The Desert Prince's Mistress

by Sharon Kendrick

  ‘And men don’t?’

  ‘Not really. Men are more interested in the here and now—women like to discover how we got to it.’

  ‘Because?’

  Now she spoke from the heart. ‘Because our history is what defines us all and makes us who we are.’

  Darian’s senses would usually have been put on alert at the turn the conversation had taken, but he was lulled by the sudden passion in her voice, by the blue fire which sparked from those long-lashed eyes. She was thoughtful and insightful, not what he had been expecting at all, and the unexpectedness coupled with the novelty made his habitual guard slip a little.

  ‘My history isn’t a particularly exciting one.’

  She heard the brittle note which edged his voice, and part of her wanted to back off. But she couldn’t. This wasn’t just some prurient interest, some woman on the make, chipping away at the formidable exterior to find out what had made the man beneath. This was serious stuff.

  ‘Isn’t that subjective?’ she queried. ‘Everyone else’s past always seems more interesting than your own—just like other people’s relationships always seem to be made in heaven. When you’re looking from the outside you don’t see all the imperfections; you just get an idea of the bigger picture.’

  She was right, of course—and her reference to relationships didn’t go unnoticed, either.

  ‘There’s no man in your life?’ he asked suddenly.

  Lara stared at him. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘That’s a very personal question,’ she protested, feeling her cheeks grow pink beneath the piercing scrutiny of his stare.

  ‘You think you have the monopoly on personal questions, do you, Lara?’

  ‘Of course I don’t—and the reason there’s no man in my life is simply because there isn’t.’ She threw him a challenging look. ‘I don’t need a partner to define me!’

  ‘How very refreshing,’ he murmured.

  Lara’s fork chased a piece of rocket round the plate. ‘So, where were you born?’ she questioned casually.

  ‘London.’

  ‘Big place.’

  ‘Nowhere you’ve probably ever visited.’ He named one of the city’s most run-down areas and watched carefully for her response, noting the instinctive little frown which pleated her forehead. ‘You’re surprised,’ he observed.

  ‘Well…’ For once in her life she was lost for words. ‘I guess I am, a little.’

  ‘Because it’s reputed to be the birthplace of gangsters?’ His words were dipped in caustic irony. ‘Or maybe you think that if someone’s born in a place like that then they stay there—is that it?’

  She shook her head a little. ‘No…no, that’s not what I meant at all. It’s just difficult to imagine you being…poor, that’s all.’

  ‘Is it?’ The dark lashes came down to shutter his eyes. He looked like a lion, Lara thought. The way a lion looked when you thought that it was asleep, only to discover that it was garnering all its energy to pounce. Lots of men tried to pounce on her, and usually it made her recoil, but Darian Wildman was a different propositon entirely. The lashes parted again and the golden light from his eyes washed over her.

  ‘For a woman who eats whatever is put in front of her, you aren’t managing very well tonight,’ he mused.

  ‘I’m not very hungry,’ she confessed, wondering if this deliberate change of subject meant that she should now withhold her line of questioning. But somehow the questions no longer seemed important—not when he was looking at her like that.

  ‘Me neither.’ He wondered if her lack of appetite was rooted in the same reason as his own. He held her gaze, saw the way her lips parted, and knew that she didn’t want to be here any more than he did. He felt another short stab of desire. ‘Which makes ordering pudding a complete waste of time, don’t you think?’

  She nodded, but a feeling of disappointment threatened to well up and spill over. Was he bored and wanting out? Had she overstepped the mark with her intrusive line of questioning? And where did she go from here?

  The golden eyes glittered and his dark, lean body was very still. ‘Are you tired?’

  Lara stared at him as something in his voice told her that the evening was not yet over. Yet the implication behind his question made her tense just as surely as it made her body begin a slow, irresistible flower into life.

  This is dangerous, she heard a voice inside her head warning her, but she ignored it. ‘Not really,’ she said, as though she couldn’t care less one way or the other.

