The Desert Prince's Mistress (9 page)

D
ARIAN
sat back against the leather seat of the car as it silently and powerfully sped towards the airfield, his mind spinning with thoughts which seemed just too incredible to be true.

Beside him sat Khalim, and in the front, next to the driver, a burly man whose bulk made his position as bodyguard to the Sheikh unmistakable.

Lara had elected to travel in the second car, hastily reassuring Khalim that she would be happy to do so. I bet she is, thought Darian grimly. Deceiving and conniving little Mata Hari! He had read of women who used their sexuality to try to get close to a man, to sensuously make them let their guard down before blowing their lives into smithereens, but he had foolishly imagined that kind of woman to have no place in the contemporary world.

How very wrong he had been!

He felt the jab of fury combined with the hot thrust of lust, but he steadfastly put all thoughts of Miss Lara Black out of his mind. She wasn’t going anywhere—or at least nowhere that he wasn’t going—and he would deal with her when the time was right. For now, his head was too full of thoughts which sounded more like the plot for some fantastic story. But facts were facts—however incredible—and this was no story, it was his life.

He was going to Maraban! To a mountain kingdom to which, it seemed, he was linked by birth. And through all his anger and confusion he felt the stir of something within him, some soft blaze of an emotion he did not recognise.

He turned to look at Khalim, who had been sitting si
lently at his side, managing to be both alert and yet relaxed—as though there was little in this world which surprised him, and maybe there wasn’t. For wouldn’t life as ruler of a country such as Maraban present all kinds of dilemmas and problems which a normal man would never encounter in his lifetime?

‘You don’t seem angry,’ observed Darian quietly.

Khalim turned to him, a wry look on his dark and shadowed face. ‘Why would I waste my time being angry about what exists?’ he murmured. ‘That would be like being angry because it was raining, or because…’ He seemed to search for some analogy which the Western man would understand. ‘Because the horse you had placed your last dollar on had broken its leg before the big race!’

For the first time Darian smiled. ‘I am not a betting man.’

‘No? You do not gamble on luck and on fortune?’

‘I don’t gamble on anything.’ And it was true. Gambling was precarious, and Darian had spent his life avoiding the precarious. He made things certain wherever it was possible, and for that you needed something far more tangible than luck. Simple, really. If you worked hard and used all your brains and initiative and imagination then you would reap the benefit of that.

Yet Khalim possessed untold, almost unimaginable wealth, Darian acknowledged as he glanced around the car. This vehicle was bullet-proofed, he recognised, and modified for the man it carried—as different from even a rich man’s car as cheap plonk was from vintage champagne.

‘We’re here,’ said Khalim shortly, as the car pulled into the airfield, and Darian saw a gleaming jet sitting there, the tiny emblem of a small flag on its tail golden and rose-pink and a deep sapphire-blue. Blue, like her eyes, he thought bitterly. Like her lying and cheating eyes.

Lara stepped out of the other car, seeing the two tall,
dark figures emerge. Already she felt an outsider—she, who had known Khalim for years now, felt peculiarly isolated as she saw the two men standing together. As if they belonged and she didn’t. Or was that just her imagination working overtime, as usual?

But then Darian turned to look at her, and she felt her heart sink. How could such a warm and rich and vibrant colour as gold be transmuted into something so cold and threatening? But gold
was
like that, she reminded herself. The colour was warm, but the metal itself was cold—and since time had begun men had died in the pursuit of the costly and elusive treasure.

She shivered, hugging her coat tightly around her, though she knew that the garment would be redundant once they were in the soft, scented heat of Maraban.

As she stared back at Darian, a wave of longing and regret washed over her. Except that she had nothing to regret, did she? Not really—for the man she yearned for was nothing more than an idealised figment of her imagination. True, he had been passion personified…until afterwards…Remember
that,
she told herself fiercely. Afterwards he had been as cold as the gold of his eyes.

She had lost nothing because there had been nothing between them to lose, other than a brief and beautiful encounter on his leather sofa. A man who respected you and had feelings for you did not take you straight home after such an encounter and then not bother ringing you!

Darian was smiling at her now, but it didn’t seem like a smile at all—more like a grim declaration of intent to pay her back for what he undoubtedly saw as her deceit and betrayal.

And Lara had a pretty good idea of how he was intending to extract that payment.

Well, tough, she thought, with a defiant return of some of her fighting spirit. If you think you’re going to repeat
that physically satisfying but ultimately soulless encounter, then you can think again, Mr Half-Brother-to-the-Sheikh.

So why was it that her stupid heart ached with sadness for what might have been?

Yet the reminder of his cavalier behaviour made her feel better in some perverse kind of way, and she even managed to flash a friendly smile at him as they made their way up the wind-buffeted steps to the aeroplane, only to be met with a tight-lipped glower in return.

The flight was long, but supremely comfortable, and Lara unexpectedly found her eyelashes fluttering to a close. Oh, thank heavens, she thought muzzily as she drifted off to sleep. The last thing she could have endured was Darian’s simmering disapproval for six hours!

Darian watched her, saw the way her breasts rose and fell, outlined by the soft pink silk dress that she had changed into. She had been wearing jeans and a tee-shirt, but once the decision to fly to Maraban had been made she had opted for flowing, flattering, more feminine clothes—and she seemed to look at home in them, even here on the aircraft.

He glanced around him. He had flown by private jet a couple of times in his life, but nothing to match this; this aircraft was a curious mixture of the very modern and the very old.

Inside the state-of-the-art plane there were lavish silken cushions to recline on, and mint tea and and sparkling water flavoured subtly with oranges was brought to them by two very beautiful stewardesses who were unmistakably Western.

Khalim waved his hand towards the proffered tray. ‘You would prefer whisky, perhaps? Or wine? My culture forbids the use of alcohol, but you are my guest and you must choose what you will.’

Darian shook his head. ‘No, thanks. I never drink when I’m flying, and I’ve made it a rule always to follow the customs of wherever I happen to be.’

‘When in Rome?’ Khalim laughed softly.

Darian laughed back. ‘Or when in Maraban, in this case!’

The joke broke some of the tension and an air of ease settled down between the two men.

The blonde stewardess offered Darian a small dish of pistachio nuts.

‘Thanks,’ he murmured as he took a couple, automatically registering the sideways glance she gave him, and the way that her uniform clung to her tight and luscious curves.

As she wiggled her way out of the cabin Khalim turned to him. ‘She is very beautiful, yes?’

‘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!