of his nose with a hand that literally glittered with the rings of emerald and ruby that sparkled there. Then he summoned one of his underlings and signified that he wished someone brought to the conference chamber. Jason moved restlessly, beginning to feel impatient again. Good God, how long was this going to go on? He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist, and gave an exclamation. It was already late afternoon and by the time he got back to the site the evening meal would be in the course of being prepared. That meant yet another day had been wasted.
Even so, it was pleasant to recall the comparative luxury of his air-conditioned bungalow, and the thought of a decent drink and some food was quite appealing. After all, it wasn’t his fault they were being held up, although he seemed to bear the brunt of the complaints from the boardroom in London.
Sheikh Mohammed had summoned Krashki, his chief minister, and Jason was forced to kick his heels for almost another half hour while they talked in undertones, their gesticulations eloquent of their conversation. Eventually, when Jason was on the verge of walking out of the conference altogether, Mohammed turned to him, his expression brooding but subdued.
‘Very well,’ he said, getting to his feet, his flowing robes giving him a dignity that European clothes would not, ‘we accept your terms. But it is to be understood that when Sir Harold Mannering comes out from England I shall discuss this further with him.’
He raised his hand as Jason would have replied, and swept out of the room like some emperor of old. His servants followed him closely and for a moment Jason remained where he was looking towards the doorway through which Sheikh Abi Ben Abdul Mohammed had passed. Then with an infuriated shake of his head he stood on the butt of his cigarette and strode after him, turning away from the inner quarters of the palace with its Moorish-styled architecture towards the searing blaze of the sunlit courtyard.
The brilliance of the sun was dazzling, and he slid his dark glasses on to his nose before walking swiftly across to where his Land-Rover was parked. He slid behind the wheel and heaved a sigh. There was a sense of relaxation in actual action after the enforced inactivity of the last couple of hours. Breathing deeply, he realized that anything was preferable to the cloying heat of the Sheikh’s apartments.
Turning on the engine, he drove out of the courtyard, ignoring the stares of the guards on the gate, and quickly rolled up his windows as the vehicle encountered the track outside which was little more than an extension of that desert that stretched between here and the drilling site. He thought Abrahm was one of the most barren places on the earth. Situated between Tunisia and Libya, with a port on the Mediterranean, it had little to commend it.
He had several miles to cover between Abyrra and Castanya where the oil company had set up their camp of bungalows, and as he drove he wondered why he had not chosen a more amenable spot in which to work. In his position he could have chosen any one of a dozen locations, but he liked the crew at Castanya, and if there was little more in Abrahm than sand, sand and more sand he wasn’t particularly bothered. He was not a man who desired a hectic social life and if the site got too boring for him there was always Gitana on the Mediterranean coast where a man could find entertainment in plenty.
He drove fast, his mind on the job ahead. Already they had wasted four days. Sheikh Mohammed was not the most reasonable of men. He used his influence carelessly, and had refused to meet anyone from the oil company until it suited his purpose. Even now, Jason was aware that the peace he had won was a precarious one and would only last as long as Sheikh Mohammed desired it to do so. There had been rumours of an uprising among the nomadic Bedouin tribes against the despotism of Mohammed, but Jason doubted whether anything would come of it. Either way the oil company stood in exactly the same position. They were a nonpolitical enterprise and he doubted whether if Mohammed was overthrown their position would be any easier. Oil was the country’s salvation; only the profits and the methods of its production could be in jeopardy.
The sun was beginning to go down when he mounted the high pass above the oil fields. In a country where inland there was so little vegetation, it was surprisingly beautiful, and only the stark drilling rigs gave any indication of the century they were living in. The desert was unchanging in its isolation, and the rocks threw back the rays of the setting sun in colours of red and orange and purple. The distant mountain range was tinged with the palest of mauves while the stars were beginning to glimmer in the velvet of the night sky. He descended the pass, crossed the stretch of desert between the rocks and the camp, and entered the small community of bungalows. The oil company had provided every amenity for its men, even to the extent of mounting a swimming pool, the water of which was rarely cool but always refreshing. There was a canteen, but some of the men preferred to cater for themselves. Jason was one of these, and as he also had rather a good cook-boy in the person of Ali, he managed very well. He had known Ali for several years, first meeting him when he was working on the Gulf. Since then, Ali had visited a great number of places with him, but he always liked to return to his desert birthplace.
As he reached the office building where the paperwork of the site and its accompanying pipeline was maintained, his second-in-command, Graham Wilson, came dashing out to meet him, waving his arms about vigorously, obviously desiring Jason to stop.
Jason brought the Land-Rover to a halt, and wound down the window, reaching for his cigarettes in the breast pocket of his cream denim shirt.
‘Yeah!’ he said resignedly. ‘What now?’
Wilson wrenched open the door of the Land-Rover and slid inside. Glancing round rather surreptitiously, he said: ‘How are things with you?’
Jason frowned. ‘Could be worse. Why?’
Graham Wilson hunched his shoulders. ‘Get an eyeful of that, over there!’ He pointed towards a low-slung black limousine, now sadly covered in fine dust but still magnificently designed.
Jason looked, put a cigarette between his lips, and as he flicked his lighter, said: ‘Who’s arrived?’ rather laconically. He didn’t feel he had the strength to instil himself with any more annoyance today, not after the last couple of hours with Sheikh Mohammed.
‘Mannering!’ said Graham dramatically.
‘Mannering!’ echoed Jason, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. ‘What in hell does Mannering want? I thought he left it to me to deal with this!’
‘Not Mannering, senior,’ exclaimed Graham, with the air of one who is imparting a confidence. ‘Paul Mannering! And he’s not alone, either. He’s brought his – er – secretary with him!’
‘God Almighty!’ Jason stared at Graham disbelievingly. ‘That little punk out here! What in hell for?’
Graham half-smiled. ‘I thought you’d be pleased, Jason. Wait till you get a load of the secretary, though!’
‘I’ll get a load of nobody!’ snapped Jason violently. ‘For heaven’s sake, Graham, is old Mannering going out of his mind? Sending that pip-squeak out here! But why? Why?’
Graham shrugged. ‘Well, as I hear it, old Mannering’s cut up rough about the way Paul’s been living. You know what I mean. Anyway, there was a cable came, just after you left for Abyrra, announcing that he was sending Paul out here to learn the oil business from the bottom up. He said he’d be getting in touch with you to give you a fuller picture.’
‘Decent of him!’ muttered Jason savagely. ‘But where does this secretary come in? I mean – does Daddy know about her?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ replied Graham, shrugging. ‘Quite honestly, I can’t believe he does. But I’m not grumbling. It’s so long since I’ve seen a white woman—’
‘Pack it in, Graham,’ said Jason bleakly. ‘It’s exactly three months since you saw a white woman. Besides, remember you’ve a wife back in England!’
‘Just because I’ve bought a book doesn’t mean I can’t join the library,’ retorted Graham, with a grin. And then: ‘Anyway, it’s not my problem. It’s yours.’
Jason nodded. ‘Where are they?’
‘In there.’ Graham jerked his head back towards the office building. ‘I didn’t know what else to do with them until you returned. Coming to meet them?’
Jason shrugged and then slid wearily out of the vehicle. ‘Do I have any choice?’ he questioned dryly. ‘Okay, okay, let’s go. But I could surely use a shower and a change of clothes.’
Graham led the way up wooden steps into the air-conditioned office building. They entered a long narrow hallway with several doors opening from it. Graham opened the first of these and they entered a room of generous proportions entirely dominated by the heavy desk that stood square in the centre of the polished wooden floor. Perched on a corner of the desk was a young woman smoking a cigarette and passing the time by blowing smoke-rings into the air. At the far side of the desk a young man was standing staring through the meshed grill of the window, but he turned abruptly at their entrance and gave Jason a derogatory glance. ‘Well, well,’ he remarked, rather sarcastically, ‘Wilde himself! Surprise, surprise!’
The girl had slid off the desk now and also stood regarding him, a strange expression in the depths of eyes that were amazingly green. They were set in a face that while not possessing actual beauty held character and animation, and Jason understood why Graham had been so enthusiastic. Honey-gold hair hung to her shoulders, and was at present controlled by a wide band round her head. She was wearing mud-coloured levis and a cream shirt, and the masculine attire accentuated rather than detracted from her femininity.
‘Well,’ said Paul Mannering again. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything, Jason? I gather from Wilson that you didn’t know we were coming.’
‘No, I did not,’ agreed Jason, folding his arms and regarding them coolly, his cigarette between his lips. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me first of all why this young woman is here. You – we can leave till later!’ There was insolence in his tone.
Paul Mannering’s face flushed with colour, but the girl didn’t turn a hair. She merely took a final draw on her own cigarette, blew a couple more smoke-rings, and then stood on the stub, almost defiantly. Jason felt angry. How dared Harold Mannering send his son out here without warning, with or without announcement? Who the hell did he think he was? Why should he, Jason, have to make a man out of a layabout like Paul Mannering? And what was more to the point of the infuriation he was feeling, how dared Paul Mannering bring his current girl-friend with him, just for kicks? Surely he knew his father wouldn’t stand for that!
‘This young woman is Nicola King,’ said Paul now, his colour subsiding a little, and a belligerent expression taking its place. ‘Contrary to the lurid ideas that are buzzing round your brain she is not my responsibility. She’s all Dad’s.’
Jason’s brows drew together in a dark scowl. ‘What does that mean?’
The girl moved, and a half-smile lifted the corners of her mouth. ‘It means, Mr. Wilde, that I am what I told your Mr. Wilson I am, a secretary, nothing more, nothing less.’
Jason gave her a scathing look. ‘And what are you doing here, Miss King? Inter-Anglia needs no secretaries in the middle of the Abyrra desert. Or has Mannering taken leave of his senses? After all, sending Paul out here is hardly the action of a sensible man!’
‘You watch your tongue,’ snapped Paul Mannering angrily.
‘I’m not a contortionist,’ muttered Jason, taking his cigarette out of his mouth. ‘Miss King, suppose you explain a little more!’
Nicola King stretched, drawing attention to the curving slenderness of her body. ‘Mr. Wilde, we have been travelling since early this morning. I am hot and tired, and as we have been hanging around here for the best part of two hours waiting for you to return I don’t think it’s unreasonable to request that we be allowed a shower, a change of clothes and something to eat before feeling inclined to answer your rather obvious questions. Believe me, my reasons for being here are strictly non-social. If I had wanted an exciting life, I would hardly have chosen an oil drilling rig, miles out in the desert, where the heat and the flies and the total absence of civilized pursuits make my toes curl!’
Jason’s eyes narrowed. He couldn’t help but admire her spirit. She had more confidence than Mannering’s son, even if he had had a public school education and delighted in making the headlines with one or other of his crazy schemes. But that did not endear her to Jason. He considered her self-opinionated and hard, and he speculated cynically on her relationship to the Mannerings. If she was not Paul’s girl-friend, he deplored the methods she must have used to get Harold Mannering to allow her to come out here.
‘Graham,’ he said harshly, ‘take the lady to Caxton’s bungalow. See she has everything she wants, and after she’s improved her temper as well as her appearance, bring her over to my place.’
Graham nodded, and Nicola King was forced to accompany him out of the door. But the glance she cast in Jason’s direction was killing. Already the swift African night was falling and outside a velvety darkness melted the heat of the day. After they had gone, Jason leaned back against the door and studied his chairman’s son rather disparagingly.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘what’s the idea?’
Mannering’s eyes widened. ‘Idea? What idea? Do you mean me being here? Or Nicola?’
‘A little of both.’
‘Like I said, it’s nothing to do with me. Do you imagine I asked to come out here? Good God, if there’d been any way of getting out of it I would have taken it. But while my hands are tied, moneywise—’ He shrugged his slim shoulders. ‘Anyway, it can’t last.’
‘What can’t?’
‘Me, being out here!’ Paul fumbled for his cigarettes and then muttered: ‘Thanks’ as Jason offered him one. When it was lit he continued: ‘I suppose you’ll get all the sordid details from Dad so I might as well tell you my story first. There was this girl—’
‘There always is,’ remarked Jason laconically.
