Climax Of Passion
Emma Darcy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Linda McQueen,

for her love of words and getting it right.

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

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER ONE

XA SHIRAQ was notable for many things.

The impression that most people took away with them was of a penetrating gaze that seemed to strip souls bare.

His eyes were stygian black and deeply socketed. It was said they could see through any duplicity. They could burn with the heat of the desert or be as cold and cutting as the wind from the topmost peaks of the Atlas Mountains in the freezing heart of winter. They revealed nothing, yet they knew everything.

He had not inherited the Sheikhdom of Xabia. He had won the right to rule through the sheer force of his will and character. He retained and increased his power by not letting anything escape his notice. His vigilance over matters that others might regard as of little consequence, was legendary. Its effect was that Xa Shiraq was never surprised. He had no intention of ever being surprised.

‘Tell me about the geologist’s daughter,’ he commanded of Kozim, his closest aide.

‘No...o...o, ah...problem,’ came the habitual singsong reply.

A slicing flash of black eyes was enough for Kozim to clear his throat and bring forth a flurry of detail.

‘She is still at the hotel in Fisa, working front of house. She is in charge of reservations. There is a complaint lodged against her. She will not last.’

Xa Shiraq’s long, supple fingers tapped a thoughtful rhythm on the armrest of his chair. ‘Why did she take the position? Why has she stayed? With her qualifications she could have done better. It makes no sense unless my suspicion has substance. Each step... one step closer.’

‘She has applied for a transfer to Bejos,’ Kozim added as a possible point of interest.

‘Ah!’ It was the sound of satisfaction. ‘So the purpose reveals itself beyond all reasonable doubt. She is a woman of remarkable determination.’ He looked sharply at Kozim. ‘If application is made for entry to Xabia, it is to be refused.’

‘I will see to it immediately,’ Kozim said with fervour, hiding his surprise at such a leap in anticipation.

‘Never believe in coincidence, Kozim. Has the transfer to Bejos been granted?’

‘No, Your Excellency. It was blocked by the assistant manager at Fisa.’

‘For what reason?’

‘He claims unsuitability on the grounds that she is a striking blonde and may draw troublesome attention at the Bejos hotel.’ Kozim shrugged. ‘That is what he says officially.’

‘And unofficially?’ the sheikh prompted.

‘It is inferred that there are more personal reasons.’

The sheikh sat back, hooding his eyes. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the Fisa hotel one of the poorest performers in the Oasis chain?’

‘You are not wrong, Your Excellency,’ Kozim quickly assured him. ‘It has one of the lowest occupancy rates.’

‘There have been a number of complaints about the hotel,’ the sheikh said broodingly.

Kozim didn’t know of any. His ignorance did not disturb him. It was not unusual for him not to know what the sheikh knew. Xa Shiraq had many sources of information.

The fingers tapped again. ‘I will act. I can kill two birds with one arrow.’

Kozim had no idea what the sheikh meant, but he was glad he was not going to be on the receiving end of the arrow that would undoubtedly reach its targets with deadly accuracy. He was glad he had no connection whatsoever to the running of the Oasis Hotel at Fisa. He was glad he was not the geologist’s daughter.

CHAPTER TWO

AMANDA Buchanan thought she had developed a thick enough skin to withstand most of the put-down jokes that came her way. Normally, she let them flow past her like water off a duck’s back. After all, she had been born with three strikes against her. Her mother had been Polish, her father Irish, and she was a natural blonde.

The latest rash of ‘dumb blonde’ jokes was the most belittling she had so far encountered. It was almost enough to drive her into dying her hair black. Her stubborn sense of self-worth, however, would not countenance any backing off from who and what she was. Apart from which, it would give her snide detractors the satisfaction of knowing they had got to her.

One day, she vowed, she would make a lot of people eat their words. Not only on her own account, but on her father’s. Amanda wasn’t quite sure how she was going to achieve that end, but working for the Oasis chain of hotels had seemed a likely step in the right direction. What she needed to do was get into a high level management position which might...just might...open the door to where she wanted to go.

In the meantime, she had to grit her teeth and suffer the assistant manager’s malicious manner and spite in putting her down in every possible way he could conceive.

She knew why he did it. It was a payback for her lack of interest in him as a man. Charles Arnold combined a huge ego with small performance. His principal aim in life was to downgrade everybody to his own level so that he could feel superior. He had no idea how badly it reflected on himself and on his job.

If Amanda had been willing to accommodate him, his attitude and that of the male staff would have been very different. A shudder of revulsion ran through her at the mere thought of submitting to Charles Arnold’s touch. That was never going to happen, no matter what subtle or unsubtle pressure he brought to bear. As it was, the other staff took their lead from him, having their bit of ‘fun’ with her, knowing they were completely safe from any complaint of harassment.

There was only one person who could have fixed the situation for Amanda, and that was the vague, shadowy figure of Xa Shiraq, the owner of the Oasis chain. It was said that he held all the key decisions regarding personnel in his own hands. He was never around. He was never seen. There were doubts he really existed.

Amanda knew better. When her father lay dying in her arms, revealing what had happened in halting, stumbling words...it left no doubt in Amanda’s mind that Xa Shiraq existed.

This was the third Oasis Hotel Amanda had worked in. The mysterious owner had not once made an appearance at any of them. Promotions and sackings were done by impersonal faxes, never in person. Despite this lack of any substantial evidence of his actual presence, her father’s assurance and certainty had convinced Amanda that Xa Shiraq was indeed flesh and blood reality.

Her belief, however, was of no help to her in her present situation. It was difficult to keep her cool while she burned with the injustice of what was happening to her, but Amanda was determined not to put a foot wrong.

Soon, very soon, she hoped, her transfer to the Oasis Hotel in Bejos would come through. Then she would be one step closer to her real goal, one more step removed from her persecutors. Charles Arnold and his minions would then become so much flotsam that she could jettison from her life.

