Читать книгу Prince of the Desert - Пенни Джордан, Penny Jordan - Страница 4

GWYNNETH exhaled with exhaustion as she paid off the taxi driver and stood looking up at the building in front of her—the building that contained her father’s apartment. No, not her father’s apartment any more, she reminded herself bleakly, but her own. Her father was dead, and in his will he had left all his assets to her.

And his responsibilities? He might not have willed those to her, but she nonetheless felt morally obliged to make them her own. Her slender shoulders bowed slightly. The last few weeks had taken their toll on her. Her father’s fatal heart attack had been shockingly unexpected. It might be true that they had never shared a traditional father and daughter relationship. How could they have? But that didn’t mean she hadn’t cared about him. He was—had been—her father, after all.

Yes, it was true that after her parents’ divorce her father had virtually abandoned her into the unloving care of her mother and stepfather. It was true that he had been absent from her life for most of the time she had been growing up, whilst he pursued his own hedonistic lifestyle and travelled the world. And it was also true that his absence had only been punctuated by sporadic visits to the small private boarding school where she had been left and virtually brought up by its kindly elderly headmistress. But of the two of them it was her mother who had hurt her the most. When a person had wealth and power, that person could break the rules and then remake them. And her stepfather was both very wealthy and very powerful.

Unlike her father, whose main assets had been his charismatic personality and his persuasive tongue. A rueful smile curved her lips as she remembered how he had boasted to her that it was via that latter asset that he had acquired this apartment in the Persian Gulf Kingdom of Zuran.

‘The block it’s in is right in the middle of a new marina development. I’m telling you, Gwynneth, I could have sold it ten times—no, a hundred times over, for double what I paid for it,’ he had told her excitedly.

Gwynneth hadn’t known very much about the desert kingdom of Zuran then—but she did now. Which was why she was here.

She shivered a little in the almost disturbingly sensual warmth of the Arabian Gulf night. It wrapped round her like silken gauze, teasing her skin with its subtle caress, cloaking the intimacy of its effect on her with its darkness, like a mystery lover whose face was hidden from her, his touch all the more erotic for being unknown. A deep shudder gripped her body as she tried to pull down the defensive inner blinds she always used to block out such sensual thoughts. She had fought all her adult female life to separate herself from the dangers of the deep, dark core of sexuality she had inherited from her father, which she tried so hard to deny and ignore.

So why, knowing that, had she reacted so emotionally to his recent claim that she was devoid of sexuality, and thus deprived of the pleasure of enjoying that sexuality? That was what she wanted, what she had chosen for herself, and so his words should have brought her pleasure instead of making her searingly conscious of what she was missing.

It was the stress of the last few weeks that was weakening those defences, somehow allowing an unfamiliar hunger and need to well up so forcefully inside her, she assured herself wearily. It was gone midnight here in Zuran, even though it was still only early evening at home.

She lifted her hand to push the slightly ‘boho’ tangle of long red-gold curls back off her face as she closed the sometimes too eloquent green eyes that, even at twenty-six, she could still not always control, and which could so easily betray what she was feeling. Like her dark eyelashes and her creamy skin, they were her heritage from her Irish mother, just as the delicacy of her bone structure and her supple, slender figure had come down from her paternal grandmother—at least according to her father. He had certainly once been a very handsome man. Once…

The familiar pain-cum-anger-cum-anguish knotted the muscles of her stomach. Her eyes opened, shadowed by hurtful memories. As a child she had often wondered what exactly she had done to deserve parents who did not love her. As an adult she had learned to tell herself that it was their inability to love one another that was responsible for their inability to love her, the child they had accidentally produced but never wanted.

Her mother had remarried within a year of the divorce, departing for Australia with her new husband to make a new life for herself. Her father, freed from a marriage he’d claimed he had never wanted, had roamed the world drinking, gambling, and on rare occasions turning up in England to see her—invariably when he was stoned, broke or drunk, and sometimes all three. A member of the hippy generation, her father had still in middle age embraced drugs and drink and the ‘free love’ culture. Had done. But no longer did—no longer could. Despite his lifestyle she had still been shocked by his death. A heart attack, the hospital had informed her, his daughter and next of kin.

