Читать книгу Prince of the Desert - Пенни Джордан, Penny Jordan - Страница 6

TARIQ frowned as he listened to the Ruler’s Chief of Police deploring the fact that because they had not as yet discovered the identity of the Zurani who was working for the gang he could not give the order for the gang to be deported, after a warning of the very long prison sentence they would face if they were ever found in Zuran again.

Knowing that it was almost time for the Ruler to hold his regular monthly public divan—traditionally an opportunity for the Ruler’s subjects to bring to him their problems and questions so that he might dispense with justice and answers—Tariq stood up and bowed formally to the Ruler, as did the Chief of Police.

On her way back to the apartment, following her appointment, Gwynneth had stopped off at a small supermarket to buy a few basic supplies. As she put these away in the empty cupboards and fridge freezer of the apartment it was what she had been told by the sympathetic young official she had met earlier that was occupying her thoughts.

It had never occurred to her that there might be a problem registering her ownership of the apartment—especially since she had followed the advice she had been given by the Zurani Embassy in London and had brought with her documentation to prove her father’s ownership of the apartment and to confirm her own identity. Fortunately, when her father had boasted to her about the apartment he had shown her the deeds and told her that he intended to deposit them with his London bank for safekeeping.

Now, though, it transpired that proving her father’s ownership of the apartment was not going to be as straightforward as simply producing the deeds—as the charming official had explained to her, in an extremely grave tone of voice.

Her heart had sunk just about as low as she felt it could sink as she’d listened to him telling her about the double-selling scam that had resulted in two separate sets of buyers believing they had purchased the same property. And then had come the additional blow of hearing about the length of time it would take to make painstaking enquiries to establish who had been duped and who in fact did own a property.

‘So what should I do now?’ she had appealed.

‘If you are able to do so, your best course of action would be to remain here in Zuran until we can establish whether or not your father owned the apartment.’

‘I’m actually staying in the apartment,’ Gwynneth had felt obliged to tell him, adding with concern, ‘And I certainly can’t afford to pay for a hotel. If there is another potential owner, then…’

‘I shall make a note on the file to the effect that you are currently occupying the flat, but that you are aware of the issue of its ownership,’ she had been told.

Now Gwynneth reached for her mobile and switched it on. She would have to tell Teresa what had happened, but first she had another phone call to make.

As she pressed the speed dial for her boss’s number she looked at her watch. It would be nine o’clock in the morning in the UK. Piers would have been at work for a while now. He was a workaholic who liked to be at his desk by eight.

He picked up the call within a couple of rings.

‘Hi, Piers—it’s Gwynneth,’ she announced herself, smiling when she heard the warmth in his voice as he answered.

They had been working together for over a year, and Piers had made it plain that he wanted to put their relationship on a more personal footing. However, much as she liked him as a person, she had no desire for them to become a couple, and so had refused his offers to take her out as gently as she could.

Quickly she explained what was happening, exhaling in relief when he said immediately that she must stay in Zuran for as long as it took to get things sorted out.

‘I know you aren’t a clock-watcher, Gwynneth. You’ve put in a lot of extra hours these last few months, and I appreciate that. I’m going to miss you, though,’ he told her softly. ‘Pity I can’t take some time off myself and fly out there to join you,’ he added ruefully, before they ended their call.

Her duty to her employers dealt with, Gwynneth started to wonder if she ought to get in touch with the British Embassy in Zuran and get their opinion of the situation with regard to the apartment. But the young Zurani official had cautioned her not to discuss the matter with anyone, explaining that the Zurani authorities, whilst not responsible for the fraud in any way, were prepared to deal fairly and sympathetically with the victims providing they undertook not to fuel panic or potentially destructive rumours by talking publicly about what had happened.

Just how long would she have to stay here in Zuran before everything was sorted out? Long enough for last night’s stranger to make a return visit? Immediately she stiffened in rejection of the feeling surging through her. She had told herself not to think about last night, or the man she had shared it with. It was over—gone—and for her own sake she should accept that.

But what if she didn’t want to accept it? If she wanted…

What? A repeat performance? Was she totally crazy? She suddenly remembered that she still had the money he had left her in her handbag. Opening it, she removed the bundle of notes with trembling fingers. So much money. Even without counting it she could see that.

Money that Teresa and Anthony might need very badly if things went wrong and it turned out that the apartment wasn’t her father’s and the Zurani Government chose not to compensate her.

She dropped the notes onto the table as swiftly as though they were contaminated. If only she knew more. How long would she have to wait for that promised phone call?