  ‘Then why don’t we continue this fascinating discussion back at my place? You can enjoy one of the finest views over London while I give you…’ He paused, his voice lingering deliberately. ‘Coffee.’ The golden eyes glittered, and dazzled her with their precious fire. ‘What do you say, Lara?’

  It was what they called a loaded question, and the unmistakable air of sensuality he exuded warned her that a wise woman would thank him politely and say no. If lion he was, then why be foolish enough to walk meekly into his den?

  But she might not get this chance again, and here he was offering opportunity on a plate. She reassured herself that he was far too sophisticated to do something as crass as leaping on her if she didn’t want him to. The only thing she had to fear was the fact that she did want him to.

  Miraculously, she kept the excited tremor from her voice. ‘Sounds good,’ she said carefully.

  ‘Then I’ll get the bill,’ he said, equally carefully, and his eyes narrowed.

  For once, he hadn’t expected it to be quite so easy.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘OH, IT’S beautiful,’ said Lara softly. She leaned over the balcony and gazed out. The mist of earlier had cleared, and now the lights of the city sparkled like precious gems against the navy velvet of the night sky. ‘Just beautiful.’

  Darian eased the cork from a bottle of wine and watched the way the breeze ruffled her dark silken hair, so that it fluttered behind her like a banner. ‘Yes,’ he agreed slowly.

  For once he had been wrong—imagining it would take more than a little persuasion to get her to come back here with him tonight. The prickle of anticipation he had felt—that here was a woman who might make him fight a little—had been replaced by the much more familiar feeling of slightly jaded anticipation, but not jaded enough to stem the rising tide of desire.

  ‘Some wine?’ he drawled.

  Lara turned round. He had removed his jacket and he looked relaxed, almost domesticated. Behind him, the brightly illuminated room looked like the stage-set of a play, with he the hero of the piece.

  Or the villain.

  Her heart thudded. ‘I thought you promised me coffee?’

  ‘I did. But how about a little wine first? You hardly drank a thing in the restaurant.’

  A faintly bored note came into his voice, as if her inference that he was trying to push alcohol on her was offensive.

  ‘But I’ll go and make coffee if you’d prefer.’

  ‘No. Actually, I’d love some wine,’ she said truthfully. Perhaps wine might make her stop feeling like a woman who had never been invited into a man’s home before. She wasn’t such an innocent! She crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed them up and down her bare arms. ‘Brrrr! It’s freezing.’

  ‘Go inside. Make yourself at home.’

  She felt his eyes on her as she made her way back into a sitting room which was a byword for luxury. This was crazy, she thought. She had spent her life being watched, sometimes on stage and sometimes by the camera, and usually she managed it with aplomb—easily becoming the person the director wanted her to be.

  And maybe that was the problem here—that she was being herself. Only she was discovering an unwelcome and unfamilar nervousness in the company of a man who intrigued and attracted and disturbed her, compounded by what she had read in the letter.

  Darian followed her into the room, tipping just a tiny amount of the rich red wine into two crystal glasses while she sat down
primly on one of the giant leather sofas.

  He noticed the way she pressed her knees tightly together as he handed her the glass. Did she always do this? he wondered. Send out such beguiling and conflicting messages? She had agreed very quickly—too quickly—to come home with him, and there was a not-so-subtle subtext to deals like that. If you didn’t want a man to make a pass at you, then you did not go back to his apartment late at night on a first date.

  Darian was used to knowing the score. To women quickly and blatantly letting him know that they wanted him. It happened so frequently that it was just par for the course, as natural as breathing for him—he had never had to fight for a woman in his life, though sometimes he had idly wondered what it might be like to have to do so.

  He was instinctive enough to know that the attraction between he and Lara was mutual, but only up to a point. Because now there was a wariness about her, almost a shyness, which seemed to contradict her innate sensuality. And mystery and contradictions were always fascinating, he acknowledged with a slow ache of awareness as he sat down on the sofa—just far enough away not to threaten her, but close enough to smell the soft scent of lilac which drifted from her pale skin. Close enough to touch…

  Lara sipped her drink, but her throat felt tight and she had to force down a mouthful of the smooth, rich wine. ‘Lovely,’ she remarked politely.

