Iris Johansen

And The Desert Blooms

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Copyright © 1985 by Iris Johansen

One

Pandora quickly unfastened the chain of the medallion that hung around her neck. Her hands were shaking slightly as she took it off and placed it in the velvet-lined jeweler's box. She took a moment to draw a deep, steadying breath. It was stupid to be so frightened now. She had planned everything down to the last detail. No, nothing could go wrong.

The round medallion shone against the black velvet lining of the box. The morning sunlight streaming through the hotel room window picked out the design on its surface, a raised rose in full bloom pierced by a sword. She reached out one finger and touched the rose gently. She felt oddly naked without the necklace she had worn for the last eight years. She had a sudden impulse to snatch the lovely thing out of the box and fastenit around her neck again. It was hers, dammit. What if Philip just opened the package and then carelessly tossed the medallion into a drawer?

What if he had forgotten her? It had been more than six years. Undoubtedly there had been a parade of women through his bedroom in that time. Perhaps he'd found one who could provide him with more than temporary satisfaction. Oh Lord, she mustn't think of that. It hurt too much. She wouldn't think about it. He wasn't married or engaged. She knew that for certain. It didn't matter if he had formed a liaison or not. She'd soon take care of removing any woman who had taken his fancy. Philip belonged to her. She had a prior claim and wouldn't hesitate to state it. She knew Philip better than anyone on the face of the earth. Surely that would be a powerful enough weapon to oust any rival. And she had other weapons now as well. She would use them all if she had to.

Philip wouldn't throw the medallion into a drawer. He was the most possessive man she had ever known. When he had given her this medallion he had done so as a gesture of ownership. What belonged to him would never be surrendered easily.

She snapped the box shut and reached for the most recent issue of Rolling Stone magazine. With efficient movements she wrapped the jeweler's box and the magazine in plain brown paper and addressed it to James Abernathy, Philip's London agent. From the gossip columns she knew Philip had spent a good deal of time in Great Britain during the last six years. Even if he wasn't inLondon, Abernathy would know where to reach him.

Just as she finished there was a knock on the door. She stood and snatched up the package and her huge shoulder bag from the chair beside the desk. "Just a minute," she called.

"Take your time," came Neal's deep voice. "I'm in no hurry to listen to you destroy my new lyrics with that sandpaper voice of yours."

A smile tugged at her lips as she crossed the room, and she felt some of her tension ease. Neal Sabine's dry humor always had that effect on her. She couldn't remember how many performances he had made bearable for her in the past two years.

She threw open the door. "Then why don't you sing them yourself?" she asked Neal with a grin. "We both know you've got a better voice." She made a face. "Hell, Kermit the Frog has a better voice."

"But Kermit the Frog doesn't have your sex appeal," he replied as he took her huge shoulder bag and slung it over his shoulder. "And neither do I. You may not be melodious, but you're definitely commercial."

"Thanks a lot," she said. "If I was the least bit serious about all this nonsense, I'd probably be crushed."

"If you were serious, I wouldn't have said it," Neal returned. "I'd be working your ass off to make a musician out of you, instead of just a star." He shifted his guitar case and took her arm. "Come on, let's get on the road. Pauly and Gene are already at the auditorium rehearsing."

One side of his mouth lifted in a lopsided smile. "They're obviously more driven than we are, Iuv."

She knew better than that, but said nothing as she closed the door and started down the hall toward the bank of elevators at the end of the corridor. "I'm afraid we're going to be even later than you think," she remarked finally. "I have to stop at the post office and mail this package."

There was a flicker of curiosity in Neal's eyes as he glanced down at the package. In the four years he had known Pandora he couldn't remember her either receiving or sending any mail. She seemed to live totally in the here and now. "I guess I can handle that. Is it important?"

"Oh yes, it's important." Her hand was trembling again as she pushed the button of the elevator. She deliberately steadied it. She mustn't be so transparent. She could tell by Neal's expression that he'd already noticed something was upsetting her. She'd never be able to fool Philip, who had always been extraordinarily sensitive to her emotional state, if she couldn't control herself better than this.

She lifted her chin and gave Neal a blindingly beautiful smile. "Very important." Her smile suddenly faded, and a faint frown creased her forehead. "Do you remember last year when you were ill with the flu and I played Florence Nightingale?"

He nodded. "How could I forget? I've never been so bitchin' miserable in my life."

"You said you owed me one."

His eyes narrowed. "Are you calling in debts, Pandora?"

She nodded. "I need a favor." She moistened her lips. Heavens, this was hard. She had taken care of Neai because he was her friend and he needed her. She felt shabby extracting payment now for what she had given freely. "I'll understand if you don't want to do it, but I thought I'd—"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, be quiet, Pandora." The doors of the elevator slid open and Neal nudged her into the cubicle. "You're my friend, dammit." His thumb punched the lobby button. "If you want a favor, ask. It's not a crime to need a little help, you know."

"Okay." She drew a deep breath. "I want you to move in with me."

"What!"

The doors of the elevator slid silently closed.

* * *

"Come in, Abernathy."

James Abernathy hesitated a moment before he opened the polished oak library door. He wasn't in any hurry to beard the lion in his den. He had deliberately taken his time getting to El Kabbar's estate from his office in London. Usually it annoyed him to make the long drive when the sheikh wanted to sign papers or relay instructions on the more delicate transactions of his multicorporation empire. In James Abernathy's eyes, London was the only civilized corner of the world, and he couldn't see why the sheikh insisted on living outside its environs. He realized that El Kabbar was a fine horseman and possessed one of the most famous stables in the Middle East. Still, there was Hyde Park in which to ride, and he was sure the facilities were more than adequate. Thistime, however, he was grateful for the delay of the drive before the coming interview.