‘Yeah, I know. And I’m always the sucker! But this doll was crazy about me, and I’m only human after all. How was I to know she’d take me seriously? Anyway, it turned out her dad was an ex-wrestler or something. He practically kidnapped me one night after I’d stopped seeing her. He went berserk!’ Paul’s young face blanched at the memory. ‘Anyhow, to cut a long story short, the police were called and the press got to know and there was a God-awful stink! You can imagine what kind of coverage it got. The girl said she was pregnant, but she wasn’t, our doctor proved that, thank heaven! But naturally it’s left a pretty nasty situation, and Dad thought it was time I got out of the country for a while. I agreed. I didn’t know he had this in mind.’
Jason’s dark brows were raised. ‘I see,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I guessed as much. How old are you now, Paul – twenty, twenty-one? Hell, I don’t ever remember being as young as you!’
‘I’m twenty-two, actually,’ replied Paul sullenly. ‘You’re not so different. What about that Ellis woman?’
Jason shrugged. ‘A little different, I think, Paul. Anyway, that’s beside the point, I suppose. You’re here now, and we’re stuck with you. But by heaven, you’re not going to lie around here. You’ll work, boy, believe me, you’ll work!’
Paul’s colour deepened again. ‘Dad knew what he was doing when he sent me here, didn’t he?’ he muttered. ‘Home from bloody home!’
‘Never mind, kid. He may take pity on you. But that still doesn’t explain that girl’s arrival. Who the hell is she? If she’s not your girl-friend, what is she?’
‘You’d better wait and ask Dad,’ retorted Paul, sniffing. ‘Now, where do I shack down?’
Jason straightened, and opened the door, pausing momentarily in the aperture. ‘I guess you could share with young Collins,’ he said. ‘He’s one of the drilling crew. He’s about your age.’
‘I’d prefer to be alone,’ said Paul moodily.
‘I expect you would. However, there are only a certain number of bungalows here, and Caxton’s is only empty because he’s home on compassionate leave. His wife’s just had their fifth child. So for the present, you’ll have to be content with sharing with Collins. That is, unless you can persuade your travelling companion that her journey wasn’t really necessary?’
‘I’ve told you,’ exclaimed Paul. ‘Nicola is not my concern.’
Jason studied him a moment, and then shrugged. ‘Okay, let’s go. I’ll drop you off and introduce you to Collins on my way to my bungalow. He’ll take you over to the cookhouse later, and see you get a meal. Tomorrow we’ll consider what we can find for you to do.’
After he had got Paul settled with young Tony Collins, Jason drove thankfully to his own bungalow, and after parking the Land-Rover, mounted the steps wearily. Ali met him in the hall.
‘At last you have come,’ he said complainingly. ‘The meal – it has been ready this half-hour.’
Jason grimaced. ‘Well, I guess it’ll have to wait another half-hour, Ali. I’m hot and sweaty, and I need a shower, not to mention a change of clothes.’
Ali pulled a long-suffering face, but Jason merely gave him a pat on the back and walked into his bedroom. The shower, despite being lukewarm, was refreshing, and clean cotton pants and a thin cotton knitted shirt felt good. He combed his thick hair, and re-entered the hall to cross it to the lounge. The bungalows were simply constructed with one long room serving as dining room and lounge, and the other side of the central hall was divided into bedroom and bathroom. The oil company erected these air-conditioned living quarters wherever they went, providing civilized accommodation for men who spent hours daily in entirely uncivilized conditions. Ali’s quarters and the kitchen were out back, while at the front of the building was a verandah where one could sit in the cool of the evening. And the evenings could be very cold.
But now Jason was glad to accept the iced lager that Ali had waiting for him in the lounge and stifled an angry exclamation when the telephone rang insistently. Lifting the receiver, he said: ‘Wilde speaking,’ in a curt tone.
‘Jason? Is that you?’ The voice was faint but familiar.
‘Yes, Harold, it’s me,’ said Jason dryly, recognizing the voice of his superior back in London.
‘You sound angry, Jason,’ said Sir Harold Mannering, chuckling. ‘I gather Paul and Nicola have arrived. Am I right?’
Jason swallowed half his lager at a gulp. ‘You’re damn right,’ he answered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘What’s the idea? Unloading your problems on to me?’
‘Oh, you can handle Paul, Jason. Has he told you what happened here?’
‘His version,’ remarked Jason coldly. ‘Okay, I admit, Paul doesn’t cause many problems, but why send the girl?’
Sir Harold laughed. ‘Now you must confess, it wasn’t such an unpleasant surprise, was it?’ he said cheerfully.
Jason’s brows drew together frowningly. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Harold?’ he muttered. ‘Sending a girl like that out here when I already have problems enough with the men!’
Sir Harold sounded less amiable. ‘Steady on, Jason,’ he said shortly. ‘You aren’t chairman yet, you know.’
Jason breathed hard through his nose. ‘Harold,’ he said tightly, ‘I want Nicola King back in England at the earliest opportunity.’
Sir Harold cleared his throat. ‘Are you ordering me, Jason?’
Jason sighed. ‘Hell, no, Harold! Look, try to see it my way, if Paul needs a feminine shoulder to cry on, let him take himself off to Gitana like the rest of the crew. Why should he bring his girl-friend out here? I warn you – the men won’t like it.’
Sir Harold’s amiability returned. ‘Now I know you’re joking, Jason,’ he said, chuckling. ‘You know damn nicely, Nicola’s not interested in Paul.’
Jason ran a hand across his forehead. He was tired and in need of sleep, and Sir Harold’s words were not making sense any more. Making a last attempt to understand the situation, he said:
‘Okay, okay, Harold. Why is she here?’
Sir Harold seemed to hesitate. ‘Well, she’s a pretty good secretary, Jason. She’s worked in my office for the last eleven months, and I’m pretty sure you need some help with those reports. Don’t deny that they’re always late in arriving. Look here, the girl wanted to come out with Paul, and while I know it’s irregular, well – I’m sure you can handle it.’
Jason shook his head, finished his lager and signalled to Ali to provide him with another. ‘How long am I expected to keep her here?’ he said tautly. ‘I warn you – this is your responsibility, not mine.’
Sir Harold sniffed. ‘Well, I must admit, you’re a pretty ungrateful devil, Jason,’ he said broodingly. ‘Anyway, Nicola has another assignment. She’s to keep an eye on Paul for me. I don’t trust that boy out of my sight.’
‘Short of running amok in a harem, there’s little trouble he can get himself into here,’ returned Jason sarcastically. ‘Anyway, to introduce more mundane problems, I’m happy to state that the men return to work tomorrow.’
‘Ah, you’ve seen Mohammed, then?’
‘Yes, this afternoon.’
‘What percentage?’
‘Three.’
‘Good, good!’ Sir Harold sounded delighted. ‘You’ve done well Jason. I’m immensely pleased. I’m sure the board will be, too.’
Jason grimaced. ‘Don’t I warrant a bonus?’ he asked dryly.
‘You surely do.’
‘Then take the girl back!’ Jason’s tones were flat.
‘Give her a chance, Jason,’ exclaimed Sir Harold. ‘Heck, she’s just arrived. Let her prove herself. Don’t be so stubborn!’
‘Prove herself?’ Jason shook his head again. ‘You’re losing me again, Harold. Okay, okay, leave it for now. I’ll handle it. I’m too tired right now to argue with you.’
Sir Harold hung up chuckling, and after he had replaced his receiver Jason sat staring at the phone with puzzled eyes. It wasn’t like Sir Harold to be so obtuse. What in hell did he think he was doing? Unless he imagined that by sending a suitable applicant out to Castanya he might persuade him to give up his bachelor status. For long enough Sir Harold had been trying to get him settled. Maybe this was his final effort. Even so, it was an unsatisfactory solution, but the only one he could come up with.
CHAPTER TWO (#u3b0709df-4866-5680-8017-f8ff4fa57213)
IN the absent Caxton’s bungalow, Nicola King was taking a shower. The water which sprayed from the tank was warm, but invigorating, and she moved beneath its spray sensuously, loving the feel of the water against her hot skin. Despite the primitive conditions she was experiencing a sense of well-being and satisfaction. She was here, at Castanya; and there was absolutely nothing Jason Wilde could do about it.
She smiled as she recalled his outraged anger when he had discovered her presence on the site. Perhaps he had had enough of women for the time being, but she intended to see that he changed his mind. And then …
Her expression hardened. Jason Wilde would find out that there were still some things he had to learn. He was so big, so powerful, so arrogantly assured of himself. Well, she would change all that. Just how, she was not sure. But she would find a way, of that she was certain. After all, everything had gone according to plan so far. She was here, when everything had been against her achieving such a thing. She gave a slight grimace. It hadn’t been easy. Sir Harold had had to be persuaded, cajoled, gently flattered. He was a man like other men. And Nicola knew she was a woman men found attractive. Besides, there had been a sense of power in controlling a man like Sir Harold Mannering.
She turned off the shower, and stepped out of the cubicle. Wrapping herself in the voluminous folds of a huge bathsheet, she wound it sarong-wise round her body and walked into the bedroom. Seating herself on the bed, she began to brush her thick hair until it was a sleek corn-coloured curtain about her shoulders. As she studied her appearance in the mirror of the dressing table she felt a faint twinge of regret, of conscience, almost. Was that hard-eyed creature intent on revenge really herself? Was she really determining to wreck a man’s life? Where was her warmth and gentleness? Where was the eager young woman with confidence in herself and a zest for life?
She looked away from her image. That girl was gone – for ever. Banished by the careless actions of the man she had met only half an hour ago. Not that he was aware of the havoc he had wrought in her life. She doubted very much whether he was aware of the full extent of the havoc he had wrought in her sister’s life. But he would become aware of it, of that she had no doubt. And when he did – then she would have her revenge.
She dressed in a slim-fitting shift of apricot cotton, left her hair loose about her shoulders, and applied a little eye-shadow and some lipstick. It was no good endeavouring a full make-up. The heat would cake foundation applications to her skin in no time.
As she was completing her toilet she heard a tapping at the door of the bungalow, and she emerged into the hall, and called ‘Come in!’
Graham Wilson came through the door, smiling broadly. ‘Well?’ he said cheerfully. ‘Did you find everything you needed?’
Nicola smiled back. ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘Thank you.’ She glanced into the lounge. ‘Won’t you come in? I think there are some drinks in the cabinet there.’
Graham flushed. ‘Er – no, thanks, if you don’t mind. Jason is expecting you, and I think we ought to be going.’
Nicola nodded understandingly. ‘Ah, I see. Mr. Wilde. You find him a hard taskmaster?’
‘Heck, no!’ Graham was youthfully vehement. ‘Jason’s a grand chap to work with. All the fellows like him. But he hasn’t much patience with late-comers, and he knows I came to collect you.’
Nicola decided this was no time to attempt to alienate the image Graham Wilson had of his boss, so she just said: ‘Hang on while I get my bag,’ and then followed him out of the bungalow.
They walked to Jason Wilde’s bungalow, and it gave Nicola a chance to take a more detailed look at the site. The rows of living quarters edged a central highway, and at the far end a long low building was brightly lit, the music emanating from its interior indicating that this must be some sort of social centre.
Graham, sensing her speculation, said: ‘That’s the clubhouse. There’s a pool out back of there, and we really appreciate it after a day at the rig. Most of the men work a shift system, and the clubhouse is open day and night. There’s a restaurant,’ – he grinned, ‘I guess you’d call it a canteen, and the men can get a meal when they finish their stint. They work four days on and three off, generally. There are no accepted weekends here, like back home, and every month the men get a full week’s leave. Usually they go down to Gitana, on the coast. There’s plenty of activity at Gitana.’
‘So I noticed,’ remarked Nicola, nodding. ‘Our plane came down there. We drove through the town. It’s a little like Port of Spain, isn’t it?’
‘You’ve been to Trinidad?’ Graham sounded surprised.
‘Just a couple of months ago. With Sir Harold.’
‘Oh, I see. I didn’t realize—’ Graham broke off his train of thought. ‘Tell me, Miss King, how did you persuade our chairman to allow you to come out here?’
Nicola smiled. ‘That’s my secret,’ she replied evenly. ‘How about you? How long do you expect to be out here?’
‘Until the pipeline’s working. Right now it’s barely a third completed. That’s Jason’s problem. The local Sheikh is making things pretty difficult for us.’
Nicola nodded. ‘I see. What do you think Paul will have to do?’
‘Mannering?’ Graham shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Probably Jason will fix him up. Does he like getting his hands dirty?’