His daughter, but not his only child. How could a man who had abandoned one child because he hadn’t wanted her have so carelessly fathered a second?

She had had no idea of what was to happen when he’d telephoned out of the blue and told her that he was in London and staying at one of its most exclusive hotels. She had gone straight from the City bank where she worked as an analyst to the hotel where, to her surprise, she had discovered he was staying in not merely a room but a suite. Then had come the discovery that he had not come to London on his own, but had brought with him his Filipina girlfriend, Teresa, and their baby son.

‘Teresa looks so young,’ Gwynneth had protested, unable to conceal her distaste at the thought of such a young and pretty girl with a man as life-worn and jaded as her father.

‘She’s twenty-two,’ he had told her carelessly.

Four years younger than she was herself. Her expression had obviously given her away, because he had shrugged his shoulders and told her unashamedly, ‘You can look like that all you want. So I enjoy sex. So what’s wrong with that? I never thought any kid of mine would turn out to be a sexless prude. Sex is a natural, normal, adult human appetite that should be a source of pleasure, not hang-ups. You don’t know what you’re missing. If I were you—’

‘I don’t want to know,’ she had answered him sharply. ‘And you aren’t me.’

She had always known the danger of her inherited sensuality—just as she had always fought to repress it. But now, without her father here to remind her of why she was so determined to flatline her own sexuality, disturbing weaknesses had begun to appear in what she had believed to be the impregnable wall of her immunity to physical desire.

She looked up at the building in front of her again, and double-checked to make sure she had the right address before exhaling in relief. She had half expected to find her father had been exaggerating when he’d boasted to her about the luxury apartment he owned in what he had described as the most exclusive apartment block in Zuran.

Now, though, she could see that the development was every bit as exclusive as he had claimed. She could see the gleaming white hulls of luxury yachts bobbing gently on the protected waters of the marina in the moonlight. In the distance, at the end of a curved breakwater, she could see what looked like an all-glass restaurant, floodlit from beneath. Immaculate gardens surrounded the apartment block, which was one of several all linked together by glass walkways and gardens to an elegant hotel, and all set on the same spit of land, with the marina on one side of it and a private beach on the other. A true millionaire’s paradise. But her father had not been a millionaire. He had been a wheeler-dealer, a chancer. Sometimes making money but more often than not losing it.

She had been dubious at first when she had taken the deeds of the apartment to have them checked out, but she had been assured by the Zurani Embassy in London that they were genuine.

Unfortunately, though, as they had explained politely, for legal reasons, in order to re-register the apartment in her name she would either have to go out to Zuran itself or appoint someone within Zuran to act for her.

Since she had not been happy with the idea of handing over the documentation relating to her father’s ownership of the apartment to someone else, she had decided that she would have to come out to Zuran herself.

Removing her father’s pass key from her handbag, Gwynneth walked determinedly towards the entrance, half expecting to be stopped or at least challenged, but to her relief the glass doors opened as swiftly and silently as though she had commanded Open Sesame. Of course the pass key was the modern equivalent to those magical words.

A lift—also activated by the pass key—took her up to the penthouse suite floor. She had no idea how much the apartment was worth, but surely it had to be a reasonably large sum? She wanted to get it sold as quickly as she could. The pressure on her bank account was increasing every day. She earned a reasonable salary, but she had her mortgage to cover, and other outgoings. Her father’s bank accounts had been virtually empty, which meant that she had had to pay for his funeral as well as his hotel bill. At least with her here in Zuran there would be more room in her small flat for Teresa and baby Anthony, whom she had felt honour-bound to do all she could to help. Her stomach churned with nausea.

One thing at a time, she reminded herself firmly. One thing at a time. She slid the pass key into the lock, and exhaled slowly in relief as the light flashed green.

