DEAR READER LETTER

By Sharon Kendrick

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

She should pull away and ask him to take her home.

So why was she doing nothing to stop him when he ran the flat of his hand down over one breast and then back again?

Because she couldn’t, that was why.

Two flares of color ran along each aristocratic cheekbone, and at that moment Darian looked pure Marabanese, with all the accompanying pride and arrogance of that desert ancestry.

Yet his hard mouth had been softened by her kisses, so that for one second he looked unexpectedly vulnerable. It was like having a certain twitch and seeing behind it a glimpse of a man you dared not dream existed. A man with softness beneath the hard polished exterior, making him utterly irresistible. And with something approaching shock, Lara realized that she wanted him now, no matter what the consequences.

He’s proud, passionate, primal—dare she surrender to the sheikh?

Feel warm desert winds blowing through your hair, and experience hot sexy nights with a handsome, irresistible sheikh. If you love our heroes of the sand, look for more stories in this enthralling miniseries, coming soon.

Available only from Harlequin Presents®

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

The Desert Prince’s Mistress
Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Sarah and David Nicholson,

Wilf and Hubie,

who always provide a place

of chaos and fun in Winchester!

CONTENTS

Cover

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IN HER hands she held dynamite.

Not real dynamite but something equally explosive, and Lara’s fingers trembled as she looked down at the letter.

Above her head, the magnificent and ornate chandeliers of the Maraban Embassy threw glittering diamonds of light down onto the sheet of paper, and Lara stared at it, knowing that this letter held information which could change the lives of so many.

If it was true.

Lara swallowed, wondering if she should have opened it in the first place—but wasn’t that part of her job, as demanded by her temporary role as secretary, to open the post? A job which up until about ten minutes ago had seemed as perfect as a fill-in job could possibly be. Her recent appointment had been a blessing for the Embassy, because their usual employee was off sick, and a blessing for her, too—since work hadn’t exactly been thick on the ground recently. As a model and actress she had been ‘resting’ so much that lately she’d wondered why she even bothered getting out of bed in the morning.

The letter was written in a slightly wavery style, though whether that was due to the age of its author or to the emotional impact of the contents, Lara didn’t know. The letter was also dated over two years ago, but somebody had obviously only recently posted it for it to have arrived just this morning.

Could it be a forgery? She supposed it could.

She read it again, slowly, taking in each incredible word.

To whom it may concern.

I wish to inform you that my son, Darian Wildman, is the progeny of the late Sheikh Makim, Monarch of Maraban. The Sheikh was unaware that he had a child outside wedlock, and indeed Darian himself has no idea of the identity of his true father. By the time you read this I will be dead, but I could not go to my grave taking with me a secret as powerful as this.

Below is my son’s address. I therefore give you this information with my blessing, to do with what you will.

Yours

Joanna Wildman.

Beneath the woman’s signature was the name ‘Darian Wildman’, and beneath that an address. A business address in London.

Shakily, Lara put the piece of paper back into the envelope. This was dramatic stuff. But then she had learned that drama and intrigue were part and parcel of anything to do with Maraban. Her best friend Rose had married Prince Khalim of Maraban, and through her Lara had caught glimpses of a life so very different from her own.

If someone else had opened such a letter what might they have done? Destroyed it and then forgotten about it? For didn’t the existence of an unknown brother pose a threat to Khalim and his country? He might be older than Khalim and try to overthrow him.

Even thinking such thoughts they sounded far-fetched inside her own head, but they were not—they were true. For the mountain kingdom of Maraban inspired deep and dark passions which went hand in hand with its beauty and its turbulent history.

Slowly Lara rose to her feet, startled by her reflection in the beautiful looking-glass which hung over the huge fireplace. She looked so pale. Almost frightened. As if she had seen a ghost. But in a way maybe she had. Not seen a ghost, but learned about one.

Prince Khalim had a brother!

Oh, why hadn’t someone else opened the letter? Then she would not have found herself in this awful dilemma of having information and not knowing what to do with it.

It would be so simple if the Prince wasn’t married to Rose, but he was. Whether or not she liked it, she was involved, and that involvement had begun the moment her startled blue eyes had alighted on the stark words contained in the letter.

Lara stared out at the grey autumnal day, at the London traffic which moved slowly by, its sound muted by the thick bullet-proof windows, and thought once more about her friend.

Sometimes it still seemed incredible that Rose was now a princess and living in Maraban, with Khalim ruling at her side. Rose had been an ordinary girl, just like Lara herself—and yet look what had happened to her. Even now it still seemed like a fairy story that hadn’t really happened.

Except that it had happened.

Just as this letter had been written and Lara had opened it.

It could be a lie. It could be a forgery. The author of the letter could be completely mad. A blackmailer. A potential assassin. Anything.

So what did she do?

Did she get on the phone to Rose and tell her that her husband could have an illegitimate brother?

But Rose was pregnant again. Think what the shock might do to her.

Should she go to the Ambassador? But surely that would amount to the same thing—the first thing he would do would be to contact Khalim and tell him.

Still the thoughts continued to spin round and round in her head, unchecked until a solution occurred to her which was so blindingly simple she wondered why it had taken her so long to think of it.

What if she—Lara—went and found this Darian Wildman and sussed him out for herself? Almost as if she were sounding out the suitability of a would-be boyfriend.

Lara tucked the envelope into her handbag. If he was a good man then she would feel duty-bound to tell Rose and Khalim about him.

And if he wasn’t?

Then she could destroy the letter and no one would be any the wiser.

Her heart pounded. Maybe she was being too simplistic, and playing God with information which had fallen into her hands quite by chance. And yet Khalim himself always said that nothing in life happened by chance, that everything happened for a reason. Only he called it something else. Lara racked her brain while she tried to remember what it was, and then she nodded.

Predestination. Yes, that was it. Predestination. Perhaps she had been meant to open the letter and to take the matter into her own hands.

Her mind drifted over the name. Darian Wildman. An intriguing name and an intriguing situation. She would find him. And see for herself just what kind of man he was.

But Lara’s heart was beating very fast as she picked up the telephone and asked for Directory Enquiries.

Her thoughts were still reeling when she let herself into her apartment that evening to find Jake, her flatmate, cooking a fiery-looking concoction of curry.

He looked up and smiled as she walked into the sitting room and threw her coat down on the sofa. ‘I was about to ask if you’d had a hard day at the Embassy,’ he joked. ‘But judging from the look on your face I’d say it was a pretty redundant question. What’s up, Lara? Has someone threatened to overthrow the Prince?’

‘Shut up, Jake!’ Lara bit her lip as the tight knot of tension somewhere in the pit of her stomach made itself known. ‘Any chance of a drink?’

‘Coming up—though I must say it’s a little early for you, isn’t it?’ He slopped red wine into two glasses and handed her one, a slight frown creasing his brow. ‘So what’s up really?’