A telephone call claimed her attention. She lifted the receiver and projected a pleasant, welcoming note into her voice. ‘Good morning. The Oasis Hotel. Reservations.’

‘Is the Presidential Suite available tonight?’ a male voice inquired without preamble.

‘Just a moment, sir, I’ll check it on the computer.’

Amanda knew perfectly well that the most expensive suite in the hotel was vacant. In the five months she had worked here, it had been occupied only seven times. On every one of these occasions it had been given to bridal couples on a one-night complimentary basis as an inducement for the booking of the wedding reception. No-one had paid good money for it. This was not something the hotel management wanted broadcast to the rest of the world.

‘Yes, sir, it is available,’ she said after a suitable pause. ‘For how long would you like to make a reservation?’

‘For how long will it be available?’

Amanda chose an encouraging reply. ‘We would do our very best to ensure you have undisturbed occupancy for as long as you require.’

There was no response. The click of a receiver being quietly replaced sent a highly disquieting tingle down Amanda’s spine. Had someone been testing her, checking that she was not too free with information about bookings? There had been one fabricated complaint lodged against her, engineered by Charles Arnold to demonstrate the cost of his displeasure.

She assured herself there had been nothing to criticise in her handling of the call. If anyone had been playing funny games she’d given them no rope to hang her with. Nevertheless, the incident nagged at her mind long after she should have dismissed it.

It was the voice that had made her think the caller was genuine in his inquiry about the Presidential Suite. A hard, distinctive voice with a ring of arrogance about it. The kind of voice one instinctively associated with a position of power or wealth. A voice that expected requests to be automatically carried out to the letter, yet lacking any trace of the spoilt petulance that came from people born to riches.

It had been rude of him, though, to leave her hanging like that on the telephone. The courtesy of a ‘Thank you’ would have cost him nothing. Amanda decided if she ever met the man behind that voice, she would know him immediately. She knew how she would treat him, too.

While giving him all the courtesy and attention demanded by her job, she would maintain considerable reserve, aplomb, dignity and aloofness. A rueful smile flitted over her lips. More likely than not, he wouldn’t notice her manner. He was probably the type of person who didn’t acknowledge anyone who was not his peer.

A busload of tourists trailed in en masse for a three-night stopover. Charles Arnold put in an officious appearance, extolling the facilities of the hotel to the tour leader. Amanda helped with the process of checking everyone in and dispensing room keys.

She saw the man come in.

He emerged from the huge revolving door that gave entrance to the foyer and paused, taking in the melee around the front desk. There was something about him that arrested Amanda’s attention. Not his clothes. They were unremarkable; a white open-necked shirt, beige linen jacket, brown trousers. Not his looks. She had seen more handsome men. He was tall and lean, like an athlete honed to perfection. Amanda had seen that before with the Olympic Games team.

It was his stillness, his ability to concentrate and focus his full attention that was unusual. He observed the crowd of tourists and the piles of luggage strewn around the foyer in careless disarray. Amanda knew immediately that if he had been tour leader there would have been no carelessness and no disarray.

The signs of contempt in his eyes and on his face were marginal, but they were there. He was a man born to organise–people, places, things. He absorbed everything down to the minutest detail.

Amanda found his intensity disquieting. Making judgements, she thought, and not favorable ones.

‘Have any messages come in for me? My name is...’

Amanda smiled at the woman who had addressed her and obligingly checked for messages. When she darted another glance at the man, she found he had moved to the lounge setting beside the fountain. He was seated in an armchair that faced the reception desk. He had not picked up a newspaper or magazine to idle away the time. He was watching Charles Arnold’s effusive performance with the tour leader in the same way as a hawk watched a sparrow.

Again Amanda was struck by his stillness. Very few people could control and maintain immobility for more than a few seconds. It took the kind of discipline and training of both mind and body that Amanda associated with the ceremonial guards outside Windsor Castle in England. Yet she felt intuitively that this was not a man who took orders. He gave them. He was waiting...waiting for the right moment to take command.

It was difficult to guess his age. He had taut, smooth, dark olive skin stretched over strongly delineated bones; skin unmarked, unblemished, like polished wood–an ageless face.

There was no grey in his black hair. It was thick and straight and shiny, as shiny as his deeply set black eyes. He had certainly reached the age of maturity but whether he was as young as thirty or a decade or more older, Amanda found it impossible to decide.

Handsome was not the right word for him. He was distinctive. Her mind kept coming back to commanding as she dealt with other requests and inquiries from the party of tourists. He was also disturbing. Very disturbing. So disturbing that Amanda had a serious difficulty in tearing her eyes away from him.

Briefly he caught her glance, held it, and dismissed it.

Amanda’s heart skipped a beat. By the intense application of willpower she managed to wrest her attention back to what she was supposed to be doing. What had happened was more than disturbing. She had never reacted like this before in her life.

The worst part of the situation was that Amanda was convinced that this man, this outsider, this stranger had read every thought that had flashed through her mind. He knew, and understood, and did not care. He had come across similar situations many times in his life.

She was nothing new to him. No-one to hold his interest. Amanda was used to put-downs. It was silly to let it hurt, yet for some unfathomable reason, coming from him, it did.

His attention had switched back to Charles Arnold. His stillness was minimally broken. The fingers of his right hand began to tap across the end of the armrest in a steadily paced rhythm as though he was counting.

The tour leader called for attention and gave schedule details, stipulating the time for the next group meeting in the foyer. The crowd dispersed, picking up luggage, heading for the elevators and the rooms allotted to them.

Amanda automatically tensed as Charles Arnold chose to join her behind the front desk, a look of smug satisfaction centered on his face. ‘Well, that should put the numbers up. What’s the intake for today, Mandy?’

Amanda gritted her teeth and pressed the keys to bring up the total on the computer. She hated the way he drawled his version of her name, making her sound like some brainless kewpie doll. She also hated the way he crowded her as he looked over her shoulder at the monitor screen, not exactly touching, but only a breath away. A hot breath. A breath that made her skin crawl.

