The Desert Sheikh’s Captive Wife

by Lynne Graham

  Shaken up by the question she had asked, Rashad had felt able to tell her anything she wanted to hear, even if it meant lying for the first time in his life. But he had only felt that way for about ten seconds, for free speech or lies struck him as extremely dangerous in the current climate. He knew exactly how he felt about her. She was his wife with all that encompassed and he wanted, quite naturally, to take her home again.

  ‘You are learning quickly,’ Rashad murmured a shade unevenly, stunning golden eyes screened by the thick black wedge of his lashes to a bright glimmer.

  Tilda wondered whether he meant the language or how to kill stone-dead the sort of emotional scene that she knew he found excruciating. ‘I think I’d like to take the opportunity to see my mother while we’re here,’ she informed him prosaically.

  ‘An excellent idea.’

  ‘Both of us should visit,’ she added, in case he had not yet got the message she was trying to give.

  ‘Of course.’

  The silence rushed back round them again.

  ‘So, are we having a honeymoon?’ Tilda heard herself ask rather loudly in the hope that he would comprehend the meaning of that less-than-subtle query.

  Rashad stayed very still and then a charismatic smile flashed across his beautiful mouth, all the strain there put to flight by that query. ‘It was already planned. Why do you think I’ve been working so hard in recent weeks? I needed to free up some time.’

  That smile made Tilda’s heart flip and the inside of her mouth run dry. That smile had sufficient pulling power to make her run up a mountain. She wanted to race across the room and fling herself at him like an eager puppy. She thought it fortunate that just at that moment the announcement that breakfast awaited them prevented her from embarrassing him to that extent.

  When Tilda and Rashad visited her mother’s home later that day in what Tilda felt was a welcome distraction after all the drama, they found Evan Jerrold cosily enjoying afternoon tea and home-made scones. Beth was overjoyed by the arrival of her daughter and son-in-law and Evan quickly excused himself. But Rashad spoke to the older man at some length, while Tilda talked to her mother. She was very pleased when the older woman confided that Evan had persuaded her to walk out of the front door and sit in his car just a few feet away for a few minutes the previous day.

  ‘And you managed to do that without having a panic attack?’ Tilda was amazed, because all Beth’s children had made repeated efforts to coax their mother into trying to fight her phobia rather than totally surrendering to it.

  ‘Evan’s so confident. It did take me nearly two weeks to work myself up to walking out the front door. But I have to learn how to manage now that you’re married to Rashad. Aubrey will be leaving home soon, as well,’ Beth pointed out. ‘I need to be more independent.’

  The older woman passed her daughter several letters that had come for her. While Beth made fresh tea, Tilda went through her post. The final envelope was addressed in unfamiliar handwriting. She tore it open and withdrew a sheet of paper. It bore a poor quality photocopied image of a blonde woman dancing in a cage. A pulse started beating very fast at the foot of Tilda’s throat. She peered at it in horror. It could have been her, or just as easily it could’ve been someone else. It was impossible to tell. Below the image, a mobile phone number was printed.

  ‘I’ve made more tea!’ Beth called as Tilda ducked into the dining room to make a call in private.

  ‘I’ll only be a couple of minutes.’ Tilda closed the door and rang the number.

  She recognised Scott’s voice the moment he answered. Her tummy gave a sick lurch and she snatched in a steadying breath. ‘It’s Tilda. Why did you send me that picture?’

  ‘I’ve got some actual photos of you doing your little dance.’

  Her fingers tightened round her mobile phone. ‘I don’t remember anyone taking photos that night. I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s up to you what you want to believe. But now you’re royalty, those photos must be worth a packet. I reckon Rashad would pay a tidy sum to keep them all to himself.’ Her former stepfather loosed a seedy chuckle. ‘Of course, if you’re not interested, just say. A half-naked blond princess in a cage would go down a treat with the gutter press.’