Lara sipped her wine thoughtfully, feeling the warmth flood through her, momentarily dissolving the sense of panic and trepidation she felt. Jake Haddon was the perfect flatmate—indeed, to almost every woman with a pulse he was the perfect man, full-stop. The darling of the British stage and screen, with his long legs and lazy charm and the lock of hair which flopped so endearingly over one of his soulful eyes and which had women itching to smooth it away for him. She had worked with him once but had never fancied him, which was fortunate given that he was now sharing her flat. He had moved in as a temporary measure, when he had been between homes and then had liked it so much that he’d never bothered moving out again. It felt like home, he told her.

And Lara didn’t mind a bit. He was sweet and intelligent and trustworthy—even if he did sometimes tease her about Maraban and her friendship with its ruling family—yet, deep down, she knew she could not possibly confide in him about the letter, or her worries about the effect it might have on Khalim. He simply wouldn’t take it seriously. In fact, sometimes she wondered if he ever took anything seriously.

But he was resourceful, she knew that—far more resourceful than she felt in this weird, jittering state of having discovered something momentous and not having a clue about what to do with that discovery.

‘Jake?’

‘Lara?’

‘Just say…just say you wanted an introduction to someone and all you knew was the place where they worked—how would you go about meeting them?’

He batted his outrageously long lashes. ‘This is a man, I take it?’

‘Er, yes. How did you guess?’

‘I know women,’ said Jake smugly. ‘And you have that kind of secretive, bursting excitement kind of look which immediately tells me that it’s something to do with a member of the opposite sex. Am I right?’

That might be the easiest way to explain it, surely? Jake wouldn’t ask too many questions if he thought she had a simple crush on a man.

‘Sort of,’ she prevaricated.

‘Another actor?’ he hazarded.

Lara shuddered. ‘You know I’d sooner walk into a pit of deadly snakes than get involved with an actor!’

‘Why, thanks,’ he said wryly.

‘You know what I mean, Jake.’

‘Yeah, sure. Feckless commitment-phobes with fickle hearts—that’s us actors!’ He drank some wine and then gave the pot another stir. ‘So who is he?’

Lara had been doing her homework. ‘A businessman.’

‘Successful?’

‘I…think so.’ The company was in Darian Wildman’s name, which meant that he was successful, surely?

Jake’s eyes narrowed. ‘You haven’t met him?’

‘Er, no.’

‘Curiouser and curiouser. What happened? You saw him at a party and were smitten, decided he was the man for you, but before you could do anything about it he’d left, yes? So you asked around a bit, found out his name, and now you’re hot on his heels, pursuing him?’

‘It was nothing like that,’ Lara said weakly. ‘And it’s far too complicated to explain. I just want a chance to meet him, that’s all.’

Jake threw a handful of coriander into the pot. ‘Phone his office.’

‘On what pretext?’

‘Make something up! You’re an enterprising woman, Lara—and you’re an actress! Play it by ear—and once you’re standing in front of him I am sure he will be completely dazzled by your wild dark hair and amazing blue eyes. The rest, as they say, is up to you!’

Lara finished her wine and held her glass out for a refill, studiously ignoring Jake’s look of surprise—she rarely drank more than one, but tonight she felt she needed it. Could it be that simple? But why not? After all, what did she have to lose? She wasn’t saying that you could know everything you needed to know about a person in one short meeting, but surely it would tell her whether he seemed a decent kind of man. And it would make up her mind whether she told him what she had discovered.

Or whether Khalim should hear about it first.

‘That’s very good thinking, Jake,’ she said slowly. ‘Very good thinking. I’ll give it a go.’

‘I don’t know why you should sound so amazed!’ he said drily. ‘Just because I’m known for my boyish good looks doesn’t mean that I don’t have a few brain cells rattling around inside my head. Now, stop acting like I’m your servant and go and measure out some rice—that’s if you want to eat this side of Christmas!’

She laughed and began to help him—he was so easy to get on with, but she knew deep down that was only because she didn’t fancy him, nor he her. If she had, or he had, then their no-effort compatibility simply wouldn’t exist. It wasn’t that Lara was a cynic where men were concerned; she just preferred to think of herself as someone who was realistic.

They ate supper and watched a video of one of Jake’s films, while he tore his own performance to pieces. In fact, Lara’s resolve not to think any more about the situation lasted all the way until bedtime, but then she lay sleepless, looking at the ceiling for a long time, while moon shadows danced before her eyes and doubts began to creep into her mind.

She had the strangest feeling she was courting danger, as if she was standing on top of a high cliff and preparing to walk over the edge into the unknown—an unknown far more scary than just her usual uncertainty about the future. But that was just her imagination, she told herself as she finally drifted off to sleep. All actresses were cursed with an excess of imagination.

And in the morning everything looked different—as it so often did. It was funny how daylight seemed to put everything into perspective. She told herself that she was being stupid and ridiculously melodramatic—as if unable to separate her working life from her real life. Except that when she stopped to think about it ‘real’ life had taken on a very different meaning ever since her friend had married into Maraban’s royal family!

Even Lara’s mother had been taken aback by it all, and she was fairly used to the bizarre. In the past, if Lara had telephoned blithely to say that she was appearing as a tomato on a commerical for a new brand of soup, her mother had been merely interested. Yet for once she had been lost for words when Lara had announced that she was being Rose’s bridesmaid when she married her prince, and would be wearing cloth of gold and a fortune in ancient jewellery for the day.

It had been easy enough to find the number of Wildman Phones, but not so easy to find the courage to dial the number, and when she did her nerve nearly failed her. But her drama training saved her. Pretend it’s a job, she told herself—and maybe in a way it was. If not a job, then a mission—to be a good friend to people she cared about.

She drew a deep breath. The only way to get past receptionists was not to sound nervous or diffident but to brazen it out. ‘Darian Wildman, please,’ she said smoothly, as if she had known him all her life.

‘I’m afraid that Mr Wildman is out of the office all day.’

Damn! Lara gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘That man! Why the hell didn’t he bother telling me? And he’s left a whole stack of important papers behind,’ she said, half to herself, then sighed and adopted a confidential one-woman-talking-to-another tone. ‘Do you know where he can be reached?’

There was the briefest of pauses. ‘Sure. He’s out casting all day. Let me see…yep! Hold on, I’ve got the address here—do you have a pen?’

The receptionist obviously wouldn’t have won any prizes for maintaining the privacy of her boss, thought Lara.

‘Fire away,’ she said calmly.

The receptionist rattled off an address in Golden Square, which Lara knew was right in the centre of London, just a breath away from Nelson’s Column.

‘What’s he doing there?’ Lara asked casually.

‘Oh, he’s been there all week—they’re casting to find the face of Wildman Phones,’ said the receptionist chattily. ‘Why? Are you an actress or a model?’

Lara’s heart gave a great leap in her chest, but she tried to keep the excitement from her voice. ‘Well, actually,’ she said, ‘yes, I am.’