‘Not bad,’ he commented. ‘I’ve done well. A pity everyone else can’t do as well. Now do a breakdown on singles, doubles and suites.’

Her fingers faltered and stopped as she had the strangest feeling of being gripped by some alien force. She looked up. The man from the armchair was walking towards the desk, his black eyes focused directly on her, giving her more concentrated attention, seeming to absorb all that she was.

Amanda’s heart skittered into a faster beat. He hadn’t dismissed her, after all. She could not help wondering what he saw, how she was adding up in his mind, how he would attempt to organise her.

He probably thought her a soft pale creature compared to himself. Although her fair complexion had acquired a light golden tan in the tropical sunshine at Fisa, this only tended to accentuate the bright clarity of her aquamarine eyes, and made her long ash-blonde hair look whiter than it was, especially against the black suit that was the standard hotel uniform for her position.

Amanda was no fragile flower, but her facial features did have a delicate femininity, and she was slender and softly curved. Her physical appearance gave many men, men like Charles Arnold, the impression that she would be mal-leable and easy to manage. Amanda was quite happy for them to think so. Until such time as they crossed her mental line of what she considered wrong for her, anyone could think what they liked.

‘I have not been attended to.’

The sharp, demanding edge to the stranger’s voice made the statement sound like the most culpable crime against responsibility since the captain of the Titanic ordered full steam ahead.

Amanda’s fanciful speculations came to a dead halt. Her mind did an abrupt about-turn. She knew that voice. She had already heard it once today. This man owed her an apology for his rudeness on the telephone.

Charles Arnold gave the gentleman a perfunctory glance. ‘Everyone has to take their turn here, sir,’ he said brightly. ‘We’ll be with you in just a moment.’

In typically arrogant dismissal of anyone who impinged on his personal priorities, Charles turned back to Amanda. ‘Well, get on with it. The figures, please, Mandy,’ he urged. Then in an insultingly condescending tone, he in-structed, ‘Put your finger on the Enter key and...’

‘No! You will not touch the Enter key.’

The tone of absolute authority shivered through the air-conditioned atmosphere. Amanda had been right about one thing. The owner of the voice did not like having his orders disobeyed. He probably had an intense dislike for the word ‘no’, as well. Unless it was he who was using it.

She did her best to retrieve the situation. ‘We have a new arrival, Mr Arnold,’ she stated quietly. ‘Perhaps we could attend to him first.’

She flashed the stranger a quick glance, all ideas of aloofness, reserve, dignity and aplomb forgotten for the moment. She could not afford to have another complaint lodged against her. Her look carried a simple message. It said, please be aware that you are placing me in a difficult situation.

The man’s eyelids lowered fractionally for the briefest of moments, as if he had received her message, understood it completely, but nothing would divert him from the course of action he had chosen.

‘Don’t give me your dizzy blonde act, Mandy,’ Charles Arnold said, having missed the byplay between Amanda and the newly arrived guest. ‘These figures are important to me. My next promotion depends on them.’

‘I will have the Presidential Suite.’

That arrested Charles Arnold’s attention. Amanda hadn’t told him about the earlier inquiry. A paying customer in the Presidential Suite was a feather in any management cap. The dangling prize effected a complete reversal of attitude in Charles Arnold.

‘You are very welcome, sir.’

Pure smarmy syrup, Amanda thought, barely hiding her disgust as the sucking up act began.

‘We will attend to your every need immediately. Most regrettable that you’ve been kept waiting. If you’d alerted us earlier... However, we shall make generous amends. A porter for your luggage, sir? Any special refreshment you’d like in your suite? I’ll have your butler rung so it can be delivered while we... uh...take reservation details. Your name, sir?’

‘It is not necessary for you to know my name.’ It was a cold rebuff. The stranger, who was apparently intent on remaining a stranger, withdrew a folded sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his sports jacket and tossed it onto the desk. ‘This is all you need to know.’

Amanda watched Charles Arnold unfold the paper. It was thick, creamy, expensive. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the emblem at the top of the page. She was not in a position to read the typed lines underneath, but that notepaper, that emblem, represented the man she most wanted to reach.

She had seen it before amongst her father’s papers...the personal insignia of the Sheikh of Xabia...a gyrfalcon at full wing, its talons poised ready to strike.

Her stomach seemed to turn over. Despite a sudden and debilitating feeling of weakness in her bones, Amanda forced herself to look once more at the commanding, ageless face in front of her. Was he...could he possibly be...Xa Shiraq himself?

CHAPTER THREE

NO SOONER had the electric thought gripped Amanda’s mind, than a wash of common sense defused it. No way would Xa Shiraq arrive at any hotel as casually as this man had, or dressed as this man was. The Sheikh of Xabia would have a retinue, bodyguard. He wouldn’t wait for anything. He’d be waited on hand and foot!

‘This isn’t signed,’ Charles Arnold said huffily. ‘Anyone could have typed those words. I do not consider it an authorisation to give you complimentary use of our Presidential Suite. Unless you can produce more than that, sir...’ he tossed the page back onto the desk in contemptuous rejection ‘...you are wasting our time.’

It gave Amanda the opportunity to read what was written on the page. The message was short and succinct.

By order of Xa Shiraq, the bearer of this note is entitled to have any request within my jurisdiction fulfilled.

Her mind dizzied again with the enormity of what was happening in front of her. This man was certainly not Xa Shiraq but he had to be important to have such a note. He could be one of Xa Shiraq’s three great supporters, all military men who by their loyalty and skill had helped Xa Shiraq win the sheikhdom in the first place. There was Jebel Haffa and...

Amanda took a deep breath. She pulled her mind into order. This man could lead her to one of her primary goals, the secretive and elusive Xa Shiraq himself.

‘You question its authenticity?’ The icy sting in his voice was not propitious to any pact of friendship.

‘Naturally a man in my position of authority has to do so,’ Charles Arnold observed coldly.

On the surface, it was a reasonable statement. It was true, Amanda reflected, that anyone with access to that particular notepaper could have written the letter. The hotel had discreet procedures for checking authenticity and credit ratings for guests. These procedures should now be followed.

‘Perhaps...’ she began.

Charles Arnold cut her short. ‘The figures please, Mandy.’

He turned back to the stranger, intent on cutting this arrogant foreigner down to his own level. Amanda had seen it all before. ‘As I’ve already said, anyone could have typed this order...’

‘Who would dare?’

The challenge sent a quiver through Amanda. Her gaze flew up to the hard commanding face. This man had to be close to Xa Shiraq. Very close. And his eyes missed nothing. How could she possibly get close to him? Yet if she could... must...her pulse quickened. Given half an opportunity...and she would leap at it.

‘I will not fall prey to a cheap confidence trick,’ Charles Arnold scoffed, losing control of the situation but reasserting his sense of superiority.

To reinforce it even further, he picked up the typewritten authorisation, held it gingerly by one corner as though it were contaminated, slowly drifted it to a position above the disposal bin, then released his grip. The letter floated down to join the rest of the garbage paper in the bin.

‘That,’ said Charles Arnold with satisfaction, ‘is what I think of that.’ As far as he was concerned, he had just won his encounter with the stranger.

The stranger said nothing. The black blaze of his eyes would have incinerated most people but his target was cocooned in self-importance. He lifted a hand. Amanda prayed for more time. The hand moved up to shoulder height as though he intended to slap it onto the counter. But it did not descend.

A man loitering near the fountain moved abruptly into a brisk walk towards the desk. He wore a black suit and carried a black leather attaché case. Amanda recognised him as a guest who had booked in two days ago, a Mr Kozim from Bejos, a rather portly, middle-aged man, darker in skin tone than the stranger in front of her and more obviously of Middle Eastern origins.

He came to a halt beside the stranger who then lowered his hand but did not so much as glance at the man who had responded to his signal. Mr Kozim placed his attaché case on the desk, opened it, removed a typed page with the letterhead of the Oasis chain, and passed it to Charles Arnold.

‘For legal purposes you will find that document is signed by Jebel Haffa,’ the stranger stated bitingly. ‘I hope you will recognise his signature.’

Charles Arnold began sputtering. ‘What is the meaning of this? It can’t be...’

‘It means that as of this moment you are relieved of your duties as assistant manager of this hotel,’ came the hard, relentless reply. ‘You are no longer employed here. You have no further involvement with the Oasis chain.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Charles Arnold blustered. ‘I’m calling the general manager.’

‘That would be expedient.’

Amanda reached for the phone. Charles Arnold beat her to it. This call was too important to be entrusted to a menial like Amanda.

Charles Arnold protested his fate in acrimonious terms.

Amanda’s mind whirled.

Charles Arnold had given her hell. He had fabricated a complaint against her. He had harassed and hounded her, belittled and demeaned her, persecuted her to the limits of endurance.

The stranger had told her not to do it.

She ignored the order.

Amanda’s need to even the score between herself and Charles Arnold was a stronger force.

She pressed the Enter key.

She turned to face Charles Arnold directly, her gaze level, her voice level, her manner civil and courteous, her bearing reserved, dignified and aloof.

‘You wanted these figures, sir,’ she said evenly. ‘For your promotion, sir.’

‘You dumb stupid blonde bitch!’ Charles Arnold snorted like a chained killer dog deprived of its prey.

‘I’m sorry I’m a dumb stupid blonde bitch, sir,’ she said, taking intense pride in appearing totally unruffled. There was no way Charles Arnold could ever hurt her again. She had given him the coup de grâce. There would be no festering wounds left over from this encounter. She would not spend any more nights blistering over her resentments at his petty tyranny.

She turned slowly towards the stranger and caught the look in his eyes. It took her breath away. She had seen desire before in men’s eyes. Occasionally she had seen lust. She had never before confronted a message of such blazing conviction. I want you, his eyes said. I’ll have you. And what I have I keep.

She saw it, felt it, yet it was over in an instant. A shutter snapped closed. The blaze was gone, replaced by impenetrable darkness.

The muscles of her stomach clenched. Her thighs tightened in response. Her eyelids dropped fractionally as his own had done previously, but her facade of cool composure did not falter.

The stranger and Mr Kozim ignored every word uttered by Charles Arnold. Like water off a duck’s back, Amanda thought. Xa Shiraq’s hatchet man and his secretary had probably arranged this scene long before it was enacted.

She felt no sympathy for Charles Arnold. After his persecution of her, he deserved none. She was relieved at his removal from the staff.

The general manager made his entrance, coming in behind the front desk to line up beside his chief assistant and lend authoritative support. ‘What is the problem?’ he demanded in frowning inquiry.

‘Did you employ this man?’ Mr Kozim asked, pointing at Charles Arnold.

‘I most certainly did,’ the manager replied happily.

‘Here is an official letter, relieving you of your position and responsibilities within the Oasis chain,’ Mr Kozim said affably. He reached inside his briefcase, scanned the contents of a letter, and passed it to the general manager. ‘You will note it is signed by Jebel Haffa,’ Mr Kozim added idly.

‘You...you can’t do this...’ The words stuttered out.

‘It’s done,’ the voice of the stranger cut in peremptorily.

‘But you have no senior management left...you’ll need us.’

‘It has been taken care of. Miss Buchanan...’ His gaze swung to her.

Amanda was astonished. ‘You know my name.’

‘I know everything,’ he said with becoming modesty, ‘that is important to me.’

Amanda pulled herself together. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said with becoming deference. ‘I’m sure you do.’

‘Miss Buchanan, there is a letter for you.’ The stranger nodded to Mr Kozim whose hand dived into the attaché case.

Amanda’s heart sank. The fabricated complaint had served its purpose. Her future plans were shattered, her goals more unattainable than ever.

She noted the triumphant smirk on Charles Arnold’s face. Despite his immense chagrin at his own predicament, nothing diluted his pleasure in bringing someone else down.

She forced herself to take the letter. Her hands felt nerveless, divorced from her body. The words printed on the page were scrambled and incomprehensible. She concentrated her attention, and deciphered what was written.

By the order of Xa Shiraq, Miss Amanda Buchanan is appointed general manager of the Oasis Hotel at Fisa, commencing at 3 o’clock on...

The date followed, and beneath the date was the signature of Jebel Haffa.

Her hand trembled at the import of that briefly stated command. Her eyes flew to the wall clock. It was exactly three o’clock. Clockwork precision. A little masterpiece of organisation and planning, everything accounted for.

‘Your new assistants will arrive within the hour.’

Her gaze swung back to the man who served Xa Shiraq with such unswerving commitment to his orders. He did not ask her whether she would take the job. He knew she would.

‘Kozim, you will accompany these two gentlemen to their respective offices in order to clear their desks,’ was his next command.

Amanda watched them go, their numb disbelief equalled only by her own.

‘You have two minutes to effect a temporary reorganisation.’ This command was directed at her, galvanising her attention. The black eyes glinted with unyielding purpose. ‘Then you will escort me to the Presidential Suite.’

‘Very well, sir,’ Amanda said with all the aplomb she could muster. She had to think quickly. The front desk had to be restaffed. The rest could wait.

She dialled the office secretary. ‘Please come and fill in at the front desk,’ she commanded. The man in front of her, listening to what was going on, was ruthless.

She met resistance. ‘That’s not in my job description.’

‘If you’re not here in one minute you won’t have a job.’

‘Mr Arnold said...’

‘Mr Arnold has been relieved of all duties.’

Amanda put the receiver down. Next was housekeeping. She organised butler service for the Presidential Suite. She commandeered an affable young waiter for the front desk in case the secretary didn’t turn up.

There was something else she had to do. She had to find out the name of the man in front of her, and what his connection was to Xa Shiraq.

Amanda headed for the computer. ‘What name will I use for your reservation, sir?’ she asked sweetly.

‘Complimentary Upgrade,’ he replied laconically.

Amanda could play word games too. Some boldness was called for if she was to get what she wanted. ‘Very good, sir. That’s no trouble, sir. First name is Complimentary, surname is Upgrade.’ She typed the letters out on the keyboard, glanced up at him to see how he took that.

A quirk at the corner of his mouth told her he found it rather droll.

‘Your reservation is complete, sir. I’m now ready to escort you to the Presidential Suite.’

He looked at his wristwatch. ‘That’s very good, Miss Buchanan. You had ten seconds to spare.’

‘In that case, sir, I’ll use the time to assemble the paperwork relating to this afternoon’s activities.’

Amanda hurriedly assembled all the letters lying around. The men had not bothered to take their dismissal notices with them. She deposited them in the bottom of the cashier’s register. They would be safe there until she could find time to get back to them.

‘Time’s up.’

There was no demand in his voice, nothing peremptory. Amanda knew as well as he did she had satisfied every demand he had placed upon her. So far. How long that would last...

‘Do you have any luggage?’

‘None that is of concern to the hotel.’

‘Thank you, Mr Upgrade,’ she challenged him. ‘It’s my pleasure to escort you to your suite.’

He looked at her in reassessment, decided to let the challenge go unremarked.

‘I hope it will be a pleasure, Miss Buchanan,’ he said mildly. ‘A great pleasure.’

Amanda looked at him again. A prickle of danger ran down her spine. She was quite certain that the pleasure Upgrade had in his mind was not identical to the pleasure she had in hers. She needed to get close to this man, but not that close!

CHAPTER FOUR

HE HAD stipulated nine o’clock.

Amanda paced her room, waiting for the last few minutes to tick by before she had to face the man in the Presidential Suite again. She felt too on edge to sit down. Impossible to relax. So much depended upon what happened in the next hour.

He was a reasonable man, she assured herself. He hadn’t tried to detain her this afternoon. He had not said anything suggestive, nor made any move that could be interpreted as taking a liberty. He had agreed she had many pressing duties as the new general manager...and in the same breath, made this appointment for a discussion on her future.

Nine o’clock was not an unreasonable time. It had given her six hours to deal with whatever problems arose from the shock departure of the senior management and her startling promotion to the top rank. Implicit in that choice of hour, however, was the understanding that Amanda’s time was his, free of all interruptions. Amanda could not fool herself that he only wanted to talk business with her.

She couldn’t forget that brief blaze of searing desire this afternoon. She couldn’t deny the fascination he exerted on her. She was going to be in deep trouble if he rejected the schedule she had set in place.

Surely, as a reasonable man, he would accept what she had arranged. All the preparations had been made. She had covered every contingency. He couldn’t take offence at what she had done for him and it gave her a smooth getaway.

The only problem was...she had never met anyone like this man before. He affected her in ways...but there was no future in dwelling on that. If she gave in to this...attraction...compulsion...she would end up in his power, and where would that lead?

Amanda shook her head. It was too dangerous. However tempting it was to have the experience, to know all that he was, she had no doubt it would mean ceding control to him. And that she would not do.

Her decisions were made. She could not afford to waver from her chosen course. She had to seize the authority she now had and use it while time was still on her side. It was daring, so daring her heart had been pumping overtime ever since she had thought of it. Once she started there could be no stopping, no turning back. Her actions would be irreversible.

But first she had to face him.

She checked her watch. It was time to move. Punctuality was mandatory. She left her room and headed for the elevators. Her legs felt shaky. She steeled her mind to cope with the situation. She only had to get through one hour with him. She could keep her wits about her for one short hour.

