âYou will be the only occupant of my harem, playing a part,â Philippe said.
Her body tingled. âPretending to be your lover,â Gretchen said breathlessly.
âYes.â
She felt deliciously hot all over. The thought of his mouth on hers made her knees weak. He wanted pretense. She wanted him, and was only just realizing it. All sorts of shocking, exciting images formed in her mind. âI have no idea how someone in a harem behaves,â she said.
âNor have I,â he said with a touch of amusement. âWe will have to learn together.â
Some of the uncertainty left her expression.
âAt least your virtue would be completely safe with me.â He hoped. He didnât dare tell her what her touch did to him.
âHow far would this pretense have to go, exactly?â she wondered aloud.
âIt would have to be convincing,â he said.
She lowered her eyes demurely. âYouâd kiss me andâ¦so forth?â
He lifted an eyebrow. âYes. Especially andâ¦so forth.â
âNobody tops Diana Palmerâ¦I love her stories.â
âJayne Ann Krentz
Tourists milled around the food court in the busy Brussels airport where the two American women were trying to decide what to do next.
The slender blond woman in the tan pantsuit was almost choked with mirth as she gazed mischievously up at her dark-haired, pacing companion in a green silk jacket and slacks. âIsnât it ironic that we could starve to death surrounded by food?â Gretchen Brannon asked gleefully.
âOh, do stop,â Maggie Barton groaned, looming over her laughing, near-hysterical companion. âWe wonât starve, Gretchen. We can get Belgian francs. There are money-changing booths everywhere!â She waved her arms around expressively at the nearby shops, almost colliding with a passing couple in the crowded food court.
Gretchenâs green eyes twinkled. âReally? Where, exactly?â
Maggie let out a sigh as she tried unsuccessfully to remember enough French to read a sign.
Gretchen watched her through swollen eyelids. Unlike efficient Maggie, who could sleep on the plane, sheâd been awake for almost thirty-six straight hours. âCanât you just see the headlines?â Gretchen persisted. ââNaïve Texas tourists found dead beside five-star restaurantâ¦â!â She started laughing again.
Maggie was not amused. âJust sit right there. Donât move.â
Gretchen submerged a mad impulse to salute. Maggie, twenty-six and three years older than Gretchen, worked for an investment firm in Houston where she was a junior partner. She had a take-charge manner that was occasionally a blessing. No doubt sheâd find a way to get native currency and return loaded with food and drink.
Maggie came back with the money and sorted through it, frowning as she tried to remember how the currency changer had explained the coins. âWe still have plenty of time to get something to eat and then take a tour of the city before our flight leaves for Casablanca this afternoon.â
Gretchen blinked sleepily. âGreat idea, about the tour. Can you get a strong tour guide? I think Iâll need to be carriedâ¦â
âFood. Coffee. Right now. Come on.â
Gretchen obligingly let her friend tug her to her feet. They were an odd couple, with Maggie so tall and brunette and voluptuous, and Gretchen slender, medium height, fair and with long platinum-blond hair. They pulled the carry-on bags with them, having had the good sense not to bring more than that, thereby escaping the eternal wait at baggage claim for bags that often didnât even arrive with the passengers.
Maggie coughed helplessly. âEverybody smokes everywhere over here,â she muttered. âI donât suppose thereâs a no-smoking section?â
Gretchen grinned. âSure there is. Itâs where the smoke is being blown to.â
Maggie made a face. âHow about the food bar over there?â she asked, indicating a structure near the window. âItâs almost deserted and nobodyâs smoking.â
âI could eat dry bread crusts, myself,â Gretchen agreed. âAnd if we donât have enough money, Iâll even volunteer to wash the dishes!â
They had a nice order of pasta with tomatoes and mushrooms and homemade bread, on real china, with real silverware, at a counter. By the time they finished their second cups of coffee, Gretchen felt renewed.
âNow all we have to do is find a tour going our way,â Maggie said brightly. âIâll call a tour agency and see if we can get somebody to come and pick us up.â
Gretchen only sighed. She sat down and closed her eyes. It would be so lovely to have a bed and ten hours uninterrupted sleep. But they were still hours from their hotel in Tangiers, Morocco.
Fifteen frustrating minutes later, Maggie hung up the phone and mumbled some harsh words toward it as she nudged Gretchen, who was dozing.