CHAPTER TWO

THE taxi drew up outside a tall building which looked like an old warehouse—and that, thought Darian wryly, was precisely what it was. It was a dark, monstrous shell of a place which now housed the most modern of photographic studios.

‘Shall we go in now, Darian?’ asked the man by his side, his voice touched by a slight edge of anxiety.

Darian’s eyes had been shuttered, but now they widened by a fraction so that just a glint of gold light gleamed from between the thick black lashes. He turned to look at Scott Stratton, the head of an advertising agency known to be one of the best in the business—famous for its slick, award-winning campaigns and its ability to match client needs with consumer expectations. Or at least it had been up until now, when casting after casting had so far stubbornly refused to find the new face of Wildman Phones. Maybe Darian was being too choosy—an accusation which had been thrown at him often enough in the past—but he was certainly uncompromising, and he would not be satisfied until he found exactly what he was looking for. He just wasn’t sure quite what that was.

Or who.

‘Sure, Scott,’ he murmured. ‘I’m ready.’

Scott glanced at him. ‘Need anything? To make notes?’

Darian gave a glittering smile. ‘No, thanks. I won’t need them. I’ll know her when I see her.’

They walked into the building together, and stood in the chrome-walled reception area.

‘They’re all up there?’ asked Darian, jerking his dark head towards the spiral staircase which led up to the studio.

He spoke softly, but even so the two women who were busy flicking through the models’ cards at the far end of the room immediately stopped what they were doing and turned round to look at him, as if awaiting a command. But then, people always did that when they encountered him. Darian was used to it. They seemed to shrink to his will whenever he exerted it—and even when he didn’t.

‘Yeah,’ answered Scott. ‘Ready and waiting.’

‘Then bring on the parade,’ said Darian mockingly, putting his foot on the bottom rung of the staircase, faded denim straining over one taut, muscular thigh as he did so.

‘Er, not parade, Darian,’ corrected Scott. ‘If you say that they parade then that makes them sound a bit mindless, doesn’t it? Makes them sound as if they’re taking part in some second-rate beauty contest, and models are very sensitive about that kind of thing. Particularly in these politically correct days.’

Darian laughed and turned his head, and as he did so he heard the faint but unmistakable intake of breath from one of the secretaries as she looked at him. He was used to that, too. He guessed it was because his eyes were not run-of-the-mill that the fairer sex always seemed to get transfixed by them. When he was younger he had found the effect a little disconcerting, and later he had rather enjoyed it, but now he was so used to it as to feel nothing more than faint amusement. Another man might have used the power of those eyes more ruthlessly, but Darian did not. He had no need to.

‘Far be it from me to contradict you, Scott,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. ‘But, putting political correctness aside, surely a casting session is exactly like a beauty contest? Though admittedly not a second-rate one—not in this case—not if they’re going to be representing Wildman. Twenty females about to be assessed on their looks and their sex appeal—how else would you define it?’

‘But it isn’t just looks and sex appeal we’re searching for, is it?’ questioned Scott seriously. ‘Otherwise someone we’ve shown you already would surely have come up to standard?’ He sighed. ‘You’ve seen loads of beautiful women this week.’

‘You think I’m being too choosy?’ asked Darian.

Scott shrugged and then shook his head. ‘I admire your perfectionism, if you must know. Your search for that indefinable something or someone—a person who will embody everything you want to say about your company. I guess that’s the secret of your success. Am I right?’

Darian shrugged. ‘That’s part of it.’

But only part. Darian put a lot of his success down to a restless and relentless seeking nature. He never did anything long enough to get bored, because when you were bored all the freshness and enjoyment simply vanished. It was the same with relationships. Familiarity, in his experience, bred a tedium far more deadly than contempt.

He glanced at his watch. ‘Come on, then—let’s go.’

They made their way up the winding staircase towards the studio.

None of the people who worked for him knew yet that this advertising campaign was to be Darian’s swansong. First he would choose the perfect woman and with her face bombard the country with the name of his mobile phones to ensure maximum publicity.

Then he wanted out. He was planning to sell the company and walk away. To take the money and add it to the pile he had already made by selling previous successful companies, and look for yet another new challenge.

And then what? prompted a little voice in his head. Is that going to bring you happiness? Darian’s mouth curved into a sardonic smile, and he batted the thought away as if it had been a mildly troublesome fly. Men who sought happiness were doomed. Women, too. Success and achievement were far more tangible concepts than happiness as far as Darian was concerned.

They were almost at the top of the flight of steps when he heard Scott’s slightly muffled voice from behind him. ‘We should announce you, really, Darian—shouldn’t we?’

‘Well, you could, I suppose,’ said Darian lazily, but then he shook his head. ‘No, on second thoughts—don’t. Let’s surprise them.’

‘Sure?’

Unseen, Darian smiled. ‘Oh, perfectly sure,’ he said softly. ‘Women are always so much more interesting when you catch them unawares, don’t you think? You see them for what they really are, rather than what they want you to see.’

‘That sounds like a pretty harsh judgement,’ observed Scott. ‘I didn’t have you down for a cynic.’

Darian smiled again, but this time it barely curved his lips. ‘Not harsh at all,’ he said softly. ‘Nor cynical. Just an accurate assessment. Now, come on—let’s go.’ And as his dark head appeared in the lighted studio the whole room fell silent.

Lara was out of breath, her unruly hair looking even more tousled than usual. The denim jacket she wore was making her much too hot, but she didn’t want to spare the time to take it off. She waited for the bus to swish its way through the puddle past her, and then made a run for the door of the studio, glancing at her watch as she did so. Damn, damn and damn!

Her agent had been doubtful—sniffy, even—about putting Lara forward for the casting, but frantic questioning had assured her that, yes, there was a last vacant slot in the day’s casting for Wildman Phones.

‘Why the hell didn’t you put me forward for it in the first place?’ she had wailed.

Her agent had sounded incredulous. ‘Lara—the last time I saw you your hair was cropped and dark.’

‘But I was appearing in a Russian play!’ she’d protested. ‘It’s back to normal now!’

‘How normal is normal?’ her agent had enquired patiently. ‘You’re a brunette, lovie—and they’re looking for the archetypal English rose!’

‘Archetypal, not stereotypical!’ Lara had retorted. ‘There’s nothing in the rulebook to say an English rose can’t have dark hair!’

‘I suppose not,’ her agent had responded doubtfully.

Lara pushed the studio door open and a brief feeling of irony washed over her. English rose indeed! Clad in denim and a clinging black tee-shirt, anyone less fitting the description she had yet to see. But she reminded herself that she wasn’t really here to get the job. She was here to see the great man himself, that was all—and what better way to do that than legitimately?

The two women standing in the foyer looked her up and down.

‘Which way’s the casting?’ Lara squeaked.

One looked uncertain and the other gave a slightly smug smile as she jerked her thumb in the direction of the spiral staircase. ‘Up there. And you’re late,’ she added bluntly.

‘I know I am,’ moaned Lara, as she legged it up the steps.

