The Sheikh. Anne Herries

had never danced like this in her life. He was in control, in tune with the melody and with her, guiding her effortlessly through the intricate steps. It felt as if her feet hardly touched the floor, and she was floating with the music and the power and magnetism of her partner. Her whole body seemed to throb with a strange new feeling—a recklessness that she did not recognise but dimly realised might be desire.

      What was she thinking? Had she lost her senses completely? It must be the evocative rhythm of the music that was making her feel this way—and yet as his hand slid against the satin softness of her bare arm she knew it was far more to do with the man himself.

      ‘Oh…’ she breathed as the music finally died and after a brief moment, when his eyes seemed to burn into her soul, he released her. ‘What a pity. I should have liked to go on dancing forever.’

      ‘Then I shall consider myself forgiven,’ he said. His gaze strayed across the room to where Jane Vermont was talking at Brent Harwood, and the warmth died from his eyes. ‘I see your foolish friend is making up to that American. If I were you I should warn her to be careful. Apart from the fact that he makes ridiculous films, I know that he is not to be trusted.’

      Chloe felt the withdrawal in him and was hurt. How could he change so suddenly after that magical dance? For that brief time they had seemed almost indivisible and now he was miles away from her again—but perhaps it had only been her who had felt the magic. She immediately threw up a screen to hide her foolish sensitivity.

      ‘Why don’t you like his films?’

      ‘I believe he intends to make something rather similar to the picture that Valentino caused such a stir with three, or perhaps it was four, years back—The Sheikh. I imagine you may have seen it?’

      ‘Yes—seven times,’ Chloe said, half-defensive, half-angry. ‘I loved it!’

      A wry smile touched Philip Armand’s mouth. ‘Valentino is a remarkable actor. He made what was a very foolish plot seem almost believable. Unfortunately, it has provoked a rash of copycat films, which are an insult to the Bedouin way of life. You should know that, Miss Randall. Professor Hicks certainly agrees.’

      ‘Yes…well, of course I know it isn’t really the way things are. But surely that doesn’t matter? As a film it was romantic and fun…and surely its purpose was to entertain?’

      ‘As you say.’ He inclined his head as he escorted her to near where her friends were standing. A tiny nerve was flicking in his cheek and she sensed that she must have upset him. But why should it bother him that an American film director was intent on making a copy of the kind of picture that had made Rudolph Valentino famous?

      Chloe found that she couldn’t get Philip Armand out of her mind as she prepared for bed that last evening on board ship. He was certainly the kind of man Justine would consider romantic and her foolish heart had been led astray during their dance. For a moment she had thought that there was something special between them, something rare and intense, something that if lost might never be found again…but of course that was ridiculous. They were merely strangers meeting briefly, their lives soon to diverge, never to meet again.

      She would be ridiculous to imagine otherwise, of course she would. After all, he had mentioned a fiancée, hadn’t he? Feeling the sharp sting of jealousy at the thought of the unknown fiancée, Chloe tried to dismiss him from her mind. She was being so silly to imagine that he had anything but a passing interest in her. She really must stop letting her imagination run wild. The truth was that she had found him intriguing from the start—but what was it about him that made her think she ought to know more of him than she did?

      She was sure that she had seen his picture in the paper, had almost captured the article the other night. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to recall whatever it was that hovered at the back of her mind, then all at once she went cold as she remembered. Of course! He had been with another man…a man wearing the flowing robes and headdress of a Sheikh! Of course…it had been an article about an assassination attempt. She could almost remember it now. There had been an attempt on the life of an important ruler of one of the oil-producing countries on the Arabian Peninsula. And Philip Armand was a cousin or something of the man pictured with him in the paper. Yet she didn’t think he had called himself by that name. It was more like Hassan…or Pasha. Or had that been the ruler’s name?

      Chloe couldn’t be certain, and he had looked very different in the picture because he too had been wearing the robes of a Sheikh. Surely she must be mistaken? Yet if she was right, it would explain why he was so annoyed to find himself travelling with an American film director who made films that he clearly believed misrepresented the Bedouin way of life.

      Even so, that didn’t quite explain his attitude towards Brent Harwood. There had been real anger in him as he spoke of the man…an underlying menace that she sensed must have a cause. It had seemed almost a personal thing…

      Chloe dismissed her thoughts—she shouldn’t worry about something that was of no real concern to her. She wanted a good night’s sleep so as to be ready for the following day.

      ‘Oh, do please keep in touch,’ Jane begged as she said goodbye the next morning. ‘It has been so nice having you as a friend, Chloe. I wish you were staying for the whole of the cruise. But I suppose you can’t wait to get off to wherever it is you’re going.’

      Chloe promised she would write and tell Jane where they went and what they saw.

      ‘It may be ages before I can post a letter,’ she said. ‘We are going to be travelling to the more remote villages as soon as the professor can arrange transport. We are on a research trip, not a holiday. I have to take dictation and help the professor find what he is looking for—which could mean lots of reading and walking.’

      ‘You poor thing,’ Jane said, looking at her in horror. She had never worked in her life and hoped she never would. ‘I hope it won’t be too terrible for you. Aunt Vera says that some of these places can be very primitive. Do be careful what you eat, Chloe. My aunt was awfully ill once when she stayed in Morocco.’

      ‘Miss Ramsbottom carries a lot of emergency kit,’ Chloe assured her. ‘My friends know all about travelling in the region so we should be safe enough.’

      ‘Well, goodbye—and do keep in touch.’

      There were several people leaving the ship that morning. Chloe saw Brent Harwood with the other members of the film crew, all of whom she knew only by sight. None of them had been particularly talkative, though apparently they had taken a few shots of the captain and his crew.

      She noticed Philip Armand—or whatever his name really was—being met by a man who saluted him and took the briefcase he was carrying off to what looked like an expensive French car. He glanced back at the ship just before he got into the back seat, inclining his head to her but not smiling. She thought he looked angry again, and wondered what had upset him this time.

      What a very odd man he was! He could be so charming and friendly when he chose, and the next withdrawn, as cold as ice. She wondered what made a man like that, and decided that he must have an awful lot on his mind.

      ‘Well, here we are then,’ Professor Hicks said to her. ‘All your goodbyes finished, Chloe?’

      ‘Yes, of course.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m looking forward to our adventure.’

      ‘Adventure?’ He nodded and looked pleased. ‘Yes, I suppose it is a kind of adventure. Some of my research can seem dull, especially to a young woman like yourself, I dare say—but meeting people and seeing new places is always exciting.’

      Chloe and Amelia Ramsbottom sat at the back of the rather crowded bus that was to take them to their hotel. It was quite new and provided by one of the Spanish-built hotels that had begun to appear in the last few years.

      ‘When we first came here there were no buses and hardly any cars,’ Amelia confided to her as the bus reached its capacity load and lurched off down the bumpy road. ‘I remember we hired a kind of dogcart pulled by one tired old horse—and in