Daughter Of Hassan. Penny Jordan

hers now. Although Danielle would never have dreamed of saying so for fear of hurting either of her parents, in many ways she wished her stepfather were not quite so wealthy. She would have loved to share a flat with other girls, struggling to find the rent each month, and enjoying the shared camaraderie of youth, but her parents would have been bitterly hurt had she suggested leaving home, and although he never criticised, Danielle knew that her stepfather, with his Eastern upbringing, rather disapproved of the freedom of some of her friends.

      Boys who called to take her out on dates often quailed before his fierce stare, and Danielle had a shrewd suspicion that the combination of his presence and wealth held her escorts’ behaviour in check. Certainly, apart from the occasional over-amorous goodnight kiss, she had never had to fight off unwelcome advances. Unless, of course, it was because they didn’t find her attractive. The thought made her glance uncertainly into the huge baroque mirror hanging on the wall, a small frown puckering her smooth forehead.

      ‘Well, darling,’ her mother persisted, ‘will you be joining us for dinner? The Sancerres will be dining with us. They’re over from Paris, and Philippe made a special point of asking if you would be in.’

      Danielle wrinkled her nose.

      Philippe Sancerre was the son of a business colleague of her stepfather’s; a Frenchman whom Danielle had met with the rest of his family in Paris the previous year. Philippe was five years older than her, but far more worldly; she had sensed that from the way he had kissed her goodnight after taking her out to dinner. Philippe was very handsome with his smooth brown hair and laughing eyes, but the way he looked at her sometimes made her feel uncomfortable, and she wriggled slightly, remembering it.

      She knew all about sex, of course; one could scarcely not do so nowadays, but knowing and experiencing were two different things, and so far her experience was extremely limited—nil almost, which was a ridiculous state of affairs, she acknowledged wryly. Whoever had heard of a twenty-one-year-old virgin? It was a secret she kept very well and intended to go on keeping until she found the man with whom she could share it.

      ‘Yes, I’ll be in for dinner,’ she replied, knowing it was the answer her mother wanted. Another woman might have resented the presence of such a young and attractive daughter, but Helen Hassan loved Danielle too much to feel envy for her youth. Besides, she had her beloved Hassan.

      Danielle applied a touch of sea-green eyeshadow and stood back to study the effect in her mirror. Her bedroom was furnished with eighteenth-century French antiques, the furniture gilded and delicate. It had been an eighteenth birthday present from her stepfather. She had much to thank him for, she reflected, and not merely possessions. He had made her mother so happy. She glowed with that special glow of women in love, and that he loved her too was very evident.

      The diamond pendant he had given her that morning flashed fire between the tender valley of her breasts, lightly confined by the thin silk of her evening pants suit. The camisole top outlined the firm thrust of her breasts, before tapering to her narrow waist.

      Her stepfather had never tried to impose Eastern clothing on either her mother or herself, but Danielle knew that he preferred to her to wear clothes that were ‘modest’ and she hoped he would not disapprove of the outfit she was wearing tonight.

      That Philippe did not became obvious the moment Danielle stepped into the elegant drawing room. Both he and his father stood up as Danielle entered, but it was Philippe who swiftly crossed the Aubusson carpet to take Danielle’s hands in his, imprisoning them while he kissed her warmly.

      ‘Philippe!’ Her breathless protest went unheard, Madame Sancerre smiling indulgently as her son stole another kiss before releasing his captive.

      ‘You embarrass Danielle,’ she chided him lightly. ‘She is not used to such behaviour, is this not so, petite?’

      Before Danielle could answer Madame Sancerre turned to her mother and said enviously,

      ‘You are fortunate in your daughter, Helen. My Isabelle, although three years younger than Danielle, is already a rebel. I have told her more than once that her behaviour is not comme il faut; not that which one expects from une jeune fille bien élevée, but will she listen? I have told her she will not make a good marriage, but she merely laughs. She does not want to marry, she tells me. She will go to university and qualify as an advocate so that she can support herself.’

      Although Madame Sancerre shook her head, Danielle could tell that secretly she was very proud of her daughter. As though he sensed the direction of her thoughts her stepfather came across and put his arm round her shoulders.

      ‘As you say, Madame,’ he told the Frenchwoman, ‘we are very proud of Danielle. She is everything I have always hoped for in a daughter. Beautiful… spirited…’

      Danielle blushed, and Madame Sancerre laughed. ‘A pearl beyond price—you must treasure her greatly, my friend.’

      ‘Very greatly,’ her stepfather said, so seriously that Danielle almost protested fearfully that she was human and humanly frail and that he must not put her on such a pedestal, but Madame Sancerre was talking and the moment was lost, forgotten as the conversation became more general.

      It was after dinner that Philippe drew Danielle to one side, engaging her in discussion while their elders discussed business in the case of the men and fashion in that of the ladies.

      ‘It is too long since we last met, chérie,’ he told her. ‘You must persuade your stepfather to bring you to Paris with him the next time he comes.’

      ‘I shan’t be having much spare time for trips to Paris from now on,’ Danielle responded, withdrawing the fingers Philippe was stroking gently. ‘I start college soon.’

      ‘College? Oh, you mean your Cordon Bleu course.’ You should have taken it in Paris, chérie, the home of the only true Cordon Bleu cookery, but I doubt that would suit your papa. He likes to keep his little pearl under his eye, is this not so?’

      ‘He isn’t too keen on the idea of me leaving home,’ Danielle admitted, ‘but one day…’

      ‘One day the bird will fly the nest, eh?’ Philippe commented with a teasing smile. ‘When she does I hope she will fly in my direction. You are very lovely, little Danielle—an enchanting mixture, half women and half child still. When you become all woman, then you will be formidable!’

      Danielle had had enough experience of Philippe’s flattery to take it with a pinch of salt. He was known to be something of a flirt, and she said so lightly, watching his eyebrows rise in mock pain.

      ‘I a flirt? Never! And certainly not with you, mignonne, your stern steppapa would never approve, and my papa is dependent upon him for much of his business. Now, if you are seeking a real Don Juan, a man who is so entirely male that females of the species practically throw themselves at his feet, you can look no farther than the family of your steppapa. Has he told you nothing of Jourdan?’ he asked in some surprise when Danielle stiffened slightly ‘I can hardly believe it. Jourdan is his favourite nephew.’

      ‘He may have mentioned him—he has so many relatives, I can’t remember them all,’ Danielle lied, wondering why she should feel this sudden frisson of fear at the mention of the previously unheard-of nephew, Jourdan! It was a strange name, but she wasn’t going to betray her curiosity to Philippe’s too knowing eyes.

      ‘If he had mentioned him you would surely have remembered it,’ Philippe stated positively. ‘It is odd that he has not. Hassan and Jourdan are very close. Jourdan is more of a son to him than a nephew.’

      Danielle’s eyes mirrored her disbelief. If this Jourdan was as close to her stepfather as Philippe claimed how was it that she had never heard of him; never seen him?

      An explanation was soon forthcoming.

      ‘Of course, Jourdan did not approve of Hassan marrying your mother,’ Philippe told her, ‘although I would have thought he would have put all that behind him now. The marriage is fact, and I should have thought Jourdan far too sensible a man to continue to antagonise