The room was stifling, reeked of lots of different clashing perfumes, and was full of women. Correction—beautiful women. And every single one of them had taken to heart the English rose theme in a big, big way. Despite her nerves, Lara bit back a smile.

Some of them wore lace-trimmed blouses; others were resplendent in flower-sprigged high-necked dresses. There was even one woman clad in floor-length muslin who looked as if she would be more at home eating cucumber sandwiches on a quintessential English lawn, instead of packed into a crowded studio with a load of competitive peers.

And every woman in the room shared one unmistakable characteristic.

They were all blonde!

‘S-sorry!’ gulped Lara as each sleek golden head turned in her direction.

Then, just as quickly, the women turned away from her again, and it took a moment or two while she caught her breath for Lara to realise that they were now all looking at one person. Or, rather, one man.

Lara hadn’t noticed him at first, because he had been standing in the shadows in one corner of the room, but once she had seen him she wondered how on earth he could have escaped her attention—because he seemed to radiate a vitality which made everyone else in the room look as though they were only half-alive. She narrowed her eyes in his direction and felt her heart clench in her chest, as if an iron fist had crumpled it between cold, hard fingers.

‘I—I’m 1-late,’ she stammered.

‘Damn right you are,’ he agreed, in a silky murmur.

She kept her face composed—she never quite knew how she did it—not when she was feeling this faint and dizzy and weak—and surreptitiously snaked her tongue out over lips which had dried so thoroughly that she felt she would never be able to speak again.

Sometimes you knew the truth about something by instinct alone, and if she had ever doubted the claim made by the writer of that letter then that doubt was vanquished instantly as she stared across the room at Darian Wildman.

Was it just her imagination working overtime—fuelled by the information she had received—or was everyone else in the room, Darian included, blind to what was as obvious as the blazing glare from one of the studio lights?

This man had royal blood running through his veins, setting him apart from everyone present. Marking him out as a different breed altogether—as different as a lion standing amid a group of mewing kittens.

He was tall—impressively tall—even taller than Khalim—yet his skin was not so dark as Khalim’s. But then this man was only half-Marabanese, Lara remembered. His flesh glowed gold and tawny and his eyes were gold, too. She had never seen eyes like them—they were like shards of golden glass, deep and gleaming, except that gold was a warm colour and this man’s eyes were cold.

His hair was very dark—though not quite black—and was shaped to a head which was held with confidence and a certain arrogance. And pride. And irritation.

‘Do you make a habit of turning up late for jobs?’ he questioned tersely.

Lara was having to fight an uncomfortable desire to run over to him, whisper her fingertips wonderingly down the side of his hard, beautiful face and tell him that she alone had the secret of his ancestry.

With an effort, she pulled herself together. ‘Of course not!’

Her complete absence of an apology made Darian tense, and he narrowed his eyes, feeling the tiny hairs prickle at the back of his neck as he looked at her. Her rain-sprinkled dark hair was awry and her cheeks were flushed. And her eyes were the bluest he had ever seen. They made him think of summer skies and cornflowers and Mediterranean seas. Momentarily, and inexplicably, he was sucked in by the sheer beauty of those eyes and the distraction irritated him.

‘And are you in the habit of poor time-keeping?’

Be bold, Lara, she thought. You don’t need this job.

She shrugged. ‘Not usually.’

Not usually? It was not the reaction that Darian had been expecting. Didn’t she care that there were women in this room who looked as if they would kill to get the job? And, judging from some of the shameless glances they had been directing at him, they would also offer far more sensual incentives if they thought that might work.

‘Looking as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards?’ he continued, in an acid tone.

‘So much for the tousled look!’ retorted Lara flippantly. ‘Actually, the reason I’m late is that my agency nearly didn’t send me.’

He met the challenge in her gaze, and something about her directness made him carry on staring at her. He wasn’t used to a challenge—and certainly not from a woman.

‘I’m not surprised,’ he said softly.

She arched her brows, hot and bothered and not just from her hurried journey. Something in the way those gold eyes were studying her made her wish that she was looking as cool and unflappable as every other woman in the room. But Lara knew that nobody could guess what you were feeling on the inside; it was what you projected from the outside that counted. Which meant that her one-word reply shot back at him sounded cool, and only just on the right side of insolent. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really,’ he mocked. ‘The brief was to look like an English rose,’ he added impatiently. ‘Since when did that entail looking as if you’re in the middle of hitching a ride to a rock concert?’

Lara heard a little buzz from the other models, and she guessed that they were enjoying seeing the delectable Mr Wildman losing his cool with one of the competition. She glared at him.

‘Do you want me to ask her to leave, Darian?’ murmured Scott, in a low voice.

‘No, I don’t,’ demurred Darian. ‘I asked a question and I’m waiting for an answer.’

She felt like asking him sweetly if he always got whatever it was he wanted, but she refrained. It was neither the time nor the place, and she suspected that the answer would be yes anyway.

‘It depends what your interpretation of an English rose is, surely?’ she answered confidently. ‘Even they have to run for taxis or buses sometimes, don’t they? They can’t spend the whole of their lives sitting on pretty wicker furniture and fanning themselves! Not modern English roses anyway!’

There it was again, he thought, with a cross between grudging admiration and irritation. She was talking to him in a way which he could have confidently predicted no one else in the room would have dared try! And she did have a point, he conceded. Modern was what he was really looking for. A modern look for modern technology.

Ask for someone who summed up everything that it was to be English, and everyone immediately jumped back a century or two! He glanced around the room at the lace and the flower-sprigs and the muslin and he frowned. Modern and English—surely the two weren’t completely incompatible?

‘You do have a point,’ he admitted grudgingly.

Lara lifted her chin, telling herself that she definitely wasn’t going to get the job now, so what did she have to lose? How far could she push him? She had seen for herself that he was grumpy—as well as successful, powerful and devastatingly attractive—would his temper really turn ugly if she challenged him a little bit more?

‘Tell me, how do you see the woman you’re looking for?’ asked Lara calmly.

Scott bristled. ‘I think you’ve said quite enough, don’t you?’

But Darian shook his head. ‘No, let her speak.’

‘Gosh…thanks!’ said Lara sarcastically.

Darian knitted his brows together, wondering if this rather unusual tendency to answer back at what was essentially a serious job interview was simply a way of getting herself noticed. Didn’t people sometimes act outrageously in order to detract attention from their glaring faults? And did she have any?

He let his eyes travel from the top of her head to the tips of her pointed leather boots. If you discounted the fact that her hair looked as though she had spent a large part of the morning being pulled through a particularly thorny hedge it really was the most glorious colour—the deep, burnished mahogany of a lovingly polished piece of furniture, touched with deeper, brighter shades of gold and amber. Dyed, most probably. All women dyed their hair these days. His mouth twisted. He had yet to meet a natural blonde!

But her brows were beautifully shaped and arched, and her skin looked soft—all roses and cream—like petals in the early morning when they had been kissed by the dew. It was skin that made her look as though she’d been brought up in the fresh air, raised on nothing stronger than milk and honey.