  ‘So where were we?’ He put his glass down on the coffee table and half turned to look at her, a small smile playing around the edges of his mouth. ‘Ah, yes, your tender heart was melting at the thought of my underprivileged upbringing.’

  With a shaky hand she put her glass down next to his. ‘Don’t make fun of me.’

  ‘Is that what I was doing?’ he murmured.

  ‘That or patronising me,’ she answered quietly. ‘You don’t have to talk about your childhood if you don’t want to.’

  Liar! Liar! But her words had exactly the desired effect. By telling him he didn’t have to talk, he immediately began to relax—although had she known that on some deep, gut-level? That here was a man who would not be forced into telling anything about himself—and the only way to get information about him was to appear not to care?

  ‘And poor doesn’t mean unhappy,’ she continued coaxingly.

  He gave a low, mocking laugh. ‘That’s the fairytale version, spoken with the voice of someone who has absolutely no idea what material deprivation is like.’

  ‘You can’t know that!’ she protested.

  ‘True,’ he agreed. ‘But I’m right, aren’t I?’ The golden eyes flickered over her lazily. ‘Let me guess—you grew up in the country? A stable family life with brothers and sisters? Fresh air and exercise and three meals a day? A pony in the stable and dogs barking when you came home from school?’

  Lara froze, then swallowed, and the tiptoeing of fear began to shiver its way down her spine. ‘That’s…that’s bizarre. Well, except for the brothers bit—I have two sisters and they are much older. And my father was away a lot. But the rest is correct.’ Her blue eyes were as big as saucers as she looked at him. ‘How could you possibly have known?’

  ‘About the country?’ Some things you didn’t need to be told. He reached his hand out and lightly touched her cheek. ‘It’s written all over you. Skin like this wasn’t made in a city.’

  Was that a trace of wistfulness in his voice, or was she imagining it? ‘W-wasn’t it?’

  ‘No.’ He let one of his fingers drift over skin that felt like satin. ‘You’re a real milk and honey girl!’

  Lara found the compliment shockingly satisfying—almost as gratifying as the all too brief contact when he had touched her, making her want him to touch her again. She shook her head slightly, trying to remember why she was here.

  ‘Very good. Ten out of ten,’ she said lightly. ‘Your turn now.’

  ‘Isn’t this supposed to be a guessing game?’ he mocked.

  ‘Well, I know you grew up in the city.’ Lara drew a deep breath and decided to go for broke. ‘I’d say that you are an only child and that your parents were…separated.’

  There was an odd pause. ‘Is it really that obvious?’ he questioned, and a slightly bitter note came into his voice. ‘Do I have one-parent family written all over me?’

  Lara felt guilty, but she managed not to show it. ‘Not at all,’ she said hastily. ‘It’s more a case of working things out from the information available. Putting bits in, like a jigsaw. The area you mentioned doesn’t really conjure up a cosy family scene, with roses round the door.’

  ‘As opposed to the image of a mother who was hard-pressed to put food into her hungry child’s mouth?’

  ‘Is that what it was like?’ she whispered, horrified.

  ‘Not quite,’ he commented sarcastically. ‘But I should hate to puncture the little bubble-picture you’ve invented in your head!’

  ‘Now you are making fun of me.’

  ‘I thought that all women liked to be teased?’

  He was making her feel gauche and unsophisticated. And she didn’t like his constant references to what ‘women’ liked—it made her feel one in an endless line of them—which, when she stopped to think about it, she probably was. But this isn’t about you, Lara, she reminded herself—it’s about him. And Maraban. ‘But you were poor?’ she questioned bluntly.

  His eyes grew flinty. ‘Do you want me to give you a breakdown of our weekly finances?’

  She heard the distaste in his voice, and she didn’t blame him—her questions were crossing over the line between good taste and bad, and unless she gave him some kind of explanation she couldn’t possibly keep on asking them. What on earth was she going to do? Tell him, or tell Khalim first?

  ‘You’re right. I’m sorry—I was just being nosy. Don’t worry, I won’t ask any more.’