‘I really couldn’t say.’ Nicola was brief, and then they had reached the bungalow where Jason was living.
‘Here we are,’ called Graham, mounting the steps ahead of Nicola, and leading the way into the lounge.
Jason Wilde was lounging in a chair, a glass of lager in his fingers, and he glanced up wryly at their entrance. ‘You’re a little late for dinner, Miss King,’ he remarked sardonically.
Nicola, who was feeling ravenously hungry now, felt furiously angry. She was sure he was well aware of her emptiness, and had deliberately eaten early to force her into waiting until their interview was over when she would have to go to the eating place where all the men would be gathered.
However, she was an adept at concealing her feelings, and she replied, quite coolly: ‘That’s perfectly all right, Mr. Wilde. I can wait until later. Perhaps Mr. Wilson would be so kind as to bring a tray to my bungalow?’
Graham was about to accept this proposition when Jason got broodingly to his feet. ‘My men are not waiters,’ he said harshly. ‘You can go, Graham. I can handle this.’
‘Yes. Yes, sir!’ Graham turned and left them, with a slightly regretful glance in Nicola’s direction.
Nicola managed to retain her calm expression, while inwardly she seethed. Obviously the task she had set herself was going to be far more difficult than even she had imagined. Back in London, planning this situation, she had vaguely imagined that after his initial annoyance Jason Wilde might conceivably come to appreciate her presence, but apparently she had underestimated him. He was far more calculating than she had thought. Hard all through, like steel. And then she remembered Louise, and her own determination hardened to match his.
Even so, it was impossible not to appreciate the man himself. She could easily see why Louise had been so impossibly infatuated with him. He was so much different from George, or Michael either, for that matter. Not that she, personally, found his raw masculinity appealing. There was something primitive about him that stirred the basest emotions inside her, and she realized she would have to work hard to achieve any kind of victory with him. His height immediately put her at a disadvantage, and the width of his shoulders owed nothing to artifice. But it was the hard, uncompromising features, and the thick hair that grew low on his neck and was repeated in the brown muscularity of his arms and chest that gave one the impression of leashed virility, and brutal strength. She shivered suddenly, hoping this task she had set herself would never get out of hand. Somehow she had the feeling that if it did she would be unable to control it.
Then she chided herself. Was she such a coward? Was she to give up simply because the task was proving more complex? She must think of David and Goliath; or Samson and Delilah, her subconscious taunted her mockingly. A smile curved her mouth unwillingly, and then she saw his eyes darken angrily.
‘What is amusing you, Miss King?’ he asked, in a hard tone. ‘I shouldn’t have thought the prospect of several weeks under conditions intolerable to most women would appeal to a butterfly like yourself!’
‘A butterfly?’ she exclaimed, in annoyance. ‘I’m no butterfly. I have to work for my living.’
‘Indeed?’ Jason’s expression was derisive. ‘And how well do you know Sir Harold Mannering?’
Nicola stiffened. ‘As well as any secretary knows her boss,’ she replied.
‘Is that so? Then how come you were able to persuade him to let you come out here? I mean – that’s no mean achievement.’
‘I don’t like your insinuations, Mr. Wilde.’
‘Don’t you? How terrible!’ he mocked her. ‘But then a woman in your position hasn’t much chance of retaliation, has she?’
Nicola’s fingers stung across his cheek almost before she could prevent them, and Jason caught her wrist in a vice-like grip. ‘Don’t you ever dare to do that again!’ he muttered savagely, ‘or I may forget that whatever your designation I am a gentleman, and respond in kind!’
Nicola was trembling, and she wrenched her wrist away shakily. ‘Then – then don’t say things like that!’ she snapped angrily. ‘You’ve absolutely no evidence on which to base remarks of that sort!’
‘Haven’t I? Well, I have the evidence of my own eyes, and you’re simply not the kind of woman to come out here for no reason.’
‘I – I have a reason. I’m to help you – and keep an eye on Paul.’
‘Very neat.’ Jason turned away, walking to the drinks cabinet and selecting a bottle. After a stiff whisky, he said: ‘Okay, we won’t argue about your relationship with Harold. Quite frankly, I’m too tired to attempt to sort it all out. But I have my opinions. You wouldn’t deny me them?’
Nicola did not reply, but merely shook her head. As her temper subsided she felt annoyed with herself. She rubbed her wrist that pained a little. This would never do. She couldn’t have Jason Wilde imagining she was some kind of easy woman. That wasn’t at all the image she wanted to create. And somehow no matter what his own morals might be she could not see him finding a woman like that attractive. No, somehow she had to assume a much less aggressive personality. But how? How?
She considered reverting to woman’s oldest weapon, tears, but then decided against it. Somehow she didn’t think they would wash with Jason Wilde either.
Now he said: ‘Can I offer you a drink? It’s the least I can do.’
Nicola bit her lip. ‘Just a fruit juice, please,’ she said quietly, and suffered the look of scorn that crossed his face before he turned and supplied her with an iced lime and lemon. Just then Ali appeared in the doorway, his huge dark eyes widening when he saw Nicola.
‘Is there anything you want, sir?’ he asked importantly, but Jason merely shook his head. However, Ali was not one to waste his opportunities, and he looked questioningly at Nicola as he said: ‘Perhaps the lady would like something to eat, sir? Or has she already eaten?’
Jason’s eyes darkened, and then, before he could reply, Nicola said: ‘Why, how charming of your – er – houseboy, Mr. Wilde. And how thoughtful, too. Particularly as you were so disappointed that I arrived late for dinner.’
Ali grinned. ‘I will get the lady some curry and some fruit, yes?’ he asked, looking at Jason. ‘And perhaps some good coffee!’
Jason gave an exclamation, and then shrugged. ‘Oh, do what you like,’ he muttered broodingly, and Nicola hid a smile. She seemed to have scored at last.
‘May I sit down?’ she asked, subsiding on to a chair without waiting for his agreement. ‘These are quite comfortable bungalows, aren’t they? I mean – air-conditioning and so on. Not exactly what you’d expect to find in the middle of the desert.’
Jason leaned against the drinks cabinet, surveying her intently. ‘Just what did you expect to find, Miss King?’ he asked lazily.
Nicola sighed, and lay back in her chair. ‘I thought we’d agreed to stop this baiting,’ she said quietly. ‘Have you travelled much, Mr. Wilde?’
‘I imagine you would think so,’ he returned broodingly. ‘Have you?’
‘Since coming to work for Sir Harold, yes,’ she answered. ‘We went to South America in March, and Trinidad in August. This is my first visit to the Middle East.’
‘And what do you think of it?’
She shrugged. ‘Primitive – but with definite possibilities.’
Jason shook his head. ‘How old are you, Miss King?’
‘I’m twenty-four, Mr. Wilde. How old are you?’
Jason was taken aback. ‘Thirty-seven,’ he replied shortly.
‘And you’ve never got married?’
She saw a strange look cross his face. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘How about you?’
Nicola sighed. ‘I was engaged once. It was broken off a year ago.’
‘Is that so? About the time you came to work for Sir Harold, in fact.’
‘Sir Harold had nothing to do with my broken engagement,’ she replied, rather shortly, and realized he didn’t believe her.
However, Ali returned just then with a faultlessly laid tray containing a delicious-smelling dish of chicken curry, and another containing an assortment of citrus fruit. A jug of coffee completed the meal, and Nicola smiled at him gratefully.
She glanced at Jason. ‘What is your man’s name? I’d like to thank him.’
But Jason didn’t have to answer. Ali was perfectly capable of doing that for himself. ‘I am Ali, miss,’ he said, bowing low. ‘And it was my pleasure to prepare a meal for so beautiful a lady as yourself!’
Nicola smiled, offered her thanks, and then endeavouring to ignore Jason applied herself to the food. The curry was very hot, and Jason remarked, rather mockingly:
‘Ali makes the food so hot that the climate seems cool by comparison.’
Nicola nodded, taking several gulps of the lime and lemon to cool her mouth. However, it was very enjoyable, once she was used to the spiciness of it all, and she cleared her plate, and ate some grapes and an orange to finish. As she drank her coffee, Jason Wilde offered her a cigarette which she gratefully accepted.
‘What are you going to give Paul to do?’ she asked then.
Jason shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Something energetic, I think. To take a little of that pugnaciousness out of him!’
‘You don’t like him – why?’
‘I neither like nor dislike him. He’s merely an example of the futile waste of youth.’
Nicola lifted her shoulders. ‘Were you never young?’
‘Not as young as him, no!’ Jason flung himself into a chair. ‘As you’re here, Harold says I have to use your – er – secretarial talents.’
‘I know. I don’t mind. I like working.’
‘You amaze me. Who did you work for before you joined Inter-Anglia?’
‘A small advertising company. I was the secretary there.’
Jason bent his head, digesting this information. Then he said: ‘Anyway, as you are here, I think I ought to warn you that this is not England, and the customs of this country have, to a certain extent, to be adhered to.’
‘What do you mean?’ Nicola frowned.
‘I mean that there are a number of Arabs working on the site. Their encampment is beyond the camp. You’ll see it in the morning. They live there with their wives and children. It’s their normal life. They’re naturally nomads. But their women are protected to a far greater degree than are ours. And you being here might cause a positive furore when the Sheikh gets to know.’
Nicola smiled. She couldn’t take him seriously. ‘The Sheikh,’ she echoed softly. ‘How romantic!’
Jason stared at her angrily. ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t get any ideas in that direction! Sheikhs are not romantic figures of the mid-twenties movie screen. They are men, like other men, and most of them consider European women self-seeking and virtueless!’
Nicola’s eyes widened. ‘You certainly paint a very depressing picture, Mr. Wilde,’ she remarked dryly. ‘However, I can take care of myself, so I shouldn’t worry unduly.’
‘I don’t,’ muttered Jason vehemently. ‘Believe me, my only anxieties concern the rig and the pipeline, not your person! What you do, and the outcome of your actions only concerns me in so far as they affect my schedule here.’
Nicola felt anger overtaking all other emotions. She had never met a man who was so infuriatingly indifferent to her.
‘If you don’t mind,’ she said, getting to her feet, ‘I should like to go to bed now!’
Jason rose too, regarding her with eyes that held a tinge of sardonic amusement. ‘I should,’ he replied, nodding. ‘Tomorrow will be a long day. We rise here about five-thirty, and work starts at six-thirty. Think you can make it?’
His tone was derisive, and she stiffened. ‘Oh, yes, Mr. Wilde,’ she replied tautly, ‘I can make it.’
‘Good. I’ll have Ali escort you back to Caxton’s bungalow. At least I can’t have Sir Harold accusing me of allowing you to wander unescorted about the camp!’
‘That won’t be necessary!’ snapped Nicola, even as she knew she would not be able to distinguish which bungalow was hers. But her temper had got the better of her, and she could not restrain her retort.
Jason half-smiled, rather unpleasantly. ‘Is that so?’ he drawled. ‘Okay. Good night, Miss King. Sleep well.’
Nicola stared at him. She ought to have known he would take every opportunity to humiliate her. Collecting her handbag, she walked to the door, but before she could pass through it, Jason said:
‘Wait! I’ll walk with you.’
Nicola stared at him, unwillingly aware that in other circumstances she would have found him very attractive. There was something about the huskiness of his voice and the lazy, panther-like way he moved that made her intensely conscious of him.
‘Thank you,’ was all she said now, and preceded him out of the door and down the steps to the packed sandy earth of the track.
They walked in silence, and when they reached her bungalow, he merely said ‘Good night,’ before walking silently away. Nicola watched him go, his hands thrust into the pockets of the close-fitting cream pants he was wearing, his dark head bent as he seemed deep in thought, and then she hastily ran up the steps and into the bungalow.
She shook off the feeling of apprehension that had suddenly engulfed her. This task she had set herself seemed suddenly frightening, and she realized it was a combination of the isolation, and the night, and the man himself that was responsible for her sudden indecision.
Her clothes were still in the two suitcases she had brought with her, but apart from drawing out a pair of nylon pyjamas, she didn’t bother to unpack them, and after undressing merely cleaned her teeth before climbing wearily into the hard narrow bed. Actually, though, after a time, she realized the bed was quite comfortable, and the heat which had abated had left her glad of the warmth of the blankets. She snuggled her chin beneath the covers, and closed her eyes. But sleep was elusive. So many things had happened, and her mind buzzed with ideas and speculations, most of them centring on the man she had come out here to find, Jason Wilde.
