The Desert Prince's Mistress Page 11

  ‘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…

  But it was difficult to concentrate on the book—a beautifully photographed history of Maraban—which would normally have fascinated her. She could hear the splash, splash of the shower, and the sound of Darian singing, loudly and rather tunelessly—as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  He seemed to have settled in and coped with his momentous news with amazing ease, she thought, her eyes nearly popping out of her head as she studied a photo of Khalim and Rose’s wedding—and her own unmistakable profile as she bent to adjust Rose’s train!

  Darian switched off the powerful jet of water and stepped out of the shower, shaking his dark head slightly as he began to rub the droplets of water away. This felt like a dream from which he would in a minute wake—and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  The emotions he had felt when confronted with what seemed like the uncontradictable truth of his heritage had been varied. There had been confusion, yes—and yet a strange sense of calm, as though the answer to a question he had never dared to ask had finally been given.

  Didn’t this news of his father’s identity make a whole lot about himself clearer and more understandable? That sense of being different, of being an outsider, had always burned much stronger in him than in any of the other fatherless boys he had grown up with. It hadn’t just been the strange and exotic colour of his skin and the unusual gold of his eyes; it had gone far deeper than that.

  Even as a child Darian had always been a loner. He had kept his emotions and his affections severely contained and restrained. So had that been something he’d been born with, or something he had learned along the way?

  He had not grown up in an environment where you got close to people, and this was a habit he had carried with him into his adult life. In a way it had made his success more achievable—if you didn’t carry around the baggage of close relationships then you had a lot less to distract you from your ambition.

  He reflected on the bizarre events of the day, thinking that Khalim, too, had been a surprise—in more than one sense. From making the discovery that he was related to the dark, powerful and enigmatic leader it had proved a disturbingly short step to discovering that he might actually like him—maybe even form some kind of tenuous bond with him.

  He didn’t know what the outcome of this strange and totally unexpected visit to Maraban would be, and for once in his life it didn’t bother him. Usually Darian liked everything mapped out, to know where he was going and what he was doing, but suddenly he recognised that sometimes you just had to go with the flow.

  In fact, the only shadow on the current landscape took the form of the woman he could hear moving around in the adjoining room. His mouth twisted with a mixture of contempt and desire.

  What could have been a straightforward—if highly unusual—state of affairs had been complicated and made distasteful by the behaviour of Lara Black.

  He felt the slow, steady pulsing of his heart, wondering why it should bother him—why he couldn’t just dismiss the thought of her. Heaven knew, he usually managed that just fine. But she was like an itch. Something niggling away at him, stinging at his skin and making him feel aware of her in a way he didn’t want to be. He needed to get her completely out of his system, he decided grimly, and there was one surefire way to do that.

  But this time Lara would fight him all the way, he recognised, and somehow that sharpened his senses even more. He gave a slow smile of anticipation as he wrapped a towel around his narrow hips and sauntered back into the bedroom.

  She was lost in the book she had been reading, but at the sound of his footfall she automatically looked up and her mouth dried. ‘Oh, I see you’ve bothered to put something on,’ she observed caustically, even though her heart was thudding away like a piston.

  His fingers hovered provocatively over the knot of the towel at his hip and he raised his eyebrows mockingly. ‘Is that disapproval I hear in your voice, Lara? You’d prefer me to lose it, would you?’

  She swallowed down the infuriating desire to say yes. ‘I’ll just carry on reading my book while you get dressed,’ she said, then glanced at her watch. ‘Better hurry up,’ she added sweetly. ‘Khalim is not a man who should be kept waiting.’

  She saw him shrug and then stared unseeingly at the words on the page, listening while he pulled on his clothes, not saying a word. The silence seemed to grow until it became huge and unwelcome. And suddenly all Lara’s doubts and fears and uncertainties began to nag at her. She was angry at him for all kinds of complex reasons, but deep down she feared that her main motive was self-seeking. Wasn’t she angry because he had shown a decided lack of interest in her as a person—because she had started to fall for him in a big way and he clearly hadn’t reciprocated her feelings? And wasn’t that a rather shameful reason for helping to maintain this sizzling undercurrent of tension between them? What good was that going to do any of them?

  Maybe it was up to her to try and make peace.

  She waited until he had slipped his shoes
on, and then looked up to see him running his fingers through still-damp hair.

  ‘Darian?’ she said quietly.

