Lord of the Desert by Diana Palmer Page B

just yet.
    â€œCome with me, Gretchen,” he said after a minute, and with a gentle smile. “I’ve put this off as long as I can. We must speak.”
    He leaned down and caught one of her hands, pulling her up with him. He retrieved her cover-up from the foot of the chair and handed it to her. She slid into it and let him lead her up a bank of marble steps to a patio high above the pool, shaded by tall trees. They sat down at one of the marble-topped tables in white wrought-iron chairs. When the bartender came to take their order, Philippe ordered a mixed drink with rum for both of them.
    She knew that her time in Morocco was almost up, and she would have to go on to Qawi while Philippe went home—wherever home was. The thought of leaving him made her empty. In such a short time, he’d become necessary to her happiness.
    His somber expression made her uneasy. “I don’t drink,” she began.
    â€œYou will when you hear what I have to tell you,” he said with grim humor. He took out a thin Turkish cigar from his pocket and asked, “You will permit?” At her nod, he lit it, and blew out a cloud of smoke. It was the first time she’d seen him do it. He was obviously uncomfortable.
    He didn’t speak until the waiter brought their drinks, was paid, and went away. “A piña colada,” he told her. “With only a touch of rum. Try it.”
    She did, wrinkling her nose at the bitter taste of the alcohol.
    He smiled. “It tastes better, the more you drink,” he said dryly, and took a long swallow of his.
    â€œWhat do you want to talk about?” she asked.
    â€œAbout myself,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “It’s past time I was honest with you.” His face hardened. “Regardless of my own inclination, I don’t want to give you false hope about a relationship with me.”
    She flushed. “Philippe…!”
    He held up a hand. “This is harder for me than you can possibly imagine,” he bit off. “Please, let me finish before you speak. Nine years ago, while I was in Palestine on a business trip, I stepped on a land mine left over from one of the regional conflicts,” he said, avoiding her shocked eyes. “Since then, I have not been…a man.” That wasn’t quite true, but he didn’t dare share his suspicions with her at this point. She barely knew him. He would have to win her trust before he ventured into anything more physical with her. Besides that, he confessed silently, he wanted to see how she would react to a man whom she thought was totally impotent.
    Gretchen felt her dreams collapsing. She began to make connections. The scars on his left hand. Her eyes went to them blindly and then to the others on the left side of his face. An accident. Yes. An accident that had destroyed him as a man. She took a huge swallow of the drink, choked and almost strangled. Her heart was breaking…
    His eyes were on his glass, not on her. Well, what had he expected, he asked himself bitterly. He remembered Brianne’s kind but pitying reaction and closed his eyes, shuddering with self-contempt.
    Then, suddenly, he felt something cool and tender against his hand, against the scars. He opened his eyes, and saw her fingers caress over them, her wide green eyes full of compassion as they met his shocked ones.
    â€œI wondered why you weren’t married,” she said slowly. “I mean, you must know that you’re very handsome, and very sophisticated, and charming. I wondered why you’d even look twice at someone as plain and dull as me.”
    â€œDull? Plain?” he asked, genuinely surprised.
    She shrugged. “I’m not much of a bargain. So I thought maybe you were taking me around with you because you were just lonely and I was handy.” She grimaced. “It was the only way I could explain why you kept seeing me at all.”
    He let out a long breath. He was