Penny Jordan - Sheikh's Arabian Night 04 - Prince Of The Desert.pdf - Penny Jordan - SilverWitch

Penny Jordan

PRINCE OF THE DESERT

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

COMING NEXT MONTH

CHAPTER ONE

GWYNNETHexhaled with exhaustion as she paid off the taxi driver and stood looking up at the building

in front of her—the building that contained her father’s apartment. No, not her father’s apartment any

more, she reminded herself bleakly, but her own. Her father was dead, and in his will he had left all his

assets to her.

And his responsibilities? He might not have willed those to her, but she nonetheless felt morally obliged

to make them her own. Her slender shoulders bowed slightly. The last few weeks had taken their toll on

her. Her father’s fatal heart attack had been shockingly unexpected. It might be true that they had never

shared a traditional father and daughter relationship. How could they have? But that didn’t mean she

hadn’t cared about him. He was—had been—her father, after all.

Yes, it was true that after her parents’ divorce her father had virtually abandoned her into the unloving

care of her mother and stepfather. It was true that he had been absent from her life for most of the time

she had been growing up, whilst he pursued his own hedonistic lifestyle and travelled the world. And it

was also true that his absence had only been punctuated by sporadic visits to the small private boarding

school where she had been left and virtually brought up by its kindly elderly headmistress. But of the two

of them it was her mother who had hurt her the most. When a person had wealth and power, that person

could break the rules and then remake them. And her stepfather was both very wealthyand very

powerful.

Unlike her father, whose main assets had been his charismatic personality and his persuasive tongue. A

rueful smile curved her lips as she remembered how he had boasted to her that it was via that latter asset

that he had acquired this apartment in the Persian Gulf Kingdom of Zuran.

‘The block it’s in is right in the middle of a new marina development. I’m telling you, Gwynneth, I could

have sold it ten times—no, a hundred times over, for double what I paid for it,’ he had told her excitedly.

Gwynneth hadn’t known very much about the desert kingdom of Zuran then—but she did now. Which

was why she was here.

She shivered a little in the almost disturbingly sensual warmth of the Arabian Gulf night. It wrapped

round her like silken gauze, teasing her skin with its subtle caress, cloaking the intimacy of its effect on her

with its darkness, like a mystery lover whose face was hidden from her, his touch all the more erotic for

being unknown. A deep shudder gripped her body as she tried to pull down the defensive inner blinds

she always used to block out such sensual thoughts. She had fought all her adult female life to separate

herself from the dangers of the deep, dark core of sexuality she had inherited from her father, which she

tried so hard to deny and ignore.

Sowhy , knowing that, had she reacted so emotionally to his recent claim that she was devoid of

sexuality, and thus deprived of the pleasure of enjoying that sexuality? That was what she wanted, what

she had chosen for herself, and so his words should have brought her pleasure instead of making her

searingly conscious of what she was missing.

It was the stress of the last few weeks that was weakening those defences, somehow allowing an

unfamiliar hunger and need to well up so forcefully inside her, she assured herself wearily. It was gone

midnight here in Zuran, even though it was still only early evening at home.

She lifted her hand to push the slightly ‘boho’ tangle of long red-gold curls back off her face as she

closed the sometimes too eloquent green eyes that, even at twenty-six, she could still not always control,

and which could so easily betray what she was feeling. Like her dark eyelashes and her creamy skin, they

were her heritage from her Irish mother, just as the delicacy of her bone structure and her supple, slender

figure had come down from her paternal grandmother—at least according to her father. He had certainly

once been a very handsome man. Once…

The familiar pain-cum-anger-cum-anguish knotted the muscles of her stomach. Her eyes opened,

shadowed by hurtful memories. As a child she had often wondered what exactly she had done to deserve

parents who did not love her. As an adult she had learned to tell herself that it was their inability to love

one another that was responsible for their inability to love her, the child they had accidentally produced

but never wanted.

Her mother had remarried within a year of the divorce, departing for Australia with her new husband to

make a new life for herself. Her father, freed from a marriage he’d claimed he had never wanted, had

roamed the world drinking, gambling, and on rare occasions turning up in England to see her—invariably

when he was stoned, broke or drunk, and sometimes all three. A member of the hippy generation, her

father had still in middle age embraced drugs and drink and the ‘free love’ culture. Had done. But no

longer did—no longer could. Despite his lifestyle she had still been shocked by his death. A heart attack,

the hospital had informed her, his daughter and next of kin.

His daughter, but not his only child. How could a man who had abandoned one child because he hadn’t

wanted her have so carelessly fathered a second?

She had had no idea of what was to happen when he’d telephoned out of the blue and told her that he

was in London and staying at one of its most exclusive hotels. She had gone straight from the City bank

where she worked as an analyst to the hotel where, to her surprise, she had discovered he was staying 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 commandedOpen 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 marbleen 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 Zuranhe 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 to make her home beneath his roof

rather than live alone with her young son. Tariq had virtually grown up here at the palace, although along

with many other young men from Zuran he had received his schooling in England and America.

Penny Jordan - Sheikh's Arabian Night 04 - Prince Of The Desert.pdf

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: