by Penny Jordan
‘I need to shower and change first,’ Gwynneth protested.
‘How long will that take you?’
‘Twenty minutes—maybe half an hour.’
‘Fine. I’ll order the food for seven-thirty.’
He was walking away from her, leaving her standing there in the hallway, not even asking her if she had any preference as to what she wanted to eat. Gwynneth fumed. She had a good mind to tell him that she was perfectly capable of ordering her own food and that she preferred to eat alone rather than have her appetite ruined by his unwanted presence. That would be the only sensible thing to do, wouldn’t it?
She was still refusing to answer that question ten minutes later as she stood under the shower, savouring the sensation of the water sluicing the detritus of the day from her skin. If only her heart could be as easily comforted and soothed.
The warmth of the water against his skin was almost as sensual as a woman’s touch—which no doubt was why his thoughts were turning in a direction he did not wish them to go, and why his body was responding to those thoughts.
If he were holding her between his hands now, caressing her water-slick skin…Angrily Tariq turned the shower to ‘cold’, staying beneath it and willing it to douse the fire inside him. Had his father felt like this for his mother?
He reached up and switched off the shower. This was the first time he had allowed himself to think of his father in terms of his own experience. Like father, like son…But he had always sworn that he would neverallow himself to be the son of the man who had given him life because of the way he had abandoned his mother. What had he been like? What would he see if he allowed his father to step out of the shadows into which he had thrust him?
He reached for a towel, his forehead furrowing as he tried to capture vague images of himself with his father as a child. Inside his head he could hear a faint echo of male laughter, feel the hard, sure warmth of paternal hands lifting him.
What had provoked this? It had to be her! How dared she look into his soul and disturb his secrets…?
He strode naked from the bathroom into his office, relieved to know that he wouldn’t have to spend yet another night on the hugely uncomfortable sofabed. Quickly he pulled on clean clothes. No need to resume his headdress, since he was eating in the privacy of the apartment. He heard the door’s security buzzer ring and checked his watch.
Twenty-five past seven.
If she wanted her food hot then she was going to have to hurry.
Was that the door she had just heard? Well, she was showered and dressed, in a black linen kaftan she had bought on impulse from a chainstore when she had seen it hanging on the reduced rail. She had plaited her damp hair for extra coolness, and put a slick of soft pink gloss on her lips. More important by far, she was very hungry. She opened her bedroom door and walked purposefully towards the kitchen.
The smell of the food was so deliciously appetising her stomach actually gave a small growl, causing her to place her hand against it and give Tariq a defiant look that melted in the heat of the sensual shock that hit her insides. He wasn’t wearing his headdress, and his hair, like hers, was still damp, the sight of it unexpectedly erotic. Thick and cut short, more dark brown than black, it had a soft curl that made her long to slide her fingers into it and feel it curling round them. Beneath the hem of his robe she could see the indigo darkness of what looked like linen trousers of some description, whilst his feet were bare. For some reason that made her curl her own toes into her slip-on mules.
‘I hope you like Lebanese food,’ he told her. ‘I ordered it for the variety. We can carry it out to the terrace; it will be pleasantly cool out there now.’
He certainly wasn’t shy about giving orders, Gwynneth thought rebelliously, admitting at the same time that she was too hungry to waste time protesting. Instead she went to the cupboards, removing cutlery, plates and water glasses to put on a tray to carry outside, leaving Tariq to deal with the food.
The terrace was large enough to throw a party on, and seemed to have been equipped with just that in mind. Gwynneth put the tray down on a glass-topped low-level bamboo table and flicked on the light switch, which she discovered not only brought on the lights but activated an anti-mosquito unit as well.
Three long bamboo sofas, comfortably padded with cushions upholstered in a striking black, grey and off-white fabric, formed a U-shape around the table, so that one could look out over the balcony towards the sea.
Tariq had started to remove the lids from the food cartons, explaining as he did so, ‘It is an Arab tradition for people to sit round what you would probably call a shared buffet, eating and talking, rather than to sit formally at a dining table.’
His gaze flicked over her as she stood by the balcony. The kaftan was obviously a deliberate ploy—but to what purpose?
‘Come and eat while the food is still hot,’ he commanded.
Without waiting to see if she would do so, he settled himself on one of the sofas, sitting cross-legged with enviable ease, the soles of his feet turned inward. Gwynneth remembered reading that it was considered a great insult to confront another man with the sole of one’s foot or shoe.
It was impossible for her to match his fluid dexterity, so instead she sat primly opposite him with her feet placed firmly on the floor.
He paused in busily scooping up small amounts of food from the variety of containers to raise one eyebrow and drawl, ‘Very proper, and I suspect most uncomfortable, but it’s your choice.’
He had, Gwynneth noticed, used his fingers to remove the food, and was now dipping them into one of two bowls of water he must have brought out but which she hadn’t previously noticed.
