It was too much of an effort to protest. Danielle was sure that Jourdan would never believe for one moment that she loved Philippe, but for the sake of her pride she agreed, shuddering at the thought of Jourdan coming after her, to drag her back down to the depths of self-degradation she had experienced since discovering that he loved Catherine. Perhaps she might even be able to reason with her stepfather and convince him that he still ought to give Jourdan control of the oil company. She was sure that this was what he really wanted to do, and she had no desire to rob Jourdan of what was rightfully his.
Having gained her consent, Philippe lost no time in making the arrangements for their departure. Catherine and Jourdan were going riding the following morning, he told her one evening after dinner. That was when they would leave. There was no need for her to bring anything with her. With luck they would be in Kuwait by nightfall. He had plenty of travellers cheques and could draw on his father for extra funds. ‘Just think,’ he comforted her, ‘within forty-eight hours you could be home.’
Home! Danielle bit her lip, turning her head away. Didn’t he realise there would be no ‘home’ for her ever again without Jourdan? He was her home; her world. And he loved Catherine.
The morning was just like any other. The sun shone brassily from a perfectly blue sky. Danielle heard the sounds of Catherine and Jourdan departing on their ride as she dressed. She went to her window, her eyes searching greedily for what would be her last sight of Jourdan, and as though sensing her eyes upon him, he glanced up towards her window. Just for a moment she longed to rush downstairs, to throw her arms round him and beg and plead to be allowed to stay, but the impulse was ruthlessly squashed. For Jourdan’s sake, if not for her own, she must go.
They set out within half an hour of Catherine’s and Jourdan’s departure. Danielle paid scant attention to the arrangements Philippe had made. It was all she could do to get herself into the Land Rover. He kissed her lightly as they drove out of the castle. Danielle had left a note for Zanaide thanking the little maid for all she had done for her. For Jourdan she had left nothing. He would make all the explanations that were needed once he had seen her safely on the plane, Philippe told her.
Danielle guessed that scant explanation would be necessary. Jourdan would surely draw his own conclusions and be grateful for the opportunity of regaining his freedom and marrying the woman he actually loved.
As they were heading for Kuwait they were not taking the road to Qu‘Har, Philippe explained to Danielle, but one which led away from it.
When he said this Danielle asked worriedly if that meant that they would have to cross the desert, but Philippe told her there was no cause for concern. He had visited Qu‘Har as a boy and was quite at home in the desert. They would reach the border within a couple of hours, he confidently predicted.
Four hours later he was forced to admit that this had been an foolishly optimistic claim. Heat shimmered all around them and Danielle was beginning to feel faintly sick. Although sturdy, the Land Rover possessed no air-conditioning and they were deep in the desert in the hottest part of the day, with no sign of the Kuwaiti border ahead.
‘We must have taken the wrong turning at that last fork,’ Philippe admitted when Danielle questioned him anxiously. He frowned as he glanced at the petrol gauge and muttered, ‘We’ll have to turn back.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better if we rested for a while?’ Danielle suggested timidly. Her head was beginning to throb agonisingly.
‘In this heat?’ Philippe scoffed. ‘How can we? If we don’t keep moving the sun will melt the Land Rover around us. God, it’s hot!’ he complained, not for the first time, a petulant note entering his voice. It struck Danielle that he had been over-confident and was now not as sure of his directions as he was trying to pretend. Neither was he the ideal companion to find oneself with in a crisis. He complained endlessly about their surroundings—the heat, the idiocy of not having the desert tracks properly signposted, and Danielle, her head throbbing, said nothing. Jourdan had already told her how easily these desert roads were obliterated during sandstorms. Philippe was behaving more like a spoiled child than an adult male, but even the knowledge that they were probably in danger of becoming lost in some of the most inhospitable terrain in the world failed to puncture the bubble of misery that insulated her from normal fear.
The sudden cessation of the Land Rover’s normal motion to a series of jerky bumps, followed by Philippe’ swearing and crashing the vehicle through the gears to a halt, did little to jolt her out of her despair, and when Philippe clambered out of the jeep and returned seconds later, his face grim, to tell her that they had had a puncture, she simply stared at him, not really contemplating the danger they were facing.