Thinking of him brought thoughts of her sister Louise, and she wondered rather anxiously how she was getting along in the flat without her. Still, she had little Jane, and Tony, and the part-time job that Nicola had found for her. It was strange how Louise, six years her senior, should always arouse this feeling of responsibility inside her. Maybe it was because Louise always seemed so helpless, so totally incapable of fending for herself. That was why Nicola felt such anger towards Jason Wilde. He must have known how helpless, how defenceless, Louise was, and yet he had used every trick in the book to make her infatuated with him. Why couldn’t he have chosen a woman more fitted to his personality? Someone who when discarded would not have fallen apart so completely.
Nicola rolled on to her stomach. Oh, yes, Jason Wilde had a lot to answer for, not least being the destruction of her own happiness. She punched her pillow. She would not think of it. She would not think of him. She had spent too many nights lying awake thinking of this affair.
An unearthly roar broke the stillness, and she sat up, sweating, staring into the darkness. What on earth had it been? Then she relaxed as realization came to her. Jason had said the Arabs were camped just outside the limits of the oil company’s colony. Doubtless they would have camels. She had heard the noise camels could make in the streets of Gitana.
She lay back again, forcing her mind to be blank. But it was no good. Too many thoughts came to plague her. She wondered how long she would be forced to stay out here, how long she would be allowed to stay. Sir Harold had said he himself would come out later, to see how Paul was progressing, and to visit the local sheikh. This would be the man Jason Wilde had spoken of. Nicola wondered what manner of man he was. Might it be possible to use him in her efforts to discredit Jason Wilde?
It was much too early to tell. She would have to wait and see. A good tactician never acted without being completely in possession of the facts of the situation. For the present she would do the job she had been employed to do and then …. She sighed. Anything might happen. And as a kind of bonus there was the undeniable excitement of life in this desert outpost. How could anyone sleep with so many possibilities before them?
CHAPTER THREE (#u3b0709df-4866-5680-8017-f8ff4fa57213)
THE following morning Nicola awakened early, disturbed by the sound of someone banging on the mesh of her window. She slid tiredly out of bed, and peered round the thin curtains which she had drawn the night before. Graham Wilson’s cheerful face gazed back at her.
‘It’s six o’clock,’ he said, grinning. ‘Jason said you’d want to be up and about.’
Nicola hid a grimace. ‘He would,’ she said, unable to prevent herself, and then smiled. ‘Yes, thank you, Mr. Wilson. What do I do about breakfast?’
Graham put his hands on his hips. ‘Jason said I was to take you to the canteen. He said the men would have to see you sooner or later, so it might as well be sooner.’
Nicola digested this. ‘All right. Give me five minutes.’
Graham nodded, and in a little more than that time Nicola emerged looking smart and businesslike in the levis and a clean blouse, her hair caught up in a knot on top of her head.
‘Hm!’ murmured Graham appreciatively. ‘That’s what’s been missing around here. I’d never have guessed!’
Nicola accepted his comments with a friendly smile. She liked Graham Wilson. There was something innately nice and honest about him. He wasn’t much taller than she was, and had a broad stocky frame, his hair curly and gingery. He certainly presented no problems, and that was what she liked most.
In the brilliance of morning the small camp was dwarfed by the immense expanse of open country beyond the bungalows. Yesterday, driving in the car with Paul, Nicola had been too tense to take a great deal of pleasure in her surroundings, but now she felt a sense of humility as she gazed upon the vast stretches of sand-dunes rising to curiously stark rock formations, and the pale lilac line of the mountains beyond. The sky was incredible, the bluest blue she had ever seen, and the sand was a wonderful rich colour with a texture she had not felt before. It was not like any sand she had ever seen, but of course this was no shoreline, this was desert, raw and savage and untamed, dangerous to anyone without knowledge of its ever-changing personality.
Then she gave her attention to her immediate surroundings, the regimented lines of bungalows, the clubhouse, the general stores, the electricity generator; common everyday things that she was used to living beside. It was strange that there was no vegetation. Some scrub managed to survive in the shade of the buildings, but there were no trees, no flowering shrubs such as adorned gardens back home. There seemed to be no natural supply of water here and she wondered where the supply came from.
There were several groups of men making their way to the canteen this morning, and they stared without compunction at Nicola, obviously amazed that she should have suddenly appeared. Some of the men spoke to Graham, and he explained vaguely that she had been sent out by the oil company to expedite the delivery of Jason’s paper work. There were some derisive stares at this piece of information, but most of the men seemed friendly enough, and after the initial sensation of being a peculiarity Nicola got used to their curiosity.
The canteen was a huge building, one end given over to a kind of bar, while the other served food of every variety. Nicola was amazed at the choice offered to her, but when Graham Wilson would have provided her with cereal, bacon, eggs, toast and coffee, she hastily demurred. She could only manage toast and coffee at this hour of the morning.
They found a table and sat down, and Graham said: ‘You’ll notice not all the men are English here. There are Italians, and French, as well as one or two other nationalities. When the papers are delivered it’s like an international convention.’
Nicola’s eyes widened. ‘You get papers?’ she exclaimed.
Graham grinned wryly. ‘They’re several days old by the time we get our hands on them. Still, it’s nice to keep up to date with the gossip.’
‘And where is your home?’ asked Nicola, buttering a slice of toast as she spoke.
‘In Birmingham. Didn’t you guess? Jason says the accent is inches thick!’
Nicola smiled. ‘No, I didn’t guess, although now you mention it …’ They both laughed, and immediately attracted the attention of the whole room. Nicola was surprised to find herself flushing. She had thought she was past such things.
As the meal progressed, Graham told her quite a lot about the organization at Castanya. Apparently Jason Wilde was the senior engineer on the site, and well versed in the troubles such enterprises could come up against.
‘Ian Mackenzie is in charge of the actual field,’ Graham continued, ‘and Jason’s out in the desert, supervising the pipeline, keeping it moving towards the sea.’
‘How much further does it have to go?’ Nicola asked. ‘Will it take much longer to complete it?’
‘About nine or ten months,’ answered Graham. ‘There are two hundred and sixty miles between Castanya and the seaport of Gitana. We’ve covered about sixty miles so far.’
‘And it will take so long to complete it?’
‘Sure. The pipes are in lengths of between twenty and forty feet and need to be welded together on the spot. That, combined with sand-storms, precarious working conditions and the rest, can make for pretty slow development.’
‘Do you have to bury the pipes?’
‘Well, it hardly seems sensible. Sand is a great mover, and a sand-storm can shift tons of sand from one area to another. A pipeline buried today could be exposed tomorrow. Consequently they have to be properly protected against corrosion. Then there are the pumping stations to be built. Obviously oil needs constant propulsion to keep it moving, and the pumping station here at Castanya wouldn’t have the power to push the oil over sand-dunes and across such a tremendous distance.’
‘I see.’ Nicola was impressed. ‘So that is what Mr. Wilde is accomplishing.’
‘Among other things, yes. He’s also having problems with the Sheikh. He doesn’t think the men we’re using – his men, that is – are getting paid enough. So Jason’s increased their percentage.’
‘It’s quite a complex affair, isn’t it? I never realized.’ Nicola finished her coffee and accepted a cigarette from Graham. ‘Is the field producing oil at the moment?’
‘Oh, yes. But it’s being stored in the main. Some has been sent down the pipeline already completed to the next station at Isthali. They have a storage tank there, bigger than the one here.’
‘And don’t you get bored? I mean – what do you do during your leisure hours?’
‘Well, various things. We play cards, read, write letters home, that sort of thing. And there’s the pool, and the tennis court if you feel really energetic. There’s even a cinema of a kind. It’s run by two of the men, and from time to time they give a show.’
Nicola nodded. ‘I suppose it’s like an army camp, really.’
‘I suppose it is. We’re more or less self-sufficient here. Sometimes one or two of the men drive into Gitana, but mostly we mess about here. Swimming is the most enjoyable pastime.’
‘Yes, but where does the water come from?’ exclaimed Nicola interestedly.
‘Oh, there’s an oasis, not too far from here. We’ve run a pipeline from there. Naturally, the water needs purifying, but there’s plenty of it.’
‘I see.’ Nicola bent her head. ‘What am I to do today? Do you know? Have you seen Mr. Wilde?’
Graham shrugged. ‘Not this morning. I’d hazard a guess that he’s a good many miles out along the pipeline already.’
‘Oh! You mean he’s gone?’
‘Yes. You’re left in my charge,’ grinned Graham. ‘I’m to show you around, introduce you to the men, supply you with information, and eventually set you to work.’ He looked apologetic.
‘But what about Paul?’ asked Nicola. ‘Where’s he?’
‘With Jason,’ replied Graham, pushing back his chair. ‘Don’t worry about your friend Mannering. He’ll survive!’
‘I’m not worried,’ protested Nicola, but she did feel a slight sense of pique that Jason Wilde should abandon her so carelessly to the care of his second-in-command. He was obviously showing her in the most blatant way possible that she need expect no assistance from him.
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Anne Mather
Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author
ANNE MATHER
Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the
publishing industry, having written over one hundred
and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than
forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.
This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance
for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,
passionate writing has given.
We are sure you will love them all!
I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.
I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.
These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.
We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
Dark Enemy
Anne Mather
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u1e77ed12-6eeb-5c5e-818d-fea0863a07f8)
About the Author (#u36149432-9d9c-586b-9f08-eddae9a0e93c)
Title Page (#u909c2f70-e5b4-54cc-b0f5-c7d72ac4d5cc)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u3b0709df-4866-5680-8017-f8ff4fa57213)
IT was hot, uncomfortably so, and inside the cloistered dwelling with its thick hanging tapestries and richly carved ceilings there was little air. A huge lamp made of bronze and burnished to a rich tone burned what little oxygen penetrated the thick walls, and not even the glowing arches, picked out with lapis lazuli, or the gold and blue mosaic of the floor could compensate for the cloying atmosphere of heavy perfume, strong wines, and the inherent scent of perspiring bodies.
The Sheikh Abi Ben Abdul Mohammed, lounging on cushions of satin and silk idly helping himself to handfuls of grapes, was every inch the eastern potentate and seemed totally oblivious of the heat or the unhealthy atmosphere. But Jason Wilde was aware of it, just as he was aware that the effort to control his temper was causing rivulets of sweat to slide down his spine, plastering his shirt to his back.
‘Look, Mohammed,’ he said tautly, ‘we’ve got to get this settled. You know that and I know that, so we might as well come to an agreement.’
Sheikh Mohammed studied his companion rather appraisingly, and then said coolly: ‘You must make the agreement, Wilde. After all, it is in your interests much more than mine!’ His tones were smooth and slightly derogatory, and Jason felt an immense urge to lift him out of his bed of cushions and thrust his fist down his throat. It would be so easy and so enjoyable. The man was like a snake, deliberately causing unrest, arousing the men so that they didn’t know where to turn, uncertain of their loyalties.
But he couldn’t touch him. They were not individuals, and no amount of wishful thinking would alter the fact that he was the representative of Inter-Anglia Oil, just as the Sheikh was the ruler, and therefore the spokesman, of this small state of Abrahm.
So instead of reacting violently he said, equally coolly: ‘Neverthless, Mohammed, it would be ludicrous of me to attempt to make any kind of agreement when I don’t know exactly what it is you want.’
The Sheikh leaned forward and with slow and purposely languid movements helped himself to a cigarette, and after one of the attendants who stood rigidly to attention behind him had dashed forward to light his cigarette he drew on it deeply before speaking again.
Jason got to his feet. Sitting on the floor was not conducive to comfort when one’s legs were long, and besides, the inactivity was infuriating. The Sheikh looked up at him rather derisively, and said:
‘But, Wilde, you know what I want. I want my men to have a – square deal, just as your own men do. I do not feel that at present this is so. Besides, you are visitors here, never forget that, and as such are only welcome so long as your presence is not annoying to me.’
Jason thrust his hands into the pockets of the cotton pants he was wearing, and controlled his features. ‘Without the resources of my company, Abrahm would not be able to mount such an operation,’ he replied, quite expressionlessly.
The Sheikh shrugged. ‘No. I agree, this is so. Nevertheless, without Abrahm’s natural resources there would be no operation.’
