Rose of the Desert Read Online Free
Author: Roumelia Lane
show her round and show her round he did. It would seem that Clay Whitman's requests were carried out to the last letter by his men.
Alone at last, she examined her bungalow with an intake of breath. The marble floor was a deep sea blue. The armchairs were upholstered in white leather, and a fitted wardrobe was set in the wall. There was a steel-legged desk with a fridge set beneath it, and through the door beyond a white-walled bedroom had an adjoining washroom and shower.
Well, well, the men certainly did themselves proud! If she hadn't seen the glow of the gas flames in the darkening sky, Julie would have sworn she was in some luxurious holiday camp. She had unpacked her things and was wondering what to do next when there was a gentle knock on the door. A waiter with the olive skin of an Italian smiled shyly.
"Mr. Whitman would prefer you not to eat in the main dining-hall. He has instructed me to bring your meals until he can make other arrangements."
He placed the covered tray on the desk and departed with a slight bow, and Julie closed the door gently with a sigh of relief. She really hadn't been looking forward to eating in a room crowded with boisterous men. The food was delicious. She ate, amazed at her appetite and ashamed of the cleaned-out dishes.
It wasn't until later when she had showered and changed into a peach negligee that she saw the lights go on in the opposite bungalow. Who lived there? Steve Rowland, probably, seeing as they were both doing accounts, or maybe Gopal Rahmid, the tall Indian doctor she had been introduced to earlier. No further guesses were needed, however, for the door was swung open and Clay Whitman stood there.
"Do come in," she said, clutching the negligee close.
"Sorry." He gave a half smile. "Force of habit," and then, gazing down at the door handle, "We've never found it necessary to issue locks. Would you feel better with one on?"
"I'm not the nervous type, if that's what you mean."
"Good." His eyes flickered down the length of her and then swung away. "I'm in the bungalow opposite if you have any worries. Steve, Dr. Rahmid and myself usually breakfast around six, you'd better join us. I don't want you living the life of a hermit while you're here."
"Thank you. Would it help if I apologised for being a woman ?"
He smiled briefly.
"I don't think so. You might try," he added, eyeing the peach frills, "cutting down on the femininity."
"Sorry. I didn't bring a collar and tie."
Sardonic brown eyes purposely lingered on her throat. "Perhaps that would be going a bit far. Goodnight," and as he pulled the door closed, "Sleep well."
The next day Julie was plunged into the work she had been specifically brought out for. The minute she stepped into Steve Rowland's office she realised what a colossal task one man was battling with. The desks were piled high with figures and data brought in days before. Information on the cost of machinery and equipment already used at the camp were mixed up with sheets of figures and masses of handwritten notes and letters.
"We hope to have three men in here eventually." Steve gazed round apologetically.
"You'll need them." Julie smiled wryly and scooped up a sheaf of papers. "In fact I'd say you'd need a small army to clear this little lot."
Cheerfully she waded in.
They lunched from a tray brought to the office and Steve told hereabout his wife and two small children in Tripoli.
"Janet's four and Mark is three." He smiled wistfully. "I married rather late in life. Most oil men do." Julie reckoned him to be about forty-five. Would Clay marry late in life? she wondered. Would he marry at all? It wasn't likely. "Women and oil don't mix" was his motto. Feeling slightly irritated, she replied,
"But surely, Steve, you don't term yourself as an oil man? Not like the men working on the drills?"
He shrugged cheerfully. "I've been in the business all my life. America, Australia, Venezuela. Y'know," he added without the slightest trace of
Alone at last, she examined her bungalow with an intake of breath. The marble floor was a deep sea blue. The armchairs were upholstered in white leather, and a fitted wardrobe was set in the wall. There was a steel-legged desk with a fridge set beneath it, and through the door beyond a white-walled bedroom had an adjoining washroom and shower.
Well, well, the men certainly did themselves proud! If she hadn't seen the glow of the gas flames in the darkening sky, Julie would have sworn she was in some luxurious holiday camp. She had unpacked her things and was wondering what to do next when there was a gentle knock on the door. A waiter with the olive skin of an Italian smiled shyly.
"Mr. Whitman would prefer you not to eat in the main dining-hall. He has instructed me to bring your meals until he can make other arrangements."
He placed the covered tray on the desk and departed with a slight bow, and Julie closed the door gently with a sigh of relief. She really hadn't been looking forward to eating in a room crowded with boisterous men. The food was delicious. She ate, amazed at her appetite and ashamed of the cleaned-out dishes.
It wasn't until later when she had showered and changed into a peach negligee that she saw the lights go on in the opposite bungalow. Who lived there? Steve Rowland, probably, seeing as they were both doing accounts, or maybe Gopal Rahmid, the tall Indian doctor she had been introduced to earlier. No further guesses were needed, however, for the door was swung open and Clay Whitman stood there.
"Do come in," she said, clutching the negligee close.
"Sorry." He gave a half smile. "Force of habit," and then, gazing down at the door handle, "We've never found it necessary to issue locks. Would you feel better with one on?"
"I'm not the nervous type, if that's what you mean."
"Good." His eyes flickered down the length of her and then swung away. "I'm in the bungalow opposite if you have any worries. Steve, Dr. Rahmid and myself usually breakfast around six, you'd better join us. I don't want you living the life of a hermit while you're here."
"Thank you. Would it help if I apologised for being a woman ?"
He smiled briefly.
"I don't think so. You might try," he added, eyeing the peach frills, "cutting down on the femininity."
"Sorry. I didn't bring a collar and tie."
Sardonic brown eyes purposely lingered on her throat. "Perhaps that would be going a bit far. Goodnight," and as he pulled the door closed, "Sleep well."
The next day Julie was plunged into the work she had been specifically brought out for. The minute she stepped into Steve Rowland's office she realised what a colossal task one man was battling with. The desks were piled high with figures and data brought in days before. Information on the cost of machinery and equipment already used at the camp were mixed up with sheets of figures and masses of handwritten notes and letters.
"We hope to have three men in here eventually." Steve gazed round apologetically.
"You'll need them." Julie smiled wryly and scooped up a sheaf of papers. "In fact I'd say you'd need a small army to clear this little lot."
Cheerfully she waded in.
They lunched from a tray brought to the office and Steve told hereabout his wife and two small children in Tripoli.
"Janet's four and Mark is three." He smiled wistfully. "I married rather late in life. Most oil men do." Julie reckoned him to be about forty-five. Would Clay marry late in life? she wondered. Would he marry at all? It wasn't likely. "Women and oil don't mix" was his motto. Feeling slightly irritated, she replied,
"But surely, Steve, you don't term yourself as an oil man? Not like the men working on the drills?"
He shrugged cheerfully. "I've been in the business all my life. America, Australia, Venezuela. Y'know," he added without the slightest trace of
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