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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!
