As You Desire by Connie Brockway

Author:Connie Brockway [Brockway, Connie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, General, Romance, Love Stories, Man-Woman Relationships, Historical, Egypt
ISBN: 9780440221999
Google: RXyLAxzSYJkC
Amazon: 0440221994
Publisher: Dell
Published: 1997-01-01T07:00:00+00:00

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Chapter Eighteen

. Douglass, please try the fruit. Very sweet. Very nice," said Jabbar, the khedive's secretary, cutting Simon Chesterton off in midsentence. Marta inspected the heaping silver platter one of the legions of silent servants offered her.

The desperation on Jabbar's dark face had grown as the evening wound toward an end and Simon's harangue on the uneven distribution of relics between French and English archeological factions hadn't. "Or some cheese?"

Marta plucked a slice of melon from the platter and dangled it inches from Cal Schmidt's mouth. "Would you like some?"

Cal's eyes crinkled appreciatively at the corners. Instead of taking the ripe, moist-looking fruit from her fingers, he encircled her wrist, guiding her hand and its offering to his lips. "A pleasure, ma'am."

In many ways—certainly the most important ones—the tall American was as mature as she. Over the past few days he'd pursued her with a singleness of purpose that had at first amused her and finally charmed her. His directness and unapolo-getic materialism were refreshing contrasts to English posturing. And if he lacked sophistication, he possessed a native shrewdness that made up for it.

Cal released her hand and winked.

Of course, Marta thought, no matter what his attractions, he still wasn't Harry, whose intelligence was flavored with such a piquant irony, whose sophistication was underscored with an element of ruthlessness. Harry had lived. It was unclear how or in what way life had marked him, but marked he was. The scars were subtle… and provocative.

"Please, Colonel Chesterton. Eat!" Jabbar insisted, interrupting Marta's thought.

Georges Paget, attending the party as France's representative, paid no attention to Simon's diatribe. He'd heard it all before. Besides, he was too busy eating.

"If your sultan were to give England the directorship of the Cairo Museum instead of those French—"

"Here, Colonel Chesterton, you must have a fig." Jabbar popped the wrinkled brown fruit into Simon's open mouth. Though an act of fond familiarity in keeping with Turkish etiquette, Marta was certain it served a dual purpose. It was a big fig.

With obvious satisfaction, Jabbar relaxed in his eb-ony-and-malachite inlaid chair. He clapped his hands and a troop of servants appeared. Smoothly, snowy Irish linen was whisked from the table as crystal bowls were slid in front of each guest. In each bowl of warm, scented water floated a single water hyacinth. Earlier they'd dined on solid gold plates.

Despotism had its rewards.

"I have heard extraordinary reports of your great linguistic abilities, Miss Carlisle," Jabbar said, dipping his fingertips in the water and waiting while an attendant dabbed them dry. "Are they true?"

The others politely turned their attention toward where Desdemona Carlisle sat beneath Blake's possessive gaze.

"You must be very proud," Jabbar prompted.

A frown turned Desdemona's lips. A woman had to have a care not to frown in front of men, Marta thought. Too bad the girl's mother hadn't lived long enough to impart such basic wisdom.

"As I have never striven for this accomplishment," Desdemona said slowly, "it isn't something I expect I have the right to take any pride in.

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