Double doors opened from the hallway into a corridor. Immediately facing her was another pair of double doors. When she opened them she found that they led into a huge living room, elegantly furnished with a mix of modern and reproduction antique furniture, including a low divan heaped with cushions and covered with richly coloured silk and damask fabrics.

Her father had told her that he had not as yet stayed in the apartment himself. He had bought it off plan, fully furnished and ready to move into, right down to the bedlinen and towels, all chosen by a top-flight interior designer. This room certainly had an immaculate ‘show house’ air about it—right down to the subtle scent of sandalwood. This was a room designed to embrace each one of the five senses.

Off the living room she found an immaculate galley kitchen, complete with a fridge that dispensed iced water, and a terraced balcony with table and chairs. But right now it wasn’t either food or drink she craved so much as sleep.

She found the bedroom at the other end of the corridor, and pushed open the door. She came to an abrupt halt. Its decor was so sensually opulent that just looking at it made her skin prickle with sensory overload. It was decorated in a blend of creams and beiges dramatically highlighted with black, and with the lavish use of rich fabrics and gilt-framed mirrors.

She went back to the corridor and opened the remaining door. Maybe originally the room had been intended to be used as a bedroom, but right now it was furnished as a home office.

She had left her case in the hallway and she went back to get it. She frowned a little to see that the main door did not have any kind of security chain, and then shrugged mentally as she reassured herself that it was impossible to get into the building without a pass key.

It was almost one o’clock, and she had an appointment with the government agency dealing with the ownership of Zurani property by foreign nationals in the morning, she reminded herself. And she undressed and stepped into the shower of the marble en suite bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later she was in bed and fast asleep.

‘Tariq.’

A warm smile illuminated the face of Zuran’s ruler as he greeted one of his favourite relatives. He embraced him as his equal, ruler to ruler, for although in Zuran he was the Ruler, and Tariq one of his subjects, Tariq’s own small kingdom—a remote hidden valley where the desert met the mountains—meant that he was also a prince in his own right. ‘I hear that you hope to begin work soon on the excavation of the ancient city of your ancestors?’

Tariq smiled back. ‘Once the heat of the summer is over, work will start.’

‘And you would rather be there, scratching around in the sand, than here at my court?’ The Ruler laughed as he studied the younger man.

Although they were both wearing traditional Arab dress, Tariq was clean-shaven where the Ruler was bearded, grey-eyed where the Ruler’s eyes were a more traditional dark brown, and his skin was more sun-browned than naturally olive, betraying his dual heritage. However, the two men shared the same arrogantly hawkish profile and the same scimitar-like mouths, the same pride of bearing and awareness of who and what they were.

The Ruler reached out and placed his hand on the younger man’s arm whilst Tariq maintained a diplomatic silence. He had fondness and a great respect for the Ruler, both as a monarch and as a friend.

When his late mother’s marriage had ended, after her British husband—his father—had walked out on them, she had accepted an invitation from the Ruler’s late father to make her home beneath his roof rather than live alone with her young son. Tariq had virtually grown up here at the palace, although along with many other young men from Zuran he had received his schooling in England and America.

‘So,’ the Ruler invited him, ‘what progress is there with your investigations into this matter of the double selling of those properties that were made available for purchase by non-Zurani nationals?

Tariq waved away the dish of sweetmeats he was being offered, the scimitar-shaped mouth softening into an amused smile as his somewhat plump relative bit into one. The Ruler was known for his sweet tooth.

‘The leader of the gang—Chad—is a South African, and I have now been allowed to meet him. He has intimated to me that he is already receiving the help of someone high up within the Zurani Government, who has been providing them with the documents they need to claim ownership of the properties. They are then illegally selling them on, at an inflated price, and not just to one buyer but to two, doubling their profit. By the time their victims discover that they do not own the properties they believe they have bought it is too late—their money has gone.

