By leaving her money he was telling her brutally what he thought of her. She was a commodity he had bought and used. And having used her he was now discarding her.
Dry-eyed, but with her face burning and her heart hot with furious outrage, she left the apartment.
CHAPTER THREE
TARIQ frowned as he listened to the Ruler’s Chief of Police deploring the fact that because they had not as yet discovered the identity of the Zurani who was working for the gang he could not give the order for the gang to be deported, after a warning of the very long prison sentence they would face if they were ever found in Zuran again.
Knowing that it was almost time for the Ruler to hold his regular monthly public divan—traditionally an opportunity for the Ruler’s subjects to bring to him their problems and questions so that he might dispense with justice and answers—Tariq stood up and bowed formally to the Ruler, as did the Chief of Police.
On her way back to the apartment, following her appointment, Gwynneth had stopped off at a small supermarket to buy a few basic supplies. As she put these away in the empty cupboards and fridge freezer of the apartment it was what she had been told by the sympathetic young official she had met earlier that was occupying her thoughts.
It had never occurred to her that there might be a problem registering her ownership of the apartment—especially since she had followed the advice she had been given by the Zurani Embassy in London and had brought with her documentation to prove her father’s ownership of the apartment and to confirm her own identity. Fortunately, when her father had boasted to her about the apartment he had shown her the deeds and told her that he intended to deposit them with his London bank for safekeeping.
Now, though, it transpired that proving her father’s ownership of the apartment was not going to be as straightforward as simply producing the deeds—as the charming official had explained to her, in an extremely grave tone of voice.
Her heart had sunk just about as low as she felt it could sink as she’d listened to him telling her about the double-selling scam that had resulted in two separate sets of buyers believing they had purchased the same property. And then had come the additional blow of hearing about the length of time it would take to make painstaking enquiries to establish who had been duped and who in fact did own a property.
‘So what should I do now?’ she had appealed.
‘If you are able to do so, your best course of action would be to remain here in Zuran until we can establish whether or not your father owned the apartment.’
‘I’m actually staying in the apartment,’ Gwynneth had felt obliged to tell him, adding with concern, ‘And I certainly can’t afford to pay for a hotel. If there is another potential owner, then…’
‘I shall make a note on the file to the effect that you are currently occupying the flat, but that you are aware of the issue of its ownership,’ she had been told.
Now Gwynneth reached for her mobile and switched it on. She would have to tell Teresa what had happened, but first she had another phone call to make.
As she pressed the speed dial for her boss’s number she looked at her watch. It would be nine o’clock in the morning in the UK. Piers would have been at work for a while now. He was a workaholic who liked to be at his desk by eight.
He picked up the call within a couple of rings.
‘Hi, Piers—it’s Gwynneth,’ she announced herself, smiling when she heard the warmth in his voice as he answered.
They 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—