She took deep, calming breaths as she rode up to the top floor. Her legs were much steadier on her walk to the door of the Presidential Suite. It was precisely nine o’clock as she pressed the buzzer to announce her arrival.

The door clicked open. ‘Good evening,’ she said to the butler.

‘I’m just leaving, Miss Buchanan. I’ve served the champagne.’

‘Thank you,’ she said on a note of resignation. The butler had obviously been given his orders. Mr Complimentary Upgrade meant to have her to himself, no third party around to inhibit whatever he wanted to happen between them.

The butler stood aside to let her through, and then, empty tray in hand, made his departure.

Amanda was immediately aware that the rooms beyond the vestibule were dimly lit. Champagne...soft lights...but the Presidential Suite was very large. Like a penthouse really. She had plenty of space to move around in.

Besides, this man was not the type to rush anything. Not something he wanted. He would wait patiently, wanting it all precisely as he planned it. Step by step. Relentless and ruthless in his execution.

Amanda shivered, then took firm control of herself. Nothing was going to happen that she didn’t want to happen. Determined to hold her own against this disturbing man, she set forth into the living room, back straight, chin up, a brave smile of confidence hovering on her lips. She felt rather foolish when he wasn’t there to greet her.

The table lamps on either side of the white leather lounge setting were switched on. Spotlit by one was a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne. The cork had been removed and the sparkling fluid poured into two crystal flute glasses.

Amanda’s hands clenched. If he was about to appear in something more comfortable...

‘The stars are brightly shining tonight.’

Amanda almost jumped. His voice was enough of a magnet to draw her gaze instantly to where he stood at the far end of the room, a darker shadow amongst the shadows beyond the long expanse of glass that faced the balcony.

It made Amanda acutely conscious of being in a pool of light, of having been observed without her knowledge. He would have noted she was still in her black suit, noted the body language that revealed her inner tension, and had probably already decided how best to deal with the situation. She felt at a distinct disadvantage.

‘It’s a good omen,’ he said softly. ‘I like watching the stars.’

‘Do you? I find a great deal of pleasure...’ Amanda began, rushing into speech to cover her disquiet, then wishing she’d held her tongue. Pleasure was a word she did not wish to use tonight. ‘There is a grandeur and sweep to it,’ she acknowledged, trying to put the conversation on an impersonal level.

He left the shadows and strolled towards her, projecting a totally relaxed manner. Amanda was relieved to see he was fully dressed although he had changed his clothes. He wore black. Easier to merge with the night, Amanda thought. Then she saw the sheen of silk in his shirt and knew that his choice had more to do with sensuality than darkness. It was an invitation to touch, to feel, to lose herself in a night with him.

He paused at the table where the drinks were laid out. ‘I have taken the liberty of ordering some Dom Perignon to celebrate your promotion,’ he said with a smile that was both whimsical and seductive. ‘Will you partake of a glass with me?’

He was already having an intoxicating effect on her...a man of mystery, of immense fascination. She couldn’t risk heightening it by any relaxation of her defences. ‘I don’t drink when I’m on duty,’ she said quickly.

‘And I don’t drink at all,’ he said slowly. ‘Nevertheless, these are challenging times in which we live, Miss Buchanan.’

He picked up the two glasses and brought them to her, standing close, making her extremely conscious of her vulnerable femininity. Something primitive pulsed from this man. It was muted by the civilised clothes, the civilised man-ner, yet her every instinct recognised the barbarian in him, the hunter, the conqueror, the possessor.

Amanda had the sense, the feeling of potent danger. He was so vibrant, so intensely alive, as though he thrived on challenge, as though it was meat and drink to him, the very essence of life.

‘Let us dare to break our own rules,’ he tempted softly, his eyes engaging hers with mesmerising directness.

She had to speak, to keep him talking. Only words could battle the effect he was having on her and keep him at a distance. ‘Wouldn’t that be flirting with chaos? You struck me as a man who appreciates and demands order, Mr Up-grade.’

‘Chaos can be brought into order, if the will is strong enough.’

‘Do as you will, but I shall not put my sense of order at risk. I prefer to keep my promotion than lose it on a glass of champagne.’

One black eyebrow arched quizzically. ‘Surely you make something out of nothing.’

‘I find it somewhat surprising that I was chosen for the position of general manager. That was something out of nothing.’

‘Call it impulse.’

‘With an already signed letter from Jebel Haffa?’

‘Xa Shiraq provides for all contingencies.’

‘Was it your...impulse...or that of Xa Shiraq?’

He smiled as if at some secret irony. ‘All was provided for. You need to know nothing more.’

‘What does Xa Shiraq know of me?’ she asked boldly.

‘Everything and nothing.’

‘Can you stop speaking in paradoxes and talk directly?’

He laughed softly, completely in control of the situation. ‘Yes and no,’ he replied.

Amanda realised he was toying with her, deliberately provoking her, inciting her to some rash step. She was equally determined not to be provoked, not to be played or toyed with, not to take some hasty, rash step.

‘An admirable response,’ she retorted dryly, ‘which answers all my questions.’

He hadn’t expected that. He eyed her again, let his gaze slide down her body, then turned aside to set the glasses back on the table, having abandoned any further thought of pressing the champagne on her and apparently not inclined to drink by himself. ‘I believe what I see and feel. I believe in myself, Miss Buchanan,’ he said quietly.

The light from the table lamp played over his chin and cheekbones and she thought he had the kind of profile that had once been struck on ancient coins, a noble, immortal face. Then he straightened up and the illusion was lost in the vital furnace of his eyes, desire that curled around her, encompassed her, and tugged on something basic inside her that made Amanda feel alarmingly out of control.

‘As deeply and with as much conviction as you believe in yourself, and in what you see and feel,’ he said, his voice a low velvet throb.

How did he know that? Could he see into her mind and heart?

