Desert Wedding. Alexandra Scott

      “I’ll be back tomorrow.” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Copyright

      “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

      “Tomorrow?” It was earlier than Georgia had dared to hope.

      

      “You sound...pleased?”

      

      “What do you think?”

      

      “I think I got it right. And have you had the chance to go and buy that dress as I suggested?”

      

      “Oh, it was a suggestion? I took it more as a command!”

      

      “Ah, right. I’m glad you got the message.”

      

      “And I bought something. It’s—”

      

      “Don’t tell me,” Nathan interrupted swiftly, then added mysteriously, “it might be unlucky. But I’ll be back about nine tomorrow night. Be ready then. Timing is all-important. Be ready to be whisked away for a very special occasion.”

      Alexandra Scott was born in Scotland and lived there until she met her husband, who was serving in the British army, and there followed twenty-five years of travel in the Far East and Western Europe. They then settled in North Yorkshire, and, encouraged—forcefully—by her husband, she began writing the first of around fifty romance novels which were to be published. Her other interests include gardening and embroidery, and she enjoys the company of her family.

      Desert Wedding

      Alexandra Scott

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CHAPTER ONE

      WHAT relief it was to escape the overwhelming heat. Even among the shady palms about the pool Georgia had felt limp, utterly exhausted after a bare half-hour. But here in the air-conditioned coolness of the club, the day’s brilliance filtered through smoky glass, the splash of fountains in her ears—here was blessed relief, soothing, refreshing.

      Her eyes were finding it hard to cope with such an abrupt change from brassy glare to shadowy gloom, which probably explained why she didn’t at first focus on the figure who appeared from nowhere to greet her.

      ‘Miss Maitland, isn’t it? Georgia?’ The short man was familiar, at least vaguely, and her frown brought elucidation. ‘Grev Canning. We met the other evening at the Kimberleys’.’

      ‘Of course.’ She smiled then—that amazing reaction, that slow burnishing of her features, almost an incandescence which illuminated an already striking face. ‘I’m sorry; for a moment I couldn’t see. I’ve not really adjusted yet.’

      ‘Well, it can take some time. How about a drink to help—something long and cool?’ he said persuasively.

      ‘I had decided to go back to the flat. I was just on my way to call for a car.’

      “Then...while you’re waiting you might as well have that drink.’

      ‘Oh, go on, then.’ She wasn’t, after all, in any great hurry. ‘Pressed orange with masses of ice.’ Sitting down, she let her eyes follow him, watched as he gave his order to the waiter, an immensely tall Arab, his height and slenderness emphasised by brilliant white cotton robes.

      The latter had an interesting face—Georgia’s artistic senses automatically absorbed such detail—hawkish, a mite condescending, with a red velvet hat at a slightly rakish angle above the grizzled curls and... Grev was back beside her on the green leather settee.

      ‘Did you swim?’

      ‘No.’ With a shrug she indicated her beach bag. ‘Meant to, but it was too much trouble.’ And also, though she didn’t explain to him, she still had the after-effects of a bug picked up on the journey out.

      ‘It can be a bit of a shock at first,’ he acknowledged. ‘And you know it’s going to be, but nothing quite prepares you for it. Don’t worry, though; you’ll soon adjust.’ Producing a cigarette packet, he offered her one and, when she refused, proceeded to light his own, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs with an air of desperation.

      Vaguely she listened while he spoke about his job—something to do with the harbour board, she gathered—but her attention was detached. She glanced about her with interest, at the groups spaced about the large room, all unknown to her—except there was one... She frowned in concentration. There was a man among the group congregated at the far end, close to the bar.

      Her attention was elsewhere when a young woman came thrusting aggressively through the plate-glass doors, not giving the doorman time to hold one open. For a moment or two she glared about her before coming purposefully across to where Georgia was sitting innocently with her companion, her mind wholly taken up with the pleasure of freshly squeezed oranges.

      Not until the newcomer reached her table did Georgia notice, and even then that it was more to do with Grev’s sudden apprehension, the widened eyes and air of deflation as he put down his glass and got to his feet.

      ‘Greville.’ The tone was ripe with all kinds of inflamed suspicion. The woman was red-haired, florid, and dressed most unbecomingly in loud Bermudas and a loose shirt. She grasped Grev firmly and possessively by the arm, at the same time turning the battery of her dislike on Georgia. ‘You are going to introduce us, I imagine?’ And she pulled him down with her onto the sofa.

      ‘Of course I am.’ The guilt and helplessness warring in Grev’s expression brought a burn of indignation to Georgia’s face. Of all things, she hated to feel conspicuous, and the last thing she wanted was to be involved in another marital spat. ‘Of course, love. This is Georgia Maitland. You remember, she was at the Kimberleys’ the other—’

      ‘And you remember I didn’t go to the Kimberleys’. You persuaded me not to, and now—’ her voice, already loud enough, rose a few decibels ’—now I’m beginning to understand why.’

      Heads were starting to turn in their direction. The hum of conversation in the room became subdued, and only pride stopped Georgia from grabbing her bag and making for the exit. Instead, she raised her glass to her mouth and drained it. She gave herself a moment to control her irritation and anger before getting lazily to her feet, to stand looking down at the couple, he sheepish and embarrassed, she challenging and truculent.

      ‘You—’ in contrast with the other woman’s, Georgia’s voice was calm, modulated, melodious even, and, in spite of the surge of indignation revived by the sheer