by Penny Jordan
Delight? Was she going completely mad? She had to put some distance between them, and fast.
He was blocking her path to the French doors, but she was too uncomfortably aware of her own unwanted reaction to him to let that stop her. She leapt up and, still holding the book tightly in her arms, made to push past him, gasping aloud when instead of moving he grabbed hold of her, his hands gripping the tender flesh of her upper arms so hard it felt as though he could break her bones if he chose to do so. It seemed as if he too realised that, and his grip slackened—not enough for her to be able to break free, but enough so that he could almost absently rhythmically rub her flesh with the pads of his thumbs, as though he was trying to smooth away any pain he might have caused.
‘Let go of me,’ she demanded, with more bravado than she was actually feeling. There was something very sensually disturbing and primitive about that rhythmic touch, and the answering surge it caused within her. As though something very dark and hidden deep inside her was responding to the rhythm he had set, just as it had done that first night when…
Her faced burned even more hotly as she realised where her thoughts were taking her and the trap that was waiting for her there. She wanted to close her eyes to blot him out, but she was afraid to do so in case that sensual pulse he was calling up took her over.
‘Why?’ The smile he gave her was knowing and unkind. As though to underline what he meant, he brushed the backs of his fingers down her bare arm.
Her body’s reaction was immediate—and very physical. So much so that before she could stop herself she looked betrayingly down her at her breasts. Her nipples, clearly outlined and flauntingly erect, swelled eagerly against the fabric of her top.
Like someone in a trance she watched as he lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles very slowly over one nipple. Her breath jerked out of her body, visibly and audibly. She couldn’t even use the retaliatory visual weapon of looking at his crotch. That all-encompassing immaculate white robe hid anything and everything there might have been to see. But her gaze had dropped to his body and his followed it, pinning it there whilst she tried to escape, as uselessly as a small bird trapped in honey.
‘Wanton,’ she heard him taunt her. ‘You devour me with your eyes. Just as you—’
‘No!’ Gwynneth denied wildly, trying to pull away, forgetting that he was still holding her, shocked to discover that she was being yanked back into his possession, into his arms, his body, whilst his mouth covered hers, smothering its rebellion and stealing her will to fight.
What was this? Why was it happening? Her thoughts spilled dizzily into space, escaping her as fast as she tried to catch them, whilst inside her a whole new universe of sensation and need exploded in a shower of meteorites, blinding and dazzling her.
She could feel the engine of his heartbeat driving her own, as though it were pushing the blood through her veins, as though without it—without him—there could be no life for her. Behind the darkness of her closed eyes she felt the infinity of limitless aching need. His tongue prised apart her lips like a conqueror, and then dipped triumphantly into her mouth’s sweetness. His hand enclosed her breast and her pulse seemed to stop beating before racing unsteadily in fierce excitement. The book slipped from her hold and onto the floor. The noise shocked through her.
Immediately Tariq released her.
‘Why did you have to do that?’
The anguish he could hear in her voice hardened Tariq’s mouth. She might not be the professional call girl he had first assumed, but neither was she the victim she was now trying to appear—and they both knew it.
‘Why?’ he answered mockingly. ‘Because you let me.’
‘Ilet you? That’s what men like you always tell yourselves when you have to force yourself on a woman, when you make her give you something she doesn’t want to, isn’t it?’ Gwynneth demanded bitterly. ‘Well, if you’re hoping to…to sexually harass me into leaving this apartment so that you can claim it, you’re wasting your time.’
He was frowning at her, his mouth compressing with anger.
‘Me? Sexually harass you? If that’s true, then what was the way you looked at my body all about? How exactly do you explain that?’
‘I wasn’t looking at your body,’ Gwynneth insisted, but she knew the guilty colour darkening her face was giving her away.
‘Liar. You looked at me to see if I was aroused.’
‘And were you?’
Gwynneth blinked, as though she couldn’t believe what she had just heard herself say—which she couldn’t. She lifted her hand to her forehead, wondering grimly if some unseen and malevolently inclined genie had got out of his bottle and into her vocal cords.
Tariq looked at her sharply, thinking that she was being facetious. She must know that he had been aroused, otherwise he would never have done what he just had. But her expression told him quite plainly that she did not.
‘I’ve got far more important things to do with my time than waste it on this kind of rubbish,’ he told her flatly. That much at least was true. But it wasn’t true that he wasn’t thinking about her, despite the other calls on his time. He couldn’t stop doing so. And not just thinking…
CHAPTER SEVEN
ANOTHERnight spent sleeping in that huge bed, waking what felt like every few minutes just to check that she was still alone, her heart overdosing on adrenaline.
With fear, because she was afraid that Tariq might come to her,for her, sliding into the big bed beside her to take her in his arms and make her his?
Or with guilty excitement, because it was what she longed for him to do?