She went into the kitchen and filled the kettle with water, having decided to make herself a cup of coffee before she spoke to Teresa, whom she knew would be anxiously waiting to hear from her.

He couldn’t wait to get this whole wretched business sorted out, and the corrupt Zurani official unmasked, so that he could get on with his own life. A life that did not include in it a woman like Gwynneth Talbot, Tariq assured himself grimly, as he stepped out of the lift and slid the key card into the door of the apartment. He had such plans for the small desert kingdom he had inherited.

The discovery that an old legend attached to it, claiming that it had once been the site of some hanging gardens said to rival those of ancient Babylon, had actually been founded on fact had led to Tariq’s decision to have the site of the original palace and its gardens excavated and if possible reconstructed. It was an ambitious and long-term plan, but one that would be richly rewarding, and Tariq was totally committed to its execution. The ongoing work on the project was already attracting the interest of both tourists and experts in the archaeological field.

Normally when Tariq was in Zuran he stayed either at the Palace or in his personal suite at one of the two hotels in which he had a financial interest. However, whenever he could he much preferred to spend his free time living simply in the desert, in one of the black tents of his mother’s Bedouin ancestors. Bedouin tribesmen still travelled the old desert routes, although their numbers were dwindling now, and certain members of the Ruler’s extended family had close connections with such tribes—as he did himself through his mother. Just thinking of the desert brought him a fierce longing for the feel of one of his fleet-footed Arabian horses beneath him as they raced together across the sands while dawn broke and the sun started to rise. Inside his head he could see the mental image his longing was creating. And he could see, too, the woman who rode at his side, her face turned towards his own, her green eyes brilliant with excitement for the desert and for him—

Tariq froze in furious rejection of the image that slipped so treacherously past his guard. The woman he would choose to share his life would not be that woman. Last night’s woman. Gwynneth. He had seen her name in her passport when he had pushed the money into her bag this morning.

Gwynneth! The first thing Tariq heard when he walked into the apartment was the sound of her voice.

‘There’s a bit of a problem. But don’t worry. I’ll do whatever I have to do to make sure we get the money—just as I promised you I would, and no matter how long I have to stay here to get it or what I have to do.’

She was speaking grimly. As though she was trying to reassure someone. She was seated at the kitchen table with her back to him, the money he had left her this morning in an untidy pile beside her.

An uncomfortable mix of very powerful feelings was fighting for control of his emotions: righteous anger that she had dared to stay here when he had made it obvious that he wanted her to leave; and a deeper, darker feeling of savaged male pride at hearing her underline the fact that all he was to her was a source of income. The physical memories of last night were storming the defences he had put up against them like grains of sand chafing against his skin.

Gwynneth sighed as she ended her call to Teresa. She hadn’t wanted to worry the younger girl by saying too much to her, even though she desperately wanted to have someone she could confide her own anxieties to. Her mind was still on Teresa and the problems of her father’s apartment, but some sixth sense made her turn round, the colour momentarily leaving her face only to return in a hot wave of betraying soft pink awareness as she stood up shakily.

‘You! You’ve come back!’

‘Very dramatic—but somewhat ineffective, surely? Since you must have realised that I would come back.’ Tariq responded curtly to her breathy gasp.

Had she? He had such a powerful air of authority about him that for a moment she was almost in danger of believing him. Almost.

‘Why would I do that?’ she challenged him daringly.

‘I should have thought that was obvious.’

Gwynneth couldn’t help it. She could feel the colour burning up under her skin as her body reacted to what he had said. Her body couldn’t actually be pleased that he had come back? That he wanted more of her? Could it? Surely that wasn’t possible? She mustn’t let it feel like that, she decided, panicking. What had happened last night was excusable—just—as an isolated, never to be repeated incident. So long as that was what it remained.

‘After all,’ Tariq continued, ‘this does happen to be my apartment.’

His apartment? His apartment? She stared at him in shocked dismay. That couldn’t possibly be true! Could it? A horrible cold feeling of uncertainty and dismay was creeping over her. What if it was true? If it was, then obviously he wasn’t here because of her. He hadn’t come back because he wanted a repeat performance of last night’s sex, as she had so humiliatingly assumed.

If it was true—But it wasn’t true. It couldn’t possibly be true; she wasn’t going to let it be true, she decided wildly, her normal facility for calm, rational, logical thinking disintegrating in the face of her emotional reaction to both him and his unwelcome information.

