by Penny Jordan
Tariq was alone on the large balcony terrace.
A soft breeze whispered restlessly around him. The same breeze which would once surely have whispered against the wondrous hanging gardens of the Hidden Valley. It smelled of the desert and its purity, its freedom. Its sheer vastness and unrelenting harshness forced a man who chose to ignore the dangers inherent in making it his home to accept that he would always have to fight to master it. In the desert there was no mental energy to spare for the self-indulgence of personal feelings. There a man had to put the safety of those who depended on him first or risk extinction; there a man had to create beauty out of its harshness through dedication and vision and most of all by belief in himself, just as his ancestors had done in creating the gardens he was now seeking to restore to their original glory.
She had lied, of course, when she had said that she was a virgin.
But what if she hadn’t? What if she was? The desert code was a strict code, a code that protected male honour and female virtue. A code that said an eye for an eye, like for like, and the only way a woman’s stolen virtue could be restored to her was via marriage to her despoiler.
But she wasnot a virgin, and he hadnot despoiled her. The walls of the apartment and the building it was in enclosed him, just as marriage would enclose him—like a form of imprisonment. Marriage without love was like bread without salt, and he had no intention of allowing himself to fall in love. That was what his parents had done—or so they had believed.
Had she any idea how vulnerable she was? Didn’t she realise how easy it would be for a man in his position, who lacked his scruples, to use her in the most primitive and abusive of ways before abandoning her? She could be kept here in an apartment like this one and not be allowed to leave. She could be forced to accept whatever intimacies a powerful man might choose to enforce on her, and no one would be the wiser until it was too late. She needed to be protected against herself as well as against those men who might abuse her. Didn’t she realise the effect her claim to virginity could have on such men? How it would increase their lust for her rather than their respect?
Didn’t he, though, have far more important things to worry about than a foolish woman?
CHAPTER SIX
SHEshould have claimed the main bedroom and left him to have to sleep in here, Gwynneth thought as she looked at the small sofa pushed against the wall of the second-bedroom-cum-office. Obviously it was a sofabed, but there simply wasn’t enough floor space to open it up.
She felt both emotionally and physically exhausted, and yet she still wasn’t in the right frame of mind to sleep.
What was it about some people—people like her—that excluded them from the kind of childhood observation of adult love that would make it something to welcome rather than fear for themselves? If all human beings were hardwired to experience emotional love, then why had nature so cruelly decided that some would only ever experience it negatively? In a better world, surely every human being would live within the comfort of a loving relationship all of their lives. Perhaps adopting the ‘love thyself’ rationale of an egotist was the best way to experience love. But seeing all those other people at the airport in couples had made her painfully aware of the emotional emptiness of her own life. Was that why she had responded so hungrily to Tariq? Had some part of her wanted to play the alchemist and turn the base metal of sexual lust into emotional gold?
Now she was being ridiculous.
She went over to the bookshelves and removed the book on the history of Zuran she had noticed earlier, settling herself as comfortably as she could on the sofa and opening it. To her own surprise, within a very short space of time she had become deeply engrossed in it.
Tariq paused outside the door to the study. There was no sound from inside the room. It was almost midnight. He had eaten the meal he had had sent up, and the young waiter who had brought it from the restaurant had returned to remove his empty plate, along with the untouched meal he had felt morally obliged to order for Gwynneth. He might resent her presence in the apartment but he could hardly let her starve. However, if she wanted to deprive herself of food then that was her choice.
His fingers curled round the door handle. It turned easily in his grip.
A reading lamp illuminated the scene inside the room. Gwynneth was half lying, half sitting on the sofa, deeply asleep, the book she had obviously been reading on the floor. She looked cramped and uncomfortable. She hadn’t even bothered to open up the small sofabed.
He turned back towards the door, and then stopped. If she continued to sleep like that she would wake up with a stiff neck, and surely with pins and needles in the foot she had tucked up beneath herself. In her sleep she looked young and oddly vulnerable, her dark lashes feathering shadows against the peach-soft flesh of her face.
Leaving the door open, he walked back over and stood looking down at her. He was willing her to wake up, to save him the bother of a task he didn’t want to perform, but she obviously wasn’t going to oblige him. But then why had he expected that she might, in view of the acrimony that existed between them? Even in her sleep she was challenging him.
There was no real need for him to do this, Tariq told himself as he bent to lift her bodily into his arms. In fact, if he left her here the uncomfortable night she would undoubtedly endure might push her into leaving.
Her feet, he noticed, were small and slender, her instep delicately arched, her toenails painted a soft shade of pink.
Determinedly he focused on the open door instead of on her.
She made a small sound and nestled closer to him, her eyes still closed but her lips curling into a soft smile.