‘Do you want me to help you change the wheel?’ she asked Philippe, unable to understand the reason for the sudden furious contortion of his expression until he said bitterly, ‘We don’t have a spare.’
It took several seconds to sink it; several seconds during which Danielle had time to contemplate the truth and find herself strangely unfearful of it. If they had no spare tyre there was no way they could go any further in the Land Rover. No one knew where they were, including themselves, and Danielle knew that unless they were found in the next few hours by some miraculous fluke, they would probably both die.
Once she had accepted the truth a strange sort of calm seemed to descend upon her. Philippe was the one who raved and cursed the exigencies of fate, even going as far as to blame her for persuading him to set out for Kuwait. With new adult clarity Danielle saw that Philippe was basically insecure and juvenile in his outlook on life, and must always find someone else to blame for his own shortcomings. Until now Jourdan had been a convenient scapegoat—Jourdan who was everything he himself was not.
Like a mother with a hysterical child, Danielle soothed him as best she could with platitudes which she herself did not for one moment believe. It was impossible to believe that they would be found, and yet Philippe with almost childlike trust allowed her to persuade him that they might. There was water in the Land Rover, although a pitifully small amount, and although the roof kept off the direct heat of the sun, it was nevertheless stifling inside the vehicle. Danielle was beginning to feel painfully sick, but with Philippe alternately pacing up and down outside the Land Rover and cursing profanely with increasing bitterness she felt reluctant to exacerbate the situation by mentioning her illness.
‘Well, I’m not staying to die,’ Philippe said violently at last. ‘Oh, it’s all right for you,’ he sneered when Danielle said nothing. ‘If you can’t have Jourdan you might as well be dead—that’s what you think, isn’t it?’ When Danielle said nothing he continued viciously, ‘God, what a waste! You and I could have had fun together, Danielle, and had it financed by that stepfather of yours. Well, I’m not leaving you here to die. I can’t afford to,’ he added cruelly. ‘You’re my insurance policy, Danielle, and one that’s going to pay dividends once we’re out of here. I should imagine Hassan will be very grateful to the man who saves his precious stepdaughter’s life, shouldn’t you?’
It was in vain for Danielle to protest that it would surely be better to remain where they were, or to point out that the Land Rover made a far more visible landmark than they would. Philippe insisted, and so reluctantly, Danielle followed him out into the burning heat of the desert.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SHE couldn’t go on, Danielle thought wearily. She had no idea how far they had walked, or for how long. It felt like forever. She had protested once or twice at first that she had no hat and that they would be much wiser to remain with the Land Rover, but Philippe had bitterly opposed her objections. She stumbled and fell in the sand, her ankle wrenching awkwardly beneath her. In front of her she could see Philippe. He turned and glowered at her, coming back to yank her painfully upwards.
‘For God’s sake try to keep up with me, can’t you?’ he demanded.
Danielle knew better than to ask him where he thought they were going. They seemed to have been following this sandy track for a lifetime. Unlike her, Philippe was dark-skinned and used to the sun. Her face felt as though it were on fire, her head throbbing agonisingly with every step. Their water had all gone hours ago. She thought longing of the cool waters of the oasis; of English rain, and Philippe’s outline shimmered before her tired eyes and she felt herself slip into a world filled with hallucinations and mirages.
In one of them she thought she was lying on a soft bed, and that Jourdan was walking toward her. Only it wasn’t Jourdan, it was Philippe, his face contorted with anger as he shook her brutally and demanded that she get to her feet.
‘All right then, damn you, lie there!’ he screamed bitterly. ‘I’d be better off without you anyway!’
Danielle was glad when he had gone and she no longer had to listen to his hectoring voice. It was quite pleasant lying here really, or it would have been if her head didn’t ache quite so much and her skin feel so sore.
She was having a dream. She was on the beach, lying in the sun, and in the distance she could hear waves, only the waves kept on getting louder and louder and a sudden spurt of wind stirred the sand until it blew in her eyes and blinded her.