She had answered her own question, he realised. She was exactly the woman he was looking for.

‘Take your jacket off,’ he said slowly.

For a second Lara’s sang-froid almost deserted her. It was a perfectly normal request to make in the circumstances. It wasn’t as though he was asking her to perform a striptease. But that was exactly what it felt like. Inside, she was suddenly overcome with a bubbling mass of insecurity, which was crazy—crazy—and yet there was something about this darkly golden man which made his request seem like an intrusion. She didn’t move.

Darian raised his eyebrows questioningly, ignoring Scott’s frown and the indignant glances of the other women.

Lara flashed him a cool and professional smile and slid her jacket from her shoulders with hands which were miraculously steady. Then casually slipped her finger through the loop of the jacket and stood before him, feeling a little as she imagined the favoured member of a harem must feel. All the women vying for one man’s attention and only one of them receiving it. Her heart was beating fast. You’re concocting fantasy, she told herself sternly. That’s all. Just because you think he’s the brother of the Sheikh you’re attributing to him all those kind of primitive man-woman things which you wouldn’t dream of doing if he was any average man.

‘How’s that?’ she asked, in a voice which she hoped didn’t betray quite how unsettled he was making her feel.

‘That’s fine,’ he said evenly, trying to be objective, but for once it wasn’t easy. Her body was good. Very good. She was tall and slender, and yet curved in just the right places, and her breasts were quite simply perfect—not too full and not too small, the white tee-shirt emphasising their shape and not quite disguising the pinpoint thrust of her nipples, which made him tense in desire even though he tried not to.

Darian looked around at the others. In terms of beauty there was not one woman present who could be faulted. There was every variety of womanhood represented here today. Most were slim—too slim, in his opinion, but that was the fashion. True, there were a couple whose curves were more luscious than slim, but the camera didn’t flatter real curves; he knew that.

Leisurely, he ran his eyes over each and every one of them, until they came back to rest and stay on the girl in the jeans. She looked normal and healthy and glowing and…and something about her was still making his skin tingle.

He nodded and turned to Scott. ‘Can I have a word, please? In private?’ he asked him.

‘Sure,’ Scott replied.

The two men moved to the only vacant corner of the studio. ‘I think we’ve found our English rose,’ Darian said slowly. ‘Don’t you?’

Scott turned to him. ‘But she’s a brunette!’

‘So? I don’t remember specifically asking for blonde!’

Scott lowered his voice. ‘We haven’t even tested her yet, Darian,’ he said, a touch anxiously. ‘In fact, we haven’t tested any of them.’

Darian gave an arrogant shrug. ‘There’s no need. She’s the one I want.’

‘But she might project completely the wrong image.’

Darian studied the varying blondes in the studio, who were all looking at him hopefully. They looked…they looked…bland, he realised impatiently. He flicked another glance at the brunette, who seemed so full of life and vitality in comparison, and a steady pulse began to beat at his temple. ‘She won’t,’ he said steadily. ‘Trust me.’

‘The place will erupt if you don’t test the others, too,’ protested Scott.

Darian shrugged. ‘Then test them.’

‘And show you the results?’

‘If you want. I’ll see them, but I won’t need to.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

Darian gave a slow smile. Instinct. Simple as that. She had what he wanted. ‘I just am. She’s the one.’

The atmosphere in the room was electric, and Lara felt decidedly odd. This wasn’t like a normal casting at all. Everyone was staring at her, and she wondered if the composition of her body had undergone some remarkable transformation, whether her blood could suddenly have become jelly. Because that was what she felt like—that was the way he was making her feel.

The man with the golden eyes had turned back and was staring at her, and Lara felt as though she was helpless, caught in the honeyed intensity of that gaze. Like a rabbit hypnotised and blinded by the glaring headlights of a car, or a snake lured and seduced by the sound of the charmer’s pipe.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked softly.

Lara took a deep breath. She just knew that he was going to offer her the job! This couldn’t really be happening. It shouldn’t be happening. She had turned up late, looking scruffy, and been rude to him—he should be sending her packing, not seriously entertaining the thought of employing her! But she kept her voice steady—as steady as his golden stare. ‘Lara. Lara Black.’

‘Lara Black,’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘Yes.’ He gave the room a cool smile. ‘Well, I’ll leave you all in the capable hands of Scott.’

He moved away, and Lara watched him as he placed one foot on the staircase. He glanced up at that moment and their eyes met, and she was suddenly filled with an inexplicable feeling of disappointment and stupidity.

Was that it, then? She bit her lip distractedly. What had she expected? That he would suddenly announce to everyone that she had got the job without bothering to test the others? As if that would happen! Especially to someone who had behaved with such utter disregard for professionalism.

She felt a stupid sense of loss as she watched his dark, lustrous head disappear from view. He had gone and she had blown any chance of getting to know him better. But she knew one thing for sure.

He was Khalim’s brother. The resemblance was unmistakable.

So what was she going to do about it?

CHAPTER THREE

LARA put the phone down and stared at Jake. ‘I’ve got it,’ she said slowly.

Jake looked up from the script he was studying. ‘Got what?’

‘That job I went for. You know—I told you.’

Jake frowned. ‘Something about a mobile phone company? You turned up late, looking ghastly, and the owner was there and subjected you to a grilling?’

It was still taking a moment or two to sink in. ‘That’s right.’

Jake elevated one brow in a manner which would have caused almost any other woman in the country to swoon, but not Lara.

‘Does this guy have a death wish?’ he joked. ‘Or does he just like a challenge?’

Lara didn’t say anything. She suspected that Darian Wildman did like a challenge, and something about that worried her—though it now appeared that her gut reaction had been the correct one, after all. She had thought that he was going to offer her the job, but then he had just disappeared and left them all to be photographed. Still, when she mulled it over now, he couldn’t possibly have done otherwise, could he? Not employed her without testing her and, more importantly, without testing all the others—otherwise he would have had a small riot on his hands.

Yet she had sensed that he was about to do so. He looked like the kind of man who broke all the rules and made his own up. The word autocratic might have been invented with him in mind. It had probably been the other man with him, she reasoned, who had persuaded him to adopt the usual method of casting.

She should have been overjoyed. This was work, after all, and she needed to work—especially as the person she’d been covering for at the Embassy was now much better and ready to go back to her job. And she was supposed to be finding out more about Darian Wildman—so wasn’t this a heaven-sent opportunity to do just that? To work for his company and to become the face which sym-bolised that company.

Except it didn’t feel like that. It felt uncomfortable. Wrong. As if she was doing something that she shouldn’t be doing. And coupled with that was the burden of the knowledge she possessed.

Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that Darian had excited her in a way that no man had excited her for longer than she could remember. And that in itself was a bad sign. One which made her feel gloomy about him in general. If she was attracted to him then he was bound to be trouble, because Lara’s track record with men was nothing short of abysmal.