The king-sized bed in the main bedroom was large enough to sleep a whole family, never mind two adults, one of whom was fully dressed. And, that being the case, there was no reason why for tonight two adults should not share it, and be able to sleep in it as apart as though they were in separate beds—was there? Not from his point of view, Tariq assured himself. But as he pulled back the covers and placed Gwynneth on the bed his body’s urgent response to losing the sensation of having her near made him curse inwardly as he tugged the covers up over her. He looked at the empty half of the bed and exhaled impatiently, before leaving the bedroom and heading back to his study.
There was work he needed to do, he told himself. That was why he had come in here Not because he couldn’t trust himself to share the master bed with Gwynneth Talbot without giving in to his body’s demand for her closeness.
Gwynneth studied the note in front of her on the kitchen worktop.
I have some business matters to attend to this morning, but I shall be returning. Tariq.
Tariq. So that was his name. Tariq. She tested it, tasting it and rolling it around her mouth until she was familiar with the shape and feel of it, as though it were his flesh she was sampling and allowing to pleasure her tastebuds.
What time exactly did later in the day mean? she wondered as she smoothed the paper with her fingertip, unconsciously lingering over the strong strokes with which he had written his name. It was almost as though the potent strength of his personality reached out to challenge her via his signature. Her brain tried and failed to rationalise or analyse the complexity of what she was feeling.
The facts—stick to the facts, she warned herself. Facts, unlike feelings and desires, could be firmly pinned down where they belonged.
It had been a shock to wake up this morning and find that she was lying fully dressed in bed, knowing that only one person could have put her there.The bed, the one she had slept in withhim the night before that. Why had he done that? Why had he come for her and, having found her, carried her off to his own room? Had he done it because…? Because what? Because he wanted her but hadn’t wanted to wake her up? Get real, she advised herself unsympathetically. She might be fantasising about a repeat performance of last night but that didn’t mean that he was.
Fantasising…repeat performance? No way! Even though she was on her own she
shook her head in denial, as vigorously as though the trenchant comment came from an alter ego that had a physical presence.
Desperate to distance herself from her unwanted thoughts, she opened the fridge and removed a yoghurt and some fresh fruit.
Outside the sky was a clear, hot blue, and the temptation to have breakfast on the balcony was too much for her to resist.
The warm air smelled faintly of incense and salt. Down below her she could see the hotels, and beyond them the marina and the beach.
Up here she had both the freedom to see what was happening and the privacy not to be seen herself. The warmth of the sun felt wonderful against her English-wintered skin, and had she been here on her own she might have been tempted to slip out of her clothes and bask in its delicious heat, safe in the knowledge that no one could see her. But she wasn’t here on her own. And the last thing she wanted was for Tariq to come back and find her sunbathing in the nude.
Since she had come to Zuran on business, not expecting to stay for more than a couple of days, she hadn’t brought any kind of resort wear with her—not that she saw herself as the kind of person who would ever want ‘resort wear’. The words brought her a mental picture of a weirdly hybrid female—a cross between an aging fifties prom queen in diamonds and layers of chiffon, and a C-list celeb in pink sparkly matching everything, including cowboy boots, hat and tattoo. No, that wasn’t her, she thought with a smile. Still, the reality was that if she stayed here much longer she was going to need a couple of clean T-shirts and some underwear.
She peeled back the top from her yoghurt and dipped her spoon into it, balancing the book on Zuran on the table in front of her so that she could continue to read it. She had retrieved it from Tariq’s study earlier. She definitely hadn’t wanted to go in there for any other reason than to get the book, she reminded herself. And anyway, it had been impossible to tell from its neatness if Tariq had spent the night in there, leaving her to sleep alone.
An hour later she was still reading, totally engrossed in the story of how Zuran had long ago been created out of empty desert by the family who still ruled here. The aim of the current Ruler was, it seemed, to turn Zuran into a good old-fashioned earthly paradise, open to visitors of every culture and colour. By the time Zuran’s oil revenues had dwindled from their current gush to a mere trickle it was planned that the country would bethe favoured and favourite destination of the world’s holidaymakers and sports fans.
The book quoted an interview in which the Ruler acknowledged that he was taking a calculated gamble in investing so many billions in developing the small country in such a way. As a financial analyst, Gwynneth could easily imagine the damage that would be done to this plan if the double selling of property to overseas buyers became an open scandal.
A whole chapter of the book was devoted to explaining local customs, and some of the differences between Eastern and Western mindsets. Gwynneth frowned as she read that in the Middle East the giving and accepting of gifts to smooth the way for a variety of negotiations was considered the accepted norm, rather than being labelled detrimentally as bribery, as it would be in Western cultures. The author of the book advised would-be Western businessmen to employ the services of someone experienced in the way business was conducted in Zuran, so as not to cause any loss of face to themselves or others.
It would be far easier—and not merely financially—for Tariq to employ bribery to gain legal ownership of the apartment than it would for her. She had neither money nor contacts; he, she suspected, would have both.