‘You judge character quickly, Mr Upgrade,’ she remarked, knowing she must keep him talking, keep him at a safe distance.

His hands were free now, free to touch...and if he touched... She felt her skin yearning for it, her palms itching for it. Never before had her body reacted like this to a man, and she didn’t even know who he was. Didn’t want to know. If he gave her his name, his identity, she suspected that would make him a more powerful memory. Unforgettable.

‘One look at a person and much is revealed. You were described to me as a striking blonde. That suggests certain images. None of them was accurate.’

‘How do you judge me?’ she asked, too intrigued not to satisfy her curiosity.

‘To you, purpose outweighs feminine vanity. You have no desire to heighten sexual attraction. You are sensual. Your hair is long, beautifully fair, and uncompromisingly straight. That strengthens your charisma. Frequent visits to a hairdressing salon do not interest you. The fringe is neat and tidy. From that I conclude it is an easy solution to keeping the long fall from intruding on your face. There is no artifice or disguise. Your vision is not obscured. Practical. Efficient. You think of yourself as a person first, a woman second. Your inner needs are more important to you than drawing attention from men. An admirable quality indeed.’

Amanda was stunned by the truths he had so easily perceived. She had gone past the point of wanting to attract men. She had concluded years ago, after a number of disillusioning disappointments, that if a Mr Right did come along, it would happen quite naturally without any need for her to do anything except be herself.

She was not desperate for a man. She had other things to do that were important to her. And she was not about to let this man stand in her way, no matter how fascinating she found him. He could not be right for her even though...no, it was impossible.

‘Are you a hairdresser by trade, Mr Upgrade?’ she mocked at him, trying to restore her equilibrium.

‘I have shorn many sheep,’ he mocked back, ‘but none as fair as you.’

‘If you see so much in hair, what do you make of my eyes?’

‘When they look upon me and shine as brightly as the stars do tonight, I will tell you. In the meantime, let us concentrate upon the draping of your hair down to the soft, supple swell of your breasts...’

His gaze followed his words and Amanda had the prickling sensation of her nipples pushing against the lace fabric of her bra. The lace felt tight, constrictive, abrasive. She wondered what it would be like having his hands cupping her swelling breasts and was shocked at the vividness of the image that leapt into her mind, the darker tone of his skin against hers, those long lean fingers closing over her soft flesh, caressing her, sensitising her.

She gave herself a mental shake and was grateful that the black suit was not so form-fitting that he could see the effect he was having on her. ‘You judge much from my appearance, Mr Upgrade,’ she said dismissively, needing the distraction of some other subject, yet failing to bring her mind to focus on anything other than what he was making her feel.

His eyes simmered up to hers. ‘Salome used seven veils to seduce a king’s mind. I think you would only need one.’

‘I’m not a dancer,’ she stated firmly. Nor was she going to try.

He ignored her interjection, pressing the image in his mind into hers. ‘A veil in shimmering shades of blue and green and silver...translucent. To match your eyes.’

‘My eyes aren’t silver,’ she said pettishly.

‘They are like crystal over water, reflecting many facets, tantalising glimpses of what lies behind them.’

Instinctively Amanda lowered her lashes, afraid of revealing too much, not realising how provocative the action was.

‘Ah, yes...the strength of mind is greater,’ he said with satisfaction, walking towards her again, diminishing the space between them. ‘But it is encased in a woman’s body. A body I could bend to my will.’

She stiffened as he reached touching distance. Every nerve in her body twanged with tension, whether from anticipation, excitement or fear, she did not know.

He stopped. ‘You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Buchanan.’

She wasn’t at all sure of that. She could feel his power draining what strength she had. Her impulses were going haywire.

‘I give freely, generously–to the right people,’ he said persuasively.

By what standard did he judge the right people? Her father had not been considered a right person by Xa Shiraq, and since this man carried out Xa Shiraq’s orders, perhaps he had been the one who ensured her father’s unique discovery went discredited in the eyes of the rest of the world.

‘Measure yourself against me,’ he invited. ‘You are smaller, softer, more slender. Women were made to be partnered by men. They need a man to stand by them, protect them, look after them.’

‘An old-fashioned idea,’ Amanda protested. ‘No longer appropriate.’

‘A physical reality. Never dismiss the physical strength of a man and the pleasure it can give, Miss Buchanan. However steely your will, it is not proof against it.’

‘Why do you feel it is necessary to tell me what I know?’ Amanda asked, holding her ground with increasing difficulty.

‘Because you are denying what is self-evident. Mind over matter. But I know what you are feeling, Miss Buchanan. Whether you choose to indulge yourself or not.’ His black eyes burned into hers. ‘I know what you are feeling. I feel it, too. I think we both will always feel it. And remember it.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ Her voice was a bare husky whisper.

‘Because I have never felt it before,’ he murmured.

Her eyes warred with his, fighting the link of intimacy he was forging with her. Amanda was certain of one thing. If she succumbed to this man she would never be herself again. He would dominate. She knew he would. He was that kind of person.

He suddenly laughed and turned aside. ‘It is a joke, is it not? A man of my age and experience...to be touched...by you...of all women. Yet touched I am...and there will be a resolution to it, Miss Amanda Buchanan. We have met...as perhaps we were always destined to meet.’

Amanda found her breath whooshing out of her lungs as she watched him stroll to the floor-length windows. Her knees were jelly. She wanted to sag onto the nearest lounge. Only a desperate determination to show no weakness kept her upright. Her dazed mind broke out of its enthralment and groped towards a need to understand this man who touched her in ways she had not thought possible.

‘How old are you?’

He did not answer immediately. He stared out at the night sky. ‘Sometimes I feel as old as the stars...’ slowly he turned to look at her again ‘...but you stir my youth.’

‘So you are both young and old.’

‘Yes.’

‘I am not of your race or culture,’ she reminded him.

