Roberta Leigh - Flower of the Desert Read online

  Roberta Leigh - Flower of the Desert

  SMOULDERING DREAMS, DARK SHADOWS

  Fleur Peters was a British teacher, staying at the fabulous summer home of the rich and powerful Khan family to tutor young Nizea Khan. Fleur neither expected nor wanted to fall in love with Nizea's brother Karim, a darkly handsome and sensuous man who seemed to oppose the independence Fleur so valued.

  But there was no denying the growing attrction between them, and no end to the doubts and fears that threatened to drive them apart…

  One

  FLEUR Peters took her place at the desk and waited for her class to file in. They would be giggling and several of them would be chewing sweetmeats, a habit beloved by many of her pupils, she had discovered, since coming to teach in Iran three months ago. She too had found herself nibbling between meals—something she had never done in England—for the nuts and raisins and the halva—a concoction of pounded nuts, almonds, and honey—were too delicious to resist.

  Steps sounded outside, the door opened, and some twenty girls filed in. Used to the more boisterous behavior of British children, Fleur never failed to notice how docile these girls were by comparison, though when she had commented on it to Madame Nadar, the proprietor of the Nadar School for Girls, the woman had laughed.

  "If you find my girls docile, wait until you meet those who have not had the benefit of European teachers. After three months here you still do not appreciate that tradition dies hard—especially when it is also a part of one's religion."

  "Until I came here I hadn't realized that women were kept subservient because of religious beliefs."

  Madame had nodded. "The man is the leader in everything and women must defer to him—be he their father, their brother, or their husband. It is only as women have become more educated that they've started to question this."

  "I should think so, too!"

  "But there are still plenty of women who don't."

  "Habit," Fleur snorted, her light green eyes flashing with derision.

  "Habit and preference," Madame Nadar said. 'It makes life easier for a woman if she knows she can always rely on a man."

  "Yet you had a career as well as a husband," Fleur stated.

  "I am considered an oddity by women of my own class," Madame had replied. "I was educated in France because my father was a diplomat and I married a diplomat, too. That allowed me to lead a more Western type of life. But when my husband died I was expected to return here and settle down with my women relatives in what you would, no doubt, call a harem. Instead I had the good fortune to start this school—but only because there were many wealthy families who wished to give their daughters some education without losing their own influence over them."

  "They're making sure of that," Fleur had retorted.

  "Two girls have dropped out of my class because their father objected to my giving them the short stories of Guy de Maupassant to read."

  Madame had chuckled. "No matter. I have faith in your judgment, and if one or two parents object, it is their loss, not ours."

  From then on the conversation had changed course, though Fleur thought about it when she returned to her classroom on the first floor of the large house which served Madame Nadar both as her school and her home.

  It was only because the Persian woman had given her carte blanche on the way she taught her subject that she had left her job in a girls' school in Berkshire and come to Teheran. Rory's being here had had something to do with it too, though it would not have swayed her unless she had also found the right ambience in which to teach.

  Occasionally there were times when homesickness made her regret her decision, but for the most part she enjoyed the climate, the unusual food, and the whole colorful way of life around her. There were also times when she was dismayed by the old-fashioned attitude of some of her pupils, for only one girl among the fifty whom she taught seemed to have an independent mind. As she also had literary talent and the ambition to develop it, Fleur went out of her way to encourage her.

  Nizea Khan responded to it by making Fleur her idol, and her black eyes would glow with love when they rested on the tall, slender figure of her teacher, whose height and slimness was so different from her own rounded form.

  Fleur knew of the girl's hero worship but saw it as no bad thing. Since she wished to encourage the girl to ask her parents for a university education, the stronger her influence the more likely she was to succeed.

  Fleur was pondering this as her last class of the day filed in. Nizea was in the second row, her curly black hair held away from her face by a band of real gold. There was a matching gold bracelet on her arm, but otherwise she wore the standard dress required of her: a navy skirt and a white, short-sleeved blouse. Yet the voluptuous figures of the young Persian girls gave even these understated garments an unexpected sexiness.