Jason heaved a sigh. As always in matters of this kind, the Sheikh was overwhelmingly obtuse, constantly creating impasse in their discussions by remarks of this kind. There was no answer to him, and Jason knew that no matter how impatient he might become he would just have to wait until the Sheikh was prepared to state his demands without preamble.
But it was difficult to remain impassive when to add to the overheated atmosphere of the Sheikh’s magnificent habitation there was Jason’s own impatience at this needless delay. They met enough obstacles in the course of their work without meeting the unnecessary obstinacy of the Sheikh.
But now the Sheikh seemed to decide a change of subject was warranted, and with annoying urbanity, he said: ‘Tell me, Wilde, what does a man like you derive from working here? You do not strike me as the kind of man who eschews the fleshpots for more, shall we say, aesthetic pursuits.’
Jason controlled his anger. It was typical that Mohammed should endeavour to direct the course of the conversation into these channels. He had an unhealthy interest in dissecting the men who came within his sphere, examining their lives and their motivations minutely.
‘Abrahm is not the first Middle Eastern country I have worked in,’ Jason said now. ‘As a member of an oil company, one has to be prepared to work in any part of the world.’
‘Yes?’ The Sheikh sounded thoughtful. ‘I suppose this is so. Nevertheless, I understand from reliable sources that you were offered a less active part in the proceedings, which you turned down.’
Jason wondered where the man obtained his information. His refusal to accept the board’s generous offer of a seat at their table had shocked his contemporaries. But just at present it suited him to be out of England, and Sir Harold had made it plain the offer was still open.
‘Your sources of information are very astute,’ he remarked now, walking lazily across the room, as though uncaring of the swift passing of time. He picked up a small bronze statue and examined it in detail, while the Sheikh watched his movements and pondered the mind of this annoying foreigner who seemed totally indifferent to his own status here.
‘So,’ said the Sheikh at last, summoning one of his servants who produced a heavy ashtray for him to stub out his cigarette. ‘We return to the subject in hand. You think perhaps I am being unkind when I say my people are being exploited?’
Jason swung round, a ready retort dying on his lips as he realized he had almost fallen again into the Sheikh’s trap.
‘Go on,’ he said quietly.
‘Very well. Would a few more pence bankrupt your company? I think not. The English and American oil barons are growing rich on the poverty of their investment areas. My people do not have television sets, or cars or even proper homes. The standard of living here in Abrahm is very low.’
Jason could have said that it would have been useless people having television sets in a country where there was no television station. He could have said that there was no money to build roads to drive cars along until the oil began pumping along the pipeline which was barely a third completed. He could have said that the oil company was providing work for those people to enable them to have a better standard of living.
But he said none of this. Instead, he allowed Mohammed to state his case, knowing full well that to argue would cause a stream of abuse, and possibly more trouble for the company in the long run. Eventually Mohammed grew tired of the Englishman’s silence, and said: ‘Well, Wilde! What is your answer? Are you prepared to listen to reason?’
‘I’m prepared to listen to anything that is reasonable,’ replied Jason dryly. ‘All right, Mohammed, I’ve been in touch with London, and they have given me permission to offer you a two and a half pence increase.’
Sheikh Mohammed’s lip curled. ‘Five,’ he said sharply.
Jason shrugged. ‘Three – and that’s my final offer.’
Sheikh Mohammed rubbed the side of his nose with a hand that literally glittered with the rings of emerald and ruby that sparkled there. Then he summoned one of his underlings and signified that he wished someone brought to the conference chamber. Jason moved restlessly, beginning to feel impatient again. Good God, how long was this going to go on? He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist, and gave an exclamation. It was already late afternoon and by the time he got back to the site the evening meal would be in the course of being prepared. That meant yet another day had been wasted.
Even so, it was pleasant to recall the comparative luxury of his air-conditioned bungalow, and the thought of a decent drink and some food was quite appealing. After all, it wasn’t his fault they were being held up, although he seemed to bear the brunt of the complaints from the boardroom in London.
Sheikh Mohammed had summoned Krashki, his chief minister, and Jason was forced to kick his heels for almost another half hour while they talked in undertones, their gesticulations eloquent of their conversation. Eventually, when Jason was on the verge of walking out of the conference altogether, Mohammed turned to him, his expression brooding but subdued.
‘Very well,’ he said, getting to his feet, his flowing robes giving him a dignity that European clothes would not, ‘we accept your terms. But it is to be understood that when Sir Harold Mannering comes out from England I shall discuss this further with him.’
He raised his hand as Jason would have replied, and swept out of the room like some emperor of old. His servants followed him closely and for a moment Jason remained where he was looking towards the doorway through which Sheikh Abi Ben Abdul Mohammed had passed. Then with an infuriated shake of his head he stood on the butt of his cigarette and strode after him, turning away from the inner quarters of the palace with its Moorish-styled architecture towards the searing blaze of the sunlit courtyard.
The brilliance of the sun was dazzling, and he slid his dark glasses on to his nose before walking swiftly across to where his Land-Rover was parked. He slid behind the wheel and heaved a sigh. There was a sense of relaxation in actual action after the enforced inactivity of the last couple of hours. Breathing deeply, he realized that anything was preferable to the cloying heat of the Sheikh’s apartments.
Turning on the engine, he drove out of the courtyard, ignoring the stares of the guards on the gate, and quickly rolled up his windows as the vehicle encountered the track outside which was little more than an extension of that desert that stretched between here and the drilling site. He thought Abrahm was one of the most barren places on the earth. Situated between Tunisia and Libya, with a port on the Mediterranean, it had little to commend it.
He had several miles to cover between Abyrra and Castanya where the oil company had set up their camp of bungalows, and as he drove he wondered why he had not chosen a more amenable spot in which to work. In his position he could have chosen any one of a dozen locations, but he liked the crew at Castanya, and if there was little more in Abrahm than sand, sand and more sand he wasn’t particularly bothered. He was not a man who desired a hectic social life and if the site got too boring for him there was always Gitana on the Mediterranean coast where a man could find entertainment in plenty.
He drove fast, his mind on the job ahead. Already they had wasted four days. Sheikh Mohammed was not the most reasonable of men. He used his influence carelessly, and had refused to meet anyone from the oil company until it suited his purpose. Even now, Jason was aware that the peace he had won was a precarious one and would only last as long as Sheikh Mohammed desired it to do so. There had been rumours of an uprising among the nomadic Bedouin tribes against the despotism of Mohammed, but Jason doubted whether anything would come of it. Either way the oil company stood in exactly the same position. They were a nonpolitical enterprise and he doubted whether if Mohammed was overthrown their position would be any easier. Oil was the country’s salvation; only the profits and the methods of its production could be in jeopardy.
The sun was beginning to go down when he mounted the high pass above the oil fields. In a country where inland there was so little vegetation, it was surprisingly beautiful, and only the stark drilling rigs gave any indication of the century they were living in. The desert was unchanging in its isolation, and the rocks threw back the rays of the setting sun in colours of red and orange and purple. The distant mountain range was tinged with the palest of mauves while the stars were beginning to glimmer in the velvet of the night sky. He descended the pass, crossed the stretch of desert between the rocks and the camp, and entered the small community of bungalows. The oil company had provided every amenity for its men, even to the extent of mounting a swimming pool, the water of which was rarely cool but always refreshing. There was a canteen, but some of the men preferred to cater for themselves. Jason was one of these, and as he also had rather a good cook-boy in the person of Ali, he managed very well. He had known Ali for several years, first meeting him when he was working on the Gulf. Since then, Ali had visited a great number of places with him, but he always liked to return to his desert birthplace.
As he reached the office building where the paperwork of the site and its accompanying pipeline was maintained, his second-in-command, Graham Wilson, came dashing out to meet him, waving his arms about vigorously, obviously desiring Jason to stop.
Jason brought the Land-Rover to a halt, and wound down the window, reaching for his cigarettes in the breast pocket of his cream denim shirt.
‘Yeah!’ he said resignedly. ‘What now?’
Wilson wrenched open the door of the Land-Rover and slid inside. Glancing round rather surreptitiously, he said: ‘How are things with you?’
Jason frowned. ‘Could be worse. Why?’
Graham Wilson hunched his shoulders. ‘Get an eyeful of that, over there!’ He pointed towards a low-slung black limousine, now sadly covered in fine dust but still magnificently designed.
Jason looked, put a cigarette between his lips, and as he flicked his lighter, said: ‘Who’s arrived?’ rather laconically. He didn’t feel he had the strength to instil himself with any more annoyance today, not after the last couple of hours with Sheikh Mohammed.
‘Mannering!’ said Graham dramatically.
‘Mannering!’ echoed Jason, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. ‘What in hell does Mannering want? I thought he left it to me to deal with this!’
‘Not Mannering, senior,’ exclaimed Graham, with the air of one who is imparting a confidence. ‘Paul Mannering! And he’s not alone, either. He’s brought his – er – secretary with him!’
‘God Almighty!’ Jason stared at Graham disbelievingly. ‘That little punk out here! What in hell for?’
Graham half-smiled. ‘I thought you’d be pleased, Jason. Wait till you get a load of the secretary, though!’
‘I’ll get a load of nobody!’ snapped Jason violently. ‘For heaven’s sake, Graham, is old Mannering going out of his mind? Sending that pip-squeak out here! But why? Why?’
Graham shrugged. ‘Well, as I hear it, old Mannering’s cut up rough about the way Paul’s been living. You know what I mean. Anyway, there was a cable came, just after you left for Abyrra, announcing that he was sending Paul out here to learn the oil business from the bottom up. He said he’d be getting in touch with you to give you a fuller picture.’
‘Decent of him!’ muttered Jason savagely. ‘But where does this secretary come in? I mean – does Daddy know about her?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ replied Graham, shrugging. ‘Quite honestly, I can’t believe he does. But I’m not grumbling. It’s so long since I’ve seen a white woman—’
‘Pack it in, Graham,’ said Jason bleakly. ‘It’s exactly three months since you saw a white woman. Besides, remember you’ve a wife back in England!’
‘Just because I’ve bought a book doesn’t mean I can’t join the library,’ retorted Graham, with a grin. And then: ‘Anyway, it’s not my problem. It’s yours.’
Jason nodded. ‘Where are they?’
‘In there.’ Graham jerked his head back towards the office building. ‘I didn’t know what else to do with them until you returned. Coming to meet them?’
Jason shrugged and then slid wearily out of the vehicle. ‘Do I have any choice?’ he questioned dryly. ‘Okay, okay, let’s go. But I could surely use a shower and a change of clothes.’
Graham led the way up wooden steps into the air-conditioned office building. They entered a long narrow hallway with several doors opening from it. Graham opened the first of these and they entered a room of generous proportions entirely dominated by the heavy desk that stood square in the centre of the polished wooden floor. Perched on a corner of the desk was a young woman smoking a cigarette and passing the time by blowing smoke-rings into the air. At the far side of the desk a young man was standing staring through the meshed grill of the window, but he turned abruptly at their entrance and gave Jason a derogatory glance. ‘Well, well,’ he remarked, rather sarcastically, ‘Wilde himself! Surprise, surprise!’
The girl had slid off the desk now and also stood regarding him, a strange expression in the depths of eyes that were amazingly green. They were set in a face that while not possessing actual beauty held character and animation, and Jason understood why Graham had been so enthusiastic. Honey-gold hair hung to her shoulders, and was at present controlled by a wide band round her head. She was wearing mud-coloured levis and a cream shirt, and the masculine attire accentuated rather than detracted from her femininity.
‘Well,’ said Paul Mannering again. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything, Jason? I gather from Wilson that you didn’t know we were coming.’
‘No, I did not,’ agreed Jason, folding his arms and regarding them coolly, his cigarette between his lips. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me first of all why this young woman is here. You – we can leave till later!’ There was insolence in his tone.
Paul Mannering’s face flushed with colour, but the girl didn’t turn a hair. She merely took a final draw on her own cigarette, blew a couple more smoke-rings, and then stood on the stub, almost defiantly. Jason felt angry. How dared Harold Mannering send his son out here without warning, with or without announcement? Who the hell did he think he was? Why should he, Jason, have to make a man out of a layabout like Paul Mannering? And what was more to the point of the infuriation he was feeling, how dared Paul Mannering bring his current girl-friend with him, just for kicks? Surely he knew his father wouldn’t stand for that!