‘Unfortunately at the moment the gang leader obviously doesn’t trust me enough to give me the name of the Zurani official who is assisting him. Chad is too clever to put himself at risk—so much so, in fact, that he controls his criminal operation from a sea-going yacht. As you know, I have represented myself to the gang as someone whose services can be bought—a disaffected and profoundly greedy junior member of the Zurani Royal Family—in the hope that the promise of my potential influence will cause them to reveal the identity of their contact. But Chad is a very cautious and suspicious man. It is obviously not enough for him that I have accepted the bribe he has already offered me, in the form of one of the apartments they have now acquired with my assistance.’

‘This, of course, is the apartment in which you are now living?’

‘It seemed a good way to reinforce his belief in my greed. I’ve also claimed that I’m short of ready cash because the inheritance from my mother is being kept from me and controlled by you. Although to cover myself I have let it be known that this is not public knowledge.’ Tariq shrugged. ‘After all, we must assume that whoever it is who is helping them will know who I am, and of my family’s wealth, so they have to believe in my grudge-bearing and acquisitive nature.’

‘I sense that you are not entirely happy with the role you have been called upon to play,’ the Ruler remarked sympathetically. ‘But you are one of the few people in whom I have absolute trust, Tariq, and this is a very sensitive matter.’

‘Indeed! So far all the victims we know about have stated that they bought their property via a supposed “official agent”. Unfortunately,’ he added dryly, ‘since this agent dressed in traditional Arab dress, had a beard and wore very large sunglasses, none of them felt able to recognise and identify him. We must assume that he either was or is connected with the Zurani official who is helping the gang. That being the case, if what is happening becomes public knowledge in the international arena it will damage Zuran’s reputation very badly.’

‘That must not be allowed to happen. This man must be found and unmasked,’ said the Ruler sternly, his expression softening as he added, ‘I know that I can trust you to do whatever is necessary.’

Having dismissed his car and driver a safe distance away from the apartment, Tariq paused to breathe in the warm late-night air. It was on nights like this that the desert called to him so strongly that his desire to leave the city behind and satisfy his need to return to it became a hunger in his soul.

He thought with contempt of the corrupt gang of men he was currently involved with. Only last night their leader had promised him the services of one of the skimpily dressed prostitutes who were also on board the yacht, as a further reward for Tariq’s support.

Of course he’d had to pretend to be flattered by the offer, even though in reality he had been utterly revolted by the sleaziness of both the gang and their leader’s offer. He had declined to accept, using the excuse that he was afraid that it might get to the ears of his cousin the Ruler, who would then be even less inclined to allow him control of his inheritance.

Despite the fact that he had been celibate for the last eighteen months—since the termination of a discreet relationship he had shared with an elegant divorced Frenchwoman who, like him, had had no desire to commit herself to marriage—the sight of the skimpily clad young women with their surgically enhanced breasts and vacant eyes had not aroused him at all. How many other members of the gang had enjoyed their favours? Some of them? All of them? And more? Other men as well?

His mouth curled in contemptuous disgust as he recalled how the gang leader had offered slyly, ‘Why don’t I arrange to have one of them sent up to your apartment so that you can enjoy her in private?’

‘Thank you, but no,’ Tariq had responded, feigning regret.

He reached the apartment block, and, reaching for his pass key, inserted it into the lock and waited for the doors to open.

Once inside the apartment Tariq strode through to the bedroom without bothering to switch on the light or glance towards the bed, stripping off before going into the wetroom attached to the en suite bathroom and then standing beneath the fierce lash of the shower.

Gwynneth woke up abruptly. Her face was on fire whilst her body ached with a different kind of heat. Why was this happening to her now, after all these years? Why had physical desire chosen now to voice its protest at her denial of it?

Her father had laughed at her and accused her of being unable to understand sexual desire. But she did understand it. She understood it all too well, she admitted. She understood her own vulnerability to it—which was why she had forced herself to learn to control it, to repress and restrain it, out of fear that it would lead her to become like him. But now, suddenly, she couldn’t control it. It pulsed hotly and urgently within her body, clamouring for release, shocking and confusing her.

