Rose of the Desert by Roumelia Lane

shrugged and lit up a cigarette.
    "Well, let's face it, this isn't London. It's got to the point where I can't lift my little finger over there without it's in the morning papers." He frowned briefly, a lock of hair falling over the perspiring brow. "I must admit I let go some choice words when I found you weren't at the Hotel Gerard, but the more I see of this set-up the better I like it."
    "This set-up happens to include my job," Julie said evenly. "There is a very serious staff shortage in the accounts office. I hope you're equipped to reduce some of the technical paperwork."
    Alan laughed into the air with incredulous amusement. He took her arm, flinging his half-smoked cigarette down and grinding it with an expensive suede shoe.
    "Perhaps you and I have got our lines crossed, sweetheart. I didn't come out here to get bogged down with office work."
    She saw a look on his face and a light in his eyes of a man who is used to a quick conquest. As he pulled her towards him she said hurriedly,
    "Alan, I think there's something we should get settled about... my coming to Tripoli."
    "You don't like the job?"
    "It's not the job. It's a misunderstanding that seems to have arisen. It was very kind of you to book the Hotel Gerard for me, but I think I'd rather like to pay the bill myself."
    "I don't get it."
    "And I don't get you," she smiled pleasantly. "You're acting as if this was some kind of lovers' tryst, though we've only met half a dozen times in as many number of years."
    "True, true." A boyish smile played around the thickish lips as he surveyed her under a heavy-lidded glance, "but it was only the last time it hit me you've grown up into quite something." He drew her towards him. "You wanted a job out here, and I thought Libya would be as good a place as any to ..." his mouth opened for her kiss ... "get to know each other better."
    "I-really can't believe," she pushed herself gently away, "that this is the Alan Moore I knew in London."
    "It must be the heat."
    "Funny, it doesn't affect me that way."
    Mohammed drifted silently into the room in slippered grace,"*carrying polish and dusters. Julie took advantage of his presence to slip discreetly to the door.
    "I must fly. The work is bound to have piled up. If you feel like giving a hand later, the office is the second bungalow from the end."
    Once outside she inhaled a deep quivering breath. Alan Moore was here in Guchani! Why had he made the journey? Not to work, obviously. Her mind went back to the cocktail party in London where Alan had been a guest. She had found herself frequently paired off with him and when the conversation had turned to travel had mentioned casually her intention to quit the model business and try for a job abroad.
    Alan had suggested a position in his father's firm, and Julie had jumped at the chance, realising that a first-hand recommendation could save months of negotiations were she to try for a job on her own.
    Less than a week later his letter had arrived. She was to fly to Tripoli and take up residence at the Hotel Gerard where Alan had booked a suite for her. Her job would be as a secretary in the Dawah oil company offices, and Alan had said he expected to fly out en route to other companies to see how she was making out.
    Julie had accepted the job without hesitation. To her it had been nothing more than a friend putting in a good word to help her get started. The rest she considered was up to her. Now it seemed it wasn't quite so simple as that.
    She had never had any illusions about Alan Moore. He was rich, twenty-eight years old and handsome, with a boyish charm that usually kept the girls circling. He had a reputation for getting his own way. He ran a fast car, piloted his own plane, and often sailed his yacht on long voyages with only girls as crew.
    Oh no! Julie had no illusions about him, but neither did she dream he would turn his attentions on her.
    On entering the office she found, much to her surprise a new occupant sitting at