‘This young woman is Nicola King,’ said Paul now, his colour subsiding a little, and a belligerent expression taking its place. ‘Contrary to the lurid ideas that are buzzing round your brain she is not my responsibility. She’s all Dad’s.’
Jason’s brows drew together in a dark scowl. ‘What does that mean?’
The girl moved, and a half-smile lifted the corners of her mouth. ‘It means, Mr. Wilde, that I am what I told your Mr. Wilson I am, a secretary, nothing more, nothing less.’
Jason gave her a scathing look. ‘And what are you doing here, Miss King? Inter-Anglia needs no secretaries in the middle of the Abyrra desert. Or has Mannering taken leave of his senses? After all, sending Paul out here is hardly the action of a sensible man!’
‘You watch your tongue,’ snapped Paul Mannering angrily.
‘I’m not a contortionist,’ muttered Jason, taking his cigarette out of his mouth. ‘Miss King, suppose you explain a little more!’
Nicola King stretched, drawing attention to the curving slenderness of her body. ‘Mr. Wilde, we have been travelling since early this morning. I am hot and tired, and as we have been hanging around here for the best part of two hours waiting for you to return I don’t think it’s unreasonable to request that we be allowed a shower, a change of clothes and something to eat before feeling inclined to answer your rather obvious questions. Believe me, my reasons for being here are strictly non-social. If I had wanted an exciting life, I would hardly have chosen an oil drilling rig, miles out in the desert, where the heat and the flies and the total absence of civilized pursuits make my toes curl!’
Jason’s eyes narrowed. He couldn’t help but admire her spirit. She had more confidence than Mannering’s son, even if he had had a public school education and delighted in making the headlines with one or other of his crazy schemes. But that did not endear her to Jason. He considered her self-opinionated and hard, and he speculated cynically on her relationship to the Mannerings. If she was not Paul’s girl-friend, he deplored the methods she must have used to get Harold Mannering to allow her to come out here.
‘Graham,’ he said harshly, ‘take the lady to Caxton’s bungalow. See she has everything she wants, and after she’s improved her temper as well as her appearance, bring her over to my place.’
Graham nodded, and Nicola King was forced to accompany him out of the door. But the glance she cast in Jason’s direction was killing. Already the swift African night was falling and outside a velvety darkness melted the heat of the day. After they had gone, Jason leaned back against the door and studied his chairman’s son rather disparagingly.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘what’s the idea?’
Mannering’s eyes widened. ‘Idea? What idea? Do you mean me being here? Or Nicola?’
‘A little of both.’
‘Like I said, it’s nothing to do with me. Do you imagine I asked to come out here? Good God, if there’d been any way of getting out of it I would have taken it. But while my hands are tied, moneywise—’ He shrugged his slim shoulders. ‘Anyway, it can’t last.’
‘What can’t?’
‘Me, being out here!’ Paul fumbled for his cigarettes and then muttered: ‘Thanks’ as Jason offered him one. When it was lit he continued: ‘I suppose you’ll get all the sordid details from Dad so I might as well tell you my story first. There was this girl—’
‘There always is,’ remarked Jason laconically.
‘Yeah, I know. And I’m always the sucker! But this doll was crazy about me, and I’m only human after all. How was I to know she’d take me seriously? Anyway, it turned out her dad was an ex-wrestler or something. He practically kidnapped me one night after I’d stopped seeing her. He went berserk!’ Paul’s young face blanched at the memory. ‘Anyhow, to cut a long story short, the police were called and the press got to know and there was a God-awful stink! You can imagine what kind of coverage it got. The girl said she was pregnant, but she wasn’t, our doctor proved that, thank heaven! But naturally it’s left a pretty nasty situation, and Dad thought it was time I got out of the country for a while. I agreed. I didn’t know he had this in mind.’
Jason’s dark brows were raised. ‘I see,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I guessed as much. How old are you now, Paul – twenty, twenty-one? Hell, I don’t ever remember being as young as you!’
‘I’m twenty-two, actually,’ replied Paul sullenly. ‘You’re not so different. What about that Ellis woman?’
Jason shrugged. ‘A little different, I think, Paul. Anyway, that’s beside the point, I suppose. You’re here now, and we’re stuck with you. But by heaven, you’re not going to lie around here. You’ll work, boy, believe me, you’ll work!’
Paul’s colour deepened again. ‘Dad knew what he was doing when he sent me here, didn’t he?’ he muttered. ‘Home from bloody home!’
‘Never mind, kid. He may take pity on you. But that still doesn’t explain that girl’s arrival. Who the hell is she? If she’s not your girl-friend, what is she?’
‘You’d better wait and ask Dad,’ retorted Paul, sniffing. ‘Now, where do I shack down?’
Jason straightened, and opened the door, pausing momentarily in the aperture. ‘I guess you could share with young Collins,’ he said. ‘He’s one of the drilling crew. He’s about your age.’
‘I’d prefer to be alone,’ said Paul moodily.
‘I expect you would. However, there are only a certain number of bungalows here, and Caxton’s is only empty because he’s home on compassionate leave. His wife’s just had their fifth child. So for the present, you’ll have to be content with sharing with Collins. That is, unless you can persuade your travelling companion that her journey wasn’t really necessary?’
‘I’ve told you,’ exclaimed Paul. ‘Nicola is not my concern.’
Jason studied him a moment, and then shrugged. ‘Okay, let’s go. I’ll drop you off and introduce you to Collins on my way to my bungalow. He’ll take you over to the cookhouse later, and see you get a meal. Tomorrow we’ll consider what we can find for you to do.’
After he had got Paul settled with young Tony Collins, Jason drove thankfully to his own bungalow, and after parking the Land-Rover, mounted the steps wearily. Ali met him in the hall.
‘At last you have come,’ he said complainingly. ‘The meal – it has been ready this half-hour.’
Jason grimaced. ‘Well, I guess it’ll have to wait another half-hour, Ali. I’m hot and sweaty, and I need a shower, not to mention a change of clothes.’
Ali pulled a long-suffering face, but Jason merely gave him a pat on the back and walked into his bedroom. The shower, despite being lukewarm, was refreshing, and clean cotton pants and a thin cotton knitted shirt felt good. He combed his thick hair, and re-entered the hall to cross it to the lounge. The bungalows were simply constructed with one long room serving as dining room and lounge, and the other side of the central hall was divided into bedroom and bathroom. The oil company erected these air-conditioned living quarters wherever they went, providing civilized accommodation for men who spent hours daily in entirely uncivilized conditions. Ali’s quarters and the kitchen were out back, while at the front of the building was a verandah where one could sit in the cool of the evening. And the evenings could be very cold.
But now Jason was glad to accept the iced lager that Ali had waiting for him in the lounge and stifled an angry exclamation when the telephone rang insistently. Lifting the receiver, he said: ‘Wilde speaking,’ in a curt tone.
‘Jason? Is that you?’ The voice was faint but familiar.
‘Yes, Harold, it’s me,’ said Jason dryly, recognizing the voice of his superior back in London.
‘You sound angry, Jason,’ said Sir Harold Mannering, chuckling. ‘I gather Paul and Nicola have arrived. Am I right?’
Jason swallowed half his lager at a gulp. ‘You’re damn right,’ he answered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘What’s the idea? Unloading your problems on to me?’
‘Oh, you can handle Paul, Jason. Has he told you what happened here?’
‘His version,’ remarked Jason coldly. ‘Okay, I admit, Paul doesn’t cause many problems, but why send the girl?’
Sir Harold laughed. ‘Now you must confess, it wasn’t such an unpleasant surprise, was it?’ he said cheerfully.
Jason’s brows drew together frowningly. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Harold?’ he muttered. ‘Sending a girl like that out here when I already have problems enough with the men!’
Sir Harold sounded less amiable. ‘Steady on, Jason,’ he said shortly. ‘You aren’t chairman yet, you know.’
Jason breathed hard through his nose. ‘Harold,’ he said tightly, ‘I want Nicola King back in England at the earliest opportunity.’
Sir Harold cleared his throat. ‘Are you ordering me, Jason?’
Jason sighed. ‘Hell, no, Harold! Look, try to see it my way, if Paul needs a feminine shoulder to cry on, let him take himself off to Gitana like the rest of the crew. Why should he bring his girl-friend out here? I warn you – the men won’t like it.’
Sir Harold’s amiability returned. ‘Now I know you’re joking, Jason,’ he said, chuckling. ‘You know damn nicely, Nicola’s not interested in Paul.’
Jason ran a hand across his forehead. He was tired and in need of sleep, and Sir Harold’s words were not making sense any more. Making a last attempt to understand the situation, he said:
‘Okay, okay, Harold. Why is she here?’
Sir Harold seemed to hesitate. ‘Well, she’s a pretty good secretary, Jason. She’s worked in my office for the last eleven months, and I’m pretty sure you need some help with those reports. Don’t deny that they’re always late in arriving. Look here, the girl wanted to come out with Paul, and while I know it’s irregular, well – I’m sure you can handle it.’
Jason shook his head, finished his lager and signalled to Ali to provide him with another. ‘How long am I expected to keep her here?’ he said tautly. ‘I warn you – this is your responsibility, not mine.’
Sir Harold sniffed. ‘Well, I must admit, you’re a pretty ungrateful devil, Jason,’ he said broodingly. ‘Anyway, Nicola has another assignment. She’s to keep an eye on Paul for me. I don’t trust that boy out of my sight.’
‘Short of running amok in a harem, there’s little trouble he can get himself into here,’ returned Jason sarcastically. ‘Anyway, to introduce more mundane problems, I’m happy to state that the men return to work tomorrow.’
‘Ah, you’ve seen Mohammed, then?’
‘Yes, this afternoon.’
‘What percentage?’
‘Three.’
‘Good, good!’ Sir Harold sounded delighted. ‘You’ve done well Jason. I’m immensely pleased. I’m sure the board will be, too.’
Jason grimaced. ‘Don’t I warrant a bonus?’ he asked dryly.
‘You surely do.’
‘Then take the girl back!’ Jason’s tones were flat.
‘Give her a chance, Jason,’ exclaimed Sir Harold. ‘Heck, she’s just arrived. Let her prove herself. Don’t be so stubborn!’
‘Prove herself?’ Jason shook his head again. ‘You’re losing me again, Harold. Okay, okay, leave it for now. I’ll handle it. I’m too tired right now to argue with you.’
Sir Harold hung up chuckling, and after he had replaced his receiver Jason sat staring at the phone with puzzled eyes. It wasn’t like Sir Harold to be so obtuse. What in hell did he think he was doing? Unless he imagined that by sending a suitable applicant out to Castanya he might persuade him to give up his bachelor status. For long enough Sir Harold had been trying to get him settled. Maybe this was his final effort. Even so, it was an unsatisfactory solution, but the only one he could come up with.
CHAPTER TWO (#u3b0709df-4866-5680-8017-f8ff4fa57213)
IN the absent Caxton’s bungalow, Nicola King was taking a shower. The water which sprayed from the tank was warm, but invigorating, and she moved beneath its spray sensuously, loving the feel of the water against her hot skin. Despite the primitive conditions she was experiencing a sense of well-being and satisfaction. She was here, at Castanya; and there was absolutely nothing Jason Wilde could do about it.
She smiled as she recalled his outraged anger when he had discovered her presence on the site. Perhaps he had had enough of women for the time being, but she intended to see that he changed his mind. And then …
Her expression hardened. Jason Wilde would find out that there were still some things he had to learn. He was so big, so powerful, so arrogantly assured of himself. Well, she would change all that. Just how, she was not sure. But she would find a way, of that she was certain. After all, everything had gone according to plan so far. She was here, when everything had been against her achieving such a thing. She gave a slight grimace. It hadn’t been easy. Sir Harold had had to be persuaded, cajoled, gently flattered. He was a man like other men. And Nicola knew she was a woman men found attractive. Besides, there had been a sense of power in controlling a man like Sir Harold Mannering.
She turned off the shower, and stepped out of the cubicle. Wrapping herself in the voluminous folds of a huge bathsheet, she wound it sarong-wise round her body and walked into the bedroom. Seating herself on the bed, she began to brush her thick hair until it was a sleek corn-coloured curtain about her shoulders. As she studied her appearance in the mirror of the dressing table she felt a faint twinge of regret, of conscience, almost. Was that hard-eyed creature intent on revenge really herself? Was she really determining to wreck a man’s life? Where was her warmth and gentleness? Where was the eager young woman with confidence in herself and a zest for life?
