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
