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