She looked away from her image. That girl was gone – for ever. Banished by the careless actions of the man she had met only half an hour ago. Not that he was aware of the havoc he had wrought in her life. She doubted very much whether he was aware of the full extent of the havoc he had wrought in her sister’s life. But he would become aware of it, of that she had no doubt. And when he did – then she would have her revenge.
She dressed in a slim-fitting shift of apricot cotton, left her hair loose about her shoulders, and applied a little eye-shadow and some lipstick. It was no good endeavouring a full make-up. The heat would cake foundation applications to her skin in no time.
As she was completing her toilet she heard a tapping at the door of the bungalow, and she emerged into the hall, and called ‘Come in!’
Graham Wilson came through the door, smiling broadly. ‘Well?’ he said cheerfully. ‘Did you find everything you needed?’
Nicola smiled back. ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘Thank you.’ She glanced into the lounge. ‘Won’t you come in? I think there are some drinks in the cabinet there.’
Graham flushed. ‘Er – no, thanks, if you don’t mind. Jason is expecting you, and I think we ought to be going.’
Nicola nodded understandingly. ‘Ah, I see. Mr. Wilde. You find him a hard taskmaster?’
‘Heck, no!’ Graham was youthfully vehement. ‘Jason’s a grand chap to work with. All the fellows like him. But he hasn’t much patience with late-comers, and he knows I came to collect you.’
Nicola decided this was no time to attempt to alienate the image Graham Wilson had of his boss, so she just said: ‘Hang on while I get my bag,’ and then followed him out of the bungalow.
They walked to Jason Wilde’s bungalow, and it gave Nicola a chance to take a more detailed look at the site. The rows of living quarters edged a central highway, and at the far end a long low building was brightly lit, the music emanating from its interior indicating that this must be some sort of social centre.
Graham, sensing her speculation, said: ‘That’s the clubhouse. There’s a pool out back of there, and we really appreciate it after a day at the rig. Most of the men work a shift system, and the clubhouse is open day and night. There’s a restaurant,’ – he grinned, ‘I guess you’d call it a canteen, and the men can get a meal when they finish their stint. They work four days on and three off, generally. There are no accepted weekends here, like back home, and every month the men get a full week’s leave. Usually they go down to Gitana, on the coast. There’s plenty of activity at Gitana.’
‘So I noticed,’ remarked Nicola, nodding. ‘Our plane came down there. We drove through the town. It’s a little like Port of Spain, isn’t it?’
‘You’ve been to Trinidad?’ Graham sounded surprised.
‘Just a couple of months ago. With Sir Harold.’
‘Oh, I see. I didn’t realize—’ Graham broke off his train of thought. ‘Tell me, Miss King, how did you persuade our chairman to allow you to come out here?’
Nicola smiled. ‘That’s my secret,’ she replied evenly. ‘How about you? How long do you expect to be out here?’
‘Until the pipeline’s working. Right now it’s barely a third completed. That’s Jason’s problem. The local Sheikh is making things pretty difficult for us.’
Nicola nodded. ‘I see. What do you think Paul will have to do?’
‘Mannering?’ Graham shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Probably Jason will fix him up. Does he like getting his hands dirty?’
‘I really couldn’t say.’ Nicola was brief, and then they had reached the bungalow where Jason was living.
‘Here we are,’ called Graham, mounting the steps ahead of Nicola, and leading the way into the lounge.
Jason Wilde was lounging in a chair, a glass of lager in his fingers, and he glanced up wryly at their entrance. ‘You’re a little late for dinner, Miss King,’ he remarked sardonically.
Nicola, who was feeling ravenously hungry now, felt furiously angry. She was sure he was well aware of her emptiness, and had deliberately eaten early to force her into waiting until their interview was over when she would have to go to the eating place where all the men would be gathered.
However, she was an adept at concealing her feelings, and she replied, quite coolly: ‘That’s perfectly all right, Mr. Wilde. I can wait until later. Perhaps Mr. Wilson would be so kind as to bring a tray to my bungalow?’
Graham was about to accept this proposition when Jason got broodingly to his feet. ‘My men are not waiters,’ he said harshly. ‘You can go, Graham. I can handle this.’
‘Yes. Yes, sir!’ Graham turned and left them, with a slightly regretful glance in Nicola’s direction.
Nicola managed to retain her calm expression, while inwardly she seethed. Obviously the task she had set herself was going to be far more difficult than even she had imagined. Back in London, planning this situation, she had vaguely imagined that after his initial annoyance Jason Wilde might conceivably come to appreciate her presence, but apparently she had underestimated him. He was far more calculating than she had thought. Hard all through, like steel. And then she remembered Louise, and her own determination hardened to match his.
Even so, it was impossible not to appreciate the man himself. She could easily see why Louise had been so impossibly infatuated with him. He was so much different from George, or Michael either, for that matter. Not that she, personally, found his raw masculinity appealing. There was something primitive about him that stirred the basest emotions inside her, and she realized she would have to work hard to achieve any kind of victory with him. His height immediately put her at a disadvantage, and the width of his shoulders owed nothing to artifice. But it was the hard, uncompromising features, and the thick hair that grew low on his neck and was repeated in the brown muscularity of his arms and chest that gave one the impression of leashed virility, and brutal strength. She shivered suddenly, hoping this task she had set herself would never get out of hand. Somehow she had the feeling that if it did she would be unable to control it.
Then she chided herself. Was she such a coward? Was she to give up simply because the task was proving more complex? She must think of David and Goliath; or Samson and Delilah, her subconscious taunted her mockingly. A smile curved her mouth unwillingly, and then she saw his eyes darken angrily.
‘What is amusing you, Miss King?’ he asked, in a hard tone. ‘I shouldn’t have thought the prospect of several weeks under conditions intolerable to most women would appeal to a butterfly like yourself!’
‘A butterfly?’ she exclaimed, in annoyance. ‘I’m no butterfly. I have to work for my living.’
‘Indeed?’ Jason’s expression was derisive. ‘And how well do you know Sir Harold Mannering?’
Nicola stiffened. ‘As well as any secretary knows her boss,’ she replied.
‘Is that so? Then how come you were able to persuade him to let you come out here? I mean – that’s no mean achievement.’
‘I don’t like your insinuations, Mr. Wilde.’
‘Don’t you? How terrible!’ he mocked her. ‘But then a woman in your position hasn’t much chance of retaliation, has she?’
Nicola’s fingers stung across his cheek almost before she could prevent them, and Jason caught her wrist in a vice-like grip. ‘Don’t you ever dare to do that again!’ he muttered savagely, ‘or I may forget that whatever your designation I am a gentleman, and respond in kind!’
Nicola was trembling, and she wrenched her wrist away shakily. ‘Then – then don’t say things like that!’ she snapped angrily. ‘You’ve absolutely no evidence on which to base remarks of that sort!’
‘Haven’t I? Well, I have the evidence of my own eyes, and you’re simply not the kind of woman to come out here for no reason.’
‘I – I have a reason. I’m to help you – and keep an eye on Paul.’
‘Very neat.’ Jason turned away, walking to the drinks cabinet and selecting a bottle. After a stiff whisky, he said: ‘Okay, we won’t argue about your relationship with Harold. Quite frankly, I’m too tired to attempt to sort it all out. But I have my opinions. You wouldn’t deny me them?’
Nicola did not reply, but merely shook her head. As her temper subsided she felt annoyed with herself. She rubbed her wrist that pained a little. This would never do. She couldn’t have Jason Wilde imagining she was some kind of easy woman. That wasn’t at all the image she wanted to create. And somehow no matter what his own morals might be she could not see him finding a woman like that attractive. No, somehow she had to assume a much less aggressive personality. But how? How?
She considered reverting to woman’s oldest weapon, tears, but then decided against it. Somehow she didn’t think they would wash with Jason Wilde either.
Now he said: ‘Can I offer you a drink? It’s the least I can do.’
Nicola bit her lip. ‘Just a fruit juice, please,’ she said quietly, and suffered the look of scorn that crossed his face before he turned and supplied her with an iced lime and lemon. Just then Ali appeared in the doorway, his huge dark eyes widening when he saw Nicola.
‘Is there anything you want, sir?’ he asked importantly, but Jason merely shook his head. However, Ali was not one to waste his opportunities, and he looked questioningly at Nicola as he said: ‘Perhaps the lady would like something to eat, sir? Or has she already eaten?’
Jason’s eyes darkened, and then, before he could reply, Nicola said: ‘Why, how charming of your – er – houseboy, Mr. Wilde. And how thoughtful, too. Particularly as you were so disappointed that I arrived late for dinner.’
Ali grinned. ‘I will get the lady some curry and some fruit, yes?’ he asked, looking at Jason. ‘And perhaps some good coffee!’
Jason gave an exclamation, and then shrugged. ‘Oh, do what you like,’ he muttered broodingly, and Nicola hid a smile. She seemed to have scored at last.
‘May I sit down?’ she asked, subsiding on to a chair without waiting for his agreement. ‘These are quite comfortable bungalows, aren’t they? I mean – air-conditioning and so on. Not exactly what you’d expect to find in the middle of the desert.’
Jason leaned against the drinks cabinet, surveying her intently. ‘Just what did you expect to find, Miss King?’ he asked lazily.
Nicola sighed, and lay back in her chair. ‘I thought we’d agreed to stop this baiting,’ she said quietly. ‘Have you travelled much, Mr. Wilde?’
‘I imagine you would think so,’ he returned broodingly. ‘Have you?’
‘Since coming to work for Sir Harold, yes,’ she answered. ‘We went to South America in March, and Trinidad in August. This is my first visit to the Middle East.’
‘And what do you think of it?’
She shrugged. ‘Primitive – but with definite possibilities.’
Jason shook his head. ‘How old are you, Miss King?’
‘I’m twenty-four, Mr. Wilde. How old are you?’
Jason was taken aback. ‘Thirty-seven,’ he replied shortly.
‘And you’ve never got married?’
She saw a strange look cross his face. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘How about you?’
Nicola sighed. ‘I was engaged once. It was broken off a year ago.’
‘Is that so? About the time you came to work for Sir Harold, in fact.’
‘Sir Harold had nothing to do with my broken engagement,’ she replied, rather shortly, and realized he didn’t believe her.
However, Ali returned just then with a faultlessly laid tray containing a delicious-smelling dish of chicken curry, and another containing an assortment of citrus fruit. A jug of coffee completed the meal, and Nicola smiled at him gratefully.
She glanced at Jason. ‘What is your man’s name? I’d like to thank him.’
But Jason didn’t have to answer. Ali was perfectly capable of doing that for himself. ‘I am Ali, miss,’ he said, bowing low. ‘And it was my pleasure to prepare a meal for so beautiful a lady as yourself!’
Nicola smiled, offered her thanks, and then endeavouring to ignore Jason applied herself to the food. The curry was very hot, and Jason remarked, rather mockingly:
‘Ali makes the food so hot that the climate seems cool by comparison.’
Nicola nodded, taking several gulps of the lime and lemon to cool her mouth. However, it was very enjoyable, once she was used to the spiciness of it all, and she cleared her plate, and ate some grapes and an orange to finish. As she drank her coffee, Jason Wilde offered her a cigarette which she gratefully accepted.
‘What are you going to give Paul to do?’ she asked then.
Jason shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Something energetic, I think. To take a little of that pugnaciousness out of him!’
‘You don’t like him – why?’
‘I neither like nor dislike him. He’s merely an example of the futile waste of youth.’
Nicola lifted her shoulders. ‘Were you never young?’
‘Not as young as him, no!’ Jason flung himself into a chair. ‘As you’re here, Harold says I have to use your – er – secretarial talents.’
‘I know. I don’t mind. I like working.’
‘You amaze me. Who did you work for before you joined Inter-Anglia?’
‘A small advertising company. I was the secretary there.’
Jason bent his head, digesting this information. Then he said: ‘Anyway, as you are here, I think I ought to warn you that this is not England, and the customs of this country have, to a certain extent, to be adhered to.’
‘What do you mean?’ Nicola frowned.
