The Desert Prince's Mistress Read online

  There was a short silence, and then, unexpectedly, he asked, ‘Do you like him, Lara?’

  Lara stared straight ahead. ‘Like’ him? Like did not seem to be a verb that one would apply naturally to a man like Darian Wildman. It seemed much too bland an assessment. And how could she possibly be objective about a man who had been the most wonderful lover she had ever encountered and yet also the most unsatisfactory? But it had only been unsatisfactory from an emotional point of view, and she had only herself to blame. You should not fall headlong into the arms of a man if you could not cope with the fact that he might reject you.

  For there had been no word from Darian—not since he had dropped her off at her apartment two nights ago and dropped a perfunctory kiss on her lips that had felt as cold as ice, as different from his hot-blooded kisses when he was making love to her as it was possible to imagine.

  But he wasn’t making love to you, said that same, cruel voice which had been tormenting her non-stop. He was simply having sex with you.

  ‘I’ll give you a ring,’ he had said, but it had sounded casual, and she suspected that he had intended it to do so. He had waited until she was safely inside her front door and then driven off, his powerful car sounding like a fighter jet as it had roared away.

  Lara had hoped—like a foolish holder-on to romantic dreams—that perhaps he might have rung her first thing the next morning, told her that it had been beautiful and that he wished he was waking up next to her. Except she suspected that both those things would have been a lie, and something deep down told her that Darian Wildman might be all kinds of things a woman should steer clear of, but dishonest was not one of them. He would speak the truth, she recognised painfully, no matter how much that truth might hurt.

  ‘I hardly know him,’ she answered now, and her own honesty had the power to hurt, too.

  She still didn’t quite believe that she had let him make love to her so quickly. Lara was no prude, but she worked in an industry which was notorious for its fickle sexual values, and up until now she had always fiercely guarded her reputation. Her lovers had been few, and not one of them had lived up to her unrealistically high expectations—until now. But there again never before had she allowed herself to be seduced with such ease, and then to experience such intense and unforgettable pleasure in the arms of a man she barely knew.

  So what did that say about her? Maybe she was one of those people who could only be physically fulfilled if there was no true and lasting intimacy. Just like Darian, she recognised, with a sudden sinking sense of insight.

  ‘Lara,’ said Khalim urgently, ‘I will have to meet him.’

  ‘But how? And, more importantly, where?’

  ‘Rose is pregnant,’ Khalim said thoughtfully. ‘And must not be worried. If Darian were brought out to Maraban—’

  ‘Khalim,’ Lara interrupted, completely forgetting that he was not used to being interrupted, ‘I don’t think you quite understand—he isn’t the sort of man who could be brought anywhere, not unless he was in full agreement.’ A bit like you, she wanted to add, except that it was glaringly obvious. ‘And what are you going to do? Ring him up and mention that you might be related and would he please fly out to Maraban so that you can check him out?’

  ‘Then I will have to come to London,’ said Khalim slowly. ‘And you must arrange for me to meet him, Lara.’

  But how? thought Lara as she slowly put the receiver down.

  Especially if she didn’t hear from him.

  Which was kind of defining her as a self-made victim, surely? She had been intimate with the man—didn’t that give her the right to telephone him?

  She knew that in situations like this there were subtle games played between the sexes, and that the man always liked to feel as though he was the one doing the hunting, but wasn’t she in danger of forgetting the bigger picture?

  This wasn’t about her and Darian and a relationship which seemed to have started and ended on his leather sofa—it was about his ancestry, and Khalim’s. She had been the one to let her emotions get in the way, to fall for him, but none of that was relevant.

  That was when she realised that she didn’t have his home telephone number, nor even his mobile—which left his business. She was going to have to ring him up at work.

  And what if…what if he didn’t want to speak to her?

  You cross that bridge when you come to it, she told herself, though her heart was beating frantically as she dialled the number and asked his assistant if he was free.

  Another click.

  ‘Darian Wildman.’