  "I finished the book you gave me, Miss Peters."

  Nizea's soft voice caught Fleur's attention. Despite her gentle way of speaking, the girl had a determined streak, evidenced in the voracious way she read everything she was given, lapping it up like a hungry puppy so that she could beg for more.

  "I doubt whether you can have absorbed it if you read it so quickly," Fleur reproached. "The first time I read Pride and Prejudice I took longer than a weekend."

  "It couldn't have been a Persian weekend," Nizea said dulcetly. "Women have nothing to do except sit around and gossip and eat."

  "You have a swimming pool, and you can also watch television shows," said the girl behind her, emphasizing this latter boon by naming several series which made Fleur shudder.

  "I didn't realize American shows could be seen here," Fleur commented.

  "They can't," Nizea said. "But Karim—my brother— bought me a videotape machine for my birthday and a hundred cassettes."

  "Of American programs?" Fleur asked in dismay.

  "Educational programs." Amusement lurked in the dark, liquid eyes. "But he gets the latest shows for his own machine, and I borrowed a few."

  "Pinched them," said the girl behind Nizea again. "When your brother finds out he will lock his things away."

  "Karim never locks anything away. We are not a household of thieves."

  As the crime of thieving was—after the third conviction—punishable by having one's hand cut off, Fleur did not doubt this. It was a reminder that the newly acquired sophistication brought about by oil wealth was only a veneer and that a far more primitive civilization existed just below the surface.

  "I think we've gossiped long enough," Fleur said firmly. "I suggest we turn our attention from Streisand to Shakespeare."

  For the next hour she held her class enthralled, and only when the bell rang to terminate all lessons for the day did she motion Nizea to stay behind.

  "I read the essay you wrote for me on Coleridge," she said, when the last of the girls had gone. "It was an excellent piece of work. There's no doubt in my mind that you'd pass your university entrance examination without trouble."

  "There's no use passing it if I won't be allowed to go. My father believes a woman's place is at home with her husband and children."

  It was on the tip of Fleur's tongue to say she had never heard of anything so outdated but common sense won the day. "Can't your mother make him change his mind? Or perhaps your brother? You give the impression that he is next in importance to your father in your household."

  "So he is. But my father's word is law, and Karim would never oppose his wishes."

  "Then it's up to you to persuade your father to change his mind."

  "I can never do that," Nizea said sadly. "He has a will of iron." Great dark eyes studied Fleur intently. "He says that going to universi
ty would change me so much that I would no longer be his daughter."

  "One can change without going to a university," Fleur replied. "You shouldn't concede defeat so easily. Remember that faint heart never won fair lady."

  "Nor has a woman in our family ever won an education." Nizea still had her eyes fixed upon Fleur. "Perhaps if you spoke to my father it would help."

  "I wouldn't be too sure of that," Fleur said drily. "Persian men aren't renowned for listening to their womenfolk."

  "But you aren't his womenfolk! You are English and a stranger, and he would treat you differently."

  He certainly would, Fleur thought silently. He'd probably make sure I was deported! But aloud she said: "I'll think about it and let you know."

  "You are my only hope, Miss Peters. And you said yourself that if you believe in something you should fight for it."

  "That doesn't mean I should interfere in family affairs."

  "But what matters more than education? Am I not the most clever girl in your class?"

  The girl struck a dramatic pose and Fleur smiled.

  "You're certainly talented, Nizea, though if you go on like this I might think your acting ability is even better than your literary talent!"

  The dark eyes flashed, but it was quickly over, and the gjrl was subdued again.

  "I beg you to help me. All I want is a chance to use my mind. If you tell my father I am clever, he will believe you. He has a great respect for Englishwomen."

  "How nice of him," Fleur said drily.

  "Then you will see him?" Nizea asked, not appreciating the sarcasm.