Hesitantly she inspected the contents of the containers, most of which she could recognise, and all of which smelled delicious.
‘Spare ribs, chicken in herbs, couscous, taramasalata,’ he told her, naming several of the items as Gwynneth heaped her plate. She watched as Tariq used the flat unleavened pieces of bread to scoop up his food.
‘I should have thought to ask if you wanted me to order you a bottle of wine. Since I’m going to be driving, alcohol is out for me.’
He saw her small questioning frown and added carelessly, as though it was of no great importance, ‘I don’t have any religious allegiance. My mother was Muslim but my father was British—and agnostic.’
‘They must have loved one another very much to bridge that kind of cultural divide,’ Gwynneth commented.
Tariq frowned. He had grown up hearing his father condemned, living with his mother’s unhappiness, and now, abruptly, he realised that because of all that it had simply never occurred to him to think about how very much they must have once loved one another. How much…but still not enough.
But according to his second cousin it had been his mother whose love had weakened, not his father.
‘Initially perhaps,’
‘Initially?’ Gwynneth queried.
‘My parents separated when I was quite young,’ he told her sombrely. ‘Apparently they had an agreement that my father would live in my mother’s country for the first few years and then she would move with him to his. She reneged on that agreement, so he left.’
‘Oh, how dreadfully sad for all of you—but for you most especially,’ Gwynneth sympathised.
Tariq shrugged dismissively. ‘Not particularly. My mother moved back to live with her family, and I grew up surrounded by cousins and cousins of cousins. I lived very happily.’
‘But you must have missed your father.’
‘Why? Because you missed yours?’
‘I missed both my parents,’ Gwynneth told him, and then added honestly, ‘Or rather, I missed sharing in what I imagined a happy family life would be. There is such a taboo surrounding the fact that mothers are not always able to love their children that people find it easier not to speak of it at all. I didn’t myself for a long time.’
‘So what changed?’
‘I did. When I was able to accep
t that my mother hadn’t loved me and equally able to accept that it wasn’t my fault. I had to teach myself to accept that no one was to blame, and not just to accept that but to believe it as well.’
‘And now you do?’
‘Yes.’
‘So will you have children yourself, or…?’ Why was he talking to her like this? Asking her so many intimate and probing questions? Questions that went way beyond mere small talk. Why did he feel this deep, driving need to know everything there was to know about her, whether that knowledge related to her past experiences or her future plans? Too late, Tariq recognised just how much the questions he was asking her might reveal to her the feelings he had when he listened to her.
‘It hasn’t made me either hunger for them to rewrite my own childhood, nor fear the idea of them in case I repeat it with them, if that’s what you mean. Were I to be in the right relationship with the right man…’ She gave a small shrug, not daring to risk looking at him just in case he might see in her eyes the message her body was sending her. Right now, the only relationship it wanted her to have was with him! ‘I do think women have a basic instinct and drive to have a child with the man they love; that way they can subconsciously perhaps both possess a bit of him and leave a lasting memory of their love. But children are individuals and have to be respected as such. Perhaps that is where the danger can lie.’
Heavens, she was opening up to him more than she had ever done with anyone. Didn’t her head know or care abut the danger her heart was facing? Tariq was watching her and listening to her with a fixed concentration that made her heart hammer into her ribs as though it was trying to burst its way out of her chest and hurl itself into his arms.
‘This is pretty deep stuff to discuss with a stranger,’ she told him slightly breathlessly.
Stranger? She was right, of course; they were strangers to one another. And yet at some profoundly disturbing and deep level he felt so strongly connected to her…He pushed the thought away, barricading himself against it.
‘Perhaps it is because we are strangers. Maybe it is with strangers that we feel most able to disclose our deepest thoughts and fears.’ How could he be feeling like this about her when her values were so opposed to his own? She was a woman accustomed to the non-emotional, one-night stand type of sex; she was motivated by financial greed, as witnessed by the fact that she had refused his offer for the apartment, no doubt hoping to push the price up even further.
How could he eventhink about wanting her?
‘Perhaps,’ Gwynneth agreed. Whatever had existed between them over dinner to enable them to talk had now gone. She could sense it in the return of his coldness towards her.
‘It’s getting late, and I have a longish drive ahead of me—so if you’ll excuse me?’ He spoke peremptorily, avoiding looking at her, standing up as easily and sinuously as he had sat down, whilst Gwynneth had to struggle somewhat to get up out of her cushioned comfort.
Had she bored and irritated him by spilling out her most personal thoughts to him like that? She tensed as he came towards her, leaning down to help her to her feet. In the small enclosed space between the sofa and the table they had to stand virtually body-to-body. He smelled of something cool and pleasant, but her senses were reacting to the more dangerous male scent of him that lay under it. Instinctively she closed her eyes, the better to focus on it, swaying slightly towards him.