  Her heart began to pound. ‘Darian? It’s Lara. Lara Black.’

  Darian raised his eyebrows fractionally when he heard her voice. He had been thinking about her and deciding when to call her again. In fact, he had been thinking about her a lot. It had been a pretty amazing evening all round, but something about it had made him wary. And so had she.

  It had all been too…too easy, in a way. That wasn’t unusual, but it had not been what he had instinctively expected from Lara. Something about it had not seemed all it should be, and he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. But it seemed that Lara Black was liberated and bold enough to ring him.

  He gave a faint smile. ‘Hello, Lara,’ he said smoothly. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m…’ I’m almost spitting with rage at such cavalier treatment after such an intimate evening, if you must know—but you won’t know, because I would never give you the pleasure of telling you, and if it weren’t for this whole Maraban business I wouldn’t ever see or speak to you again, that’s how I am.

  That was what she felt like saying.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she murmured instead. She paused, hating the words she knew she must say next and giving him the opportunity to say them first. But he didn’t. ‘I was wondering whether I could see you.’

  Frankly, he was surprised. She was far too lovely to be chasing after men. Yet he could hear some suppressed emotion in her voice and knew he wasn’t being fair to her. Nor, he thought, with a sudden aching memory, to himself. ‘That would be lovely.’ He paused and his voice softened just as his body began to grow hard. ‘I enjoyed our evening together very much.’

  Lara felt indignant, filled with a sudden sense of impotence that she was having to put herself in the humiliating position of ringing him, seeming as if she was desperate to see him. And aren’t you? mocked a voice inside her head. Aren’t you?

  She set her mouth into a determined line. No, she wasn’t. She rated pride far more highly than desire, and this incident with Darian had taught her a salutary lesson. Never again would she allow herself to be carried away by the needs of her body, allow herself to believe that they were the clamourings of the heart.

  But she had to see him. This wasn’t just a boy-meets-girl scenario; it was a whole lot more. She had set into motion a chain of events, and now it had gathered momentum and taken on a life of its own. She had no part in all this now other than to set up a meeting between Darian and Khalim.

  ‘Yes,’ she said softly, closing her eyes and imagining that she was playing the part of a sophisticated woman of the world, used to dealing with the fallout from such casual, passionate dalliances. ‘I enjoyed it, too.’

  He pictured the soft rose-white skin and the sparkling blue eyes, the gentle swell of her breasts, and all his vague misgivings fell by the wayside as he experienced an overpowering urge to see her again. He felt the hot, hard physical jerk of desire.

  ‘So when?’ he asked huskily.

  She opened her eyes and glanced down at what she had scribbled on a piece of paper. The times and the dates when Khalim could practically and realistically be in London in person. ‘Next week?’ she questioned. ‘Say, Friday?’

  Darian’s eyes narrowed at her unexpected response. Friday? He hadn’t imagined that she would be so upfront as to say tonight, or even tomorrow night—but next week?

  The instincts of the hunter in him were aroused. ‘You can’t make it a
ny sooner than that?’

  She knew that she was playing this game well—too well, she thought bitterly—and that if she had suggested sooner then a bored note would have entered his arrogant voice.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ she said regretfully.

  ‘So where shall we meet?’ he demanded.

  ‘Would you like to come to the flat? Say, lunchtime?’

  Lunchtime? Maybe she would be alone in the flat, with Jake Haddon away somewhere. A small smile of anticipation curved his lips as he flicked a glance at his diary and saw that he was busy. He scored through the appointments with a single stroke of his pen and added the words ‘cancel them’ for his secretary. ‘Sure,’ he said smoothly. ‘That sounds okay. About noon?’

  ‘Noon is fine.’ Lara swallowed, suddenly feeling assailed by nerves. ‘I’ll see you then.’

  The week passed by in a curious state where time seemed either to be suspended in a state of utter unreality or to pass in a flurry of high-level communication with Maraban. Lara had the letter itself flown out to Khalim, and he acknowledged it in a telephone call, his voice sounding cool and thoughtful.