  "Yes, I will write to him today. But don't be too optimistic. If your father won't listen to you or your brother, I can't see his listening to me."

  It was a statement with which Madame Nadar concurred.

  "You are wasting your time, my dear. Mr. Khan will take no one's advice."

  "Is he so sure he is always right?" Fleur asked.

  "Even if he were wrong, he would never admit it. He is a man of the old school. There are not many left like him."

  Fleur considered this a good thing but wisely refrained from saying so.

  "Besides," Madame continued, "it will serve no purpose other than to make him more adamant."

  "At least it will satisfy Nizea. Otherwise, she'd think I was letting her down."

  "That is the only reason I do not ask you to desist from writing to him. But if he does see you, don't get carried away by your enthusiasm."

  "It's my enthusiasm that makes me a good teacher."

  "It could also make you a bad advocate when dealing with my countrymen. They like docile women."

  Fleur smiled, at the same time wishing that Rory Baines were here to give her his opinion. Unfortunately, he had flown to London that morning and did not expect to be back for a week. Yet had he been on hand, he would probably have advised her not to get involved in any family contretemps. Rory was an international lawyer with a big oil company and was always careful never to make a misstep.

  But having given Nizea a promise, she wrote to Mr. Khan that night, afraid that if she delayed doing so, discretion might yet win the day.

  Unwilling to use Nizea as a go-between, she posted her letter, hoping this might persuade Mr. Khan she had asked to see him of her own volition. She did not expect a reply for several days and was astonished when an immediate reply was delivered by one of his servants, a dusky skinned man in livery. The letter was on thick, hand- blocked paper with gold initials. It had no address or telephone number, assuming that if you did not already have this information, you would never have had the temerity to write.

  Pursing her lips, Fleur read the note which requested her to take tea with him on Sunday at four o'clock. There was no question as to whether this was suitable, and she knew that had she had another engagement, she would have been expected to cancel it. Mr. Khan was an autocrat of the old school.

  "I still think you are wasting your time," Madame Na- dar said when she learned of the quick reply. "But at least you will see inside a magnificent Persian home."

  "How many wives does Mr. Khan have?"

  "Only one. Polygamy is no longer allowed."

  "But divorce is still very easy, isn't it?"

  "Only for the men. Divorced women have no rights and are rarely allowed to keep their children."

  "It's all so feudal," Fleur sighed and then changed the subject. "Should I wear anything special when I see him?"

  "One of your pretty silk dresses, I think. And no hat. It would be a crime to cover that wonderful hair of yours. Mr. Khan can still appreciate a beautiful woman, and you will need every advantage you can muster if you wish to plead Nizea's cause."

  Fleur bore this in mind on Sunday afternoon as she slipped on a pale chartreuse dress. It was of fine wool rather than silk, for despite the cloudless April sky, it was still cold. Even with a minimum of make-up, she still looked glowing with life, her red-gold hair a riot of waves around her head, her eyes a curiously pale green like those found in a Burmese temple cat. Had she possessed regular features, she would have been a chocolate box beauty, but her nose was slightly tip-tilted and her mouth generously wide with a full, softly curving lower lip. High cheek bones threw her eyes into prominence and apprehension at the interview ahead made them sparkle like green diamonds.

  Afraid they looked too bright and intelligent, she lowered her lids to hide them. Her lashes were long and very thick and with narrowed eyes she looked as if she were trying to imitate a vamp. She opened them wide again and rubbed off both the small amount of eye shadow she had applied and also her lipstick. But nothing could mute her natural coloring and she abandoned the idea of trying. If Mr. Khan appreciated a woman's beauty, he would at least know enough to realize she had done little to improve hers and was very nearly the way God had made her.

  "You're a walking contradiction," one of her girl friends had said to her a year ago. "You have the mind of a schoolmarm and the appearance of a showgirl. No wonder the poor men don't know where they are with you."

  "They know where they're not!" Fleur had retorted. "And that's all that concerns me."