His words...you, of all women...were still ringing in her ears. He knew as well as she did that a liaison between them would give rise to many problems. Yet she could not deny a thrill of pleasure that she had stirred the youth of this man, more particularly as it was against his will.

‘Does that matter? Are we not beyond race and culture?’

‘There have been other men in my life.’

He shrugged. ‘None that you will remember.’

‘I’m not a virgin.’

‘How unusual!’ His lips curled in a humourless smile. ‘Nor am I.’

‘You’re evading the point,’ she insisted accusingly, her face flushing at having to be so direct.

‘That you could be no more than one light-of-love in my life?’

‘Yes.’

He shook his head. ‘That is not worth having. It is not what we’re about. It’s too easy.’

He moved closer. ‘Anything worth having exacts a price. I shall pursue you. I shall try to make you submit to my will. You will do everything in your power to make me submit to yours. It becomes an interesting contest, does it not? Who will win, Miss Buchanan?’

For the first time he touched her, his fingers stroking lightly down her cheek, his eyes illuminated with an invigorated lust for life, lust for her, lust for the contest he envisaged.

‘Who will win?’ he repeated, his voice a low murmur that pulsed through her veins.

Somehow Amanda dredged up the strength to step back from him. ‘I have taken the liberty of ordering you a sumptuous supper, Mr Upgrade.’ Her voice sounded thin but she plunged on, defiantly ignoring the gauntlet he had thrown at her feet. ‘The finest delicacies the hotel has to offer will be brought to you. For your pleasure. Your great pleasure, I hope. And afterwards a dancer to entertain you. The best dancer in Fisa. I believe she does something with veils. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and ensure that your night here is one of entertainment. A night to remember.’

For the merest fraction of time she saw the flash in his eyes. Not admiration. Respect. It was enough. It sent a thrill of elation surging through Amanda. He had not anticipated such a move from her. Please God, he did not anticipate the next one.

‘How thoughtful of you!’ he said. ‘By all means go, Miss Buchanan. There will be another time for us.’

With the thrill of victory thrumming through her, she turned aside. His next words were quietly spoken, but as a counter-stroke, they were chilling.

‘The daughter is more impressive than the father.’

She could not stop herself from looking at him again. The black eyes gleamed their victory. He knew who she was, knew far, far, far too much.

‘Goodnight, Mr Upgrade,’ she said quickly, and spun on her heel away from him, hoping he had not seen or scented her fear.

Her father had died a broken man.

But she would see justice done to him.

The man in the Presidential Suite did not know it yet, but he had opened the door to Xabia for her. He had opened the door to Xa Shiraq. Let him answer for that, Amanda thought fiercely. Then let him see who would win!

CHAPTER FIVE

XA SHIRAQ spoke to Kozim.

‘If you wish to see a horse gallop, one must loosen the bridle,’ he mused as his fingers tapped out a rhythmic beat on the edge of his chair.

‘True. Very true,’ Kozim agreed.

‘I have loosened the bridle.’

‘Wise. Very wise,’ Kozim assented. He had no idea what Xa Shiraq was talking about, but as this was usually the case, no great harm was ever done by admiring the sheikh’s wisdom.

‘Two details were overlooked in the operation at the Fisa Oasis Hotel, Kozim,’ the sheikh continued.

This was alarming news indeed. Kozim did not know of any operation where any detail was overlooked. Not only that, but his report to Jebel Haffa had affirmed that the operation was entirely successful. What had gone wrong? Was the fault his?

‘I have attended to both details,’ Xa Shiraq said. His fingers stopped drumming.

‘Then there’s no...o...o, ah...problem,’ Kozim said in relief.

‘Kozim, where would you look if you wanted to find a jewel, a jewel almost beyond all price?’

Xa Shiraq was always asking difficult questions. It posed a problem to Kozim. He shrugged. ‘Perhaps, in the mountains...’ he suggested tentatively.

‘Don’t be a fool, Kozim.’ It was an impatient interruption, not a cutting one. The sheikh’s black eyes held a glint of amusement as he enlightened Kozim. ‘You only find rare jewels of that quality in trash cans, Kozim.’

Kozim struggled to accept that revelation. It had to be true because Xa Shiraq knew everything. Kozim made a mental note that tomorrow he would have all the trash cans in the sheikhdom searched for jewels.

CHAPTER SIX

THE cachet blanc that Amanda had so carefully recovered from the trash can in the reception area at the Oasis Hotel, was better than Aladdin’s lamp. All she had to do was produce the magical piece of notepaper bearing the gyrfalcon crest of the Sheikh of Xabia, and not only did doors open, the red carpet was laid out for her.

What wonderful words they were!

By order of Xa Shiraq, the bearer of this note is entitled to have any request within my jurisdiction fulfilled.

A visa for Xabia from the embassy at Bejos had been produced in a flash. She was even given a complimentary first class ticket on the first available flight to Alcabab, the capital of Xabia. No customs check for her at the terminal. She was waved through, or rather bowed through, as though she were royalty.

Mocca had claimed her. He was an enterprising youth who scouted the airport terminal for foreign pigeons waiting to be plucked. In the guise of offering his services to provide any service–any service at all–he had offered himself to Amanda.

The clear-eyed limpid innocence, the fresh vitality of his olive skin, helped Amanda to come to a quick decision.

‘I need help,’ she declared.

‘There is no one better than I with help,’ he had replied with deep fervour to press his claim. Amanda had shown him the sheikh’s note of authority.

His eyes were larger than saucers and brighter than a Christmas tree when he read it. He treated Amanda with something akin to reverence. She figured she had turned out to be the plumpest, fattest, most succulent pigeon Mocca had ever plucked.

Amanda thought she needed one truck. Mocca opted for three four-wheeled drives, nineteen heavy-duty trucks and a desert cruiser.

Amanda thought she might need a little mining equipment. Seven of the trucks were now loaded with enough TNT, plastic explosive and dynamite to make a sizable hole in any mountain.

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