She didn’t fall for men very often, but when she did it was always for the kind of man your mother warned you to stay away from. Philanderers and cheats. Good-looking, weak, shallow men. The sort who promised you the earth and a little bit more besides, and then were busy glancing over your shoulder to see if someone more attractive had just walked in. In fact, she had sworn off men altogether—at least until she had worked out what was the basic flaw in her character which attracted her to the wrong type of man.

Her friend Rose had a few theories of her own. She said that it was because Lara yearned for excitement and was looking for it in the wrong places—but how on earth could you go looking for it in the right places if solid and decent men—the kind your mother would approve of—left you cold?

‘Oh, you need a sheikh, like Khalim,’ Rose had laughed on the eve of her wedding.

At the time Lara had been struggling into a dress which weighed almost as much as she did. ‘Don’t be so smug!’

‘But I’m not,’ Rose had protested, and had laid her hand on Lara’s shoulder, her voice gentling. ‘I’m serious. It’s just a pity that Khalim hasn’t got any brothers.’

Lara chewed on her lip. Oh, Lord—she had completely forgotten that conversation until now! But that was the cleverness of the mind, wasn’t it?—It dragged things up from the hidden corners of your subconscious when it thought they might come in useful. If only Rose had known how eerily prescient her words had been.

If it had been anyone other than Khalim then it might have been easy to pick up the phone and say, Hi, guess what? I’ve discovered you have a secret half-brother! But Khalim was no normal man. He was Sheikh of a vast kingdom, and if another man was related to him by blood, then couldn’t he lay claim to that kingdom and jeopardise the livelihood of all of them? His and Rose’s and their son’s, and the child soon to be born? How could she knowingly endanger all that until she knew something of the man himself?

‘Lara?’

She looked up to see Jake staring at her with concern. ‘What?’

‘You’ve gone as white as a sheet.’

‘Have I?’ She touched her cheek and found that it was cold, and suddenly she began to shiver. ‘We shoot on Monday,’ she whispered.

On Monday she would see him again. Those strangely cold golden eyes would pierce right through her and see… Would they sense that she was not all she seemed? And how would he react if she told him that he was not all he seemed, either?

Jake frowned. ‘Lara, what is the matter? You’ve just won a fantastic contract—why aren’t you cracking open the champagne?’

She forced a smile. Why not, indeed? Perhaps she was simply guilty of inventing problems where there were none. ‘Coming right up,’ she said brightly, and headed for the fridge.

The winter sun streamed in through the glass, warming his skin as Darian slowly buttoned up his white linen shirt and watched an aeroplane creeping across the sky in the far distance. Outside, the clouds were tinged with pink and gold, contrasting with an ice-blue sky which made the world look as perfect as it was supposed to look. But then the views from his penthouse apartment were always matchless and magnificent and never the same. It was one of the reasons he had bought it—that and its inaccessibility to people in general and the world in particular.

The phone rang, but he let it ring. Most phone calls, in his experience, could be usefully avoided, and he hated having to make small-talk—especially in the mornings. Which was one of the reasons why it was a long time since he had stayed overnight with a woman.

He listened to the message on the answer-machine, to hear the voice of the travel agent telling him that his flight to New York was confirmed, and smiled. If he had picked it up then he would have had to endure all kinds of bright and unnecessary questions about the state of his health!

He picked up his coffee cup and sipped thoughtfully at the strong, inky brew, glancing over at the mirror as he did so. There was no sign of blood. Not now. He gave a tiny grimace. What was going on? He had cut himself shaving that morning—lightly nicked the skin around his jaw—something he could not remember doing since he was an adolescent boy, when he had first wielded the razor with uncertain fingers.

In his gleaming bathroom mirror he had stared at the bright spot of scarlet which had beaded on the strong line of his jaw, disrupting his normal, ordered routine, and it had taken him right back to a place he rarely visited.

The past. That strange place over which you had little control and yet whose influence shaped the person you would be for the rest of your life.

He had never been one of those boys who had shaved before there was any need to. It was simply that he had seemed to develop way ahead of anyone else, with a faint shadowing of the jaw when most of his peers were still covered in spots. He had shot up in height, too, and his shoulders had grown broad and his body hard and muscular.

Such early maturity had set him apart—especially with the girls—but then, in a way he had felt set apart ever since he could remember. He had never looked like anyone else, even though his clothes had been no different. His skin had always had a faintly tawny glow to it, and his golden eyes had marked him out as someone different.

The girls had loved it and the boys had tried teasing him because of it, but he had quickly learnt that his height and strength could intimidate them enough to stop the insults almost before they had started.

So his childhood had been lonely. The only child of a single mother, bringing him up in a seedy apartment in one of the wastelands of London where tourists never ventured. That in itself had not been unusual—poverty had brought with it all the casualties of human relationships, and Darian had known only a couple of sets of parents who had still been together—and they had fought enough to make him wonder why they bothered.

He guessed it was that at least other kids had known who their father was. Whether it was the father who had run off with a younger woman, or the father who would appear threateningly drunk on his former family’s doorstep, or the father who refused to pay money the courts had told him he must pay. These were fathers it was easy enough to hate, but Darian’s own paternity had been one big secret. He would rather have had someone to hate than no one at all.

He had tried asking his mother about it, but even broaching the subject had made her mouth tremble, as if she was about to cry—and she never cried. He had learnt only that some questions were better left unasked…

The doorbell jangled, disrupting his thoughts. His driver was here. Darian picked up his jacket, feeling an almost imperceptible glow of subdued excitement as he sat back in the soft leather luxury of the car. He told himself it was because they were shooting the photos today, and that something which no longer challenged him was coming to an end, but he knew that was not the whole story.

The truth was that he wanted to see the model again. What was her name? Lara. Yes, that was it. Pretty name and a pretty girl. Fearless and spiky. He rubbed his eyes and closed them as the car began to accelerate, stretching his long legs out in front of him and yawning lazily.

He was tired. He had sat up until the early hours, sorting through his accounts and feeling bored—with pretty much everything. Appetites which were fed with everything they needed tended to become jaded, he told himself ruefully.

He wondered when his life had become like a game of Monopoly—just a load of numbers that were so big they didn’t seem real. But that was the way of money—too much and it almost seemed to get in the way, not enough and it dominated your whole life and all your thoughts. Was there no simple in-between way?

He guessed there was—the way most men chose. Marriage and babies and a house in the suburbs. Daily train journeys and home for supper and a drink. Weekend barbecues and driving out to pretty country pubs.

But to Darian it sounded like a lifetime’s incarceration. A cell padded with sofas and chintz curtains. Maybe that was why he had never even come close to commitment, because commitment carried with it the price of settling down and raising a family. That was the way of things. In fact, no one had ever stirred his blood enough to make him even think of committing, or to make him feel a pang of regret that he was unable to.