He drew her physically and emotionally as no other man had ever done, and fighting against the effect he was having on her had Gwynneth on a constant seesaw of thoughts and feelings.
Even when she closed her eyes and tried to sleep she couldn’t get away from him, because her senses immediately assaulted her defences with sensually erotic images of their bodies entwined together, his hand resting possessively on her breast, playing with her eagerly erect nipple, then sliding teasingly down her body to push her legs open so that he could explore and enjoy her body and its response to him. And it wanted to respond to him so much.
How could she want him so badly? A man who…
A man who made her want to ask him a thousand questions about himself. About what he was and how he had become that; how he had grown up; how he lived; how he thought and felt; what his dreams were, and his nightmares too.
And that wasn’t just wanting him physically. That was…Not love, she denied in panic, thrusting the thought away from her. It couldn’t be love. Or at least not love as she had always imagined it to be. Love came from knowing a person; it meant trusting them and feeling safe with them. She didn’t know Tariq, she didn’t trust him, and she certainly didn’t feel safe with him.
And yet he had given her nothing to fear. As the bed evidenced, she had slept alone in it last night. Could it be truer to say that she did notwant to feel safe with him, that she enjoyed that exciting frisson of fear the thought of him touching her gave her? Maybe she didn’t really want to trust him either. It was a long time since she had fully trusted anyone and she had grown used to refusing to do so. Trusting someone meant allowing herself to be vulnerable to them, letting them into the inner sanctum of her most private emotional places—places she had kept guarded for so long…
It was time she got up, instead of allowing her thoughts to roam such dangerous byways.
‘You are to be congratulated on such a speedy conclusion to what might have been a most unpleasant business.’ The Ruler smiled approvingly at the Chief of Police, who had just announced to both his master and Tariq that Omar was now in prison, having admitted his involvement with the gang, and that all the members of the gang, including Chad Rheinvelt, had been apprehended and would be facing either trial or deportation.
‘Unfortunately, we do still have one area of concern,’ the Chief of Police admitted.
‘
Which is?’ Tariq asked.
‘We arrested Omar in the early hours of this morning, as he left a meeting with Rheinvelt. Later, when he was questioned, he told us that Rheinvelt had been asking him about Prince Tariq. It seems the gang leader was suspicious of His Highness’s reasons for agreeing to assist him. Omar told Rheinvelt that in his opinion there was no way His Highness would ever do anything that might harm the Ruler or his family, and that far from needing money, as Rheinvelt apparently believed, His Highness is an extremely wealthy man. Omar further claimed that Rheinvelt swore to punish His Highness for deceiving him, and that he heard Rheinvelt giving instructions to this effect.’
‘What exactly are you trying to say?’ Tariq demanded. ‘The gang is under lock and key.’
‘Yes, but Rheinvelt has many contacts, not all of whom were visibly attached to this gang. He is a man who does not trust anyone. We have questioned him, of course, but he is an old hand at this sort of thing and has told us nothing. However, Omar remains adamant that Rheinvelt has put out a contract on His Highness—and on the somewhat softer targets, perhaps, of those close to him,’ the Chief announced portentously. ‘Naturally we are treating this threat very seriously, and if it does exist, then we shall discover the identity and whereabouts of his hitman. But until we do I have to warn His Highness to be on guard. We will provide bodyguards.’
Tariq shook his head in immediate refusal.
‘That is not the way I have lived my life, nor is it the way I intend to live it,’ he informed the Chief coolly.
‘I would counsel you to think again, Highness,’ the Chief of Police urged him, adding meaningfully, ‘Please recall, your intimate friends could also be vulnerable to such an attack.’
Tariq frowned heavily at the policeman’s words and told him curtly, ‘They cannot possibly get close enough to the Ruler to harm him or his family.’
‘It is not the Greatest amongst the Great of whom I am thinking,’ was the Chief of Police’s deliberately emphasised reply.
‘Then to whomare you referring?’ Tariq demanded impatiently. The Ruler was, after all, his closest relative.
The Chief of Police salaamed and informed him apologetically, ‘Highness, because of the risks involved in this affair, I appointed men to keep a watch over the apartment block at Al Mirahmi. A young woman has been seen to leave and enter His Highness’s apartment on a number of separate occasions. I beg forgiveness for this intrusion,’ he added hastily, ‘but His Highness will understand that his position within the family of our esteemed Ruler—may Allah protect him—has necessitated this.’
There were a good many more heavily embellished courtly effusions, but in the end it all boiled down to one thing. Gwynneth had been seen leaving and entering his apartment. In the eyes of the Chief of Police, and therefore very possibly in the eyes of anyone else who had seen her, she was his, and therefore potentially at risk should it turn out that Omar’s information was correct.