But worse was to come. As she struggled to assimilate his unwelcome news he added sharply, ‘Since I’ve already added a generous bonus to what you were paid for last night—particularly generous under the circumstances—I fail to see why you are still here. Surely for a woman in your profession time is money? Or did you think I might be persuaded to keep you on for tonight as well?’

‘Are you trying to suggest that I’m a prostitute?’ Gwynneth demanded in disbelief.

‘Are you trying to suggest that you aren’t?’ His voice was as derisive as the look in his eyes. ‘Because if so you’re wasting your time. I know what you are, why you were waiting in my bed for me, and who arranged for you to be there.’

‘What? This is crazy!’ Gwynneth protested shakily. ‘Who—? Who—?’

‘Stop right there. I don’t want to hear another word. Pick up your money and go,’ Tariq ordered, then frowned as his mobile—the one he used only for calls from the gang—started to ring.

‘Wait,’ he told Gwynneth contradictorily, striding out of the kitchen and closing the door behind him, leaving her inside.

‘Get yourself down to the marina—pronto. Chad wants to see you—now.’ The familiar voice of one of the gang members rasped in Tariq’s ear.

The call was disconnected before he could make any response. He looked at the closed kitchen door. At this delicate stage in the proceedings he couldn’t afford to antagonise the leader of the gang by refusing to obey him.

What on earth had she got herself into? Gwynneth worried anxiously. Suddenly she was seeing last night’s uncharacteristic and admittedly very dangerous and foolish sexual adventure in a very different and sickeningly seedy and unpleasant light. She had been mistaken for a prostitute and she was about to be evicted from her own apartment. The situation she was in couldn’t have been any worse. Could it? What about the fact that not so very long ago she had virtually caught herself wondering if last night’s events might be repeated?

The kitchen door was opening.

Gwynneth took a deep breath.

‘You’ve got this all wrong. I am not a prostitute.’

She certainly wasn’t done up like one, Tariq acknowledged, unable to stop himself from looking not so much at her as for her, the moment he stepped into the kitchen. She wasn’t wearing make-up, her clothes looked more suited to an office worker, and no man looking at her would feel that she was making any attempt to be alluring. And as for last night…He had been the one pleasuring her, not the other way around.

‘I’d agree that you certainly aren’t a good advertisement for your profession,’ he agreed unkindly.

‘Why won’t you listen to me?’ Gwynneth protested. ‘I am not a prostitute! I’m—’

‘An escort?’ Tariq suggested silkily, and gave a condemnatory shrug. ‘It doesn’t matter what name you give what you do. It doesn’t change the fact that you sell your body to men for their sexual pleasure. Do your family know what you do? Your father?’ he demanded abruptly, without knowing why he should be asking her such a question—the kind of question that might almost suggest that he cared.

‘My father is dead.’

So, like him, she was fatherless. That was no reason for him to feel the sudden surge of fellow feeling towards her, Tariq warned himself angrily.

‘So is mine,’ he told her coldly. ‘That is no excuse. Surely there is some other way you could support yourself? Have you no pride? No self-respect? No—?’

‘I don’t need an excuse. And as for me not having any pride—what about you?’ Gwynneth shot back, and took advantage of the sudden silence her attack had gained her to point out pithily, ‘After all, you didn’t exactly reject me, did you?’

What she was saying was perfectly true, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept, Tariq admitted unwillingly.

He could almost feel her angry defiance burning through the air-conditioned chill of the small kitchen. No woman who lived as this one did had the right to look and behave as she was. She was positively exuding righteous indignation, forcing him to see and react to her as a human being and not a piece of human merchandise. He had to put an end to this dangerous emotional connection she had somehow brought to life between them. Apart from anything else, he was going to be late for his meeting on the yacht.

‘You can stop right there,’ he told Gwynneth, crossing the kitchen and taking hold of her arm before she could evade him.

Had he changed his mind? Was he, despite all he had said, going to drag her back to his bed right now and…? A shocking explicit thrill of female excitement shot through her, weakening her so much that she sagged slightly in his hold, leaning into him, her breasts pressing against the hardness of his arm. Without even having to think about it she leaned closer and harder, closing her eyes the better to relish her own pleasure at the sensual contact between her flesh and his. And in that hot darkness she was immediately transported back to the arousal-drenched hours of the previous night, complete with faithful audio as well as visual record.