  Darian studied her, noting the way her blue eyes were suddenly looking haunted. The vulnerable little tremor of her lips made him want to kiss them. ‘You know, you really are very sweet, Lara,’ he said softly.

  A pain stabbed at her heart. What would he say if he knew? And how could she suddenly just blurt it out— Darian, I am almost certain that you are the illegitimate brother of the Sheikh of Maraban?

  ‘I am not sweet,’ she contradicted, and bit her lip.

  ‘And so modest, too,’ he teased. ‘Now, don’t frown. Relax.’ Casually, he reached out to capture a handful of her hair, and began to trickle his fingers through the silky curls so that they touched and tickled the back of her neck. ‘Relax,’ he whispered softly.

  ‘Darian, don’t,’ she said weakly.

  A woman didn’t cross and uncross her legs in quick succession and then wriggle her head back into your hand if she meant don’t.

  ‘Don’t what?’ He moved closer, moved his hands from her neck to her shoulderblades. ‘You’re tense,’ he exclaimed softly, and began to gently massage the tight flesh. ‘Very, very tense.’

  If only he knew why! ‘This…this isn’t such a good idea—’

  ‘What isn’t? A simple massage? I’m very good at it, you know.’ His fingers continued to knead away, lulling her into a dreamy and hypnotic state. ‘Relax, Lara—if you don’t like it, then I’ll stop.’

  Which made it even worse. He was giving her a let-out. The decision was completely in her hands. She could stop him whenever she wanted to, and she should stop him now. Except that she did like it; that was the trouble. She liked it a lot. It’s only a massage, she told herself dreamily.

  ‘Is that good?’ he whispered.

  Helplessly, she closed her eyes. ‘I, oh…yes.’ The decision wasn’t in her hands at all, she realised—he had all the power.

  ‘Why not lie down?’ he suggested. ‘You’ll be more comfortable that way.’

  It was, after all, only a massage. She tried to tell herself that as he was gently pushing her back against the sofa. But the word ‘push’ implied force, and there was no force involved—merely a delicious compliance as she sank down onto the leather, her cheek resti
ng on its soft surface, her eyelids fluttering to a close.

  Darian worked on her neck and her shoulders, gradually feeling some of the tension released by the rhythmical movement of his fingertips. ‘Is that better?’

  ‘It’s…heaven,’ she mumbled.

  It felt pretty good from where he was sitting, too. A little too good. Darian shifted his body slightly as the tight-ness easing away from her body was replaced by a growing tension in his own.

  Lara’s limbs felt as fluid as water, her blood as thick as warm honey, and the pulse-points around her body began to deepen and speed. She could feel their slow and relentless pounding in her temple, her wrists, and somewhere deep in her groin. This is sheer craziness, she told herself. But she couldn’t move; she didn’t want it to end.

  He heard her sigh, and his hard mouth glimmered in a brief smile, his eyes drifting over the tight, firm curve of her bottom.

  ‘Am I sending you to sleep?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ she murmured drowsily, knowing that was only half the story.

  ‘Then I’d better stop. We can’t have that.’

  He took his hands away. ‘Oh!’ Lara whispered disappointedly.

  ‘Turn over,’ came the soft command.

  Somehow she managed to, even though her body felt so deliciously lethargic that it took all her energy.

  Her hair was all mussed, her cheeks pink and flushed, and behind her half-hooded eyelids her blue eyes glittered hectically. He read in them self-doubt and utter confusion and, almost without intending to, dipped his head and brushed a featherlight kiss over her lips, felt her shiver in response.

  ‘Darian—’

  ‘Shh.’ He kissed her again.

  This was dangerous. The brush of his lips was barely there and then gone again, only to return. Tiny, butterfly kisses which coaxed and maddened. ‘Oh,’ she murmured instinctively.

  His mouth smiled against hers, and this time his lips stayed longer, teasing and caressing until hers opened beneath his and her arms came up to wind around his neck, like tendrils of ivy clinging to sun-warmed brick.

  ‘Darian—’