Tariq exhaled fiercely. He could see the stiffness of her nipples silhouetted against the fabric of her kaftan and he had to clench his free hand into a fist to stop himself from lifting it to touch her. Her plaited hair exposed the vulnerability of the nape of her neck, tempting him to trace the shape of her bones with his lips and follow them down the length of her back, whilst his hands plundered the female curves of her breast and belly before…
The minute she felt the heat of Tariq’s breath on her neck Gwynneth snapped her eyes open and stepped back from him, her face on fire with guilt.
How long would he be gone? For her own sake she hoped it would be long enough for the Zurani officials to untangle the complex ownership issues relating to the apartment. She desperately wanted to draw a line under the entire proceedings.
But not so desperately that she was willing to accept Tariq’s offer?
That was because she didn’t feel she could trust him—because her gut instinct told her that he had some kind of other agenda she wasn’t aware of. Did it matter if he had? she asked herself as he released her arm and bent to start collecting the empty food cartons, stacking them on the tray.
Yes, itdid matter, if that agenda involved money. Not for herself, but for Teresa and Anthony.
CHAPTER TEN
GWYNNETHshook her hair back off her face as she stepped out of the lift and headed for the apartment. She had been awake so early that she had decided to go for an early-morning run while it was still cool enough to do so. But although the exercise might have strengthened her body, it certainly hadn’t strengthened her defences against her feelings for Tariq.
Tariq. She was getting dangerously close to living, breathing, thinking Tariq one hundred per cent of her time, and it didn’t take a mathematical wizard to work out that that added up to loving him one hundred per cent.
Panic started to grip her. She must not love him. Not when he so patently did not love her. But he wanted her; it filled the space between them, infusing it with a predatory male sexual urgency that left her breathless, her heart pounding, as though the air had been robbed of oxygen.
This was crazy. She reached for her mobile in order to ring the young land registry official to find out what was happening, sighing when, instead of a human voice, she got his mechanised answering service, requesting her to leave a message. Leave a message? Saying what, exactly? That she had been offered twice the value of the apartment to relinquish her claim on it, but she was concerned about the validity of the offer and even more concerned that the apartment wouldn’t be the only thing Tariq might steal from her.
Tariq. Where was he? What was he doing? What was he thinking? Was he thinking about her at all? Had he missed her last night? She had certainly missed him. Her hand trembled as she filled the kettle.
Her thoughts still on Tariq, Gwynneth browsed the bookshelves in his office, looking for something to read. She hesitated, torn between the book she had already read on Zuran and its history and what looked like a rather heavy book on the geological formation of the desert. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as dull as it looked. As she removed it from the shelf she realised that another much thinner paperback book had been wedged behind it. Automatically she picked it up, intending to replace it, stopping when she saw the title:Mjenat: The Hidden Valley and its Ruler.
A book about the Hidden Valley? Smiling happily, she abandoned her original choice and headed for the terrace with her find.
Less than five minutes later the smile had disappeared from her face and she was sitting bolt upright, a look of angry disbelief widening her eyes as she stared at the photograph inside the front cover of the book.
Tariq! Or, to give him correct title, she corrected herself bitterly, His Highness Prince Tariq bin Salud Al Fwaisa. Tariq wasn’t just Tariq, but a prince. And not just any old prince, either: he was the ruler of his own small kingdom.
On the opposite page to the photograph was a glowing tribute to him, and a discreet mention of his billionaire status not quite hidden in the flowery language giving thanks for his generosity to others.
Gwynneth threw the book down and went to the edge of the terrace, blinking back angry tears as she stared over the balcony.
Why hadn’t he said something—anything? Why had he let her think…?
Did shereally need to ask herself that question? she derided herself scornfully. He hadn’t told her because men like him did not tell women like her—women they slept with once and then discarded, women they thought of as merely objects—anything. They didn’t have a need to do so, and they certainly didn’t have the desire to do so. Such men w
ere users, and to them women like her were merely there to be exploited and then forgotten—women to be bought, played with for a while and then thrown out with the rubbish.
Only Tariq had not been able to do that with her, because she had refused to be thrown out of the apartment. He, no doubt wary of attracting unwanted attention to his off-duty pursuits, had had to resort to other measures by which to be rid of her. Measures such as offering her twice the value of the apartment. In order to get rid of her. That was all he wanted—to get rid of her! The pain caught her off guard, smashing through her anger and driving a stake right through her heart.
‘And we think we’ve located the source of the underground spring that fills the oasis,’ one of the team of scientists Tariq was employing on his Hidden Valley project told him excitedly. ‘It looks as though it’s fed by an overspill from something else—either a lake or maybe even a river. We already know that there’s some kind of a cave formation beneath that outcrop of rocks at the head of the valley, below the foundations of the original palace.’