You will be a lonely old man, taunted a little voice inside his head, but even that didn’t bother him. Lonely and alone were two entirely different concepts, weren’t they? He felt as if he had been alone for all his life, so why change now? Even if change was possible, and Darian didn’t think it was. That was the mistake that people always made—women especially. They thought that a person could change the habits of a lifetime and become the someone they wanted you to be.

The driver turned his head as Big Ben loomed up magnificently in front of them. ‘Do you want me to wait?’

Darian shook his head. ‘No, thanks. I’ll ring when I need you. I may hang around for a while,’ he added casually.

He told himself that he liked to be in control—which was true—and that he liked to be hands-on—which was also true. If there was going to be an advertising campaign then he wanted to have some input into the final images which would represent his company.

But most of all he wanted to watch Lara at work, to see her thick dark hair blowing in the autumn breeze and see the sky reflected in eyes which echoed its hue.

Lara Black.

The English rose.

Lara noticed him before he saw her. The heavens themselves seemed to be conniving in his entrance, because just as his long legs began to emerge from a seriously luxurious car a shaft of pure golden sunlight chose that very moment to spear its way through the fluffy clouds. And he chose just that same instant to look up, his eyes vying with the sun for brilliance.

Lara shivered.

‘Keep still, Lara,’ said the make-up artist patiently as she dabbed on another stroke of pink iridescent lipgloss.

Lara couldn’t reply, not with her lips half open to deal with the lipgloss, but she was aware of him approaching, silent and stealthy—like a natural predator. The sharp colours of the autumn day seemed to emphasise his strong features—etching shadows which fell from beneath the high cheekbones and the firm, luscious mouth.

He wore linen, which managed to be both casual and smart at the same time. Yet somehow it looked all wrong on him, and she wondered what he would look like with the fluid, silken robes of the Maraban aristocracy clinging to his lean, hard frame.

She could hear the chatter lessening as the make-up artist turned her head to see what what was happening and whistled softly. She gave Lara’s lips a final blot with a piece of tissue.

‘Oh, wow,’ she whispered fervently. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on him!’

Lara gave her chin a welcome stretch, but her heart thudded painfully in her chest. ‘You mean from a professional point of view, of course?’ she joked.

‘Yeah, sure.’ The make-up artist gave a rich and fruity laugh. ‘One look at him and all I think about is work, work, work!’

Lara watched him while the stylist fussed around with her dress. Little clusters of people had stopped to stare at the proceedings, alerted to the possibility of excitement by the photographer and his acolytes and the sight of a woman wearing a floaty, filmy dress on a blustery autumn day.

‘Are you making a film?’ she heard one middle-aged shopper ask.

‘A photo-shoot,’ drawled the photographer’s assistant, with a shake of his long hair.

But Lara felt as though they might have been aliens from another planet—she felt disconnected and oblivious to just about everything except for him, which was more than a little bit scary. She tried to tell herself that of course she was going to be interested in him—that was the whole point of her presence here. But surely that wouldn’t account for the pounding of her heart and the silken throb of her blood which seemed to strike soft hammerblows at all her pulse-points. Not by anyone’s standards could that be described as professional behaviour.

Maybe the make-up artist had put it in a nutshell. Think Darian Wildman and the last thing you felt was professional.

She turned away, breaking the spell with an effort. The last thing she needed was for him to look up and see her staring at him like some kind of starstruck adolescent. There were enough people already doing that.

‘We’re never going to keep your hair under control with this breeze!’ grumbled the stylist as she pushed a wayward strand off Lara’s face.

‘Looks perfect to me,’ came a slow, deep voice from behind her.

Lara tried to count to ten, but the numbers became jumbled in her mind as she turned round. At least the half-smile on her lips was appropriate, as was the polite, almost deferential raising of her eyebrows. After all, he was the boss and she the model.

‘Hi,’ she said.

‘Hi.’ He found himself mocking her, enjoying the brief moment of discomfiture which allowed itself to break through her cool little smile, but then his eyes narrowed. Maybe she was used to men coming onto her. With looks like that she was bound to be. He saw her shiver. ‘You’re cold,’ he said softly.

Lara looked down at the goose bumps on her arms, which was infinitely easier than meeting that clear golden stare, and composed herself enough to look up again, a rueful smile playing on her lips. ‘Well, yes,’ she agreed. ‘Silk chiffon is a wonderful floaty fabric, but it wasn’t exactly designed with warmth in mind!’

‘No.’ He forced himself to be objective. He had sat in with the creative team while they thrashed around the kind of image they wanted to project. Delicate and ethereal had been the objective—an objective achieved perfectly on the mock-ups they had shown him.

But reality, in the flesh and blood form of Lara Black, had an impact he had not been expecting. A bone-melting, sensual impact. Maybe that had been the subtle difference which had marked her out from all the others, Darian thought—that understated but persuasive femininity which could overpower men by stealth.

‘Do you want a jacket or something?’ he asked suddenly.

The question took Lara off-guard, and for one mad moment she thought he was actually going to take off his own jacket and offer it to her! As if! Lara pointed to a soft pink wrap which lay draped over one of the canvas chairs.

‘I have a shawl. I’ll—’

‘Here—let me.’ He bent and scooped the garment up, and draped it around her shoulders, feeling her shiver as he did so. ‘You really are cold,’ he observed, feeling the smoothness of her skin through the fine cashmere.

‘Yes.’ But that was not the reason she had shivered. She knew that, and she suspected he knew that, too. It seemed like the most deliciously old-fashioned and chivalrous act—a disarming act—to put her shawl on for her like that. A man like Darian Wildman would be aware of that. Talk to him, she told herself. This is your opportunity!

‘Do you…do you often go on shoots like this?’ she ventured.

The lips curved into a cool smile. ‘Is that a take on the “do you come here often” line?’ he mocked.

At that moment Lara hated him for making her feel so unoriginal, but she didn’t show it, shrugging her shoulders instead. ‘Don’t answer if you don’t want to,’ she murmured. ‘I’d hate to think I was straying into unprotected waters!’

He laughed. This was better. He liked her spiky better than he liked her soft. Softness made women vulnerable, and vulnerable women weren’t equals. They got hurt, and then they made you feel bad because of it. ‘Was I being rude?’ he mused.

‘Yes.’

He raised his eyebrows fractionally, taken aback by her blunt reply. ‘The answer to your question is no—but then I rarely conduct advertising campaigns.’

‘So why this one?’

He wasn’t about to start telling her about his plan to float Wildman on the stockmarket—she, like the rest of the world, would find out about it soon enough. ‘Because I want the name Wildman to be synonymous with mobile phone technology.’

‘You mean it isn’t already?’ she teased. ‘Shame on you!’

He allowed his mouth to curve into a small smile. ‘I know. Shocking, isn’t it?’ he questioned gravely.

‘Utterly,’ she agreed, realising that he was flirting with her and that she was flirting right back.

Their eyes met and he regarded her thoughtfully. He wanted to take her out to dinner, he realised, not exchange snatches of conversation while the crew ran around, shout-ing and disrupting them. And just then, as if echoing his thoughts, someone shouted her name.