  The look he gave her was deliberately impartial—but then he wasn’t foolish enough to get himself worked up into a state of sexual desire just before dinner, not when there wasn’t enough time to see it through to its ultimate conclusion. ‘Yes, Lara?’

  She closed the pages of the book and put her fingertips on the soft leather which bound it. ‘I’m sorry that I deceived you.’

  ‘Sorry that you deceived me?’ he questioned tonelessly. ‘Or just sorry that I found out?’

  ‘But it was inevitable that you would find out!’ she argued. ‘You must understand why I wanted to get to know you before I decided what action to take about the letter—why, you could have been any kind of maniac, for all I knew!’

  ‘As opposed to a red-hot stud, you mean?’

  ‘You flatter yourself, Darian.’

  Their eyes met, his gaze boring into her until her cheeks began to burn. ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ he said softly. ‘You may be an actress, Lara, and a very good one at that—but I know enough about women to realise that you weren’t faking it.’

  She slapped her palms to her hot cheeks. ‘Don’t!’

  ‘Don’t speak the truth? No, I can see that might bother someone with your morals.’

  This was just getting worse instead of better. She drew a deep breath, hoping to appeal to his sense of reason—to something…anything that would make him stop looking at her with that reluctant desire which made her feel so small.

  ‘Surely you can understand why I didn’t mention anything to you, Darian? At least not until I’d spoken to Khalim? I’ve known him and Rose for a long time—I didn’t know you at all!’

  ‘But you sure knew me better after dinner, didn’t you?’ He gave a low and insulting laugh. ‘Did you want to make sure that the brother to the Sheikh fulfilled all the criteria for being a man?’

  Her temper snapped. ‘Now you are wilfully twisting everything I say! I had no intention of letting you make love to me that night. It just…it just…happened,’ she finished lamely.

  ‘Does it happen a lot for you that way?’ he enquired, with the sardonic air of someone asking an unnecessary question.

  ‘Never!’ she retorted. ‘I told you that at the time!’

  ‘So it was just me,’ he mused. ‘In which case—I should be flattered.’ He lowered his voice to a sultry promise. ‘It was pretty good for me, too, Lara, if you really want to know—which makes me wonder why you’re being so unnecessarily prim. After all, if you had sex with me when we barely knew each other, then I should have thought you would be eager to repeat the experience now that we’re so much better acquainted.’ He smiled as he let his gaze travel to the huge brocade-covered bed. ‘It seems a bit of a waste of a good opportunity otherwise, don’t you think?’

  He couldn’t have made it sound more mechanical if he had tried—a man and a woman who were fiercely attracted to one another—simply making use of the facilities on offer! But while Darian might have a heart of stone Lara was simply not made that way.

  She opened her mouth to tell him that he was the last person on the planet she would ever get intimate with after what he had said to her, but at that precise moment there was a light rap on the door.

  Darian raised his eyebrows. ‘Shall we continue this fascinating conversation later?’ he drawled. ‘I think we’re being summoned to dinner.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE table was set in a small banqueting room—a surprisingly intimate table, even though it was laid with plates of solid gold which gleamed beneath the light from the dazzling chandelier overhead. Heavy crystal glasses threw off rainbow lights, and overblown crimson roses were crammed into low golden bowls.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ Lara breathed automatically.

  Darian turned to look at her, at the elegant little curve of her nose and the way her soft lips had parted. She had clipped some of her hair back—he had never seen it like that before. The rampant curls had been subdued, emphasising her long, elegant neck, and the overall impression was to make her look rather pure and innocent. But then, she was an actress, he reminded himself. A chameleon. She wore so many different masks.

  ‘Exquisite,’ he said curtly, his head turning as Khalim walked into the room accompanied by a retinue of servants, most of whom he dismissed immediately.

  He had changed from his Western suit into one of the garments tradionally worn by the Marabanesh—only his was fashioned from the finest silk, denoting his royal status. It was a fluid and flowing robe in a silvery colour which made Lara think of a river. He indicated for them to take their seats and ran a finger reflectively over a rose in one of the bowls, rather in the way that Lara had done in her room, earlier.

  ‘You know, it is a strict rule at the palace to have only roses placed on the table at royal functions,’ he said gravely as he took his seat, though his black eyes were glinting with mischief. ‘In honour of my darling Rose.’

  Lara frowned as she unfolded the heavy linen napkin. ‘Won’t Rose think it strange you haven’t told her I’m here, Khalim? Won’t she be upset?’

