"I imagine you do," Philip bit out as he opened the door. "Though I'd guess you're very fond of one-night stands as well. Your suite is next door. Please join me in forty-five minutes." The door swung shut behind him with a force that was not quite a slam.

Pandora made a face at the door. Yes, Philip was definitely upset and on his imperial high horse. "Do you think I've been insulted, Raoul?"

For a moment there was a flicker of humor in Raoul's brown eyes. "I wouldn't presume to say, Miss Madchen. However, Sheikh El Kabbar has always been talented in that direction, as we both know." He had moved to the carved door a few yards down the hall. "I believe you'll be comfortable here. When I received the phone call from the San Francisco airport I facilitated the acquisition of the wardrobe the sheikh said you would require." His eyes rested for a fleeting moment on her full bosom. "He said you had filled out a trifle. I hope the clothing fits."

"I'll manage," she said with a grin. "I'm not any more of a clotheshorse now than I was in the old days. If you remembered boots and jeans, I'll be happy."

"Oh yes, I remembered those." He smiled faintly. "You were always at the stable or on the back of one of the sheikh's horses. It would be difficult to forget." He opened the door for her and stepped

back, inclining his head in a small bow. "If there's anything I can do, please let me know. Again, welcome home, Miss Madchen."

"Thank you." Her throat felt a little tight. This was home. Far more than the large house on the other side of the village that she had occupied with her father. "It's wonderful to be home."

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment. She was here at last. She felt relief sweep through her. It was over. Her glance swept around the room, taking in the canopy bed with the ivory silk hangings, the white fretted windows, and the rich amber and wine oriental carpet on the floor. Her eyes were drawn to the door to the right of the bed. She knew it led to Philip's suite. She was very familiar with this room. It was the one allotted to all of Philip's Khadims. She remembered that once she had crept in here, filled with resentment and burning jealousy, to examine the place where the chosen ones were quartered. The beautiful ones who occupied his bed and received his passion. It had hurt so much, yet the temptation had been irresistible. It still hurt, she found. She mustn't think about the past. She was the one occupying this room now.

She walked quickly to the louvered closet and threw open the folding doors. Thank heaven for Raoul's good sense. There were not only sexy garments appropriate for one of Philip's mistresses, but sport clothes, and even a practical terry-cloth bathrobe. She took the robe from the hanger and strode swiftly toward the bathroom.

Thirty minutes later she had showered, shampooed, dried her hair, and was once more standing in front of the closet trying to decide what a worldly-wise woman would select to wear for an intimate dinner for two.

"The yellow silk." Philip's voice made her jump. She hadn't heard him enter. He was dressed in dark, fitted pants and a soft white shirt that clung to his broad shoulders and lean, hard waist. His dark hair was still damp from the shower and she was conscious of the familiar spicy scent of his cologne. "I told Raoul to get that particular dress for you. I like the texture of silk."

She could have guessed that. She had never known anyone for whom tactile sensations were as important. She had a fleeting memory of Philip's hand stroking Oedipus's mane, his long fingers strong, yet infinitely sensitive. "All right. It doesn't really matter."

"On the contrary, it matters very much." There was a glint of mischief in his eyes. "This one has a zipper. I heartily approve of zippers." The humor suddenly faded from his face. "I imagine Sabine did too."

"I have no idea." She reached for the yellow dress. "We never discussed it."

"You were too involved with experimentation to waste time on mere chitchat, no doubt," he said silkily.

Oh Lord, Philip was definitely on the attack. She had wanted to arouse his possessiveness, but not to this extent.

She shrugged. "I suppose so." She tried to smile teasingly at him. It was very difficult with him glowering at her like an incensed raja. "You appear to be fond of demonstrations yourself."

"That's different," he said with royal disregard for logic. "You don't belong to him."

"And in three months I won't belong to you either," she said quietly. "This is strictly a temporary arrangement." She made a mocking obeisance. "As decreed by the most honorable Sheikh El Kabbar."

"Well see when the three months are up," he said moodily. "I don't like giving up what belongs to me." He scowled. "And I didn't like you fastening his cufflinks. It was too . . . intimate."

She blinked. "Fastening cuff links is intimate? Heaven forbid if I straighten a man's tie."

"You're taking my displeasure very lightly. In the past you weren't so unaffected by it."

She wasn't unaffected, but he mustn't know that. Philip held too many weapons already. "You're taking a small service far too seriously."

"I just wanted to clarify that your services, both small and large, belong to me," he said harshly. "I don't share."

"How selfish of you." She lowered her eyes demurely. "I'll try to remember."

"I'll be there to remind you if it slips your mind," he said softly. "Be sure of it. Pandora." He turned away. "I'll leave you to get dressed. I have some phone calls to make." He paused at the door. "Don't bother to wear anything beneath the dress. I do hate to waste time." He left the door open, and a minute later she heard the sound of his voice as he spoke on the bedroom extension. So intimate. As intimate as the last remark, which had taken her breath and frozen her to the spot with sudden shyness.

Please, not now. She was so close. She had to be bold and sure or everything would fall apart. She drew a deep, quivering breath and swiftly untied the belt of her robe.

Bold and sure. She mentally repeated the words like a litany through the almost silent candlelight dinner. Philip seemed withdrawn, even remote, as the white-clad servants brought the delicious dishes to the table that overlooked the fretted balcony. Was he still angry? She couldn't tell by his expressionless face. It was still twilight, and the candles on the table weren't really necessary, as the entire room was bathed with a golden light. It lent the room the luminous sepia tones of old photographs, giving the scene a strangely timeless air.

She never remembered what she ate and she knew she'd never remember the names or faces of the servants who attended them. The entire interlude seemed dreamlike, a vignette seen through a veil of antique gold. Then the table was being whisked away and Philip was handing her a crystal glass of wine as clear and golden as the twilight haze that surrounded them. The taste was golden, too, smooth and tingling on her tongue. "It's very good," she said as she stood up and moved to stand outside on the balcony. "Does it come from the south vineyards?"

"No, the north. They've been producing for over five years now." He followed and stood at her side, looking out at the lavender-shaded hills in the distance. "We started reclaiming some of the slopes of the hills that border the Madrona Desert three years ago."