This was how men of his country thought. Even if he attempted to explain the tangle of circumstances which had led to Gwynneth occupying the apartment at the same time as he was doing so, knowing what he did, the Chief of Police would still not be totally convinced. And neither, Tariq suspected, would Chad. Tariq had refused the offer of a prostitute; Tariq had a woman living with him; that woman must be important enough to him for any harm done there to serve as a warning to him. That was how men like Chad thought, and it was as pointless trying to change his thinking as it was trying to change that of his own countrymen.
‘She, of course, is a more vulnerable target for them. It may even be that they will attempt to kill her as a warning to you,’ the Chief of Police murmured almost apologetically, plainly sensing Tariq’s anger.
This was exactly what he had just thought himself. And Tariq had to admit that the scenario the Chief of Police was outlining to him was all too feasible. Which meant…
Which meant that for her own safety Ms Gwynneth Talbot had to be packed off back to her own country and her own life just as quickly as possible. Quickly, discreetly, efficiently. Without any kind of fuss or delay. In a manner that would brook no opposition from Ms Gwynneth Talbot herself and that would not oblige him to tell her the truth. The thought of such a money-hungry young woman being free to approach a British journalist with her story, and the scale of potential damage to Zuran’s future success as a safe tourist destination, was more than enough to convince him of that. Some plan would have to be made to get her to leave without arousing her suspicions, and Tariq decided he knew just the right one.
This time he made his way back to the apartment which thankfully he would soon be able to quit via his own chauffeur-driven limousine. But he still had his driver drop him off out of view of any of the windows of the apartment.
He found Gwynneth on the terrace, once again reading one of his books. This time one on local customs.
As always when he saw her afresh after any kind of absence from her, he had to struggle to control the sudden upsurge in his heartbeat and his desire to go to her and take hold of her.
The sooner she was back in her own country, the better, he decided grimly, as he glanced briefly at her and then looked away.
Gwynneth watched him in smouldering silence. The apartment had felt so empty without him, and she hated it that he could make her feel like that.
‘I’ve been thinking about your situation with regard to this apartment,’ Tariq announced without any preamble.
‘Mysituation?’ Gwynneth challenged him pointedly. Where the apartment was concerned, and with it Teresa and baby Anthony’s future, she wasn’t going to let him get away with anything—not one tiny little thing.
Tariq shrugged. ‘As I understand it, if you are found to be the legal owner of this apartment it is your intention to return to your home and put it on the market—isn’t that so?’
Cautiously Gwynneth nodded her head.
‘In order to short-circuit what could very probably be a long-drawn-out and complex set of procedures, I am prepared to offer you the full market price of the apartment. By tomorrow night you can be home in Britain.’
He waswhat ? Had she heard him correctly?
‘Youwant to buy the apartment—fromme ?’ she asked him, spacing out the words slowly and carefully, as though she wasn’t sure of their validity.
‘That’s right.’
Gwynneth stared at him suspiciously. Why was he suggesting this? She didn’t believe for one minute that it was out of any desire to help her—far from it.
‘Why would you want to do that?’ she challenged him.
‘I don’t have the time to waste on haggling and bartering over this.’
Gwynneth’s eyebrows rose in patent disbelief. ‘But I thought that haggling and bartering was the bedrock of Middle Eastern business methods,’ she told him sweetly.
Tariq was looking at her as though he itched to put his hands round her neck and shake her into submission. ‘I am simply trying to help you,’ he told her unconvincingly.
Gwynneth put on a coolly disbelieving look. ‘Yeah—as if,’ she responded inelegantly, and shot him a feral smile. She was enjoying riling him and getting under his skin so much that she must possess a rogue love-of-danger gene she hadn’t hitherto known about, she decided, as she waited to see what his next move would be. At least this was keeping a safe distance between them physically, and helping her to erect crash barriers against him inside her head.
Her head—but what about her heart?
What about it? It didn’t come into this equation and she wasn’t going to let it.
‘You don’t fool me. You’re trying to sell me this deal like it’s in my interests and to my benefit. But no way am I going to fall for that. You’ve got some kind of personal agenda going on here that makes ownership of this apartment in a hurry something you want,’ she challenged him.
The look on his face told her there was something important she had neglected to factor in. Talk about thunder clouds rolling do
wn from on high—never mind the lightning glittering in those mercury-grey eyes! One direct hit from that and her will-power could well be history.
‘Maybe what I want “in a hurry” is you out of my life,’ he retorted savagely.
Gwynneth winced. She should have been expecting that.
‘The market price of the apartment is three-quarters of a million pounds sterling. I am prepared to write you a cheque for one million pounds right now—that will cover your costs as well.’
The real market value of the apartment was closer to £500,000, but Tariq didn’t want to waste valuable time arguing. He wanted her gone—and not just for her own sake. She was beginning to affect him too much and too often, and that wasn’t something he intended to allow to continue.