‘I mean that there are a number of Arabs working on the site. Their encampment is beyond the camp. You’ll see it in the morning. They live there with their wives and children. It’s their normal life. They’re naturally nomads. But their women are protected to a far greater degree than are ours. And you being here might cause a positive furore when the Sheikh gets to know.’
Nicola smiled. She couldn’t take him seriously. ‘The Sheikh,’ she echoed softly. ‘How romantic!’
Jason stared at her angrily. ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t get any ideas in that direction! Sheikhs are not romantic figures of the mid-twenties movie screen. They are men, like other men, and most of them consider European women self-seeking and virtueless!’
Nicola’s eyes widened. ‘You certainly paint a very depressing picture, Mr. Wilde,’ she remarked dryly. ‘However, I can take care of myself, so I shouldn’t worry unduly.’
‘I don’t,’ muttered Jason vehemently. ‘Believe me, my only anxieties concern the rig and the pipeline, not your person! What you do, and the outcome of your actions only concerns me in so far as they affect my schedule here.’
Nicola felt anger overtaking all other emotions. She had never met a man who was so infuriatingly indifferent to her.
‘If you don’t mind,’ she said, getting to her feet, ‘I should like to go to bed now!’
Jason rose too, regarding her with eyes that held a tinge of sardonic amusement. ‘I should,’ he replied, nodding. ‘Tomorrow will be a long day. We rise here about five-thirty, and work starts at six-thirty. Think you can make it?’
His tone was derisive, and she stiffened. ‘Oh, yes, Mr. Wilde,’ she replied tautly, ‘I can make it.’
‘Good. I’ll have Ali escort you back to Caxton’s bungalow. At least I can’t have Sir Harold accusing me of allowing you to wander unescorted about the camp!’
‘That won’t be necessary!’ snapped Nicola, even as she knew she would not be able to distinguish which bungalow was hers. But her temper had got the better of her, and she could not restrain her retort.
Jason half-smiled, rather unpleasantly. ‘Is that so?’ he drawled. ‘Okay. Good night, Miss King. Sleep well.’
Nicola stared at him. She ought to have known he would take every opportunity to humiliate her. Collecting her handbag, she walked to the door, but before she could pass through it, Jason said:
‘Wait! I’ll walk with you.’
Nicola stared at him, unwillingly aware that in other circumstances she would have found him very attractive. There was something about the huskiness of his voice and the lazy, panther-like way he moved that made her intensely conscious of him.
‘Thank you,’ was all she said now, and preceded him out of the door and down the steps to the packed sandy earth of the track.
They walked in silence, and when they reached her bungalow, he merely said ‘Good night,’ before walking silently away. Nicola watched him go, his hands thrust into the pockets of the close-fitting cream pants he was wearing, his dark head bent as he seemed deep in thought, and then she hastily ran up the steps and into the bungalow.
She shook off the feeling of apprehension that had suddenly engulfed her. This task she had set herself seemed suddenly frightening, and she realized it was a combination of the isolation, and the night, and the man himself that was responsible for her sudden indecision.
Her clothes were still in the two suitcases she had brought with her, but apart from drawing out a pair of nylon pyjamas, she didn’t bother to unpack them, and after undressing merely cleaned her teeth before climbing wearily into the hard narrow bed. Actually, though, after a time, she realized the bed was quite comfortable, and the heat which had abated had left her glad of the warmth of the blankets. She snuggled her chin beneath the covers, and closed her eyes. But sleep was elusive. So many things had happened, and her mind buzzed with ideas and speculations, most of them centring on the man she had come out here to find, Jason Wilde.
Thinking of him brought thoughts of her sister Louise, and she wondered rather anxiously how she was getting along in the flat without her. Still, she had little Jane, and Tony, and the part-time job that Nicola had found for her. It was strange how Louise, six years her senior, should always arouse this feeling of responsibility inside her. Maybe it was because Louise always seemed so helpless, so totally incapable of fending for herself. That was why Nicola felt such anger towards Jason Wilde. He must have known how helpless, how defenceless, Louise was, and yet he had used every trick in the book to make her infatuated with him. Why couldn’t he have chosen a woman more fitted to his personality? Someone who when discarded would not have fallen apart so completely.
Nicola rolled on to her stomach. Oh, yes, Jason Wilde had a lot to answer for, not least being the destruction of her own happiness. She punched her pillow. She would not think of it. She would not think of him. She had spent too many nights lying awake thinking of this affair.
An unearthly roar broke the stillness, and she sat up, sweating, staring into the darkness. What on earth had it been? Then she relaxed as realization came to her. Jason had said the Arabs were camped just outside the limits of the oil company’s colony. Doubtless they would have camels. She had heard the noise camels could make in the streets of Gitana.
She lay back again, forcing her mind to be blank. But it was no good. Too many thoughts came to plague her. She wondered how long she would be forced to stay out here, how long she would be allowed to stay. Sir Harold had said he himself would come out later, to see how Paul was progressing, and to visit the local sheikh. This would be the man Jason Wilde had spoken of. Nicola wondered what manner of man he was. Might it be possible to use him in her efforts to discredit Jason Wilde?
It was much too early to tell. She would have to wait and see. A good tactician never acted without being completely in possession of the facts of the situation. For the present she would do the job she had been employed to do and then …. She sighed. Anything might happen. And as a kind of bonus there was the undeniable excitement of life in this desert outpost. How could anyone sleep with so many possibilities before them?
CHAPTER THREE (#u3b0709df-4866-5680-8017-f8ff4fa57213)
THE following morning Nicola awakened early, disturbed by the sound of someone banging on the mesh of her window. She slid tiredly out of bed, and peered round the thin curtains which she had drawn the night before. Graham Wilson’s cheerful face gazed back at her.
‘It’s six o’clock,’ he said, grinning. ‘Jason said you’d want to be up and about.’
Nicola hid a grimace. ‘He would,’ she said, unable to prevent herself, and then smiled. ‘Yes, thank you, Mr. Wilson. What do I do about breakfast?’
Graham put his hands on his hips. ‘Jason said I was to take you to the canteen. He said the men would have to see you sooner or later, so it might as well be sooner.’
Nicola digested this. ‘All right. Give me five minutes.’
Graham nodded, and in a little more than that time Nicola emerged looking smart and businesslike in the levis and a clean blouse, her hair caught up in a knot on top of her head.
‘Hm!’ murmured Graham appreciatively. ‘That’s what’s been missing around here. I’d never have guessed!’
Nicola accepted his comments with a friendly smile. She liked Graham Wilson. There was something innately nice and honest about him. He wasn’t much taller than she was, and had a broad stocky frame, his hair curly and gingery. He certainly presented no problems, and that was what she liked most.
In the brilliance of morning the small camp was dwarfed by the immense expanse of open country beyond the bungalows. Yesterday, driving in the car with Paul, Nicola had been too tense to take a great deal of pleasure in her surroundings, but now she felt a sense of humility as she gazed upon the vast stretches of sand-dunes rising to curiously stark rock formations, and the pale lilac line of the mountains beyond. The sky was incredible, the bluest blue she had ever seen, and the sand was a wonderful rich colour with a texture she had not felt before. It was not like any sand she had ever seen, but of course this was no shoreline, this was desert, raw and savage and untamed, dangerous to anyone without knowledge of its ever-changing personality.
Then she gave her attention to her immediate surroundings, the regimented lines of bungalows, the clubhouse, the general stores, the electricity generator; common everyday things that she was used to living beside. It was strange that there was no vegetation. Some scrub managed to survive in the shade of the buildings, but there were no trees, no flowering shrubs such as adorned gardens back home. There seemed to be no natural supply of water here and she wondered where the supply came from.
There were several groups of men making their way to the canteen this morning, and they stared without compunction at Nicola, obviously amazed that she should have suddenly appeared. Some of the men spoke to Graham, and he explained vaguely that she had been sent out by the oil company to expedite the delivery of Jason’s paper work. There were some derisive stares at this piece of information, but most of the men seemed friendly enough, and after the initial sensation of being a peculiarity Nicola got used to their curiosity.
The canteen was a huge building, one end given over to a kind of bar, while the other served food of every variety. Nicola was amazed at the choice offered to her, but when Graham Wilson would have provided her with cereal, bacon, eggs, toast and coffee, she hastily demurred. She could only manage toast and coffee at this hour of the morning.
They found a table and sat down, and Graham said: ‘You’ll notice not all the men are English here. There are Italians, and French, as well as one or two other nationalities. When the papers are delivered it’s like an international convention.’
Nicola’s eyes widened. ‘You get papers?’ she exclaimed.
Graham grinned wryly. ‘They’re several days old by the time we get our hands on them. Still, it’s nice to keep up to date with the gossip.’
‘And where is your home?’ asked Nicola, buttering a slice of toast as she spoke.
‘In Birmingham. Didn’t you guess? Jason says the accent is inches thick!’
Nicola smiled. ‘No, I didn’t guess, although now you mention it …’ They both laughed, and immediately attracted the attention of the whole room. Nicola was surprised to find herself flushing. She had thought she was past such things.
As the meal progressed, Graham told her quite a lot about the organization at Castanya. Apparently Jason Wilde was the senior engineer on the site, and well versed in the troubles such enterprises could come up against.
‘Ian Mackenzie is in charge of the actual field,’ Graham continued, ‘and Jason’s out in the desert, supervising the pipeline, keeping it moving towards the sea.’
‘How much further does it have to go?’ Nicola asked. ‘Will it take much longer to complete it?’
‘About nine or ten months,’ answered Graham. ‘There are two hundred and sixty miles between Castanya and the seaport of Gitana. We’ve covered about sixty miles so far.’
‘And it will take so long to complete it?’
‘Sure. The pipes are in lengths of between twenty and forty feet and need to be welded together on the spot. That, combined with sand-storms, precarious working conditions and the rest, can make for pretty slow development.’
‘Do you have to bury the pipes?’
‘Well, it hardly seems sensible. Sand is a great mover, and a sand-storm can shift tons of sand from one area to another. A pipeline buried today could be exposed tomorrow. Consequently they have to be properly protected against corrosion. Then there are the pumping stations to be built. Obviously oil needs constant propulsion to keep it moving, and the pumping station here at Castanya wouldn’t have the power to push the oil over sand-dunes and across such a tremendous distance.’
‘I see.’ Nicola was impressed. ‘So that is what Mr. Wilde is accomplishing.’
‘Among other things, yes. He’s also having problems with the Sheikh. He doesn’t think the men we’re using – his men, that is – are getting paid enough. So Jason’s increased their percentage.’
‘It’s quite a complex affair, isn’t it? I never realized.’ Nicola finished her coffee and accepted a cigarette from Graham. ‘Is the field producing oil at the moment?’
‘Oh, yes. But it’s being stored in the main. Some has been sent down the pipeline already completed to the next station at Isthali. They have a storage tank there, bigger than the one here.’
‘And don’t you get bored? I mean – what do you do during your leisure hours?’
‘Well, various things. We play cards, read, write letters home, that sort of thing. And there’s the pool, and the tennis court if you feel really energetic. There’s even a cinema of a kind. It’s run by two of the men, and from time to time they give a show.’
Nicola nodded. ‘I suppose it’s like an army camp, really.’
‘I suppose it is. We’re more or less self-sufficient here. Sometimes one or two of the men drive into Gitana, but mostly we mess about here. Swimming is the most enjoyable pastime.’
‘Yes, but where does the water come from?’ exclaimed Nicola interestedly.
‘Oh, there’s an oasis, not too far from here. We’ve run a pipeline from there. Naturally, the water needs purifying, but there’s plenty of it.’
‘I see.’ Nicola bent her head. ‘What am I to do today? Do you know? Have you seen Mr. Wilde?’
Graham shrugged. ‘Not this morning. I’d hazard a guess that he’s a good many miles out along the pipeline already.’
‘Oh! You mean he’s gone?’
‘Yes. You’re left in my charge,’ grinned Graham. ‘I’m to show you around, introduce you to the men, supply you with information, and eventually set you to work.’ He looked apologetic.
‘But what about Paul?’ asked Nicola. ‘Where’s he?’
‘With Jason,’ replied Graham, pushing back his chair. ‘Don’t worry about your friend Mannering. He’ll survive!’
‘I’m not worried,’ protested Nicola, but she did feel a slight sense of pique that Jason Wilde should abandon her so carelessly to the care of his second-in-command. He was obviously showing her in the most blatant way possible that she need expect no assistance from him.
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