The Desert Prince's Mistress (10 page)

Lara stood up and saw his face, and suddenly and inexplicably she felt nervous.

‘The cars are waiting on the runway,’ said Khalim. ‘They will drive us to the palace.’

T
HE
palace at Suhayb stood in an oasis of green as verdant and as manicured as the garden of a large English country house. Bright flowers, mainly roses, mingled in riotous and scented glory, and in the centre of a large square space of water a fountain sprinkled, catching the light in rainbow rays, the sound soft and soothing against the occasional cry of some unseen and unknown bird.

The palace itself was fashioned from mosaic in every shade of blue imaginable—from pale sky to deep ocean and a hundred shades in between—and Darian was reminded with an unwelcome pang of how the blueness of Lara’s eyes had impressed itself on him the very first time he had seen her.

Damn! He didn’t want to remember that—he didn’t want to remember anything other than the way she had deceived him.

But as Lara gazed in wonder at the palace all she saw was the gold, which picked out the varying shades of blue, as deep and as rich a gold as the eyes of the man who walked slightly ahead of her beside Khalim, their voices speaking in a low tone, so that she didn’t have a clue what they were saying.

Khalim turned, the dying embers of the sun beating down on his head, and Darian turned also, in a disturbing mirror image of the Sheikh. Despite the cool linen trousers he wore, and the fine shirt which hinted at the lean, muscular torso beneath, he looked…

Lara swallowed.

He looked as if he
belonged
here—and she didn’t, she
thought, with a slight touch of hysteria. But wasn’t that what he was intending her to feel? With that stern and icy demeanour and the cold look of distaste? Didn’t he want to make her feel an outsider? To marginalise and isolate her? And you would not need to be a genius to work out why he should wish to do that…

A veiled female servant stepped silently out from the shadows of the magnificent entrance hall and Khalim smiled.

‘Latifah will show you to your room, Lara,’ he said. ‘And Darian will accompany me. You will find there all you need, and later someone will come to collect you for dinner. Is that to your satisfaction?’

What could she say? That she felt as though she was being edged aside, cast in a secondary role by these two powerful blood-brothers? And wasn’t it ever thus in Maraban? The men ruled and dominated—certainly in the external world, outside their homes.

Rose at least had the protection of being married, surrounded by the invisible aura which was part and parcel of being loved so fiercely by the Sheikh.

But what was Lara? A second-class citizen who could not even draw comfort from speaking to her friend, pregnant and far away in the capital of Dar-gar. Commanded here by Darian and not knowing his motives—though having a pretty good idea, she thought, with a sudden leap of her heart.

She smiled at Khalim, determined that neither man should see her spirits flagging. She was tired; that was all.

‘That sounds perfect,’ she said softly. ‘I will see you later at dinner.’ And she inclined her head very slightly towards the Sheikh.

Latifah led the way through a maze of dark, cool corridors, and when they reached her room she asked Lara in shy, faltering English whether she would like a bath drawn.

But Lara, still reeling slightly from the impact of the lavish suite which she had been shown into, shook her head and smiled.

‘I can manage,’ she said. ‘Honestly, I’m used to doing that kind of thing for myself,’ she added gently, as the girl began to protest.

Once she was alone she looked around her—at the arched high ceiling, inlaid with gold, and the leather-bound books which completely lined one wall, beneath which stood an antique and very beautiful writing desk.

It was incredible—like being on the film-set of some lavish epic. The suite was all heavily embroidered drapes and hangings in the richest and most royal of colours. Gold and scarlet, cobalt and jade. The room was thick with the scent of roses which drifted from a copper bowl—all creamy-white and edged with apricot—and Lara touched one of the velvety petals, a shiver running up her spine as she did so.

What was it about this place that seemed to make the senses come to life in a way they never quite did back in England? The room looked so stunningly opulent, and the roses seemed more fragrant than any she had ever smelt before. Through the half-open shutters a warm breeze ruffled her hair like the fingers of a lover, and she closed her eyes, trying to put it all into perspective.

Was it just that Maraban was a world away from her normal life? A world free from pollution and care and worries? At least, it certainly was here—in this isolated and splendid palace.

