Climax Of Passion

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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.