He frowned. ‘Sounds like you’re needed,’ he observed.

‘Sounds that way.’ She hugged the shawl tightly around her as the stylist beckoned, hoping that she didn’t sound reluctant to leave. ‘Excuse me,’ she murmured, glad to get away because nothing seemed to be going according to plan—although when she stopped to think about it what plan had she actually made, other than to somehow get to meet him? And now that she had managed to do that, all she could do was fantasise about his golden eyes and his lean, hard body. It just wasn’t good enough.

Darian watched while the stylist fussed around with Lara’s hair and then the photographer moved over, whipped the wrap away and began to coax her into position, prowling around in front of her, crooning directions.

‘That’s right, baby—smile! Not too much—just a kind of cool, thoughtful smile, as if you’re deciding whether to dump your lover or not!’

Lara smiled.

‘That’s good! Now half close your eyes—as if you’re trying to drive him wild with jealousy! You’re thinking of another man—and you want him more!’

Lara did as she was told, her eyelashes fluttering down, finding it remarkably easy, picturing golden eyes and tawny skin and a dark, burnished head of royal descent…

She snapped her eyes open, startled as the bright flash exploded, staring into the eyes of the man who was fantasy and yet real, and for a moment the rest of the world receded.

Darian stared back at her, and for the first time in his life he recognised the intrusiveness of the camera and despised the intimacy it created between photographer and subject. For a moment there she had looked so sexually excited that it might almost have been for real. His mouth tightened. What a way to earn a living, he thought in sudden disgust. Yet it was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

No. It was what his company wanted. And this was an assignment, he reminded himself. A professional assignment. He hadn’t been introduced to her at a party—maybe if he had it might be different. Instead, he had run across her in the course of work, and he kept the line between work and pleasure strictly delineated.

Lara saw his face harden and wondered what had happened to the courteous man who had wrapped the soft wool around her shoulders. The golden eyes had darkened, a flush of colour was running along the high, aristocratic cheekbones. For a moment she saw the glimmerings of a hard, almost cruel contempt, and his expression filled her with trepidation even while something feminine ached at the very core of her, revelling in that cold look of mastery.

With an effort she tore her gaze away from him, staring instead at the phtographer, giving the shot everything she had and suddenly wishing that she was a million miles away from that hard, glittering scrutiny.

She held her arms aloft and the silk chiffon twirled and clung to her thighs. Abruptly, he turned away, and she forced herself to concentrate on the job in hand, losing herself in it because that seemed infinitely easier than losing herself in the gaze of Darian Wildman.

But when the photographer had stopped shooting there was no sign of him.

‘Where’s Darian?’ she questioned casually as she pulled the wrap back round her shoulders.

‘Gone,’ said the assistant.

She hadn’t even noticed him leaving, and she was surprised by a great, swamping feeling of disappointment. Gone! There were five other London locations to get through and suddenly the day seemed to stretch away endlessly in front of her.

Had she thought that he would be accompanying them to Tower Bridge and the Mall and Leadenhall Market and the other places which had been carefully chosen each to reflect a different mood of London life?

But perhaps this was best—he was a distracting man in anyone’s book.

Lara channelled all her frustration into getting exactly the poses which the photographer demanded, and tried not to think about whether she would see him again, and where she went from here if she did not.

It was dark by the time she arrived back at the apartment and Jake was at home, all dandied up in a stunning black dinner jacket, swearing softly as he attempted to subdue his bow-tie.

‘Do this for me, would you, Lara?’

She put her bag down, knotted the black silk into a neat bow, and stood back. ‘How’s that?’

‘Perfect.’ He made another small, unnecessary adjustment. ‘Someone rang for you,’ he said casually as she flopped onto the sofa with a heavy sigh.

‘Oh?’

‘A man.’

‘Oh, again,’ said Lara uninterestedly. But something about the amused curiosity in his voice made her sit up. ‘Did he leave a message?’

‘He did.’

‘Jake—stop playing games! Who was it and what did he say?’

Jake enunciated his words carefully. ‘His name is Darian Wildman and he says he’ll call you tomorrow.’

CHAPTER FOUR

WHY was it, Lara wondered, that whenever you wanted someone to telephone you, they didn’t—and the opposite was always true?

And why had he rung at all? Had he already seen the finished photos and decided he didn’t like them?

Making up her mind that there was no point wasting time wondering what he wanted until she actually heard from him, Lara spent a frustrating morning deliberately doing much-needed chores around the flat—which would give her a legitimate excuse to stay in while not looking as though she was deliberately hanging around waiting for Darian Wildman to ring.

He didn’t.

By nine o’clock that evening she was feeling pent-up, frustrated and angry with herself, telling herself that it shouldn’t matter. Of course it shouldn’t. But Jake had gone to stay with his parents, so she couldn’t even drag him out for a pizza, and it was too late to ring anyone else. Instead she had a long, scented bath, taking care to leave the bathroom door open just in case the phone rang. And of course it did, just as she was up to her neck in jasmine-scented bubbles.

Leave it on the machine, she told herself sternly. If he really wants to speak to you he’ll ring back.

But she found herself clambering out of the bath, dripping water all over the bathroom floor, and depising herself for doing so.

‘Hello?’

‘Lara? It’s Darian.’

She knew that; he had one of those voices which, once heard, was never forgotten. Briefly she wondered whether to play the game a little and say, Darian who? but decided against it. A man like that would be used to the pointless little games that some women played, and he would like her no better for it.

‘Hello,’ she said.

‘I haven’t disturbed you?’

There were games and there were games, and half-truths were sometimes necessary—especially if you wanted to avoid looking like a fool.

‘Not really.’ She watched the water running down her bare legs to form a small puddle on the bathroom floor. ‘I was just…relaxing.’ Which didn’t have even a grain of truth to it, because she had never felt less relaxed in her life. And there seemed something slightly decadent about talking to him while she was naked, so she injected a brisk and professional note into her voice. ‘What can I do for you, Darian? Have you seen the photos yet?’

‘That’s what I’ve just been doing.’ He allowed himself a brief half-smile. It seemed that his instincts had not failed him—because Lara looked nothing short of sensational. Some of London’s most stunning backdrops emphasised her bewitching looks as she stood holding a variety of his company’s phones in her hand, a dreamy, thoughtful little smile on her face. She looked as if she was talking to her lover. Beneath each one would be printed the single shout-line: Wildman: Presses All The Right Buttons!

He had felt the unmistakable tremorings of desire as he had studied them. But, having seen them, had wondered aloud to Scott whether the final images weren’t just too sexy. Scott had shrugged and given him a knowing look.

‘Oh, come on, Darian—you don’t use a young and beautiful model to do anything but sell sex,’ he had pointed out. ‘Do you?’

Selling sex.

Put like that, it sounded off-putting, and Darian had grimaced with a slight element of distaste—but that hadn’t stopped him finding her number and ringing her, had it?

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