Gradually she grew conscious of a new sound, the rustle of wind among leaves. The sound of the sea faded gently. The arms which held her seemed tireless. Her captor walked evenly, his long legs striding forward, carrying her without apparent effort.
He halted, and she was shifted slightly in his arm. She heard a metallic click, then the slow creak of a door opening. She was carried through it and heard it slam behind her. Then she was flung down unceremoniously upon something soft. Before she had time to think her hands were untied and the dark cloth whipped away.
She lay, blinking, her eyes dazzled by the sudden flaming of a yellow candle, staring up at a dark figure which loomed above her.
He was so tall that she felt she looked a long, long way to see his face. In his white robes, his head covered by a white headdress bound with a gold cord, he was like a towering column, only the face, half hidden by his headdress, to betray his humanity. Narrowed dark eyes surveyed her insolently. He had a lean, olive-skinned face instilled with arrogance, cruelty and pride.
'Who are you?' she asked, her voice husky with alarm. 'Why have you brought me here?'
His hard mouth parted in a mocking smile. 'Who I am does not matter. I was on the beach while you were talking to your friend earlier. I heard you say you would like to see more of Arab life; what did you say—the wild, free spaces of the desert?' His dark eyes taunted her. 'So I brought you here to fulfil your dream.'
Marie sat up, shivering with fear, her dark blue eyes very large in the oval of her white face. 'You must be mad! How dare you kidnap me like this! As soon as it's realised that I've vanished the police will comb the city for me. My father is a very important man, he'll be very angry…'
'Ah,' he said softly. 'Your father. How much do you think you would be worth to him? How much would James Brinton pay to get you safely back?'
She stared at him in shock. 'So that's it! You brought me here so that you could demand a ransom from my father? But…' Her voice broke off as she frowned, thinking hard. 'How did you know who I was? This must have been planned in advance…'
'How did I know who you were? My dear Miss Brinton, your photograph has appeared
often enough in the English glossy magazines. Marie Brinton, heiress to the Brinton fortune, dining out with some handsome and eligible young man… or dancing, or riding to hounds, or skiing in the Alps… you are a much photographed, much talked about young woman.'
Vainly she wished she had not gone out into the garden alone, giving this man the opportunity he had no doubt been waiting for… Her small chin lifted defiantly. 'So you're just a cheap crook looking for a way to make easy money?'
'Not cheap, Miss Brinton,' he said mockingly. The dark eyes flicked over her white silk dress, the naked gleaming shoulders and the proud swell of her breasts beneath the material, half revealed as they were by the low curve of the neckline. 'Neither are you, are you, Miss Brinton? A very expensive young lady, I would guess. For a man who likes soft, useless white-fleshed women you would be a tempting prize. Perhaps I would, after all, get more for you from an oil sheik than from your father?'
She was frightened by the way his dark eyes moved over her body. Trembling, angry, on the verge of panic, she tried to think of a way of distracting him. 'How much are you going to demand from my father, anyway?' she asked huskily.
He gave her an amused, comprehending glance which told her that he had read her motives in asking the question. 'What would you suggest?'
She shrugged. 'I have no idea.'
He grinned lazily. 'Half a million pounds, perhaps?'
'You're mad! Half a million pounds…'
'I'm sure your father would pay more than that to get you back unharmed.' He reached out a long-fingered brown hand and lifted her chin to stare down into her blue eyes. 'After all, he must be aware that any man who had you in his power would be very tempted to enjoy the pleasures your revealing dress suggests are available…'
'Don't touch me, you… you scavenger of the streets!' She spat the words out furiously, having heard them used by one of the hotel staff to a beggar who had sat by the hotel entrance one day imploring alms of the visitors as they went in and out.
The phrase seemed to amuse him. The hard mouth curved in a smile of mockery. 'To make that sound truly insulting the words should be Arabic,' he told her, his dark eyes full of laughter.
'Then I wish I knew Arabic!' she flung back.
'Perhaps I will have time to teach you,' he returned softly. 'I think it might be enjoyable.'
'Don't bother!'
'Arabic is a language which makes love a sensuous delight,' he said tormentingly. 'It is full of love poetry. Sometimes of an evening the Bedouin sit around the camp fire and recite love poems for hours, capping each other with apt quotations, while the stars make a steely glitter overhead…'
'You make it sound very romantic,' she said, her eyes held hypnotically by his. 'But I expect it's far from the reality.'
His thin brows rose. 'And I thought you were attracted to the romanticism of the desert! You sounded wistful when you talked of it to your friend on the terrace outside the hotel…'
'You were listening to us all the time,' she said, half to herself, her nerves jumping at the thought of him lurking in the shadows watching her while she thought herself alone with the night sky. She tried to remember what she had said to Mrs Brown, but it seemed so long ago. She had said silly, futile things and this man had listened, no doubt with that sardonic, mocking smile.
'You expressed a desire to taste the real life of the Arab world,' he murmured drily. 'Well, you have your wish…' He moved away, lifting the candle so that the pale light moved around the room. 'A typical Arab house, Miss Brinton. Delightful, isn't it? Romantic and exciting…'
Her eyes moved around the tiny, low-ceilinged room, taking in the dirty, crooked shutters which covered the small windows, the low table in the centre, around which were arranged thick cushions, the large tapestry-covered cushions which appeared to form some sort of couch, on which she herself had been flung. There was no other furniture but a wall cupboard in a corner. The walls were plastered but had been given a grimy patina by time, and cracks ran across them here and there. In one crack a grey-green lizard sat motionless, only the filmed blink of an eye betraying that he was alive.