Penny Jordan Tribute Collection. PENNY JORDAN
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to see it, or to know of her rebellious emotional reaction at having to give in to her grandfather’s desire for her to visit his country.
Thinking of her grandfather made Petra frown. Just how serious was his heart condition? She had assumed from her uncle’s original calm, almost casual reference to it that it was not a particular cause for concern.
Was he as ill as her aunt seemed to believe? Or was it simply a ploy, a means of manipulating her and putting pressure on her? Petra was fiercely determined that she would not give one inch to the despot who had caused her mother so much pain, and she was convinced that he was playing the kind of cat and mouse game that her mother had often told her he was an expert at, using his supposed poor health as a means of keeping her in dark about his real plans for her. Naturally such behaviour on his part had put her on her mettle and alerted her most defensive and hostile reactions. But what if she had been wrong? What if her grandfather was genuinely very ill?
Although it would have been impossible for her not to be emotionally touched by the warmth of her aunt and uncle’s reception of her, and their concern that she might be disappointed at being deprived of what they seemed to assume was a much longed for meeting with her grandfather, Petra’s antipathy towards her grandfather had been intensified by his emotional manipulation and had caused her to harden her heart even more against him.
She had every right to both mistrust and dislike him, she reassured herself. So why was she feeling somehow abandoned and rejected—excluded from the anxious family circle which had gathered protectively around him? Why did she feel this sense of anxiety and urgency to know what was going on? Why did she feel this sense of pain and loss?
Her uncle or her aunt would ring her at the hotel if they thought it was necessary; she knew that. But that wasn’t like being there, being part of what was happening, being totally accepted.
A family walked past her in the foyer, on their way to the piano lounge, its three generations talking happily together. A deep sense of anguish welled up dangerously inside Petra. Grimly she tried to suppress what she was feeling. She had always been too vulnerable to her emotions. Her Celtic inheritance was responsible for that! Against her will she discovered that she was remembering how she had felt as a child, knowing that she was different, sensing her mother’s pain and helpless to do anything to alleviate it, envious of other children she knew who talked easily and confidently about their adoring grandparents.
She was letting her feelings undermine her common sense, she warned herself. Her grandfather had only brought her here for one reason and it had nothing to do with adoring her! To him she was merely a suddenly valuable pawn in the intricate game he so enjoyed playing with other people’s lives, using them to advance his own lust for power.
But if he was ill… seriously ill… if… something should happen before she had the chance to meet him….
Swallowing against the sharp lump in her throat, Petra headed for the lift. She would go upstairs to her room and decide how she was going to spend the rest of the day.
The suite her family had booked her in to was elegantly luxurious and large enough to house a whole family. Not only did it have a huge bathroom, complete with the largest shower Petra had even seen, as well as a sunken whirlpool bath, it also had a separate wardrobe-filled dressing room, and a bedroom with the most enormous bed she had even slept in, as well as a private terrace overlooking one of the complex’s enclosed gardens.
Letting herself into the suite, Petra walked over to the dressing table and put down her bag. As she did so she glanced into the mirror and then froze as in it she saw the reflection of the bed—and more importantly the man lounging on it: her would-be seducer and partner in crime! His hands were clasped behind his head as he watched her, his body covered in nothing more than the towel he had wrapped around his hips. Tiny drops of moisture still glinting on his skin testified to the fact that he must have only recently stepped out of the shower—her shower, Petra reminded herself, unable to stop her eyes widening in betraying shock as she turned round and stared at him in disbelief.
Her suite, like the others on the same floor, and like the palatial owners suite above them, could only be reached by a private lift for which one needed a separate security card!
But for a man like this one anything and everything was possible, Petra suspected.
Like someone in a trance, she watched as he swung his feet to the floor and stood up.
If that towel he had wrapped so precariously around his body should slip…
Nervously she wetted her suddenly dry lips with the tip of her tongue. His own mouth, she suddenly realised on a flush of dangerous raw heat, bore a small fresh scar. Mesmerised, she tried to drag her gaze away from it… from him…
Had someone turned off the air-conditioning? she wondered dizzily. The room suddenly seemed far too warm…
He was walking towards her now, and in another few seconds… Automatically she backed away.
CHAPTER THREE
AS THOUGH it was someone else who was actually speaking, Petra heard her own voice, thick and openly panicky, demanding, ‘What are you doing in here?’
She could have sworn that her nervousness was amusing him. There was quite definitely a distinct glint in his eyes as he replied easily, ‘Waiting for you, of course.’
‘In here and… and like that?’ Petra couldn’t stop the indignation from wobbling her voice. ‘What if someone else had been with me… my aunt…?’
Carelessly he gave a small shrug.
‘Then you would have achieved your purpose, wouldn’t you? Besides, we needed to talk, and I needed to shower, so it made sense for me to deal with both those needs together.’
He looked so totally at home in her suite that she felt as though she was the interloper, Petra acknowledged, and she wasn’t even going to begin to ask just how he had managed to gain access to it.
‘You could have showered in your own accommodation,’ she told him primly. ‘And as for us talking—I had planned to come down to the beach later.’
‘Later would have been too late,’ he told her. ‘This is my afternoon off. And as for my own accommodation—’ he gave her a wry look ‘—do you honestly suppose that the hotel staff are housed as luxuriously as its guests?’
Petra’s throat had gone dry—not, she quickly assured herself, because of that sudden and unwanted mental image she had just had of him standing beneath the warm spray of the shower… his naked body gleaming taut and bronzegold as he soaped the sculptured perfection of the six-pack stomach that was so clearly revealed by the brevity of the towel that did little more than offer the merest sop to modesty—hers and quite obviously not his, Petra reflected indignantly as he strolled round the room, patently unconcerned that the towel might slip!
‘How… how did you manage to find me? I didn’t tell you my name and you didn’t give me yours.’
‘It wasn’t hard. Your grandfather is very well known.’
Petra’s eyes widened. ‘You know him?’
The dark eyebrows rose mockingly.
‘Would a mere itinerant worker be allowed to “know” a millionaire?’
‘And your name is?’ Petra pressed him.
Was she imagining it, or had he frowned and hesitated rather longer than was necessary?
‘It’s Blaize,’ he told her briefly.
‘Blaize?’ Petra looked at him.
‘Something wrong?’ he challenged her.
Petra shook her head.
‘No, it—it’s just that I had assumed that you must be Southern European—Italian, or… or Spanish or Greek. But your name…’
‘My mother was Cornish,’ he told her