  Tilda felt sick. Scott Morrison was blackmailing her. Had someone taken photos of her? His creepy mate, Pete, perhaps? She had no idea. A half-naked blond princess in a cage would be a much bigger source of humiliation to Rashad and his family than a runaway wife. She cringed at the prospect of such pictures appearing in print. ‘How much do you want for the photos?’

  ‘I thought you’d see it my way and keep it in the family. I want fifty grand.’

  Although she was as white as a sheet, Tilda decided to call his bluff. ‘Then I’ll have to go to Rashad for the money because I don’t have access to that kind of cash.’

  ‘Leave him out of it,’ Scott hastened to tell her, his agitation at the suggestion that she involve Rashad audible. ‘Keeping you on a shoestring, is he? How much cash can you raise in a hurry?’

  ‘Maybe five thousand,’ she mumbled shamefacedly for she knew she was doing the wrong thing. Everyone knew it was stupid to give way to blackmail. She knew it, too, but just the idea of Rashad seeing a photo of her in that cage again made her feel physically ill. She was convinced it would mean the end of her marriage. She had not spent any of the allowance that Rashad had put in a bank account for her. She told herself that using Rashad’s money to get the photos back was a lesser evil than embarrassing him with the pictorial proof of her teenaged mistake.

  Scott argued volubly, and then finally said he’d accept the payment if that was the best she could offer.

  The door opened and Tilda gave a nervous start. Rashad was framed in the doorway. He quirked a sleek dark brow that questioned her obvious tension.

  ‘I’ll send you a cheque,’ Tilda told Scott gruffly and hurriedly finished the call.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ Rashad enquired, beautiful dark golden eyes welded to her pale, anxious face.

  ‘No, nothing…just a stupid bill I forgot about. Embarrassing,’ she mumbled, her teeth near to chattering at the very thought of him finding out what she was planning to do.

  ‘My staff will take care of it. Let me have the details,’ Rashad instructed.

  ‘No, I’ll see to it myself. When are we flying back to Bakhar?’

  ‘Only when you wish.’

  Tilda studied his gold silk tie with fixed attention. She did not dare meet his gaze, for he was far too keen and clever an observer. After that nasty little chat with Scott, Bakhar somehow seemed to shine like a safe haven on a wonderfully distant horizon. ‘Could we leave tonight?’

  When Rashad spoke, his surprise at that request was patent in his dark deep drawl. ‘I thought you might prefer somewhere more cosmopolitan for our honeymoon…Paris, Rio-’

  ‘The Palace of the Lions. You never did get around to showing me the harem,’ Tilda reminded him, feeling that that remote desert location would be comfortingly out of reach of Scott and his machinations.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘GOOD heavens…you and your grandfather might have been identical twins!’ Tilda studied the photo of the long-departed Sharaf in his ceremonial robes with fascination, because she could see from where Rashad had inherited his classic bone structure.

  Rashad splayed a possessive hand to her stomach to angle her back into connection with his lithe, powerful body. ‘My father says his father’s genes skipped a generation and turned up in me. Although I would like to believe that the likeness is only skin-deep, I definitely didn’t inherit my father’s mild temperament.’

  ‘Have you abducted any women?’ Tilda teased a little unevenly, physical contact with his lean, masculine frame stirring her into immediate awareness. Her nipples were pinching into tingling tension beneath the light cotton dress she wore.

  ‘No. But if you hadn’t agreed to give our marriage another chance I would have abducted you.’


  Her eyes rounded in disbelief. ‘Are you serious?’

  Above her head, Rashad was trying not to smile. Nothing would have persuaded him to let her go. He bent his handsome dark head and his even white teeth gently grazed the tiny pulse point just below one soft feminine ear lobe. She shivered helplessly, warmth pooling in the pit of her tummy.

  ‘Are you?’ she repeated less evenly.

  ‘I told you I wouldn’t let you go in London.’

  Cooler air brushed her breasts as he undid her wrap and stripped it gently down over her arms. She stood naked and captivated in the circle of his arms. He explored the sensitive peaks of her pouting breasts with a carnal skill that left her vibrating with quivering response against him. ‘We only got up an hour ago,’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s hard work being my favourite concubine,’ Rashad intoned thickly.

