Sandstorm by Anne Mather

permitting herself a brief glance up at her husband. It was all very well telling herself that she had to remain calm, but beneath Rachid's faintly supercilious regard, she was growing resentful. 'I can't imagine what he feels he has to say to me, particularly after our conversation last night, and if anyone has to leave, I think it should be him!'
    There was silence for a few moments after her statement, and she was aware of her father's discomfort at being a party to their conflict. But there was no other way to deal with Rachid, and her own nerves were ragged by the time he chose to answer her.
    'I should be very grateful if you would leave us alone for a few minutes, Professor,' said Rachid, with quiet decisiveness, ignoring Abby's gasping indignation. 'You know why I am here. Surely it is not so much to ask—a few minutes alone with my wife?'
    'I'm not your wife‑' Abby was beginning, but her father was moving towards the door.
    'I'll be upstairs,' he said, giving her a vaguely persuasive look, and she knew that so far as he was concerned she ought to give Rachid the benefit of a hearing.
    The door closed behind him, and Abby stilled the instinct to get to her feet. She was safer sitting down, she decided. She did not entirely trust her legs to support her, and besides, she could avoid his gaze more easily this way.
    Rachid, however, had other ideas. Just when she had convinced herself she was in control of the situation, he crossed the square of carpet and lowered himself on to the couch beside her, his superior weight causing the cushions to compress, creating a sloping incline she had to combat.
    'So, Abby,' he murmured, turning sideways to look at her, 'you are afraid of me!'
    'Me? Afraid of you?' Abby managed a gasp of contempt. 'Don't be so ridiculous!'
    Rachid shrugged. 'Why else do you behave like a startled dove, just because I wish speech with you?'
    Abby sighed. 'We have nothing to say to one another, Rachid. I told you last night‑'
    'Last night you were shocked. You had not expected to see me at the party. I realise now, that was a mistake. I should not have appeared in front of you like that. I should have telephoned you first, written to you‑'
    'Rachid, it wouldn't have made the slightest difference.' Abby took a deep breath. 'Why won't you understand? It's over. Our life together is over!'
    'No!' His features hardened perceptibly, a muscle beating erratically at his jawline. 'I will never accept that, Abby. You are my wife, my—my‑'
    'Possession?' she supplied coldly, turning to look at him. 'That is how you see me, isn't it? Your woman? Your chattel‑'
    'For the love of God, be still,' he muttered, anger darkening his lean features. 'Why do you persist in fighting me? Why can you not accept what I am offering you?'
    'Because it's not enough,' she retorted, rising now, unable to still her trembling limbs any longer. 'Why won't you accept that I don't love you any more, Rachid? Why can't you see that you're wasting your time?'
    'Your father does not think so,' he intoned harshly, getting to his feet behind her so that she swung round nervously, alert to his every move. 'He is of the opinion that you are distrait, uncertain, unable to make such a decision for yourself.'
    'My father said that!' Abby was horrified.
    'Not in so many words.' Rachid's quiet admission restored a little of her faith. 'But he agrees with me that you should think most seriously before making up your mind.'
    'Making up my mind?' echoed Abby blankly. 'Rachid, my mind is made up. I'm not coming back to you, and that's that.'
    His hands clenched at his sides, and for a second she thought he was going to take hold of her and shake her into submission. It was a disturbing moment, a moment when her dark-lashed eyes gazed with tremulous challenge into his, and encountered the smouldering evidence of his anger. She was intimidated, but she knew if she faltered he would overwhelm her protests, and she forced herself to appear composed