  She half imagined that a small contingent of his armed guard might accompany him, but when the Prince arrived on Friday, just before midday, he was alone. Lara opened the door to him and blinked in surprise.

  ‘No guards?’ she questioned softly, once he had greeted her and she had closed the front door.

  Khalim gave a brief smile. ‘My emissary and two others are waiting outside. They have orders not to disturb us.’

  ‘Would you like tea?’ Lara questioned shyly. ‘Mint tea?’

  Khalim smiled. ‘You remembered!’

  ‘How is Rose?’ she demanded eagerly.

  ‘Rose is complaining that she is the size of an elephant! And I have photos to show you of my son.’ A frown crossed his dark face. ‘She does not know that I am seeing you. For if she did she would ask questions for which I do not yet have any answers.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lara.

  It seemed all so incongruously suburban. Khalim sitting on her sofa, drinking tea and proudly showing her photos of his wife and son. He was wearing Western regalia—a beautifully cut Italian suit in charcoal-grey, snowy shirt and a silk tie the colour of an emerald—and he looked just as much as ease in it as he did in his flowing garments of soft gleaming gold.

  Outwardly, he seemed relaxed, but Lara could see the faint lines which fanned out from the jet-dark eyes. She wondered if he was worried about problems at home or simply about meeting Darian—but it seemed impertinent to ask.

  She found herself comparing him to the man she was certain was his half-brother. Darian was taller and broader, his skin not so dark as Khalim’s, and his eyes were golden, not black, and yet there was an unmistakable similarity between the two men. You could see it in the firm and unblinking gaze, and in the almost tangible strength of character which emanated from them. What would happen when they met?

  She shivered, and Khalim looked at her.

  ‘You are nervous, Lara?’

  ‘A little. Aren’t you?’

  He shook his head. ‘In Maraban we have a saying: Life is like a narrow bridge—the most important thing is not to be afraid.’

  ‘He’s…he’s the same age as you, you know.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘What if he’s older? Won’t that make him the legitimate heir?’

  ‘But he is illegitimate, Lara,’ Khalim reminded her gently. ‘If indeed he is my brother.’

  So he wasn’t taking her word for it, realised Lara—but who could blame him when something so important was at stake?

  The doorbell rang, and her eyes opened very wide. ‘He’s here! What shall I do? What shall I say?’

  ‘Bring him to me,’ commanded Khalim sternly. ‘And do not worry, little one,’ he said, his voice gentling a little.

  Lara’s heart was beating so fast that she could barely breathe as she walked to the front door. And when she opened it her feelings of apprehension only increased.

  For Darian was standing there, looking impossibly gorgeous and so tantalisingly touchable. The breeze had ruffled his hair, so that all its gleaming darkness was emphasised, and the soft, dark cashmere sweater provided a perfect foil for the living gold of his eyes and the tawny glow of his skin. His lips were soft, and so were his eyes.

  Without a word, he pulled her into his arms and stared down at her. Did he have some crazy, masochistic instinct which might have denied him such exquisite pleasures when they were here for the taking? She was beautiful. The other night had been beautiful. He wanted her again and he wanted her right now.

  ‘Lara,’ he murmured.

  She knew what he was about to do, and knew that she ought to stop him, but she was powerless to resist.

  He drove his mouth down on hers, like a hungry man who had just seen food. The touch of her lips brought memories of her body crashing back into sweet, sharp focus and he gave a little moan of pleasure.

  Instantly Lara felt herself responding to his kiss, her body beginning to ache and to dissolve into a hot, moist heat, and as he tightened his arms around her she could feel his taut, shivering tension which matched her own.

  She splayed her fingers over his back, feeling the hard muscle contrasting with the softness of his sweater, and made a little sound of pleasure as his thigh nudged its way between hers. She felt her own thighs part instinctively, a hot flame of desire shooting up her as he ran his fingertips possessively down over her hips.

  And Khalim was waiting next door!

