the billionaires virgin

***chapter two**

Above photo shows Anthony.

Anthonys suite was proved to be a collection of high- cellinged, richly decorated rooms of immense proportions, the walls hung with gilt- framed mirrors and colorful tapestries of exploits other wise long forgotten, the furnishing rich and opulent, the floor covering silken and whisper- soft.

'I trust you will be comfortable here, your heighness', akmal said, bowing as he retreated backwards out the door.

'I'm sure I will ', Anthony said, knowing there was no way he couldn't be, despite the obvious difference between the palace furnishing and the stark and streamlined way his own house in Sydney was decorated.

His five level beach side house was a testament to modern architecture and strutural steel, the house clinging to the cliff overlooking secret cove, Sydney's most exclusive seaside suburb.

And inside it was no less lean and spartan , all polished timber floors and stainless steel, glass and granite.
Strange, he mused, how he'd become rich on people wanting to emulate the best the middle East had to offer, when he'd chosen the complete opposite to decorate his own home.
'And AKmal?' He called, severing the line of though before he could analyse it too deeply. ' before you go....' The older man bowed again, simultaneously subservient and longsuffering in the one movement.

' yes, your Highness?'
'Can we drop the formalities? My name is Anthony.
The old adviser stiffened on an inhale, as if someone had suddenly shoved a rod up his spine.' But her in Qusay you are your highness, Your highness .'

Anthony nodded on a sighn. As nephew to the king, he and his brothers had grown up on the periphery of the crown, in line ,and yet an entire family away, and while the possibility had always existed that something might happen to the heir they'd know as xavian before he took the crown, nobody had really believed it.

Their childhood had consequently been a world away from the strained atmosphere Xavian had grown up in, even with their own domineering father.they'd had duty drilled into them, but they had freedom too -- a freedom that had allowed Anthony to walk away from Qusay as a nineteen - year- old when there'd been nothing left for him here.

' of course, Akmal,' he conceded, letting the old man withdraw, his sense of properity intact.' I understand. Oh , and AKmal?'
The vizier turned.' Yes , your Highness?'
Anthony allowed himself a smile at the emphasis.' Please let my mother know I'll visit her this afternoon.'
He bowed again as he withdrew from the room.' As you wish.'
Anthony took the next hour to reacquaint with the Olympic- length swimming pool tucked away with the men's gym in one of the palaces many wings, the arched windows open to catch the slightest breeze, while the roof protected bathers from the fiery sun.there weren't any other bathers today; the palace was quite in the midday heat as many took the opportunity for the traditional siesta.

And of course there were no women. Hidden in the women's wing, there was a similar pool, where the women could disrobe without fear of being seen by men. So different , he thought, from the Beach that fronted his seaside property and the scantily clad women who adorned it at every other piece of sand along the coast.

He would be a liar if he said they offend him, those women who see oblivious to the glances and turned heads as their swimming attire left little to the imagination, but here in Qusay, where the old ways still had a meaning, this way too made sense

The water slipped past him as he dived in, cool but not cold refreshing without being a shock to the system, and he pushed himself stroke after stroke, lap after lap, punishing muscles weary from travel until they burned instead with effort.

He had no time for jetlag and the inconveniences of adapting to a new body clock, and physical exercise was the only way of ensuring he avoided it.when finally his head touched the pillow tonight, his body, too, would be ready to rest.

Only when sure his mother would have risen from her siesta did he allow his strokes to slow, his rhythm to ease. His mind felt more awake now, and the weariness in his body was borne of effort rather than the forced inactivity of international travel. Back in his suite, he showered and pulled open the wardrobe.

His suits and shirts were all there, freshly pressed and hang in his absence, and there were more clothes too. White as snow robes lay folded in one pile, the sirwal, worn as trousers underneath, in another.

He fingered a bisht , the headdress favoured by Quasani men, his hand lingered over the double black cord that would secure it.
His mother's handiwork, no doubt, to ensure he had the 'proper' clothes to wear now he was back in Quasy .

Two years it had been since he had last worn the robes of his countrymen, and then it had only been out of respect at his father's funeral.

It was Armani now that he favoured next to his skin, Armani that showcase who he was and just how far he'd come since turning his back on the country that had let him down. With a sigh , he dropped the black igal back on the shelf and pulled a fresh shirt and clean suit from the wardrobe. He might be back in Quasy , and he might be a prince, but he wasn't ready to embrace the old ways yet.

The palace was coming to life when he emerged to make the long walk to his mother's apartment. Servants were busy cleaning crystal chandeliers or beating carpets, while gardener's lovingly tended the orange and lemon trees that formed an orchid one side of the cloistered pathway, the tang of citrus influsing the air.

All around was an air of anticipation, of excitement, as the palace prepared for the upcoming coronation.

He was on the long covered balcony that led to his mother's suite when he saw a woman leaving her room, pulling closed the door behind her and turning towards him, her sandals slapping almost noiselessly over the marble floor. A black shapeless gown covered everything but her downcast eyes.

One of his mother's ladirs- in- waiting, he assumed, going off to fetch coffee or sweets for their meeting.

And he drew closer, and a tiny spark of familiarity, some shred of recognition at the way she seem to glide effortlessly along the passageway, sent the skin at the back of his neck to prickly awareness.
But it couldn't be
She was married and living the high life in parris or Rome, or another of the world's party capitals. And this woman was too stooped.too sad.
He'd almost discounted the notion entirety, thinking maybe he hasn't completely swum of his jetlagged brain after all, when the woman sensesed his approach, her sorrowful eyes lifting momentarily from the floor.

A moment was all it took. Air was punched from his lungs, adrenaline filled his veins, and anger swirled and spun and congealed in his gut like a lead weight.
Athena