Tariq looked down into the face turned up towards his own. Her eyes were closed and her lips were open; even her skin seemed to shimmer with sensual luminosity. He had been wrong, he realised savagely as he felt his own body react to her. She was not just good at her chosen profession. She was exceptional. He couldn’t remember any woman arousing him either so immediately or so intensely—and certainly not both at the same time. His fingers bit into the softness of her arm as he made to shake her off, but still he couldn’t drag his gaze from the temptation of her parted lips. Nor could he stop himself from wanting to reach out and fill his free hand with the weight of one of the soft warm breasts she had pressed so deliberately and enticingly against his arm. Was it because of last night that he was having so much trouble rejecting the images his mind was conjuring up? Because of how she had made him feel then that he wanted her so immediately and fiercely now?

Despite the coolness of the kitchen Tariq could feel sweat dampening his flesh whilst his mind raced with the turmoil of his emotions.

‘Forget it,’ he told her brutally, and pushed her away, keeping only a tight hold on one wrist.

Gwynneth’s eyes snapped open, and she sucked in a distressed breath as reality crashed back down. ‘Forget what?’ she demanded, recouping. ‘Forget that you’ve insulted me—verbally, physically and emotionally?’ The numbing effect of her original shock and his sensual appeal had worn off now, leaving her sick with fury and disbelief.

‘Forget those unsubtle plans you’re hatching for tonight,’ he corrected her. ‘Because I’m telling you now, you won’t be spending it my bed.’

No, she wouldn’t. Because it wasn’t his bed. It was hers, and she had the documents to prove it—or at least she hoped she did. She didn’t have anywhere else to stay, and she certainly wasn’t going to be bullied into moving out of the apartment by a man who had mistaken her for a prostitute!

‘Let go of me!’

For a moment she thought he was going to ignore her, that instead he would pull her close to him again and…

The angry hiss of his breath as he exhaled told her she was wrong.

‘I have to go out now,’ he told her flatly. ‘And you had better not be here when I get back.’ The last thing he wanted was to be seen leaving the apartment with a woman of her type—otherwise he would have physically removed her himself.

And how will you do that? a small, cynical inner voice mocked him. Via the bedroom?

Silencing it, he continued, ‘If you are, then I shall inform the police of your presence and your profession. And since, as I am sure you already know, prostitution is against the law in Zuran, you will be deported and refused future entry to the country.’

Now, abruptly, fear was crawling through her veins and locking onto her anger, feeding off its strength and smothering it.

‘You can’t do that,’ she protested, adding emotionally, ‘You’re making a mistake!’

Tariq’s mouth compressed. ‘No. You are the one who is doing that.’

Gwynneth swung away from him to conceal her expression. Thinking that she was going to walk out on him, Tariq stepped in front of her. Immediately it was as though they were locked together inside an invisible bubble of sensual tension—or so it seemed to Gwynneth as she tried to make her lungs work properly and her heart slow to its normal rate. She couldn’t seem to look anywhere but at the man standing in front of her, to do anything but remember last night—feel anything but the intense arousal that she was feeling.

What was it about her that had this effect on him? Tariq wondered savagely. At no time in the whole of his life had he wanted to take hold of any woman and kiss her until the only words her lips could frame were his name and a plea for more.

Hold me…touch me…make me yours. Gwynneth could feel the words pounding through her veins with every thud of her heartbeat, filling her mind and her senses. So much so that she felt as though they were written into her flesh. Her angry pride fought with the liquid heat of her desire and was overwhelmed by it as it flooded over the rigid barriers trickling through every tiny hole it could find to reunite in a fast-flowing surge that took her across the no man’s land that was the space between them and into the heat zone of Tariq’s body. She could sense the command going from his brain to his muscles to lift his arms so that they could enfold her. And once they had…

There was a ringing sound inside her head. No, not inside her head. The noise was coming from the mobile Tariq was lifting to his ear as he turned away from her. Who was calling him? A woman? Something previously unknown and darkly dangerous ripped at her emotions.

‘Where are you? You were supposed to be at the marina ten minutes ago.’

‘I’ve been delayed,’ Tariq answered, looking briefly at Gwynneth and wondering how much she was being paid to spy on him as well as go to bed with him before he added coolly, ‘Chad will understand why when I explain.’

‘You’d better hope he does. Otherwise you’re going to be in big trouble. Get yourself down here, double-quick.’

There was no time for him to argue with Gwynneth. Nor to do anything else with her either. Like what? There wasn’t anything he wanted to do with her.

Liar, an inner voice goaded him as he opened the kitchen door. He ignored it as he paused to warn her, ‘Remember what I told you. When I get back I don’t want to find you here. If you are, you know what you can expect.’