And the Desert Blooms by Iris Johansen Page A

would exploit any weakness he found in her defenses. “You were quite right to invite him.”
    They were crossing the courtyard, and Philip stopped her for a moment with a hand on her arm. “I can hurt you, Pandora,” he said softly. “I don’t want to do that. Give in, tell me you’ll leave Sedikhan, and I’ll cancel the dinner party.”
    She shook her head. “That would only be running away.” Her smile was bittersweet. “I haven’t done that since I was fifteen. You didn’t approve of it then, why should you now?”
    “Pandora, dammit, I don’t—” He broke off and drew a deep breath. “Oh, hell!” His hand dropped away from her arm, and he strode away from her and on up the stairs of the entrance. “Dinner is at eight.” The heavy, studded front door slammed behind him.

FIVE
    “I THOUGHT YOU were joking.” Philip, dressed in impeccable black evening clothes, leaned indolently on the jamb of the door between his room and Pandora’s. His eyes moved over her impassively. The thigh-length tunic she was wearing was of black velvet that clung to her body and left one shoulder bare in the Grecian fashion. Her lovely legs were encased in sheer black hose that flowed into high-heeled black sandals. The effect was blatantly sexual.
    “I
was
joking.” She smiled and touched the orange fuzz of the wig on her head. “But I thought it over and decided it would be appropriate for the occasion.” Her dark eyes were burning in her pale face. “I’ve learned to give the audience what it wants.”
    “And you think your rather bizarre costume will do that?” he asked quietly.
    “Well, it will give them what they expect, anyway.” She lifted her head. “Will you be ashamed to sit opposite me at the dinner table?”
    He straightened in the doorway. “No, I won’t be ashamed.” He walked toward her, his eyes searching her face. “But are you sure you don’t want to change your mind?”
    She shook her head so hard the orange curls danced like curling flames. “No,” she said fiercely. “This is part of me, too, and I’m not ashamed either.”
    He offered his arm. “Then shall we go to the salon and greet our guests?”
    She drew a deep, quivering breath and took his arm. “By all means.”
    Karl Madchen wasn’t in the salon when they arrived, but the other guests were all present, and Raoul was quietly moving about the room, serving drinks. A small dinner party, Philip had said. She supposed it was small by his standards, but there were at least fifteen people in the room. The low murmur of conversation dwindled as they walked in the door, and Pandora was immediately conscious of the raised eyebrows and amusement her appearance was causing. She unconsciously stiffened and immediately felt Philip’s hand tightening on her elbow. “Steady,” he said in an undertone. “Orange wig or not, you’re still the loveliest woman in the room. Remember that.”
    She experienced a little surge of warmth. “I’ll do that.”
    “Then come meet your guests.” His blue-green eyes were twinkling. “I can hardly wait to introduce you to the ambassador’s wife. She always was a stuffy bitch.”
    If this dinner party was supposed to be a punishment, Philip was certainly going about it in a strange way. He introduced her to each person in the room. His hand was constantly beneath her elbow, and his manner was both regally possessive and fiercely protective. Only when he had made sure that she would have no problems did he allow himself to be drawn away by one of his business cohorts. Even then she was still conscious of his glance on her from time to time, and again it gave her that warm feeling of being treasured.
    She was casually chatting with an eager young oil executive when she heard a familiar voice behind her. “Good evening, Pandora.”
    She went still. Karl Madchen had been born and raised in Munich and had never lost the trace of a German accent. She turned to face him. “Good evening, Father.”