The Desert Prince's Mistress Page 10

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Her name is Anastasia. You would like to meet her later? When we land?’

  Angrily, Darian crushed the empty shells between his fingers. ‘You offer women to your guests as you would a dish of nuts?’ he demanded. ‘Is that another of your customs?’ His voice lowered to a hiss. ‘Is that what your father did to my mother?’

  Khalim appeared unperturbed by his reaction. ‘I can assure you that Anastasia has a mind of her own, and would never deign to be offered as you would a bowl of nuts. But she is young and healthy and beautiful—is there such a crime in introducing a woman like that to a man like you? She is a strong woman.’ He paused. ‘Was your mother not similarly strong?’

  Darian nodded. It was not his way to discuss such matters, but this was an extraordinary situation, and for some reason he found himself answering Khalim, wondering if he had been deliberately provoked by him into doing so.

  ‘Yes, she was strong,’ he said. ‘Necessity made it so.’ Hard and proud and strong. Her remarkable beauty had made men flock to her, like moths to a flame, but she had rebuffed them almost coldly, as though she would never again allow herself to fall for a man.

  But how deeply had she fallen for Khalim’s father? Had it simply been a one-off? A brief passion with unexpected and unwanted consequences? And even if there was any way of ever discovering the truth did he really want to know—or was it better to let things lie?

  His golden eyes grew flinty as he gazed into the unfathomable stare of the man who it seemed was his relative, the only person connected by blood to him in the whole world.

  ‘So was that just some kind of crude test?’ he questioned softly. ‘To set me up with the stewardess? Or merely an attempt on your part to get me to talk about my mother?’

  Khalim shook his head, and now his expression looked pained. ‘Never a crude test, Darian,’ he said sincerely. ‘Though perhaps subconsciously I did wish you to speak of your mother. But my primary motive was altogether more straightforward than that. I know the appetites of men, and by your lack of interest it would appear that your appetite has already been satisfied.’ He flickered a glance over at the sleeping Lara. ‘By Lara,’ he said softly.

  Darian saw the direction of his gaze and again experienced that potent cocktail of rage and lust. He knew what Khalim wanted to know. Lara was his friend, and he would automatically wish to protect her. But it was none of Khalim’s damned business what went on between him and Lara! He would give him the bare facts, nothing more. ‘Yes, by Lara,’ he said shortly, hastily averting his eyes from her moving silk-covered breasts.

  ‘You are lovers,’ Khalim observed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it is serious?’

  ‘She lied to me,’ answered Darian stonily.

  ‘She lied because she was trying to protect me.’

  But in so doing she had betrayed him. Surely Khalim could see that? ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ persisted Khalim softly. ‘I asked you whether it was serious.’

  Darian gave a lazy non-committal smile. ‘I don’t do serious,’ he said truthfully.

  Through the light mists of her snatched cat-nap, Darian’s words came drifting into her subconscious, and as she allowed them to register Lara was filled with a sick, cold feeling. Had he said that deliberately—hoping that she would hear, and hear very clearly in just which category he had placed her? And wasn’t it better to know, to hear the truth that she had instinctively guessed at spoken out loud?

  She pretended to sleep, but in reality she was listening to their conversation. Darian did not come out with any more comments like the preceding one. Instead, he asked Khalim questions about Maraban, and Khalim began describing the history and the culture of his people, his rich voice softening with innate pride. Now and then Darian prompted him with an insightful question, and once he made Khalim laugh. Lara didn’t know why this should surprise her so much, but it did.

  Until she reminded herself that Khalim was intimate with few; his position as leader isolated him from confidences and shared jokes.

  After a while she made a great show of stirring, and when she opened her eyes it was to find that unforgiving gold stare trained on her. She found herself in the infuriating position of half wanting to go over and slap him and half wanting him to come over and kiss her.

  Just reaction, she told herself. He could not be faulted as a lover, and her body was simply reminding her of that—it didn’t mean she had to act on it. She yawned, and the two men turned towards her, but all Lara could see was that burning golden gaze.

  Khalim smiled. ‘You are rested now, Lara?’

  ‘Thank you. Yes.’

  ‘You will have some refreshment? You have eaten nothing.’

  Lara shook her head. ‘Thank you, Khalim, but, no. I am not hungry.’ She glanced down at her watch. Not long to go now. ‘When do we land at Dar-gar?’

  Khalim hesitated. ‘We are not going to Dar-gar.’

  Lara frowned. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I am flying us to the western province instead,’ he said smoothly. ‘To Suhayb.’ He saw her look of consternation and his voice softened. ‘Rose is pregnant, as you know,’ he explained gently. ‘And such an unresolved development as this would merely trouble her. I am needed in Suhayb, and it is as good a place as any in Maraban for Darian to see a little of how we live.’

  Lara nodded. She had heard of Suhayb, of course, which was Maraban’s second city. Rose often wrote long and chatty letters about the country so that Lara felt she knew it well. She was aware that a second palace was sited there, and that the region was fringed by beautiful mountains from which crystal streams flowed to bring life to the parched earth.

  ‘Sounds wonderful,’ she said.

  As if this was some kind of damned holiday she had booked, thought Darian furiously—until he was forced to remember that she was here solely at his behest! But then the engines of the plane changed sound, giving the signal that they were about to land, and he leaned over to look out of the window, his heart beating with an odd kind of excitement as he stared down into Maraban.

  Beneath he could see mountains, snow-capped and gleaming in the late-afternoon sun, so that they looked as if they were lit from within by a copper-red flame. As the plane descended he could see the silver glint of water. His first impression was a land of light and fire. It looked, he thought, like a picture from a child’s book.

  A child’s book. Like the kind he had chosen to escape into, to blot out some of the harsh reality of his upbringing. His mouth hardened as the plane touched down. How different his life would have been if his father had stood by his mother!

  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.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE 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 bea
ting 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 inexpensive 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.