But there were worries waiting to rear their heads, and the main one was Darian, who had scarcely spoken a word to her since they had left London. All she had been aware of whenever she looked at him was a sensual, smouldering intent that excited her even as it terrified her.

But she ran herself a bath, determined not to fall into
the trap of thinking that just because they were here—and just because of the discovery of his royal blood—he was in some way her superior. He was not. He was her equal, no matter what.

Actually, the bath was more like a mini-swimming pool, she realised with a small sigh of pleasure as she lowered her body into the warm, sudsy water and sniffed at the steamy fragrance of patchouli and sandalwood which filled the air.

Aware that she was indeed very tired, she did not dare soak for too long for fear that she might fall asleep, but she washed her hair, noting that all the luxury beauty products were exclusively French and that it felt like sheer indulgence to use them. It was like being in the most gorgeous hotel, only better.

She had just wrapped herself in a thick towelling robe, and was rubbing at the damp tendrils of her curls, when she heard the sound of a door opening and then closing again. She frowned, standing dead still and thinking that she must have imagined it.

But she had not imagined it. She felt the unmistakable sense of a presence in the adjoining room, and her heart began to pound strong and loud and fast.

She would not run away. She would confront her fear—except that it was not strictly accurate to define it as fear. Not when she knew almost certainly the identity of the person who was moving around. And there was no way she was ever going to be frightened of
him
.

She walked into the bedroom and there, leaning against the shuttered window, his thumbs looped arrogantly in the belt of his trousers, as if he had every right to be there, in
her
room, was Darian.

Lara opened her mouth to speak, and never had speaking seemed such an effort. ‘What the hell are you doing in here?’

He gave a smile, the kind of smile which a cobra would probably give if it could, just before it devoured a small animal—whole.

‘I’m just waiting for your towel to fall,’ he drawled, running his eyes over her with a look of smoky anticipation. ‘To see you in all your pink and white nakedness, with little droplets of water still clinging to your soft skin. I would lick them off with my tongue. Every one,’ he finished on a murmur, and his tongue snaked out as if to illustrate his words—if any illustration was needed.

Lara tried to look outraged, but the reality was that her body was betraying her sense of shock and debilitating sensual awareness as she imagined him doing just that. Beneath the towel she felt the prickling of her nipples, budding and pointing almost painfully in response to his words. Even worse was the honeyed rush right at the very cradle of her, and she found herself squeezing her thighs together—the way you were taught to in an exercise class. But, oh, what a long way away the gym seemed right at this moment!

‘Get out,’ she whispered.

He laughed, but it was a cruel, cold laugh.

‘You don’t want me to go anywhere, you lying little bitch,’ he taunted.

She recoiled from his harsh words as if he had struck her. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘Oh, no.’ His voice became a caress of silk and of velvet. ‘You want me. You want me to touch you.’

‘You’re mad!’

He nodded. ‘Quite probably,’ he mused. ‘I must have been mad to have wondered why you were so deliciously compliant on our so-called “date”. I may have had a moderate degree of success with women, but they usually require a little more wooing than one course at an inexpen
sive restaurant and a short massage around the shoulderblades.’

It was as insulting as it could possibly be, but that was what he wanted. He wanted her to react. And she wouldn’t.

‘You were the one who invited
me
out—remember?’

‘True.’

He removed one hand from where it had been poised over his belt, like some gun-slinger, and rubbed thoughtfully at the darkening shadow which emphasised the masculine jut of his jaw. As macho gestures went, he really couldn’t have bettered it, thought Lara weakly.

‘But you played the siren, didn’t you, Lara? That super-smart confidence at the casting. The way you spoke to me as if you didn’t care.’ He nodded, as if he had been shown a glimpse into the workings of a criminal mind. ‘Very clever. Did someone once tell you that what powerful men crave more than anything is for someone to speak to them as if they aren’t? To treat them just like everyone else?’

Lara gave a low laugh. ‘I wish I had a tape recorder,’ she vowed fervently. ‘Then I could play this back to you in the morning—I think that even you might be appalled at your own arrogance and conceit.’