  ‘Is it?’ she contrived to ask jerkily as long fingers smoothed down over her stomach to flirt with the silvery fair curls at the apex of her thighs.

  ‘And when you signed up for the long haul of being a wife, the working conditions got much tougher. I hope you know how to stand up for your rights because I intend to take full advantage of having you within reach twenty-four hours a day.’

  A breathless giggle was her sole response to that assurance. The unpleasantness of that episode with Scott had shaken her up, but she had sent the cheque. Surely, since he’d got what he wanted, any photos he had would be returned to her at her mother’s address? Anyway, she might only have spent a week at the Palace of the Lions with Rashad, but she was happy. They’d never had the luxury of so much time together, and the more they were with each other, the less they wanted to be apart. She could see their reflections twinned in the mirror on the antique wardrobe. Her pale blond hair was bright as a banner against the darkness of his, her breasts wantonly bare beneath his bronzed hands. She thought she looked shameless. Shameless and fulfilled. With a certain indolent look in his gorgeous dark eyes, a particular note in his deep drawl, he could make her literally weak with longing. Her heart was pounding and her legs were trembling. She was leaning back against him to stay upright, wildly, dizzily conscious of his every caress.

  With an earthy groan of satisfaction, Rashad explored the lush damp heat at the heart of her body. Spinning her round, he curved his hands to the soft swell of her hips and hoisted her up onto the table behind her. Her lashes lifted, passion-glazed eyes flying wide with disconcertion on his lean, dark, intent face.

  ‘You’ll like it,’ Rashad growled in persuasion.

  Before she could react, he parted her soft mouth and probed its moist interior with an erotic thrust of his tongue in a move that was as provocative as it was effective. He opened her thighs and touched her in ways that left her alternately whimpering and breathless, barely able to contain the throbbing ache of hunger that possessed her. Only when he had pitched her to a tormented edge of need did he tilt her back and plunge into her. Raw excitement sent a wave of blinding pleasure splintering through Tilda, and then another and another, until she was sobbing with mindless delight.

  It was quite some time afterwards before she found voice and reason again. She was lying in bed where Rashad had carried her. At the high point of ecstasy she thought she might have screamed. Her face burned and she kept her eyes closed because she wasn’t quite ready to look him in the eye yet. Five years earlier it had been the very intensity of what he could make her feel that had put her so much on her guard with him. Letting go of those defences gave her a wonderful sense of freedom.

  A long taunting forefinger skimmed lazily down her spine. ‘You liked it a lot,’ Rashad husked, flipping her over and kissing her until she finally opened her eyes. ‘I liked it even more. You are as passionate as I, and I don’t have to restrain myself with you.’

  Tilda focused on his lean, strong face and brushed weak fingers along the sensual line of his beautiful masculine mouth. He was wild in bed and she was discovering that she really loved that lack of inhibition.

  His winged dark brows pleated in dismay and he drew back from her in a sudden movement. ‘I forgot to use a condom.’

  ‘Oh…well.’ Tilda gave a vague accepting twitch of a slim shoulder and immediately began picturing a miniature Rashad with serious dark eyes, or a tiny bustling version of Durra chattering at every step. Although conceiving so early in their marriage was not what she would have planned, she was conscious of a warm feeling of anticipation.

  Rashad studied her tautly. ‘I might have gotten you pregnant,’ he extended as though she might not have worked out that risk for herself.

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t be the end of the world, would it?’

  ‘You wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘No, if it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be. I like children.’

  His lean, darkly handsome face relaxed. He pulled her into his arms. ‘You’re amazing, but I shouldn’t think we have anything to worry about,’ he told her. ‘We’ve been here for a week. Would you like to go to Cannes for a while? I own a house there.’

  With a drowsy smile, Tilda rested her head on his shoulder. ‘If you like.’

  ‘Do you like?’

  ‘Hmm…’ she whispered, her eyes drifting shut, because she had decided that she would like anywhere as long as he was there with her.