  She tore her lips away and opened her eyes to him, startled by the look of naked need on his face. ‘Darian, we mustn’t!’

  He gave a low laugh of pleasure. ‘Afraid that I’m going to take you here, standing up in your hallway?’ He stroked her trembling mouth. ‘You’d probably like it if I did. Come to think of it, so would I.’ And then he frowned. ‘What’s the matter, darling—is Jake around?’

  His words brought her quickly to her senses, for they were nothing more than an arrogant sexual boast. An acknowledgment of how easily and how quickly he could make her melt in his arms. And, dear Lord—he was right! If Khalim hadn’t been here then she probably wouldn’t have stopped him at all!

  She reminded herself that if Khalim were not here, then he wouldn’t be here, either.

  She shook her head. ‘No. Not Jake.’

  How did she say it? She didn’t want to anger him, because what was about to happen was going to affect him pretty deeply on some fundamental level, and she didn’t know how he was going to react.

  ‘I’ve got someone I want you to meet,’ she whispered.

  ‘Oh, Lara, no,’ he groaned. ‘Not now! What did you do that for?’

  ‘Come with me.’

  Aching, Darian had no choice but to follow her, but he was irritated. He didn’t want to meet her friends—not at this stage, and certainly not now!

  Lara threw the door open and Darian froze, his instincts immediately alerted to the fact that the man who stood beside the huge marble fireplace, his dark face so cool and expressionless, was no ordinary man. And it had nothing to do with the costly clothes he wore—for many men wore those.

  No, it was something in his eyes and in his posture, something which transcended the mundane and the everyday—he wore an air of comfortable superiority, which silently sizzled out across the room and struck an answering chord in Darian himself.

  Darian narrowed his eyes, knowing somehow that conventional conversation was both irrelevant and inappropriate. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded softly.

  There was a silence which seemed to go on and on. Lara looked at Khalim and saw him give an odd, brittle kind of smile which was tinged with a sadness.

  ‘I am Prince Khalim of Maraban,’ he said slowly. ‘And I believe that you are my brother.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DARIAN kept his face poker-straight, not a flicker of emotion crossing his features. He had always been a past-master at
keeping his feelings hidden. As a child he had learnt not to react, and it had stood him in good stead through his life.

  He let his mind assimiliate the incredible words that the man had just spoken, then gave a brief, dismissive smile.

  ‘You are mistaken,’ he said flatly. ‘I have no brother. I have no living relatives at all. Explain yourself.’

  Lara gasped, shocked—and so, judging by the look on Khalim’s face, was he. She doubted whether he had ever been spoken to like that in his life—except perhaps by his wife, but that was different.

  Khalim gave a small nod, as though an unasked question had just been answered, and gestured towards a chair. ‘Should we perhaps sit down?’

  Darian shook his head, and then slowly turned his head and looked at Lara. For the first time it dawned on him that this man was in her apartment. He glanced at the way she stood there, so wide-eyed and expectant and…yes, there was definitely an air of apprehension about her. What the hell was going on?

  But Lara was a distraction. He concentrated instead on one overriding fact, and that was the claim which had just been made.

  ‘I think I would prefer to stand.’ He looked at this man Khalim, and a vague memory of something he had once heard on the news came drifting into his memory.

  A country. Where had he said? Maraban? Yes. Maraban.

  ‘You are the Sheikh of Maraban?’ he questioned.

  Khalim nodded. ‘I am.’

  ‘And why are you here?’ asked Darian quietly.

  ‘Because a letter arrived recently at my Embassy in London—a letter from a woman purporting to be your mother—’

  ‘The woman’s name?’ snapped Darian.

  ‘Joanna Wildman.’

  Darian’s eyes narrowed and he felt the sudden acceleration of his heart. ‘That was my mother’s name.’ His voice sounded like grit being poured onto melting snow. ‘Let me see the letter.’

  It was a definite command, thought Lara, wondering how Khalim would react. But he simply nodded as he withdrew the letter from the breast pocket of his suit, almost as though he had been anticipating this request.