  ‘Why would she be?’ Khalim looked at her steadily. ‘Rose loves me and trusts me,’ he said simply. ‘And she trusts my judgement,’ he added softly. ‘She will know soon enough, when the time is right, but she must not be troubled by events over which she has no control. Especially not now, when she carries my child within her.’

  He spoke in a way in which few men did—his words were poetic and romantic and they came straight from the heart. Lara had not spent her life looking for love—women who did that were doomed, in her opinion—but as she listened she experienced a great ache of longing. She tried to imagine what it must be like to have a man profess his love for you in such a profound and moving way as that. Didn’t Rose have what most women dreamed of? Oh, not the prince or the palaces or the untold riches—but the steadfast and passionate love of the man she adored.

  And what a man Khalim was. She recognised then that somewhere in the back of her mind she had thought that no man could ever match someone like Khalim—his strength and his passion and his sheer, overriding masculinity. Only now she had met another such man.

  Covertly, she studied Darian from beneath her lashes. His half-brother had those same qualities—qualities which had been born in him, not fashioned by his upbringing in a place of riches and privilege. Darian would be a man whose love would be worth more than a king’s ransom.

  And she had blown it.

  ‘You will drink some wine, Darian?’ Khalim was saying.

  ‘No, thanks.’ Darian pointed to a decanter filled with a rich gold liquid. ‘I’ll have some of what you’re having.’

  Khalim nodded, looking pleased. ‘It is a special Maraban concoction—made from honey and water taken from the crystal streams of mountain rivers and scented with rose and cinnamon.’

  Darian took the goblet and sipped some. ‘Here,’ he murmured, and passed the goblet to Lara.

  The gesture seemed somehow symbolic of sharing, and yet at the same time a mockery. Part of her wanted to refuse—but how could she in front of Khalim, and risk appearing churlish or rude? The goblet was so heavy and her fingers were so unsteady that she had to hold onto it with two hands. ‘Th—thanks,’ she stumbled.

  The glittering look he sent her was impenetrable, and Lara found herself wondering how she was going to be able to fight him off later, when they were alone in their sumptuous room. Especially when there was a part of her which didn’t want to fight him at all…

  A feast was brought before them—dish after tiny dish of subtly flavoured delicacies, some of which Lara had tasted before and some of which were new to her. She looked at the mound of glistening saffron-scented rice, studded with pistachios and cardamom seeds, and tried to summon up an appetite for it.

  But during the meal she found herself cast in the role of spectator, listening whi
le Darian continued to ask questions about Maraban’s history and about Khalim’s ongoing task of making sure that the country embraced new technology while losing nothing of its tradition and traditional values. She could have listened all night to the Prince describing dark conquests, the battles of his ancestors as they strove to liberate Maraban from marauding neighbouring countries.

  ‘Tomorrow we shall ride,’ announced Khalim as tiny little cups of thick, dark coffee were placed before them.

  Darian dropped a single sugar cube into his cup and absently stirred at it. ‘I’ve never ridden before.’

  ‘It alarms you?’

  Darian’s eyes narrowed into golden shards. ‘On the contrary. I have always enjoyed rising to a challenge.’

  ‘Of course. But I shall give you our quietest mount.’

  ‘Oh, no, you won’t.’ Darian’s voice was low, but it carried with it a steely determination, and Lara couldn’t miss the unmistakable look of horror which crossed the face of one of the servants. You wouldn’t need to speak English to be aware that this guest was arguing with the Prince!

  ‘I will take a mount that you favour,’ Darian emphasised.

  This time Khalim frowned. ‘But it would be sheer folly to put a novice on a spirited horse!’

  ‘And would you not do the same in my situation?’ challenged Darian softly.

  The eyes of the two men clashed a silent duel over the ornate table, until at last Khalim nodded his head.

  ‘Indeed I would.’

  There was silence for a moment, as if another unspoken test had been set and passed.

  ‘And can I come and watch?’ asked Lara.

  They turned to look at her, as if they had forgotten she was there.

  ‘Of course you can,’ said Khalim indulgently. ‘You don’t mind, Darian?’

  ‘Why should I mind?’ But of course Darian did mind. He minded a lot. He had never ridden before, and as Khalim had pointed out he was a novice. Did he really want Lara to witness him at the very bottom of a learning curve—he who liked to be seen to be accomplished in all things?