  Four weeks later, their honeymoon, which had been extended twice, was almost over. They had enjoyed a lengthy sun-soaked stay at Rashad’s gloriously secluded estate in the South of France. He’d had been called away on business the day before. He was due back today, and Tilda was packing her jewellery in preparation for their departure later on. She was mentally taking note of the fact that once again her breasts felt a little tender. Her period was also ten days late. She had no intention of saying anything to Rashad until she had seen a doctor, but she suspected that she might have fallen pregnant. In fact, she was quite excited at the idea that she might already be carrying their first child and just a little worried that Rashad would be rather less enthusiastic.

  As Rashad was expected to father the next generation of royals, having a family would naturally have featured on their future agenda. But it was very early in their marriage for her to have conceived. Although she knew that Rashad would act as if it were the best news he had ever heard, even if he didn’t really feel that way, she was afraid that he would secretly regard a pregnant wife as a much less attractive option.

  Heaving a sigh, she studied herself in the mirror, striving to imagine how she would look with a bigger bosom, no waist and a large tummy. Being of a practical disposition, Tilda scolded herself for agonising over what could not be changed. He wasn’t in love with her and she knew it would be silly to try and pretend that that didn’t make a difference. Her looks and how active she could be in and out of bed had to be crucial factors in the continuing success of their relationship. There would be no more flying here, there and everywhere, whenever the fancy took them, and water-skiing or horse riding might be too taxing, as well. They both enjoyed such activities, but now she would have to take her exercise in moderation. Would he get bored with her then?

  In an abstracted mood she studied the glittering brilliance of a diamond bracelet. Rashad’s most recent gift, it was as stylish as her engagement ring. She had also acquired a necklace and earrings. He had given her some gorgeous pieces. He was wonderfully generous. It was as though nothing pleased him more than pleasing her. Reminding herself of that truth, she walked out to the shaded terrace and sat down on a comfortable seat.

  Beautiful mature gardens ran down to the beach. The estate also had an extensive stable. Tilda had never learned to ride, but Rashad and his family were horse-mad. He had coaxed Tilda out of her nerves and up onto the back of a doe-eyed mare. Able to relax on a horse that had only one speed-plodding-she had gone riding on the beach with him every morning. Well, she had plodded and watched him galloping very glamorously through the surf. He was a keen amateur polo player and he looked amazingly sexy on a horse.<
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  Most evenings they had eaten out, dining everywhere from the grand restaurants in Cannes to the terraces below the palm trees. His reserve was fading fast. He was talking to her a lot more, teasing her more easily, as well. Their relationship had changed since that ghastly business over the file had come out into the open. More and more she was seeing the guy who had stolen her heart five years earlier.

  Occasional arguments disturbed the peace and were usually settled in bed. Rashad was very energetic, very passionate and very stubborn. He had a will of iron and a naturally forceful personality. He was always going to be bossy. He was always going to think he knew best about most things. What was infuriating was how often he was right. She was totally, absolutely in love with him, she acknowledged dizzily.

  ‘Tilda?’ Rashad strode out onto the terrace, looking spectacularly handsome in a lightweight beige suit. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were back. I was enjoying the view.’ Tilda registered that his lean bronzed features were unusually grave.

  ‘Would you come inside? We have to talk,’ Rashad told her.

  Tilda got up slowly and smoothed down her skirt with uncertain hands. She had a tight, nervous feeling in her tummy. ESP was telling her that something was wrong, seriously wrong. She entered the room that Rashad used as an office. He lounged back against the edge of the desk, brilliant dark eyes resting reflectively on her.

  ‘You know, for some reason, I feel like a misbehaving kid called into the headmaster’s office,’ Tilda confided tightly.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Rashad murmured gently.

  Tilda sat down, but her back stayed poker-straight, because she knew she was not imagining the tense atmosphere.

  ‘I’m going to ask you something and I would like you to be honest. What is your opinion of me as a husband?’

  Tilda blinked and then opened her eyes very wide. ‘S-seriously?’ she stammered.