He raised his eyebrows in a mocking challenge. ‘It would make for a very interesting morning,’ he agreed laconically. ‘But, there again, it’s going to be an interesting morning anyway—isn’t it?’

It took a moment or two for his meaning to sink in, and when it did Lara underwent an uncomfortable sensation of shock coupled with excitement, which made her want to squirm—except she didn’t dare to, for fear that he would misinterpret it. Or—even worse—interpret it correctly.

‘I hope you aren’t suggesting that you’re spending the night here? With me!’

‘Of course not.’

Lara frowned, feeling like a mouse being teased by a very clever cat. ‘You’re…not?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything, Lara. Just stating a fact. Of course I’ll be here in the morning—we’re sharing a room.’

It was like that feeling you got when you’d eaten three chocolate biscuits and knew that you were going to eat a fourth, even though you shouldn’t.

Lara didn’t
want
Darian Wildman anywhere near her. She didn’t.

Okay, she did.

But that was on some stupid fundamental level. That was a Lara who didn’t exist, wanting to be with a Darian who didn’t exist. If only they could be standing here, a man and a woman who had just met…but that was crazy.

If they had only just met then they most definitely
wouldn’t
be standing here—and neither would she be wearing just a towel covering her nakedness. A nakedness she was pretty sure he was responding to, judging from that dark, seductive look in his eyes, as if he were running those long, experienced fingers over every single crevice of her body. And yet the contrast between that hot look of desire and the cold contempt which rang from his voice was almost unbearable.

‘Darian,’ she breathed. ‘We…we can’t!’

‘Can’t what?’ he enquired unhelpfully.

‘We can’t share a room together—you know we can’t!’

‘Afraid that you won’t be able to resist me?’ he questioned insultingly.

Yes!
‘No! I will not stay here—not with you!’

‘But our host has allotted us this room,’ he ground out. ‘We cannot question the Sheikh or his judgement.’

‘Oh, really?’ she demanded furiously. ‘He just
happened
to put us in here together, did he? Without any pressure from you?’

‘No pressure from me, I can assure you.’ He gave a slow smile, pleased to see her give an instinctive little wriggle of frustration, knowing that her body craved him even while her mind fought him. ‘He simply asked whether or not we were lovers, and I told him that yes, we were. So here we are,’ he finished, on a murmur which somehow managed to sound like a sultry threat.

‘We are
not
lovers!’ she declared.

‘Want to do something about that?’ he drawled, and began to unbutton his shirt.

‘Darian, stop it!’

‘Stop what?’

‘Un…’ The shirt fluttered to the floor and Lara watched it in fascinated horror, lifting her eyes only to be confronted by the infinitely more disturbing vision of Darian’s bare chest—the tawny flesh gleaming enticingly. ‘Undressing!’ she managed to get out.

‘But I have to undress,’ he said seriously. ‘I’m going to take a shower.’

His belt was unclipped and she heard the rasping of a zip. She closed her eyes in horror.

‘I refuse to share a room with you!’

‘Then go and tell Khalim that yourself!’

The silky challenge made her open her eyes again, and she wished she hadn’t—because he was completely naked. And completely at ease with it.

Lara went hot. Then cold.

‘Are you trying to torment me?’ she gasped.

He frosted her with an icy smile. ‘That’s about the most honest thing you’ve said so far,’ he clipped out. ‘But then, honesty isn’t really your forte, is it, Lara?’

She wanted to appeal to his better judgement. But how could she appeal to anything when now he wasn’t just naked, but was showing unmistakable signs of…

She turned her back, biting her teeth down into the flesh
of her bottom lip, hearing his low laugh with something approaching despair as he walked towards the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

Lara had never dressed more quickly in her life. Whipping through the few outfits she had brought for herself, she slithered into a dress she had bought on a modelling assignment in Singapore. It was a long, fitted dress in bright scarlet silk piped with black—high-necked and skimming her body to fall demurely to her ankles. She controlled the most wayward of her curls with tiny jet-covered clips, applied mascara and lipstick with a trembling hand, and then went over to the bookcase which stood in one corner of the large room, determined to have something to occupy her. Anything to keep her mind and her eyes off the impending and disturbing prospect of Darian emerging from the bathroom…