Penny Jordan Tribute Collection. PENNY JORDAN

when she saw the cramped quarters of the economy cabin, full of what looked like entire Arab families, complete with crying babies and restless toddlers.

      In the plane’s hold was her shiny new luggage, all neatly labelled, and the small gifts she had purchased for Faisal’s mother and sisters.

      She had not bought anything for Faisal’s uncle, quite deliberately so. They would not meet as friends and she was not going to give him the opportunity to hand her gift back to her with sneered accusations of bribery, or of trying to flatter him into acceptance of her.

      And yet wasn’t that exactly what Faisal wanted her to do? she asked herself uneasily; use her charm to try and sway his judgment? Her thoughts gave her no peace, jostling this way and that until her head ached with the effort of trying to reconcile her heart with her head. In the end she abandoned her efforts to put herself in the right frame of mind to meet Faisal’s ‘wicked uncle’ and concentrated her thoughts instead on the other members of Faisal’s family.

      For his mother, who quite obviously worshipped him, she had bought perfume, and for his younger sister, soon to be married, a luxurious make-up kit with all the latest eye-shadows and lipsticks. His elder sister had been a little more difficult. Felicia knew that Nadia was married with a small child and that her husband was in charge of the Saudi Arabian branch of the family bank, so she had bought her an exquisite glass paperweight which had caught her eye in an expensive London store.

      Indeed the paperweight was so beautiful that for an instant Felicia had been tempted to keep it for herself, but her present-buying had already stretched her slender budget to its limits and regretfully she admitted that she could not afford two such luxurious items; not when she had bought herself what amounted to a complete new wardrobe for this trip. Even now the extent of her spending spree dismayed her, but she wanted Faisal to be proud of her, so she had dipped quite deeply into the small nest egg she had been saving ever since she had started work.

      When the skies opened out beneath them, and the businessmen began to ruffle their papers, Felicia guessed that they were nearing journey’s end.

      In the small washroom she inspected her make-up, hoping anxiously that the heat would not make her nose shine. Her skin was very fair and burned easily. She had deliberately used even less make-up than usual, not wanting to offend against Moslem tradition, and inspected her reflection anxiously in the mirror, hoping that she would not look too pale and washed out in comparison to the dusky Arabian beauties of Kuwait. Faisal had told her that in the Arab world, Kuwaiti women had the reputation of being the most beautiful, and she was dreading letting him down by comparing unfavourably with his countrywomen.

      Strained green eyes stared nervously back at her, the length and thickness of her eyelashes startling against her pale skin. A faint flush of natural colour highlighted her high cheekbones, her mouth curving vulnerably beneath its covering of lip-gloss. She was wearing her hair loose, and it curled luxuriantly on to her shoulders, shimmering like raw silk whenever she moved. Should she wear it up in a discreet knot? she agonised, lifting it off her shoulders. It would look much tidier. Outside she heard the metallic request for seat belts to be fastened and realising that there was no time, she let it drop back on to her shoulders, running cold water over her wrists and dabbing on her favourite perfume, before hurrying back to her seat.

      ‘Chanel Number Five—my favourite,’ the stewardess commented with a smile, as Felicia sat down. ‘Soon be down now.’

      Felicia’s stomach clenched as the big jet descended on to the runway. The engines screamed protestingly as the captain applied reverse thrust, then they were taxiing gently down the runway.

      AS SHE EMERGED from the aircraft, the heat and noisy bustle of the airport almost threatened to overwhelm her, and then she was anxiously following the other disembarking passengers to have her visa and passport inspected.

      The official who took her passport flashed her a warm, appreciative smile, as he glanced from her photograph to her face. There was a tiny scar high on her arm from the mandatory typhoid injection and tucked away in her handbag were the salt tablets Faisal had warned her that she would need as the temperature started to climb into the eighties and nineties.

      Everyone apart from herself seemed to know exactly where they were going and what to do. An incomprehensible flood of Arabic washed all round her, punctuated here and there by heavily accented English from the taxi drivers and porters.

      Felicia looked round in despair. Faisal had told her that she would be met at the airport, but by whom? Could one of these immaculately uniformed chauffeurs be waiting for her?

      She was just debating the wisdom of making enquiries at the Tourist Information Desk, when a tall figure strode towards her, effortlessly parting the milling crowds.

      ‘Miss Gordon?’

      He was tall; taller than Faisal by several inches, and his voice held the certainty of a man who makes a statement rather than asks a question. She probably did stand out like a sore thumb, Felicia acknowledged wryly, but need he make her feel like an unwanted package he had come to collect?

      She gave him a faltering smile, instantly quenched as she felt his cool scrutiny. Now, when it was too late, she wished that she had found time to put her hair up. It would have given her some badly needed sophistication. She darted her companion a surreptitious glance. Was he a relative of Faisal’s, or just an employee sent to collect her?

      ‘My luggage,’ she murmured hesitantly, noticing the impatient manner in which he shot back the cuff of an immaculate pale grey silk suit to glance at the heavy gold Rolex watch strapped to his wrist. The gesture, so completely and arrogantly male, disturbed her, although she could not have said why.

      ‘Ali is collecting your luggage,’ she was told. ‘Come.’

      He took her arm, propelling her through the crowd. Even Felicia, inexperienced in these matters, was aware of his aura of command. His clothes looked expensive, his manner cool and decisive, and she decided that whoever he was, he was obviously a man of some importance, used to giving orders rather than taking them.

      Dazzled by the colour and light, she hurried wearily after him to a waiting Mercedes, humiliatingly forced to drop behind him when his pace increased.

      There was nothing welcoming in his manner. In fact he seemed to derive considerable mocking amusement from her hot and bothered state.

      In the sunshine his hair had the blue-black gleam of a raven’s wing, thick, and long enough to cover the collar of his suit. He wasn’t wearing sunglasses, and Felicia was surprised to see that his eyes were grey and not brown, a cold, hard grey like the North Sea in winter. She shivered suddenly, and a chill ran over her despite the heat.

      When she hesitated by the car he raised his eyebrows in silent mockery.

      ‘A plane leaves for England in three hours, if you have changed your mind,’ he told her.

      Changed her mind? Felicia shot him a suspicious glance. Was that what he had been expecting? Was that why he had been so offhand with her? Obviously Faisal’s uncle had confided in him, and her soft lips tightened at the thought of the two of them discussing her disparagingly. No doubt for all his outward Westernised appearance this man was as much a traditionalist as Faisal’s uncle. He had looked her over and found her wanting. She tilted her chin and looked up at him bravely, quelling her fear. Already the sun was dropping over the horizon with a speed that surprised her, used as she was to the more leisurely sunsets of more northerly climes.

      ‘I am not going back,’ she told him firmly.

      In the silence that prickled between them she could almost feel his antagonism and then he was holding open the car door, his expression unfathomable.

      ‘Please get in, Miss Gordon,’ he requested curtly. ‘It is an hour’s drive to the villa.’

      Did he have to make her feel like a stupid child? she asked herself crossly, as she got into the Mercedes. After all, despite his air of authority he could scarcely be much more than thirty-two or -three—a little more than ten years older than she was herself.

      The