  Wishing now for some of her friend's less obvious attributes, she went downstairs to the waiting taxi. She was a schoolteacher and she did not wish to be regarded in any other way—least of all by the autocratic father of one of her pupils.

  Two

  At five minutes to four, the taxi drew up outside large, ornamental iron gates, their design so delicate that they resembled black lace. They were set in what seemed to be a white marble wall that stretched for some twenty yards on either side along the entire block.

  The driver looked at her, and she knew he was waiting for her to get out but, determined to arrive in style, she pointed to the gate and with a shrug he sounded his hooter. A few seconds later the gates swung back, and they drove into a disappointingly small courtyard and stopped before another pair of gates. She paid off the taxi, and only as the car drove off did a servant appear to escort her through these gates into what was evidently the true inner courtyard of the house.

  Here she caught her breath, overcome by the beauty around her. Everything was of shining white marble cunningly intermingled with blue and gold tiles to give it additional life. A fountain sprayed glittering jets of diamond-bright water into a wide, shallow basin lined with lapis lazuli. Persian plane trees with silver stems rose eighty to ninety feet in the air, their height telling her they had been here as long as the building that enclosed them.

  The servant was moving ahead of her, and hastily she followed him into a circular hall. Small archways led from it, and they went through one of them into another circular room. This was more colorful and ornate, with Persian rugs gleaming like opals on the floor and several pieces of magnificent ivory-inlaid furniture ranged along the walls. She was glad to see that apart from mounds of silk cushions there were also chairs on which to sit, but decided not to occupy one of them until Mr. Khan arrived. If he sat on a cushion, she wou
ld do the same.

  Her nervousness increased, and she looked round to ask the servant if she would have to wait long. But he had gone and, afraid that if she just stood here she would become even more nervous, she focused her attention upon her surroundings, noting the high, domed ceiling inlaid with arabesques in yellow, aubergine, and lapis blue upon a white marble ground. The same white marble had been used for the walls though those were interspersed with panels of pure mosaic, their prevailing color once more lapis lazuli.

  "Miss Peters?" A mellifluous voice made her spin round, and she hoped the distance of the room had hidden her start of surprise as she caught her first sight of her host. He was far younger than she imagined—somewhere in his thirties—and she could not understand why Madame Nadar had said he was old. But as he came towards her and the clear white light of the room illumined his face, she knew that unless he had married in his early teens he could not possibly be Nizea's father.

  "I am Karim Khan," he stated. "My father begs you to excuse him, but he is indisposed and unable to see you today." Color came into her cheeks, giving them an apricot bloom, and he was quick to see it. "He went riding yesterday and is now paying the penalty with a severe attack of lumbago."

  The thought of the lofty Ibrahim Khan being laid low by so plebeian a malady made her want to smile, and she bit her lip hard in order to prevent it.

  "My father has asked me to see you instead," the younger man continued and motioned her to sit down.

  She hesitated, waiting to see where he was going to sit and, as she made no move, neither did he, and they stood looking at each other.

  "Are you going to sit on a chair or a cushion?" she asked finally, her voice breathless.

  "Will it make any difference?"

  "I would feel foolish sitting above you."

  "I would not be worried by a woman's looking down upon me," he said with a vestige of a smile; then, to her relief, he seated himself gracefully in a chair.

  He wore a faultlessly cut charcoal gray suit. It looked lighter because of the honey gold color of his skin which, despite the intense black of his hair and eyebrows, had a smooth velvety quality unusual in a man. It would have been hard to believe he needed to shave had she not seen the faint shadow along his lower cheeks and chin. A firm nose divided a face that would have been happily accepted by any film star, though there was something brutal about his mouth, with its narrow upper lip and sensual lower one. The same hint of savagery was echoed by the square chin and heavy-lidded eyes. It was the eyes, Fleur thought nervously, that made him look so fierce, for they were those of a hawk and had the same intensely piercing stare.