Abruptly she sat up in the bed—at the exact moment that Tariq opened the door from the en suite bathroom.

Gwynneth stared in mute disbelief at the man standing in the doorway, framed by the light from the bathroom behind him. Like her, he was completely naked. Well, no, he was not actually like her at all, she thought feverishly. His skin was warmly tanned where hers was pale, his shoulders broad, his chest softly furred with silky dark hair, his belly flat. He was, she acknowledged, the most sexily physically perfect man she could ever have imagined. Tall, dark and handsome. Plus he had that edgy, dangerous male air that produced a female frisson of erotic fear within her—the kind of fear that was not fear at all, but rather an excitement that was morally shocking. One brief glance. That was all she needed to tell her that everything about him pushed all the right buttons for her. How on earth had she conjured him up? She blinked determinedly. This couldn’t really be happening. He was an illusion, a figment of her imagination.

Only he was still there, and no amount of blinking seemed to be banishing him. Which meant…Which meant that he had to be real! Hurriedly Gwynneth looked away from him, her face starting to burn.

It was that over-acted fake look of confusion with which she turned her head and then let it droop on the pale stem of her neck that was responsible for the savage increase in his anger, Tariq decided as he demanded bitingly, ‘How did you get in here?’

As if he needed to ask. He knew perfectly well what she was and who was responsible for her presence here in his apartment—and in his bed.

Striding towards her, he said curtly, ‘No, don’t bother answering me. I already know the answer—just as I know exactly what you are!’ He gave her a look of icy disdain. No way was she staying here. He wanted her out of the apartment—and speedily, even if that meant he had to dress her himself.

Her naked man wasn’t an illusion at all, or a figment of her imagination. He was very much real, and he had almost reached the bed, Gwynneth realised in panic, her trapped gaze skittering away from his chest.

She cried out in protest as his fingers tightened round her upper arm, instinctively trying to pull away from him as he virtually hauled her off the bed.

At least these breasts were real, Tariq couldn’t help thinking, as he monitored the gentle bounce produced by her agitated movements and remembered the unmoving plastic look of the surgically enhanced breasts of the girls he had seen on the yacht and thought so repulsive. A woman’s breasts surely should be soft and malleable, just big enough to fill a man’s cupped hand, as this woman’s breasts would surely do. He could almost imagine how they would feel, her skin warm, her nipples tightening against his touch, her breasts swelling with arousal just as his own body—

The shock of what he was experiencing exploded into savage disbelief. He couldn’t possibly be aroused by her.

‘What are you doing? Let go of me!’ She couldn’t just give in to him, Gwynneth told herself wildly as she pushed frantically against his chest with her free hand.

‘Where are your clothes?’

Her clothes? His question bemused her, making her frown slightly.

Tariq could feel the silky length of her hair brushing his chest as she dipped her head and tried to raise her arms to conceal her naked breasts. Her skin looked milky pale against his own, the movement of her arms bringing the fingers he had wrapped around her arm into contact with the soft flesh of her breast. Her eyes were a deep jade, her lips the soft pink of the inside of a shell dredged up from the depths of the gulf. His gaze dropped from her mouth to her breasts, creamy pale flesh mounted with warm brown nipples that were swelling and hardening beneath the heat of his gaze.

Gwynneth could hear the sound of her own breathing, feel the heavy sensual pound of her own blood. Her gaze, no longer under her control, dropped boldly down his body to where she had been so determined not to look, and a small sound that she would not allow to be a soft moan of pleasure leaked from her lungs.

Tariq could feel the savage surge of his own anger racing through him, overturning everything in its way. Anger against the woman he was holding, anger against the men who had sent her to him, anger against so many things—but most of all anger against himself. He was simply not prepared to admit to the unwanted piercing stab of desire that was currently arcing through him. It was impossible for him to be aroused by a woman such as this, impossible for him to want her, impossible for him to touch her. But, impossible or not, all three of those things were happening.