She was about to close the book when she noticed a chapter entitled ‘The Hidden Valley’. Her curiosity aroused, she turned to it.
The valley, Gwynneth learned, had originally been a place of great strategic importance, controlling and guarding a camel train route from Zuran into the lands that lay beyond it. According to legend, the valley had been gifted to the son of a favoured concubine by a long-ago Sultan. This son had fortified the valley and built within it a magnificent palace, funding the work with the money he charged travellers to pass through it and use the waters of its oasis. This was said to be replenished by a fast-flowing underground river that ran so far beneath the surface of the sand that no one had ever been able to find it.
It was the water from this river that had enabled the fabled and lost Hanging Gardens of Mjenat to flourish, until a terrible sandstorm—caused, so the story went, by the magic of a jealous rival—destroyed and obliterated the once beautiful gardens, reducing the tiered steps filled with luscious fruits and tropical plants to a series of sand-filled stone ledges where nothing could grow.
Current investigations taking place in the valley seemed to point to the fact that the gardens might actually have existed, the author continued, but they could proceed only very slowly, to minimise any risk to the existing environment. Additionally, the small oasis was definitely fed by an underground spring whose source had yet to be confirmed. Space satellites showed quite clearly where rivers might once have existed in the desert, and where indeed they might continue to exist deep down under the surface.
The current owner of this small, unique place was related to the Zurani royal family, and a prince in his own right. He was apparently dedicating his time and part of his wealth to researching the truth about the past history of his inheritance.
The whole project fascinated her—from its historical, almost fairy-tale past to its modern archaeological present—and she wanted to know more. And not just about the valley. There was something about the prince himself, and the paucity of information about him, that piqued her interest. A modern man who was part of past legend. How did he manage two such opposing parts of himself? Presumably far better than she managed the opposing parts ofherself , although they were hardly the same. What she had read about him intrigued her. But it did not inflame her in the way that Tariq’s dangerously charismatic personality did.
She put the book down, still open at the chapter on the Hidden Valley, and lay back in her chair with her eyes closed. And that was how Tariq found her several minutes later, when he walked sure-footedly and silently towards her.
He hadn’t had a good morning. He had gone to the Palace to see the Ruler and the Chief of Police, who had advised them both that, thanks to Tariq’s work, the police thought they had now discovered the identity of the Zurani official who was working for the gang. Unfortunately, he’d added, the situation was rather more complicated than they might have hoped.
‘Why?’ Tariq had asked baldly.
‘The man we believe to be working for Chad Rheinvelt is Omar bin Saud al Javir. As you doubtless know, he is related to the traitor Prince Nazir, whose plot to murder the Ruler was thankfully thwarted.’
‘This is a very serious accusation,’ the Ruler intervened. ‘When Prince Nazir and his family were exiled from Zuran, some members of his family disassociated themselves from him and begged for my clemency. Omar’s father was one of them.’
‘And this is how Omar repays your kindness,’ Tariq said curtly.
‘From the enquiries we have made we have discovered that the young man in question has given his family many causes to feel ashamed of him. He was dismissed from the University of Zuran for misbehaviour and poor grades. Without his family connections it is doubtful that he would have been given the responsible job he now holds. According to his superior he is a quarrelsome young man with a chip on his shoulder. However, this superior also told me that in recent months Omar had started to behave far more circumspectly, and has been showing a much greater interest in his work.’
‘Presumably because Chad has been paying him to work forhim !’ Tariq put in grimly.
‘Naturally it is impossible to do anything until we have positive concrete evidence of what is going on,’ the Chief of Police continued. ‘And for that reason I have now given instructions that Omar’s every movement is to be closely watched. If all goes according to plan, we hope to have the evidence we need within the next twenty-four hours. Then we can
take him into custody. However, until that happens, and until we have dealt with Chad Rheinvelt and his minions, I would ask, Highness—’ the Chief of Police bowed in Tariq’s direction ‘—that you would graciously consent to continuing to give us your assistance. It won’t be for too much longer.’
‘Keep me informed,’ Tariq had instructed him just before he left. ‘I want to know the moment anything changes.’
Then, the Chief of Police’s request hadn’t seemed too much to ask.
Right now, though, here in the apartment even a very few minutes felt dangerously like too much exposure to the growing problem of his reaction to his unwanted house guest.
Gwynneth wasn’t just the cause of his lack of sleep last night, she was also the cause of the thoughts and needs that were currently tormenting him.
Gwynneth hadn’t heard him come out onto the balcony. But when she opened her eyes the physical effect his presence had on her was so intimate and so disturbing that it shocked her. Her pulse was racing, and she could feel a warm flush rising from her breasts up over her throat. She realised how much she wanted to see him smile at her with warmth and delight.